Alchemy Principles of Type-Moon World

The floor was littered with miscellaneous items. A tattered coat was curled up in the corner, its cuffs stained with dried mud. A cracked boot lay upside down on the floor. Several scattered notebooks were spread open, with pages scribbled with illegible handwriting.

Belsac's bed was even more unkempt. The covers looked as if torn by a giant beast, with a few gray hairs tangled in the wrinkles. The pillow leaned askew against the headboard, its case stained with dark yellow sweat and the edges stained with dried wine.

His body was curled up on the bed, his heavy breathing echoed in the room, his chest rose and fell slowly with his breathing, and each exhalation was filled with a strong smell of alcohol.

The magic mark beneath his skin flickered with a faint red light, like some restless creature swimming through his veins. The heat radiating from the mark seared his skin, and sweat oozed from his forehead, trickling down his temples, leaving a dark stain on the pillowcase. His eyeballs moved rapidly beneath his eyelids, but he never opened them.

——He is still sleeping.

This abnormal deep sleep mirrored Gray's own abnormality. Moonlight streamed in through the stained glass, casting mottled shadows on the floor. The area around Belsac's bed remained shrouded in darkness, with only the engraved red light flickering regularly in the darkness.

As the villagers' footsteps echoed on the cobblestones, the alarm of the magic seal grew louder. Red light flickered wildly beneath his skin, like countless tiny needles darting through his blood vessels, each pulse bringing a burning pain. Belsac's body began to twitch slightly, his fingers unconsciously clutching the bedsheets. His breathing became rapid, and his chest rose and fell violently.

But he put the umbrella in his hand and his dad still hadn't woken up. It was hard to imagine how this guy could have such a high quality of sleep.

Enjoy exquisite sleep with Belsac and Grey.

It was about the time, around the time the last villager stepped into the square, that Belsac finally broke free from his slumber.

His eyelids trembled slightly, his cloudy eyes rolling in their sockets, his gaze vacant and confused. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the bedsheets, the rough touch bringing him back to consciousness. The headache and the burning sensation of the magic mark intertwined, like a blunt instrument repeatedly striking his temples. His mind was shrouded in a thick fog, making it difficult to focus.

The magic mark beneath his skin continued to sting, like countless tiny ants gnawing at his nerves. The red light flashed faster and faster, warning of the fact that a taboo had been violated on a large scale.

——He didn't know which taboo had been violated, but the feedback from the magic mark clearly told him that the number of people who violated the taboo was almost equal to the number of villagers in the village.

Belsac shook his head, trying to clear the chaos in his mind. His wet hair stuck to his forehead, and a few drops of sweat appeared as he shook it off.

The villagers don't know what he's thinking yet... so they won't attack him for now. He thought silently, then, it must be someone from the Holy Church.

His eyes swept across the room, landing on the rusty tools piled in the corner. Fighting a headache, he tried to clear his mind.

The Holy Church had good reasons for attacking him, but what was their purpose in choosing this moment in time...? He continued to ponder.

Belsac rose from the bed, his movements slow and heavy. The bed groaned under the weight, and his feet felt a chill on the floor.

He decided to put the issue of the Holy Church out of his mind for the moment and reached for his coat draped over the back of a chair. The fact that the villagers had gathered at this time meant they were almost ready to take action. He picked up the cup of mud on the table, tilted his head back, and drank the bitter liquid in one gulp. His Adam's apple rolled up and down, and the sound of swallowing was particularly clear in the silent room.

Outside the window, a crow flapped its wings and flew past, making a harsh "cawing" sound.

He listened to the crows cawing.

The sound pierced the silence, like a rusty blade scraping across glass. The black silhouette of a crow flitted past the window frame, the sound of its wings flapping and its cries mingling. Belsac's eyes followed the crow until it disappeared over the distant ridge, leaving only silence.

"...Never again." Belsac suddenly muttered to himself, his voice low and hoarse, as if squeezed from the depths of his throat. His fingers unconsciously ran across the window frame, feeling the uneven texture of the wood surface, as if touching the rings of time.

