Magician in Type-Moon

Page 557

The smell was pungent and nauseating, almost unbearable for Yvette; the putrid stench, like death, permeated every inch of her skin.

Just then, a piercing roar suddenly came from afar.

The volume wasn't loud, but it carried an irresistible sense of oppression, as if the sound itself could distort space and oppress one's mind.

The entire void seemed to tremble with that roar, and the structure of space seemed to change as a result.

Yvette nearly lost control of her impulse and almost collapsed.

She had almost no strength left to think; just from that aura, she felt as if her soul was being torn apart.

She clenched her teeth with difficulty, trying her best to stay conscious.

Matou Ike's hand, which was tightly gripping the gold coin, twitched slightly. Her gaze swept across the air, wavering slightly, but she remained perfectly calm.

He gestured with a brief gesture, pointing to the horizontal hole.

In that instant, Yvette and Furu seemed to see a glimmer of hope.

A glimmer of hope seemed to have been ignited in the darkness, however faint, it was enough to encourage them to keep going.

However, just as they were about to approach the horizontal tunnel—

A giant eye suddenly emerged from the darkness and turned towards the three of them.

It was an eye, its cold light gleaming in the deep, endless darkness.

What followed was an oppressive force that almost swallowed up the entire space.

The enormous head moved slowly, and one of the three heads, with its gaze fixed on the three people.

The monster in Albion's Tomb did nothing.

He merely looked over.

It is neither a demonic eye nor an evil eye.

However, the gap in existence crushes the human soul.

Fingernails, bones, skin, muscles, lungs, stomach, heart, spinal cord, blood vessels, and brain all seemed to be crushed at once.

Breathing has stopped.

Blood flow stopped.

Every cell was as still as if it had been made of stone from the very beginning.

Someone once said that fear stems from the unknown.

That statement must be slightly inaccurate.

It's not that we don't know, but that it's impossible for us to know.

Chapter 602 The Future King (4k)

Every second that passes, several hours have passed in the outside world.

Within a minute, time had accelerated to the passing of dozens of days.

And when the countdown reaches one hour, time is stretched to several decades.

This is a sealing technique prepared by Hartres, originally intended to create a time difference within a bounded field, allowing one to observe the end of the universe and glimpse the end of the "sky"—a magical feat.

Now, however, this has become a rocket propelling her straight to the realm of the gods, catalyzing her ascension.

And so, the imposters slept and floated in this distorted cradle.

Her consciousness was sealed away, but it did not fall silent.

Her soul burned alone in this endless, distant, maddeningly long time.

They are experiencing an eternal catastrophe that no human being has ever personally experienced.

What sustained her through this long period of time was not rationality, nor a sense of mission, but a resentment that never faded—

Why leave such a last message?

Why fight each other over those last words?

Why didn't I live to see that time and stop them?

Again and again, it seemed like an endless echo, asking and answering itself in my consciousness.

That question has been asked millions, even tens of millions of times.

With each repetition, anger surged up like blood made of ether, scorching her nerves and thoughts.

That burning intensity wasn't an emotion, but the flame of memory, forging the very core of her being again and again.

The imposter was unsure whether she could endure this near-eternal mental torment because she was a "servant" or because the Command Seals had nailed her mental structure to this point.

If she were alive, with only a physical body, she would probably have collapsed or decayed long ago.

But at this moment, she remains whole, burning silently.

However, during this long journey, there was an "exotic object" that she had never possessed in her lifetime.

A figure—a man looking up at her, as if in prayer.

He just watched her quietly, day after day, year after year.

From the perspective of the imposter, he has been praying to himself for over a hundred years.

This was an almost absurd act, but she did not laugh it off.

She found it laughable, yet she also felt a strange stirring within her.

……Fool.

She muttered to herself.

You clearly didn't need to look like you were about to cry.

What is "Hartles"? Who gave him this nickname?

If he chose that name himself, then he doesn't understand himself at all.

The imposter had no idea that the man's emotions were so deep and complex.

No, perhaps she should have realized it sooner. In terms of the length of time spent together, no one in the world has spent more time with her than he has.

In reality, they only spent about two months actually facing each other.

But in this world sealed by time—in this eternity constructed by magic, the imposter has been watching his time for a century.

In those hundred-plus years—which, for Hartres, was only about two hours—

The man almost never looked away.

He kept his eyes open, staring intently at her.

It was neither surveillance nor command, but prayer.

He even used a Command Spell for this prayer.

It wasn't for fighting, it wasn't for victory, it was simply for one wish:

—I hope she can be patient.

The imposter did not respond to him.

She simply remained silent, drifting, letting the tides of time wash away her gradually deified consciousness.

But she sensed it.

His faith, like a gentle stream, seeped into the depths of her body and soul little by little.

He once said that faith can make a faker into a god.

It sounds absurd, but now... the faith emanating from just one person truly permeates her entire being like an electric current, penetrating the very foundation of her existence.

Of course, Hartres prepared various means for this deification:

Catalysts, barriers, the abundant magic of Albion's spirit tomb, and the divine positioning coordinates known as "[Vector]".

But what truly drives everything is that unwavering "belief".

The imposter didn't fully understand why the man did it.

But she had a vague feeling that the answer might be quite simple—

"...That matter must be that important to 'you'."

Since that's the case, then forget it. She smiled softly to herself.

He is still hiding something from her, something she has long since realized.

But he has been praying for her for two hundred years.

Even if it's lying to her... it doesn't matter.

She was willing to accept even if it was a lie.

Faced with such earnest gaze and faith, the truth itself becomes secondary.

"...If it's for you, I wouldn't mind becoming a foolish god..."

The imposter thought quietly.

Her consciousness remained stable, but it was no longer closed off.

Time continues to pass.

Three hours—in the outside world, a thousand years have passed.

As her divine status solidified and her sense of time was stripped away, her cognition began to expand and extend.

She began to touch upon the realm of divine perception, a realm beyond heroic spirits.

In that field, time, distance, and causality are no longer limitations.

She began to "understand".

It was neither a memory nor a foresight, but rather a mode of existence that seemed to know everything from the outset.

For the gods who connect to the vortex of origin...