Magician in Type-Moon

Page 519

"For example, Baldanders."

"For example, the Sea of ​​No Return—'Bermuda,' that abyss leading to another world."

When Orange said those two names, her tone was casual, as if she were just mentioning them casually.

But to Reines, it was like a bolt of lightning striking her nerves.

Of course she had.

Even within the secretive council of monarchs, these two names circulated.

One is the "Last Magic Association," on par with the Clock Tower and the Atlas Institute, a reclusive group that reveres mythology and appears in reality only once a year—the Wandering Sea, which exists like a ghost kingdom.

The other is the underwater trap that should not exist on Western European nautical charts but has never been truly erased, an invisible realm that has swallowed up shipping routes, fleets, and even magical instruments, the "Bermuda," a rift that has returned to nothingness.

Orange's clattering footsteps echoed in the damp ground, each step like a tap on Reines's eardrums.

"Although the principles behind the two are completely different, the results are... quite similar to the current situation."

She paused for a moment, then suddenly changed to an overly relaxed tone:

"Well, to give you an analogy, it's like a bottle of carbonated water—bubbling and bubbling. It appears and disappears, then reappears. Maybe this is a bubble that just happened to float right in front of us."

Orange squinted her eyes slightly. In that moment, she was no longer a magician, but like a nostalgic young girl.

"...When I was little, I loved drinking sweet soda in glass bottles," she said with a laugh. "Didn't they have marbles in them? Do Japanese kids still play with those now?"

No one cared whether she really wanted to know the answer.

Because what she really wanted to express was the crazy yet precise reasoning behind her words.

"The map of human affairs on earth does not accurately locate the coordinates of the spirit tomb Albion."

Orange raised her hands, as if grasping some invisible concept in the air.

"It is inherently unstable. Not because it is well concealed, but because it is in motion. Its space is uncertain and its position is fluctuating. It is not rooted in the 'here and now' of the physical world, just like the superposition state of quantum mechanics—it does not depend on reality, but can be everywhere."

“The terrain of Albion, the tomb of spirits, which was originally located tens of kilometers underground, may also exist near the surface.”

As Orange finished speaking, she glanced at Hartres and raised an eyebrow.

"In other words, although it is extremely illogical, this underground space, which should have been closed off, is actually located 'inside' Albion."

It is neither a connection nor an extension.

It is a fragment of something "inside" that has wandered into the bubble of the real world.

Those words clearly seem absurd and outrageous from the perspectives of logic, common sense, and even basic physics.

Yet people couldn't help but accept it.

Like a hidden level that suddenly pops up in a game.

It was neither a design flaw nor a data error, but rather an intentionally left abnormal space.

It might be a short-term stage for adding points, or it might be a killing trap waiting for players to die.

Its existence does not follow the conventional path, but rather bypasses the rules, passes through exceptions, and emerges along a path that can only be entered through sensory understanding.

Orange stopped in her tracks. At that moment, the entire underground space seemed to fall silent as well, as if listening.

Her voice was like the receding tide, low and steady.

"The bubble that was separated from Albion, just as I said, disappeared after it was born, and was born again after it disappeared."

“These bubbles may appear transient and disordered, but in reality they are always connected to the main body’s tomb, Albion.”

"However, the bubbles only last for a short time; they disintegrate soon after they rise to the surface."

"That's why neither the magician of the clock tower nor the remnants of the Secret Relics Dissection Bureau ever truly realized this."

Aozaki Touko spoke to herself, casually taking off her glasses from her head.

"...But you know."

That statement wasn't a question. It was more like a whispered confirmation.

"As the former head of the Department of Modern Magic—you know that these bubbles used to appear regularly in the basement of the old school building."

The air felt as if it had been gently compressed.

“My guess,” she asked softly, “what do you think?”

"Hmm, you are indeed very skilled, Grand Puppeteer."

Hartres maintained his gentle smile and spoke in his usual tone, as if he were merely praising an opponent for making a precise move.

“Then, Miss Aozaki,” he said, “what brings you here?”

