Magician in Type-Moon

Page 642

"Is this so..."

Matou Ike nodded slightly, seemingly unsurprised by the answer.

He picked up the cup of black coffee, which had long since gone cold. The dark brown liquid in the rough porcelain cup did not reflect the slightest ripple in his eyes.

He took a very slow sip.

When I put the cup down, the bottom of it made a slight tapping sound against the table, like the end of a thought process.

“In that case,” Chi’s voice rang out again, still steady, but subtly changing direction. The cold probe seemed to have sheathed its edge, transforming into some kind of information collector.

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze like an invisible chain, locking onto Shirou once more.

“…Then, let’s take a step back.” His tone was almost icy yet “reasonable,” “…Could you tell me about that guy?”

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards very slightly, forming a cold, emotionless arc.

"This..." His gaze swept over Shirou, then seemingly casually swept over Kallen, "...shouldn't it still be within the scope of your Church's 'Regulations' for external communication?"

"...Regarding the specific circumstances of Jirobo Seigen at the time," Shirou carefully chose his words, each syllable as if precisely cut, "...please allow us to first have the necessary communication with him personally."

He paused slightly, his gaze sweeping over Chi's expressionless face, as if to confirm whether the other understood this professional concern.

“After all,” Shirou said with a hint of emphasis, as if stating an irrefutable truth, “…before he officially donned the black robes of the Agent, he was first and foremost a magician.”

Chapter 667 Qingxuan's Proposal (4k)

A magician...

Deep within Matou Pond's Mystic Eyes, a stream of dark blue data flowed silently, like a cold galaxy, analyzing the reason Shirou had given.

A... near-perfect excuse.

He knew better than anyone else—or rather, the data about magicians' behavioral patterns in his vast memory bank was colder and more precise than any flesh-and-blood "understanding"—

A magician's obsession with their origins, their protection of inherited secrets, and their extreme sensitivity to any information that could become a weakness...

These traits are ingrained in our very being, becoming an almost instinctive survival rule.

Shirou skillfully exploited this point, wrapping the information about the then-Jirobo Seigen in a hard shell of "magician's privacy."

This outer shell is impeccable at the rule level, like a perfectly configured firewall program. It perfectly utilizes the pool's own inherent logical foundation—absolute adherence to "rule boundaries."

and so……

He looked at Shirou—

The red-haired young agent, with the solemnity of an agent and a hint of caution after completing his duty, nodded slightly to him.

He looked at Karen Aldesia—the white-haired, cursed nun, her wide hood drooping again, disappearing back into her cold, holy shadow, as if she had never stepped out of that darkness.

The two turned and, without a word, walked towards the greasy glass door of the restaurant. The cheap plastic chairs made a slight scraping sound behind them, which was quickly swallowed up by the noise from the next table.

Matouchi did not get up, did not try to stop him, and did not even cast a further glance at him as he was calculating.

He simply sat quietly in place, hidden in the shadows cast by the pale fluorescent lights and the cheap plastic chair back, like a finely crafted doll abandoned in a data dump, no longer functioning.

Lack of interest.

Matou Ike's gaze lingered for a few seconds on the oil-stained glass door where Shirou and Kallen had disappeared, like a probe that had lost its target, before slowly withdrawing.

He turned to the pure white figure beside him, who had remained silent like an exquisite doll.

Arcueid kept her head down, her large hood obscuring most of her face, revealing only her beautifully shaped jawline. But Matou Ike's cold, demonic eyes precisely caught the extremely subtle, hesitant movement of her pale lips beneath the shadow of her hood.

“You,” Chi’s voice broke the silence, deep and direct, like a standby program starting up, “...seems to have something to say?”

Arcueid paused almost imperceptibly, as if the sudden question had triggered a switch.

She slowly raised her head, and beneath her hood, her crimson pupils, like the murky surface of a sea after a storm, now pierced through the shadows with a pure and ancient bewilderment, casting their gaze upon Matou Pond.

“Those two people…” her voice rang out, carrying the unique, inhuman ethereal quality of a True Ancestor, yet also mixed with a childlike frankness, “…their scent was strange.”

"Oh?" A glint of light suddenly accelerated in the depths of Matou Ike's eyes, which were as cold as a frozen lake.

A pure, icy thirst for knowledge, like a plucked string, rekindled a glimmer of light in his eyes. "...What's strange about it?"

He pressed on, his previous listlessness now precisely stripped away from his voice.

Arcueid tilted her head slightly, as if carefully discerning the remaining pheromones in the air.

Her movements were characterized by an almost beast-like focus and purity.

“Their scent…” she seemed to be searching for the most fitting word, her crimson pupils slightly contracting, “…is very similar to yours.”

She paused for a moment, her gaze from beneath the hood seemingly piercing through space, landing on Matou Ike, making some kind of invisible comparison.

“...But,” she added, her voice carrying a certainty of discovering a difference, “...it’s not as complex as you are.”

heterogeneous.

This word precisely pierced the core of Matou Ike's being. The countless forcibly implanted, modified, and stacked fragments of knowledge and traces of power within his vast memory bank constituted a unique, chaotic, and powerful collection of information—

“Mixed” is one of its most essential characteristics.

Matou Ike tapped her fingertips very lightly on the cold plastic tabletop, as if confirming a key data point.