A bird of ill omen that is said to transport souls.

He had been living with the birds and had thought that he would probably die listening to the crows' cries.

The Brakmoya clan can be traced back even further, before the time of King Arthur. Before the appearance of the Blackwinged Prince, their clan was not called that, but even then, they lived among the crows. After the dead apostle named Brakmoya accepted his fate and chose death, their clan changed their name to Brakmoya in his honor.

When the woman named Morgan chose this cemetery as the location for resurrecting King Arthur, the Blackmoya clan did not take any special action and accepted it quite naturally.

In short, the family eventually became grave keepers, temporarily taking care of King Arthur's body. The magician clan named Brakmoya, who drove birds to carry souls, disappeared, and was replaced by a clan of grave keepers named Brakmoya.

Belsac silently reviewed the history of his family in his mind.

Today, as a gravekeeper and soul carrier, he is the last descendant of the Brakmoya clan. Perhaps there are still other distant relatives alive. He remembers a man who bore the name Brakmoya and was knighted by the Queen of England, but that knight has no connection to the Brakmoya clan anymore.

He had shared the mornings and evenings with these black-winged creatures, watching them peck at the berries in the graveyard. When their sharp beaks pierced the fruit skin, dark red juice would seep through the cracks in the stone into the soil, much like the blood offered in ancient rituals. This was how the Blackmore family's gravekeeper should have ended his life—

—Hand over the seal at dusk as crows circle, and let your body transform into nutrients to nourish the moss on the grave.

That would be fine, he had thought.

It may not be in line with the trend, but Belsac was unexpectedly very fond of this village where time seemed to stand still.

Rough fingertips scraped across the dusty windowsill, leaving three parallel marks on the wooden surface. In this village, soaked in swamp mist, even time seemed frozen in the Victorian era.

He was familiar with the growth cycle of the moss on each tombstone, could predict the humidity of the next day based on the concentration of the night fog, and even remembered the branch that a lame crow preferred to perch on.

Everything was just like that until that girl changed.

Belsac had already noticed that the crow's cry was special.

Perhaps out of pity for Grey, who had to end her life as a vessel for a past hero, he chose to make her his disciple and designated her as the successor to the Gravekeeper.

Yes, to Belsac, Gray was not the son of God or the miko that the rest of the village saw her as.

She is a gravekeeper.

"Ah... Gray," he hummed his lips and called out the name in a dry voice. The voice was low and hoarse, as if squeezed out from the depths of his throat.

"I really don't want this day to come."

Belsac Blackmore slowly picked up the axe leaning against the wall of the dilapidated house and prepared to push the door open. His fingers tightly gripped the axe handle, feeling the rough and cold wood.

The axe's blade gleamed coldly in the moonlight, and the door hinge made a harsh squeak.

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The church door collapsed with a loud bang.

Sawdust flew everywhere, and the heavy oak door was torn apart like paper, fragments strewn across the stone steps. The nearby stained-glass windows shattered into countless sharp shards under the impact, reflecting the moonlight and scattering across the ground. The holy water font was dented by the blunt force of the impact, its silver surface cracked and stained. Holy water flowed through the cracks, forming puddle marks on the ground. Sacrificial objects such as the wafer tray and incense burner were also unharmed, hurled roughly to the ground. The clatter of metal on stone made a sharp sound, and the ashes of incense scattered everywhere. The stagnant smell of sandalwood and blood mingled under the dome.

All the lost religious elements brought from the outside world into that facility were destroyed, and it looked as if the village had finally revealed its original appearance.

——On the pulpit, which was barely intact, stood a number of people besides Priest Fernand.

She was the leader of the villagers who had gathered in the square and in front of the vendors. She was a figure that everyone in the village admired as a grandmother.

"...Then, I will do as you command." The old woman's voice rasped, as if she were speaking to someone who didn't exist, her neck curved in an almost reverent arc. A large number of villagers had gathered before her. Judging by their numbers, there were roughly twice as many people as would normally attend a worship service.