“I’ve taken on some search requests,” Orange replied casually, as if discussing the weather. “Although I’m not really suited for this kind of explorer-oriented job, I can’t go against the wishes of the world.”

She paused slightly, her gaze fixed ahead, and a faint smile slowly spread across her lips.

"The task is to search for your disciple."

As soon as she finished speaking, her eyes locked onto Hartres's eyes. Those heterochromatic pupils were now as sharp as a hunting dog's.

“I want to ask a direct question,” she said, “What have you done with your former disciples?”

"What do you mean by 'how it is'?"

Hartres' tone was impeccable, still smiling, as if it were just a vague topic of small talk.

“I didn’t ask any complicated questions.” Orange’s voice didn’t rise; instead, it lowered even further. “I asked—‘Whose disciples were they?’”

She slowly repeated it, emphasizing the word "once".

Reines couldn't immediately understand the meaning behind those words.

Even her mind was momentarily frozen by this almost self-contradictory question.

After a moment, Hartres finally frowned. It was the perfect expression one would make when cornered by questions and forced to admit some kind of flaw.

“It’s a real headache.”

He said it was like a high-achieving student finally seeing an unsolvable question on an exam paper.

"I told them to dedicate their lives to the most brilliant things."

His tone was calm, as if he were recounting an old story.

"They did indeed have such brilliance. And I provided them with a stage worthy of it. So, both sides got what they deserved."

"I see."

Orange nodded, her tone devoid of emotion.

“That’s wonderful,” she continued. “Since you say you got the result you deserved, that’s great.”

The tone shifted abruptly: "But if that's the case, why did you go to Albion? Why did you leave your position as Dean of Studies and spend ten years causing this series of... utterly absurd situations?"

Hartres' smile faded slightly, but did not disappear.

“The reason is boring,” he said, with a hint of self-mockery in his voice.

"If you asked any other magician, you would probably hear a similar answer. The reason is really too boring and trivial."

He paused for a moment, his tone so soft it was almost sarcastic.

"It's like getting your finger pricked while trying to pick a flower—that kind of reason."

He showed no emotional fluctuation, and the voice he spoke was exactly the same as his previous statement.

It was precisely this composure that almost caused Reines to reveal her presence in the shadows.

She suppressed the chill that rushed out of her and looked at the increasingly tense space between the two people.

The next moment, Orange casually tossed out a name.

"Do you remember the disciple named Kuro?"

This time, Hartres' expression remained unchanged.

“Including the missing, there are still some traces of your other disciples until recently, but there is only this disciple named ‘Kuro’.”

Orange's voice was slow, yet incredibly penetrating, "Nine years ago, there was absolutely no trace of anything. Right before you stepped down as Dean of Studies and officially left the Clock Tower."

Hartres did not respond.

The air seemed to freeze in silence, the hollow underground seemed devoid of echoes, and even breathing became an inaudible sound.

At that moment, between Hartres and Orange, invisible blades clashed.

"That being said, I didn't expect you to show up in person."

The red-haired magician subtly changed the subject, speaking in a measured tone.

“In my intelligence network, you should be preoccupied with other things right now.”

"I have no obligation to answer that question."

Orange smiled gently, as if casually brushing aside the other's probing tendrils. That composure was like that of a seasoned player accustomed to hiding cards.

Hartres remained silent for a moment.

His gaze lowered slightly, then slowly rose again, as if weighing each word that followed.

"Running into you was truly unexpected."

He said, "Since you refuse to reveal your hand, then I cannot reveal the card I hold."

"Did the negotiations break down?" Orange smiled and shrugged.

She turned around, seemingly intending to leave.

But after taking a step, he stopped, turned back, and left with a remark:

"You're not planning to let me go, are you?"

Hartres laughed too, a soft and calm laugh: "You're joking. You're too smart, too dangerous. To me, you alone are a threat to the entire clock tower."

He paused, then spoke more frankly: "If possible, I hope you can talk to me a little longer."

Just then, the female Heroic Spirit who had been standing silently beside Hartres spoke.

Her voice was deep and rough, with a burning, resonant quality:

“That’s right. Let me try the so-called ‘modern magician’ myself.”