Alchemy Principles of Type-Moon World

She wasn't sure if her plan had gone as she wished, or if the magician who had taken Grey away had successfully evaded capture. She was even less sure if Grey, at that moment, had gained freedom, if she could escape the shackles of fate.

But she no longer worried. Regardless of whether Gray escaped or not, the so-called "Son of God" identity no longer had any value to the villagers.

Her gaze didn't linger on the distance anymore. She turned her gaze back, continuing to look in the direction of the temple. The massive building was almost swallowed by the thick fog of the swamp, with only parts of the spire and ancient walls vaguely visible in the mist. As she approached, the outline of the temple gradually became clearer.

And if Gray hadn't escaped, if she was no longer the Child of God, if she had remained trapped among the villagers, what would have awaited her? Anger, despair, or inevitable death? Would the members of the Holy Church come to her rescue? Would they protect her from the enraged villagers? That magician didn't seem very strong; could he have protected Gray?

These questions flashed through her mind, but she didn't think much about it.

She was afraid that these doubts would make her retreat, would make her afraid to move forward, and even make the synchronization ritual she had carefully executed for several years fail.

——If that’s the case, she can’t replace Gray.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, but she didn't stop.

She knew that continuing on was her only option. No matter what fate awaited her, only by doing so could she break free from the fate that bound her.

As she crossed the swamp, the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. The surrounding fog seemed to shift. The decaying, damp air gradually transformed into an indescribable heaviness, as if the air was filled with countless unresolved pain and wails. Perhaps because the temple had resided underground for so long, within the main body of the cemetery, it was inevitably tainted with the aura of death.

She walked up the stone steps of the temple, her footsteps echoing crisply on the hard stone slabs. On either side of the steps were stone pillars, carved with various statues of gods. Her eyes drooped slightly, ignoring these various statues.

She finally stepped into the temple gate.

Entering the temple, the temperature of the air suddenly dropped, as if entering a long-abandoned space. The light inside the temple was dim, and only a ray of sunlight cast from above shone through the carved window lattices, illuminating the space.

The most eye-catching thing was still the black-faced Madonna statue facing the gate. As she continued walking, she saw more and more details inside the temple, and finally she saw the person she wanted to see.

It was a figure—no, a spirit. Her gaze focused on that figure, a girl who looked almost identical to Gray. She wore a metal mask, its surface gleaming with a cold light. Through the gaps in the mask, she could see a pair of eyes—

——That is the spirit of King Arthur, who has always lived underground and has come to the world above ground for the first time.

"Ahh..." she moaned softly. She stared at the girl behind the mask, a complex emotion flashing in her eyes. That girl looked almost identical to Gray.

However, the next moment, a flash of determination appeared in her eyes.

She knew she couldn't hesitate any longer.

Finally, she thrust the Blade of Corrosion into herself.

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When I was sorting out the logic of this plot later, I suddenly discovered this problem. The villagers' plans and rituals in the original work were almost perfect. They just had to wait for the Fifth Holy Grail War to summon Artoria.

But the prerequisite is that the person dies and the one who comes down is the servant.

She is not dead, her body is still alive and well, Merlin is watching, why are you trying to pull her soul? (Big shush)

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

Volume 34: Xing Qingjiu’s Perfect Arithmetic Classroom: . Why do I feel so powerless?

The morning light seeping through the temple's dome was shattered into tiny pieces of gold foil, reflecting light off the surface of the Erosion Blade. Mother Gray's fingertips continued to thrust, the thorny patterns carved into the handle deeply embedded in her palm, yet she felt no expected reaction.

——The ceremonial sword was now suspended in her chest like a reflection piercing into the water.

The pain she'd anticipated didn't arrive. Neither the sharp pain of the corrosive blade piercing her body nor the sharp pain of the other dagger piercing her heart had ever come. She looked down at her chest and saw that the blades of the two blades seemed to have vanished within her. There was no blood, no pain. It all felt like an illusion, inexplicable.

This strange sight made her wonder if her soul and spirit had been stripped away, leading to her loss of sensation in the flesh. Yet, the girl before her, who looked similar to Gray, showed no reaction to her own body. Why was that?

According to the ritual, after one's body is separated from the body, the spirit will actively attach itself to it.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming from outside the temple.

"Why do you have to do this... Alas." A deep male voice came with a sigh, and the tone was full of helplessness and pity, reflecting multiple echoes among the mottled frescoes.

She looked up, her gaze piercing the dim light of the temple, and saw a figure standing at the entrance. The faint light of dawn outlined his silhouette, and the shadow was stretched and cast on the ground by the morning light from the entrance, the shadow's head just overlapping with the snake relief on the base of the Madonna statue.