After a very short time, the old woman raised her head.

"Listen," she cried, "the fragment of our king has finally made his choice!"

Oh-oh—the villagers cheered, their voices shaking the remaining stained-glass windows. They seemed to regard the old woman's words as a divine prophecy. Their once hunched backs now straightened like javelins, their cloudy eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

They were a group originally assembled for this purpose.

The identity of an ordinary villager is just a thin disguise.

An ancient mission ran through their blood, waiting for this moment for generations, decades past. Especially since Gray's transformation, everyone was overjoyed to be born into this era, eager for it. They seemed to see the glory to come.

The middle-aged owner of the old general store, once hidden in the shadows, held a sharp hoe, the blade gleaming coldly in the moonlight. He was always hunched, as if bent by the weight of life, but now his figure stood straight as a pine tree. The old chef of the village's only restaurant, who always dozed off in front of the store, sharpened his secret stash of short knives, the blade scraping against the whetstone and making a sharp sound.

Thinking of that girl, everyone's face was filled with smiles. Their faces were filled with enthusiasm, and everyone was happy about the girl's growth as if it were their own family story.

Yes, this is what Sister Ilumia said -

"——The person who smiles at you from the bottom of their heart one moment will want to tear you to pieces the next moment with the same sincerity."

No one coughed. The air was filled with a sense of oppression, like the low pressure before a storm, making it hard to breathe. Everyone was filled with excitement. A strong will that could be called fanatical faith. More than a hundred pairs of shoes simultaneously rolled over the holy water stains, as if transformed into a giant creature. But this enthusiasm was suddenly torn apart -

"—She's missing." She continued to shout, "At this most critical moment, she's missing!"

"The church people seem to have been prepared," the old woman shouted. "She might be in the church's hands!"

"Magdalena." The old woman suddenly shouted, and her voice echoed in the empty church.

The woman named stepped forward quietly, her steps light and silent, as if she were stepping on cotton. It was Gray's mother.

As if she finally remembered her name, she raised her head happily.

"Do you know where Gray is?"

"Yes, I have an idea." Magdalena smiled cheerfully and nodded, her voice filled with an unsettling amusement. Something dripped from her back, forming a red puddle on the ground that stank.

That was a limp foreign trader, or rather, a church messenger. The man had been bound and hung, his wounds still bleeding, blood dripping down his body and forming dark patches on the ground. His nails had been ripped out, his exposed gums bearing witness to the iron grip. This was a practiced torture that would have been unbearable even for trained personnel. This was precisely what the newly named Magdalena—Mother Grey—had done.

"The Church is our enemy now," the old woman declared. "We must destroy them, just as we once did in the battle for independence in this mountain. Let us roar and declare that this land is a sacred place that we will never allow to be invaded—"

"That's right! Since the distant legendary era, we have been eagerly awaiting the King's arrival. This time, don't worry about anyone. Shout out loud!"

At this moment, the old woman's expression softened. She raised her wrinkled hands and faced the Black Madonna.

"—I swear to the Black-Faced Madonna we are waiting for!"

In front of the Black Madonna statue, Xing Qingjiu sat there as if no one was around, his figure just obscuring the image. But strangely, even though everyone was looking directly in his direction, no one noticed his presence.

The black-faced Madonna statue blocked the candlelight and cast a shadow forward, which just covered Xing Qingqi's face.

He just watched quietly as the villagers in front of him offered their prayers.

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Belsac's image and monologue are rarely mentioned in the original work, but if you read the original work repeatedly, I think this is a very interesting image, so I paid special attention to it and wrote out his inner thoughts.

The above is a new book by a new author. Please vote and give me feedback. Thank you!

Volume 28: Xing Qingjiu's Perfect Arithmetic Classroom: . Why is the underground always associated with undead creatures?

When Weber was awakened by the alarm barrier, he was almost instantly shaken from his dream. His heart pounded violently, and his eyes quickly adjusted to the surrounding darkness. The dim room was devoid of light, only the faint moonlight from outside the window filtered through the slits in the curtains, casting mottled shadows. The barrier's warning was not gentle; it directly tore through his dream. Weber could even sense Lannis's merciless sarcasm through the barrier's alarm.

