Magician in Type-Moon

Page 585

But this betrayal was not just a simple blow, but a lesson that would never be forgotten.

"The lesson you learn from this is that 'the same result will happen no matter how many times you do it again.'"

Matouchi gave the final conclusion, revealing Hatteres' deepest despair and realization.

From that unique dual perspective, from the repeated betrayals he experienced, Hartres gleaned not the hope of "next time will be better," but a chilling truth:

The inertia of history, the weaknesses of human nature, the seeds of betrayal... these patterns, seemingly engraved on the roots, no matter how many times time is reversed, no matter how the process is fine-tuned, seem to inevitably lead to a tragic ending.

"No matter how many times you try, the same result will occur."

This is not a fatalistic laziness, but a harsh realization derived from countless attempts, observations, and failures.

This realization became the deepest and most tragic motivation behind all his actions.

Snap snap snap──

A crisp, lonely applause suddenly rang out, stirring up a continuous, layered echo in the small space, and even more so in the seemingly boundless, deathly emptiness around it.

This applause was not a celebration, but rather a heavy and resolute declaration.

“The mistake wasn’t mine. Nor was it Ashira, Gesells, Jorek, or Karl.”

Hartres's voice pierced through the lingering applause, unusually calm, yet containing a storm-like power.

He pronounced the names clearly—Ashira, Gesherz, Jorek, Karg.

These names are those of "Crow"'s teammates back then, and also the "magicians" who later betrayed him twice and even tried to take his life.

Apart from Ashira, the others undoubtedly paid the price in Hartres's subsequent reckoning.

“…That was a great team.” Hartres’s tone suddenly became distant and deep, as if he were lost in a long-forgotten memory.

"Ashira was my childhood sweetheart."

This name carries a unique weight, a bond formed from shared childhood memories.

“Gesseltz is a reliable alchemist who uses magical potions,”

He pinpointed each person's unique characteristics, with Gesellsz representing the practicality and support of alchemy.

"Jorek and the Karg Brotherhood will make up for my shortcomings, and they are very active in both combat and atmosphere-building."

The two brothers symbolize the team's fighting spirit and cohesion.

"Moreover, they are all my beloved disciples."

This last sentence reveals the deepest bond and the most painful wound—they were not only comrades-in-arms, but also his disciples whom he poured his heart and soul into and cherished like treasures.

As irreplaceable partners who had shared life and death, and as master and apprentice who had explored the abyss of magic in the same classroom, they communicated with Kuro Hartres, and ultimately betrayed him twice.

This is a double betrayal, a double disillusionment.

By day, they are master and apprentice studying the profound principles of magic together in the classroom; by night, they are partners who entrust their lives to each other on the battlefield.

Whether it was the trust of "partner Kuro" or the cultivation of "mentor Hartles", both were ultimately betrayed mercilessly in the face of greed, fear, or some kind of distorted "magician logic", and twice at that.

This experience shattered his illusions about the possibilities of individual relationships.

"Then the fault lies with the modern magician world that instigated their betrayal."

Hartres's voice suddenly turned cold, the warmth of reminiscence instantly replaced by a chilling sharpness.

His focus shifted from specific individuals to the very soil that gave rise to it all—the entire world of modern magicians and the laws governing their operation.

"This is the inherent problem of the magic world, where no matter what you do, it will always end up like this."

"exactly."

Hartres nodded again.

There was no explanation, no anger, only a kind of resigned acceptance.

Matou Ike's analysis precisely struck the darkest and most authentic corner of his soul.

His nod was the most naked confirmation of his motives.

Is there a problem with this?

He countered with a calm tone, even carrying a strange, almost feigned ease.

In his logic, it is only natural to take revenge on the world that destroyed what he cherishes.

"No."

Matou Ike shook his head.

Matou Ike makes no accusation regarding the purity of the motive or the understanding of the root of his despair. Hatree's pain and resentment have their reasons for existing.

“However…” Matou Ike’s voice suddenly turned cold and resolute.

"Without lofty ideals, there is no reward worth the risk. I cannot entrust the future of the planet to mere destructive impulses."

This is a fundamental clash of positions.

Matouchi is not a moral judge.

No matter how deep the pain behind Hartres's plans, the resulting anomalies will inevitably plunge the planet into an explosion driven by pure resentment and aimed at destroying everything.

This lacks any constructive vision, only destructive nothingness.

"A reward... is that it?"

Hartres laughed as if he had heard something ridiculous.

His laughter sounded particularly abrupt in the deathly silence, carrying a strong sense of irony and a composure that he had long known the outcome.

"In that sense, I have already stopped. Because I have already handed the baton to her. Yes, my God will now accomplish everything."