“Then…” His voice carried a cold, pure thirst for knowledge, like an experimenter observing an unusual sample that could provide new clues, “…can you tell what kind of smell it has?”

Arcueid's crimson pupils contracted slightly again, as if extending the tentacles of her perception to a deeper level. Her voice remained ethereal, yet carried a subtle hint of... hostility and discernment.

“That man…” Her gaze seemed to pierce through the wall, tracing Shirou’s departing aura, “…had a repulsive smell about him.”

She seemed to feel it wasn't accurate enough, and her brow furrowed very slightly under her hood, as if correcting a vague sensory signal.

“No,” she corrected, her voice clear and cold, “...I should say that he and I...are natural adversaries.”

A natural adversary. This definition, like a cold steel stamp, was branded onto the identity of that red-haired proxy.

Her gaze then turned to the direction Karen had left, a completely different light flashing in her crimson pupils, a light carrying a pure, inhuman scrutiny.

“As for that girl…” Arcueid’s voice paused for a moment, as if she were retrieving some kind of ancient knowledge base belonging to her being, “…according to your human classification concepts…”

Her lips, hidden beneath her hood, clearly uttered that word, a word tinged with taboo and darkness:

"...It should be 'demon'."

"A demon..."

Matou Ike's murmur was like the scraping of cold metal, almost inaudible amidst the noisy background noise of the restaurant. But this whisper seemed like an invisible command, activating his dormant limbs.

He stood up without warning.

The chair legs scraped against the greasy floor, making a harsh scraping sound.

"Where?"

Arcueid's voice rang out almost simultaneously. She looked up, and beneath her wide hood, her crimson pupils, like murky rubies, calmly reflected Matou Ike's figure.

There was no doubt, no resistance, only an almost self-evident confirmation.

She seems to have fully accepted her current state—an object that has been "found," whose existence is temporarily anchored to following this "mixed" individual.

Matou Ike didn't even turn around to look at her.

His gaze pierced through the grease-stained glass door of the restaurant, casting its light onto the chaotic and war-torn streets of London outside, as if he had locked onto some invisible coordinate.

“Of course…” His voice rang out, steady and indifferent, as if stating a routine matter on a set schedule, yet his words revealed a cold, unquestionable hunting intent.

"...Go and cause trouble for the 'demon'."

The moment he finished speaking, he strode towards the door. The stark white fluorescent light cast a long, razor-sharp shadow behind him.

Without the slightest hesitation, Arcueid rose silently, like a pure white doll drawn by invisible threads, and followed closely behind.

The wide white hood swayed slightly in the murky air, like a snowflake drifting towards the eye of a storm.

.........

"Tsk..."

A click of the tongue, clearly tinged with annoyance, rang out. Tokito Jirobo Seigen—the man with the signature square turban—was sitting casually on the hood of a rusty, abandoned car.

He bent one leg, while the other swung casually. He held a small toothpick between his rough fingers, picking his teeth absentmindedly, as if chewing on some invisible residue.

"...Are you sure?" Qingxuan glanced sideways, a toothpick sliding between his teeth, making a soft scraping sound, his voice filled with undisguised doubt.

"That creepy guy actually made such a request... specifically naming me personally?"

“That’s right.” Shirou stood a few steps away, his back to the murky light of the London ruins, his figure appearing somewhat heavy. He sighed, the sigh seemingly blending into the gunpowder smoke and rusty smell in the air, “...but we have already clearly refused.”

He paused, his brow furrowing, his sharp gaze sweeping across Qingxuan's untamed face. His voice deepened, carrying an undeniable certainty:

"But I would never be so naive as to think... that man would simply give up."

"Huh?!" Qingxuan exclaimed in surprise.

"What are you yelling about?" Karen looked at Qingxuan with displeasure.

She stood a little further away, the hem of her wide nun's robe motionless, and in the shadow of her hood, her eyes, like molten gold, were coldly fixed on Qingxuan.

This operation was a complete failure from the start.

He thought he had found a good breakthrough in hunting Samael, but now this guy in front of him has created a huge problem out of nowhere.

The start of this operation was as if fate had maliciously smeared a thick layer of filth upon it.

They thought they had found a valuable breakthrough in hunting down "Samael," a threat lurking in the shadows—the man named Matou Ike.

However, before this faint glimmer of hope could rise, the rude and mysterious Shugendo man in front of them had unexpectedly brought about an even more troublesome and unpredictable problem!

“Hey, hey,” Qingxuan spread his hands exaggeratedly, a cynical smile appearing on his face beneath the square headscarf, as if the exclamation just now was an insignificant interlude.

"...Can't people be surprised for a moment?"

He shrugged, making a large gesture, exuding a roguish and unruly air.

"Don't worry," Shirou's voice rang out steadily, like a rock settling down, carrying the weight of a promise unique to an agent.

He looked calmly at Qingxuan, "...Even if Brother Chi won't let you off easily,"

He paused, each word clear and forceful, "...I will do my best to save you."

"Whoa!" Qingxuan exclaimed briefly, deftly twirling a toothpick between his fingers, his eyes holding a hint of playfulness, yet also a subtle, almost imperceptible seriousness.

"Wow, this is really generous! No wonder you're a potential candidate for the Burial Mechanism..."