He leaned against the headboard, panting nervously, and touched his forehead with his hand. Weber didn't care about preparing the safe area, so he left that task to Lenise. But what Lenise didn't expect was that Weber's safety measures were even more thorough.

——Send her down the mountain in advance and away from the incident.

Gently climbing out of bed, he felt a chill wash over him. Clad only in thin underwear, the air tingling with his skin was instantly chilled to the bone. Weber clenched his fists tightly, his eyes fixed on the dim light at the window. He approached the window, silently pressing himself against the frame and peering out.

Moonlight shone on the village's cobblestone streets, casting long shadows on everything and shrouding it in a deathly silence. Waver's gaze swept across the street, resting on the villagers. He saw familiar faces, each dressed in dusty, everyday clothing. Each villager, clutching a hoe or a sickle, emerged silently from their homes. Strangely, no one carried a lamp or a torch. The entire group wandered through the darkness like a group of undead, relying solely on their familiarity with the village to navigate the night streets.

Waver narrowed his eyes, a strange feeling rising in his heart. He himself had once traveled from East Asia to Central Asia, and in Central Asia, he had finally set foot on all the territories conquered by the king he wanted to serve. During this journey, he had experienced too many escapes in the dark of night. The most obvious abnormality was the silent actions of the villagers.

Normal villagers would have more noise, some subtle discussions and conversations, and even a stronger sense of daily life. But now, all the sounds disappeared, leaving only silence.

He glanced at the villagers again, his eyes following their group until they completely blended into the night and disappeared in the direction of the square in the distance. Weber frowned slightly, his intuition telling him that these were not just ordinary villagers going out.

At this moment, he faintly heard the voice of an old woman, a little hoarse, but with an exceptionally sharpness that pierced the quiet of the night. Weber pricked up his ears, trying to hear more clearly, but he couldn't make it out clearly. He could only hear her low voice, followed by a suppressed cheer, as if in response to her words.

He wanted to get closer to hear more clearly, but just as he was about to open the window, a man's agonized wail suddenly pierced the silence of the night. It was filled with extreme pain and despair, like a sound being torn from the depths of his soul, and it almost made Weber's heart stop. The sound was so sharp that it was almost indescribable, and it made one wonder about the extent of the torture the man was experiencing.

Weber's hands instantly clenched around the window frame, and his body involuntarily took two steps back.

"Who is it..." Weber muttered to himself, a sense of foreboding rising in his heart. He unconsciously stepped back slightly, wanting to get away from the window and the source of the sound, but he couldn't suppress his curiosity and vigilance.

He closed his eyes and quickly adjusted his breathing, deciding to use magic to heighten his senses, trying to better comprehend his surroundings. A moment later, Waver's vision suddenly became exceptionally clear. The slightest shifts in light registered before his eyes. He could sense every drifting speck of dust, every silent draft of air. Every movement seemed amplified several times over. He could hear the distant wind rustling through the treetops, even the rhythmic chirping and subtle swaying of insects in the grass outside his door.

His hearing was also greatly enhanced. The footsteps that were once faint in the distance now seemed to be right next to his ears. He could feel the weight of each footstep and the vibration of each impact on the ground was clearly tangible.

Through this invisible force, he carefully peered through the crack in the door, his gaze sweeping down the dark village road. The air was mingled with the dampness of earth and the characteristic chill of night. He listened intently, listening for the source of those footsteps. As the magic intensified, Waver could clearly hear the crowd begin to flow again, the cobblestones beneath their feet echoing faintly, and the purpose of those footsteps gradually became clear—

—They seemed to be moving in the direction of the caramel.

Waver wasted no time, quickly donning his clothes in one smooth motion. He carefully used magic to check his surroundings. Once he was sure no one was around, he gently opened the door. The doorframe made a barely audible click. Without hesitation, he lowered himself and cautiously entered the darkness outside.