His role as "executor" had long since ended! His "stopping" was not an abandonment, but rather the handover of the plan.

He had already handed over the authority to ignite the bomb and carry out the final destruction to "He"—

That divine being, born through the "Rebirth of the Spirit Origin" ritual, embodying the history and beliefs of Iskandar and the Imposter.

He was merely a facilitator; the true "enabler" and "destroyer" was the "god" about to descend.

Just as Hartres finished speaking.

Something rose up from the pillar of light behind him.

The moment his words fell, it was as if I was summoned by his declaration.

Behind Hartres, the pillar of light containing immense energy, which had always served as a backdrop, was now surging and condensing violently.

A massive, imposing silhouette, radiating an inhuman sense of oppression, slowly rose from the dazzling light curtain.

His very first appearance caused the surrounding space to tremble. The "god" of Hartres had descended.

.........

The moment that divine silhouette stood up in the pillar of light, an indescribable torrent of magic, transcending the concept of "sound," erupted like a tangible tsunami!

It was not an ordinary magical fluctuation, but a near-primitive etheric surge originating from the roots of the divine era.

This immense and despair-inducing surge of energy instantly filled and submerged every inch of the entire spirit tomb, Albion.

Whether deep within the ancient heart or wandering in the relatively outer mine tunnels, all modern magicians within this "Great Spirit Tomb" are inevitably swept up by this terrifying wave.

This is not simply due to thin air! The concentration of ether permeating the environment, forcibly elevated to near mythological levels, has itself become the most deadly weapon.

For modern magicians who have long been adapted to the "low magic environment" and whose magic circuits operate like precise measuring instruments, this is tantamount to throwing a deep-sea fish into boiling lava!

The physiological feeling of suffocation is merely the most basic warning.

Ubiquitous, highly concentrated magical particles, as viscous as liquid metal, frantically squeezed their bodies and blocked their airways. Every weak breath felt like swallowing a burning lead block, bringing excruciating pain that felt like their lungs were being torn apart.

It was as if I had been struck down by an invisible, massive hammer!

More than 90% of the magicians didn't even have time to let out a scream before their knees buckled and they crashed heavily to the ground under the overwhelming pressure of the magic.

Their bones creaked, and their internal organs seemed about to burst.

With their cheeks pressed against the cold or scorching ground, they opened their mouths in vain, only able to utter broken, intermittent hoarse sounds like a broken bellows, unable to even grasp a wisp of air to sustain their lives.

Vision rapidly blurred and darkened due to lack of oxygen.

Even the less talented ones had their magic circuits starting to creak.

It's like a circuit being suddenly switched on by an extremely high voltage, causing a "short circuit".

For magicians with mediocre talent and weak or insufficiently resilient magical circuits, this terrifying magical environment is a deadly purgatory.

The magic circuits within their bodies, which served as conduits for magical energy, now became the source of their suffering.

The circuit, under the impact of a violent torrent of ether far exceeding its design limits, emitted a teeth-grinding, teeth-splitting screech, like a red-hot iron being plunged into cold water! This was not the sound of operation, but the prelude to collapse.

It's like a fragile circuit board being instantly subjected to an ultra-high voltage powerful enough to melt everything!

The circuit's structure began to twist, overload, and spiral out of control. The intricate magical transmission path was brutally torn and burned by the raging energy.

The magicians huddled on the ground, their bodies convulsing uncontrollably, ominous, charred lines appearing beneath their skin, like those of burnt electrical wires.

The magic surged out of control within them, burning their nerves and destroying their tissues.

This is no longer a simple case of suffocation, but the collapse of the very foundation of magic, a cruel process in which life, along with the magic circuits, is forcibly "short-circuited" and burned away.

A faint, eerie smell, like burnt rubber, even began to permeate the air.

And at this moment, in two places located in the ancient heart—

"Ah, it's finally started?"

Meastia closed her eyes slightly, opened her arms, and let the surging magical power flow into her body from the earth's veins.

Her cloak billowed in the wind, and her hair floated lightly in the fluctuations of magic, like a priestess who had been asleep for a thousand years awakening at this moment.

"Huff, huff... Lady Meastia!"

Tika, who was standing to the side, bent over, her face pale, and pressed one hand tightly against her chest.

Her magic circuits seemed to have been forcibly connected, and she appeared to be on the verge of collapse. "I... can't breathe..."

"Well, you're really lame, little Tica."

Meastia turned her head, a mocking smile playing on her lips, but there was no hint of sarcasm in her expression.

He extended a hand to Tika, his palm gleaming softly, like the first melting snow of spring.