He was slowly walking towards the temple, carrying a bottle of wine he had taken from the church's cellar in his left hand. She recognized him as the man who had been traveling with the foreign magician and had briefly stayed in the village. He later lived in the church and seemed to have some connection to the Holy Church.

"Are the people from the church here to stop King Arthur's resurrection...?" This thought flashed through her mind, and she subconsciously tightened the Blade of Corrosion in her hand. But then she realized that if the people from the church could really stop the ceremony from happening, then why should she be vigilant, and she let go of her tense hands.

"Okay, ma'am, put down the dress in your hand," the man slowly approached. "You are Gray's mother, right?"

She nodded subconsciously, her eyes still fixed on him. At this moment, she caught a glimpse of her chest from the corner of her eye - the blades of the corrosive blade and the dagger had indeed pierced her body, but it seemed to exist in a different dimension, causing neither damage nor pain.

"Let me introduce myself, Xing Qingjiu." Xing Qingjiu's voice echoed in the empty temple. He walked straight forward and took the dress he had coveted for so long from Gray's mother's trembling hands. "Ah, you don't have to worry about what happens next—"

"—I've almost figured out what the problem is."

Gray's mother watched as the dagger that was completely embedded in her body was slowly pulled out, like two pictures on different layers being separated. This feeling suddenly made her feel dazed.

"It's okay now," Xing Qingfeng comforted casually, his voice carrying a hint of unquestionable determination. "Eat whatever you want. No need to be so strict with yourself just to maintain that so-called physical sync with Gray. You're truly amazing for persisting for this long for your child."

As soon as he finished speaking, he turned and walked towards the depths of the temple. As he walked out of the dark threshold, his voice chuckled again, "Ah, you are the spirit of King Arthur?" He continued, "No, it is not right. The spirit should not appear like this-"

"——What the hell are you?" Xing Qingwu asked with interest.

If it is India's pure spirit, then it shouldn't be like this.

"..." The girl looked at Xing Qingjiu in silence. Her slender hands tightly grasped the uniquely shaped "gun". The gun was surrounded by strong black magic power and decorated with several sharp spikes on the outside.

"Don't be like that," Xing Qingqi said nonchalantly, "I can be considered a participant in the Fourth Holy Grail War, and I've met the real King Arthur a few times—"

"--Although I don't understand King Arthur, I'm pretty sure you're not a pure spirit." Xing Qingqiu continued, "So, I'll ask again:"

"What the hell are you?"

"I was reproduced and preserved for that purpose. I am the spirit of the former king, correctly digitized and given a correct form." After a long time, the girl replied.

"Oh, so they used King Arthur's behavior and habits as data to create an AI... No, it's not even AI," Xing Qingqi sighed, and with one word, he hit the nail on the head on the girl's essence. "Although it looks like she's an intelligent being, whether it's her reactions or other details—"

"—but you seem to be just a behavioral model."

Xing Qingyu was still chattering on. He didn't know why he said so much to the girl in front of him. It was reasonable to say that solving this matter was indeed very simple -

——All you need to do is insert the ritual garment in your hand, remove the pre-loaded spirit, and the rest will be solved naturally.

"Indeed. I am the directionality of the king who existed in the past." The girl ignored Xing Qingqiu's sarcasm and said calmly, "I am a wreckage, an afterimage, and a sequence preserved for the future."

"Do you have any memories of the past? Memories of King Arthur?" Xing Qingyu asked quickly.

“…” The girl was silent.

"Hmm, as expected..." Xing Qingfeng shook his head, his tone full of contemplation and helplessness, "It is impossible to maintain such a clear memory by pure spirit alone. Even if you manage to preserve it, reading it will always be interfered with by the ruthless limitations of the physical container-"

"—As expected, you simply can't be the pure spirit of King Arthur," Xing Qingqiu continued, a hint of sarcasm etched across his brow. "A normal, pure spirit should be just a tool model that can be used at will. It shouldn't possess complete self-reflection capabilities, let alone retain those long-lost memories like you, or even possess a physical existence."

Just then, a commotion began outside. As dawn gradually approached, the villagers began to slowly approach the temple. The temple remained towering, the mottled reliefs on the ancient stone pillars appearing particularly solemn in the morning light. The Black-Faced Madonna sat silently before the temple. The villagers bowed their heads and knelt, devoutly praying to the Madonna. Their breaths and whispers mingled in the cool air like an ancient hymn.