The night wind carried a chill through the empty paths of the village. Moonlight shone on the ground, and occasionally a few leaves rustled in the wind. Everything around seemed unusually quiet, even a little dead. However, this tranquility seemed even more eerie to Waver.

——Especially when he combined the screams just now with the inexplicable taboos in the village, he always felt like he was in a horror movie.

Just as he was approaching the center of the village, he suddenly heard a violent cracking sound, which almost made him stop subconsciously. The sound was deafening, like a heavy object hitting solid wood. Waver quickly interrupted the magic. The loud noise just now made his ears swell. At the same time, it was followed by the sound of shattering glass -

——It was obvious that this group of people smashed the church door and then smashed all the windows.

Waver's pace quickened. The core of the incident had clearly erupted in the church. No matter what happened, he had to witness the truth of it with his own eyes before deciding how to respond.

——Otherwise, the worst case scenario might be that Xing Qingfeng would come to rescue him, and then he would not have the face to stay in the village and try to get help from the gravekeeper.

Weber quietly passed through the side door, avoiding the church's front sight. The narrow alleyway beside the church was cold and damp, with a little water on the ground, reflecting the moonlight and rippling slightly underfoot. Weber lowered his head and groped his way along the wall, trying to avoid making any noise.

He quietly hid in the shadows of the houses near the church, trying to spy on what was happening inside.

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In the hollow underground, darkness seemed like an invisible pressure, enveloping the entire space tightly. The air was damp and cold, filled with the smell of decay, exuding a chill that penetrated deep into the bones. The occasional sound of dripping water echoed in a distant corner, dripping onto the stone, creating a crisp echo and breaking the surrounding silence.

However, the silence didn't last long. With a heavy crash, countless skeletons began pouring out from all directions, like a tidal wave, mercilessly trapping the two figures in the center. Each skeleton exuded a deathly aura, their bones gleaming dark gray, their surfaces covered in layers of decay. Their movements were mechanical and swift, as they charged towards their target in a continuous stream.

Surrounded by the skeleton soldiers, two figures were resisting stubbornly. No, to be more precise, it might be Sister Ilumia who was protecting Priest Fernand.

Her hands and feet were covered in a strange suit of armor, and with every swing she made, arcs of purple electricity danced across the armor. Her movements were incredibly swift, and when her fists swung out fiercely, the skulls of the skeleton soldiers shattered, fragments flying and scattering into slag.

However, even though she defeated more and more skeleton soldiers, their number seemed endless. Every time she crushed one, another would immediately emerge from the broken corpse.

Ilumia's breathing became increasingly rapid as she defeated more and more enemies. Perhaps because she had been facing this situation since the beginning of the battle, Ilumia seemed to be getting tired of it. She wiped the sweat from her neck with her palm and sighed deliberately.

"...Huh, um. The source of the magic power is indeed the villagers on the ground, right?" The disdain in her tone was obvious, and a hint of anger appeared on her face.

"Villagers? " Fernando asked puzzledly.

"The energy here is thin, but the villagers on the ground, connected to the path, are sending their own vital energy endlessly. I'm afraid this is related to their distorted beliefs, and this is the basis for the magic they've constructed." Sister Ilumia's tone was filled with anger and disdain. She shook her hair vigorously, as if trying to completely dispel this dissatisfaction. "Ah, this is the sin of heresy. Imitating the image of the Lord, yet carelessly acting in a completely different way."

Sister Ilumia swung her arms violently, and her right fist struck a skeleton soldier's head like lightning. The sound of bones breaking occurred almost simultaneously with her turning around and swinging her left fist. Under her power, the skeletons of the surrounding skeleton soldiers became as fragile as Weber's magic circuits, and the broken fragments flew all around.

"Ah, I've had enough of this cycle!" Sister Ilumia couldn't help but let out a low roar. She turned her head and her eyes quickly swept towards Priest Fernande.

“Priest!” she almost roared, her voice echoing through the hollow underground space. “Do something quickly!”