Magician in Type-Moon

Page 647

At this moment, on the first floor of the banquet hall.

The dazzling crystal lights, like a flowing galaxy, illuminated the scene of elegant ladies and clinking glasses, making it seem like a dream.

Monarch Inole Baruyereta did not blend into the crowd; she was like a moving lighthouse, and wherever she went, the guests naturally and respectfully made way for her.

The glass of whiskey in her hand was empty, and the artificial life form waiter appeared silently again like a shadow, serving her a new glass of amber liquid.

Just as she was about to raise her glass, a respectful and deliberately lowered voice sounded from her side:

“You’re here, Lord Inole.”

Baron Baljereta Izeruma leaned on his ebony cane and bowed slightly.

His dark brown hair was meticulously combed, and his crimson suit shone like a solidified flame under the lights. His smile was a perfect social mask, but a barely perceptible tension lurked deep in his eyes.

"Oh dear, Lord Bailong."

Inole turned his head, revealing a seemingly amiable smile on his deeply wrinkled face, a smile that actually carried the scrutinizing intent of a superior, his snow-white teeth flashing under the light.

"I had a lot of fun."

Her tone was nonchalant, as if the subtly witty conversation she had just had with Matouchi in the second-floor corridor was nothing more than a trivial pastime.

As she spoke, she tilted her head back again with remarkable ease and downed the whiskey that had just been poured into her glass in one gulp!

A faint hissing sound, as if the strong liquor was burning his trachea, could even be heard from his throat. His boldness and vitality made the guests who were secretly watching him feel uneasy.

Byron stepped forward, bringing his face close, his posture extremely low, and his voice even deeper, ensuring that only Inola could hear him clearly:

"I have something I'd like to discuss with you privately."

"Oh?"

Inole's sharp eyes, burning with ashes-like flames, narrowed instantly, like a raptor that had smelled blood.

Her smile remained unchanged, but the invisible, powerful aura of a monarch surrounding her seemed to freeze slightly for a moment, and the temperature of the surrounding air seemed to drop a few degrees.

She didn't respond immediately, but casually placed the empty glass on the tray of an artificial life form waiter who happened to be passing by, her action casual yet carrying an unquestionable sense of command.

Without waiting for permission, Lord Byron knew his lord's temperament well. He moved closer, his lips almost touching Inole's meticulously combed silver sideburns, and began a very brief but crucial whisper.

No one could hear what he said. But all the magicians nearby, with sufficiently keen senses, noticed a change at that moment—

Inolei Baruyeleta's deeply wrinkled face, which resembled the bark of an ancient oak tree, originally held an all-encompassing, almost mocking expression. However, as Baron whispered in his ear, it moved with an extremely slight yet undeniable twitch.

It wasn't shock, but more like... a subtle bewilderment at having a key piece unexpectedly touched?

Or was it a fleeting, cold calculation that flashed through her mind when some deeply hidden plan was disrupted? Her eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly, and the deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes seemed to deepen slightly.

Deep within those burning gray eyes, it seemed as if a cold star map was spinning and reorganizing at high speed.

These subtle changes are fleeting, so quick that one might wonder if they are merely an illusion created by light and shadow.

However, just moments later—

"Heh...hehehe..."

The laughter was initially soft, like dry leaves rubbing together in the wind, but gradually became clearer.

In another, relatively quiet corner of the banquet hall, near the huge floor-to-ceiling windows and curtains, shadows, like thick ink, briefly swallowed the dazzling crystal chandeliers. Two figures quietly met there.

"Ha! Bro, the beauties here are really good!"

Alexandre Dumas’s signature gold tooth flashed in the shadows, his face plastered with his usual cynical smile.

He held a glass of champagne, which he had apparently swiped from a waiter's tray, and his eyes swept over several elegantly dressed ladies not far away, his tone full of undisguised appreciation.

"Look at that figure, that aura... tsk tsk, it's more than a hundred times better than that musty safe house!"

Setra was mostly hidden in the shadows cast by the heavy velvet curtains.

His face, which concealed a storm beneath a perfect social mask, now revealed an undisguised, cold sneer in the face of Dumas's mockery:

“Just look at your bald head, gold teeth, and foul mouth,” Setra’s voice was extremely low, like ice scraping.

"Would any woman be willing to sleep with you?"

"That's none of your business, dear Master."

Alexandre Dumas shrugged indifferently, the movement small but conveying a nonchalant air of unyielding languor. His smile even broadened, the gleam of his gold teeth particularly striking in the shadows.

It was as if Setra's sharp tongue was just a gentle breeze, unable to shake his thick-skinned face in the slightest.

He took a large gulp of champagne, then abruptly changed the subject, his nonchalant expression softening somewhat. His gaze pierced through the crowd, precisely locking onto Lord Byron, who was walking away with his cane after a brief conversation with the Lord of Inore.

"Enough with the small talk," Dumas's voice deepened, carrying a hint of barely perceptible sharpness. "That matter... has it been settled with that fellow named Byron?"

Chapter 672 Beauty (4k)

As a result, Matouchi blended perfectly into the afterglow of the banquet, just like an ordinary guest who had been genuinely invited.

Holding a wine glass, with an impeccable, aloof, and polite smile on his face, he engaged in seemingly casual small talk with the remaining guests.

His speech was elegant and his responses were appropriate, as if his previous confrontation with Monarch Balyeleta, his targeting, and the divine beauty that tore through time had not left the slightest ripple in his heart.

The social gathering finally came to a close as the gentle melody faded away.

To Matouchi's surprise, after that fleeting glimpse, the Golden Princess Tiade and the Silver Princess Estella seemed to have truly returned to their divine realm, and never appeared in the hall again.

He had assumed that, as the nominal centerpiece of the banquet, the Izeruma family would arrange for them to at least make a brief appearance, receive greetings from the guests, or give some kind of symbolic introduction.

However, there was nothing.

This deliberate "absence," after witnessing their divine beauty capable of incinerating reason, seems all the more reasonable—

Perhaps Bai Longqing also knew that sending them back into the hustle and bustle of the mortal world to face those magicians who had just struggled out of the abyss of the senses would be tantamount to igniting a powder keg that could explode at any moment.

Having witnessed that kind of "beauty," it's hard for a soul to withstand a second shock without collapsing.

Many magicians, filled with immense disappointment at not being able to see the emperor again, mental exhaustion, and even a sense of relief at surviving a close call, hastily embarked on their journey home.

The air was filled with a sense of emptiness after the feast had ended and a kind of unresolved oppression.

Matouchi stayed behind. He was assigned to stay at the Sun Tower across the street. This seemed to fit the spatial allocation logic of the Twin Towers:

The Moon Tower is the core residence of the Izeluma family, mysterious and secluded like a heart; while the Sun Tower, like an outward-extending arm, serves to receive visitors.

The guest rooms are decorated with the utmost luxury, yet they also possess the cold and precise taste unique to this ancient magic family.

The most eye-catching feature was undoubtedly the enormous bed covered with the finest silk and down.

Matou Ike casually placed his suitcase aside, walked to the bedside, and instead of sitting down immediately, gently stroked the smooth, cool blanket with his fingers.

In the end, he lay down on it.

The moment his body touched the mattress, a strange sensation enveloped him. The mattress's support and softness were adjusted to an unbelievably perfect balance, as if all the weight was gently dissolved and evenly lifted at the contact surface.

The body seemed to float in a weightless state, the muscles did not need any instinctive tension to fight against gravity, and every bone and every nerve was relaxed like never before.

This ultimate comfort brings not just pure pleasure.

On the contrary, this extreme sense of "pressurelessness" is like a cold mirror, instantly reflecting the heaviness attached to his body.

In the midst of this silence, Arcueid's voice rang out.

She wasn't lying on another bed, but sitting in a high-backed chair by the window, her long golden hair shimmering in the cool moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains.

Her red eyes gazed at the dark tower opposite, clear yet carrying a rare, almost earnest, sense of bewilderment:

"...Why," her voice was soft, as if afraid of disturbing something, yet it echoed clearly in the quiet room, "to create such...beautiful people?"

She was referring to the Golden Princess Tiadera. That divine beauty that tore through time and burned away reason clearly stirred up huge ripples in the heart of this amnesiac Progenitor girl.

She was not lost or broken down like other magicians, but rather caught in a pure bewilderment stemming from the very essence of life.

This confusion was so intense that it led her to ask this question that touched upon the very core of existence.

Matou Ike slowly opened her eyes, her deep black pupils resembling an icy pool in the dim light.

He didn't answer immediately, but sat up, his movements deliberate and almost ritualistic in their slowness. He reached for a tiny, unidentified metal bottle on the bedside table—

That was the container he used to put in his eye drops.

He skillfully unscrewed the bottle cap, tilted his head slightly, and dripped two drops of the cool liquid, which carried a strange blend of mint and metal, into his eyes.

The moment the liquid touches the eyeball, it brings an extremely subtle stinging sensation followed by a cool feeling that seems to penetrate the soul.

Having done all this, he looked back at Arcueid by the window, his voice as calm as if stating an objective theorem:

"Because beauty is the realm of magic."

"Is it beautiful?" Arcueid tilted her head slightly, repeating the word as if chewing on an unfamiliar concept.

For her, "beauty" is perhaps closer to a state of natural existence than a weapon that is deliberately "created".

“That’s right.” Matou Ike capped the metal bottle and gently rubbed it in his palm.

The cold touch seemed to help him sort out his thoughts.

"Mathematical harmony—the golden ratio, geometric proportions, and the harmony of energy flow—is the foundation of constructing a stable magic circle and building a powerful magic workshop. It is the concrete expression of 'beauty' at the level of magic."

Matouchi's words settled in the luxurious guest room, like a pebble thrown into a deep pool.

He paused, his gaze seemingly piercing through the thick stone walls of the Sun Tower, before turning once more to the Moon Tower opposite, which stood silently leaning in the night, like a lurking behemoth.

He posed a seemingly basic question that actually hits the core of the magician's existence:

Do you know what a magician's goal is?

Arcueid froze for a moment. A hint of confusion flashed in her red eyes, as if the question touched upon a huge void in her memory.

She tilted her head, her golden hair falling over her shoulders, as if trying to salvage fragments of memories that had sunk into the deep sea.

After a moment, she spoke slowly, with a hint of uncertainty, as she pondered:

"Uh... it's called... 'The Vortex of Origin'?"

"Yes." Matou Ike's affirmation was concise and powerful, as if stamping her answer with confirmation.

“It is called the vortex of origin, or simply the origin, and sometimes it is called ‘nothingness’ as something that cannot be discussed.”

His voice was low and calm, as if he were reciting some sacred and forbidden scripture, "It is the cause of everything, the zero that makes all phenomena and events flow. Hmm..."

He frowned slightly, as if weighing the significance of each word.

“Trying to say it out loud like this, words just don’t work well.” His tone carried a rare, almost frustrated helplessness.