Well, for Sister Ilumia, who was coming from afar, this scene was the most blasphemous.

"Ah, I see. So that's the setup." Xing Qingqiu suddenly changed direction, his tone tinged with sarcasm and relief. "You're the helper provided by the Atlas Academy, right?"

As soon as he finished speaking, he turned his gaze to the group of fanatical villagers behind him.

"It's just..." His tone was filled with a hint of contempt, "Your attempt to resurrect King Arthur is impossible in itself -

"--Not to mention what kind of changes will be caused to the mental model by the information received during this period after it was loaded in advance, the resurrection of King Arthur is simply an absurd fantasy." His voice suddenly rose and echoed in the temple, so that everyone could hear it clearly.

His voice was so loud that everyone in the temple could hear it.

Then, in full view of everyone—

— He thrust the Corrosion Blade into the body of the girl who claimed to be the Spirit of King Arthur.

"The Spirit King we are waiting for!" An old woman who was the leader of the villagers suddenly wailed, her voice full of despair and grief.

That was the last cry the girl heard before she died.

------------------

Xing Qingjiu sat lazily in the hut next to the windmill, the sunlight shining through the window onto him, illuminating the wine on the table and the green cube in his hand.

He gently toyed with the cube, the occasional reflection of light on the delicate glass almost distracting him from the conversation. He stretched, adjusted his sitting position, and spoke slowly, "Hmm, so you're saying that the carrier of King Arthur's spirit is one of the so-called Seven Weapons loaned out by your Atlas Academy?"

"That's right," Zibia said, taking a sip of his wine. "They gave the Atlas Academy a contract and borrowed the legal reaction from their predecessors."

"It's just that the ceremonial attire is far too dangerous," Zibia sighed. "If something goes wrong, the damage it causes could easily spread across the entire world if it's not contained."

"You guys are really careless," Xing Qingfeng said, stretching lazily, "How could you lend out such a dangerous thing so casually?"

"So the Arterlinba Wu-Ming-Chuan Shan-Lu Jiu+Las Academy has also established a supervisory mechanism here," Zibia replied calmly, "and this is why I am here."

Xing Qingjiu shrugged, his fingers stroking the body of the wine jug. He said nothing more, but turned his gaze to the conspicuous temple. "So, what Magdalena did was also instructed by you?"

"...No, that woman's actions were instructed by you, the people of the Clock Tower," Zibia replied calmly, then added, "From the microcosm of life (Mikrokosmos) to the macrocosm (Makrokosmos) that actually changes the world is one of the ways of practicing magic. By incorporating the flow of ley lines and the movement of planets into the tiny human body, great mysteries become possible—"

"——Based on your understanding as a Clock Tower magus, that's probably it."

Xing Qingyu couldn't help but smile, his lips curled up slightly. "Can you speak human language?" He sighed softly. "Although I can understand all this, I really don't like the magician's methods. Aren't we all alchemists?"

"--To put it simply, this village itself should be under the influence of a ritual that activates genes," Zibia continued to explain without avoiding Xing Qingjiu's sarcasm, "and Gray's genes are similar to her mother's, so of course this is the case."

"And that Gray can be said to be the individual closest to King Arthur," Xing Qingqiu took over the conversation, "Her face is exactly the same as the real King Arthur that I have seen—"

"——and he looks exactly like a Japanese swordsman who has nothing to do with him." Of course, Xing Qingyu did not say this out loud.

"This kind of magic isn't a very complicated one, actually. It simply involves tuning Gray's... um, characteristics? Or wavelength, should we say? By fully participating in Gray's diet, sleep, and even everything else in her life, you can subtly synchronize her mother's wavelength with her own." Xing Qingfeng paused before continuing, "However, doing so would also require interfering with the village's internal rituals... Isn't that what you did?"

"A magician from the Clock Tower came here before, made some deals with me, and then observed this place from the edge of the village for a while," Zibia said slowly. "All this interference was also caused by him."

"Who is it?" Xing Qingqiu's interest was piqued. He glanced at Zibia sharply, with a hint of inquiry in his tone.

Zibia was silent for a moment, a look of helplessness on his face. "Sorry, there was an agreement in the transaction," he shook his head, "I can't reveal his information."

Xing Qingqi's expression turned slightly displeased: "Alright, alright," he curled his lips, then changed the subject: "But that mother is truly amazing. She managed to align her daughter, who has already transformed into King Arthur, with her own wavelength, and she couldn't afford any mistakes. In terms of diet, a change of a few grams would affect the precision of the technique. Even the time and frequency of chewing must be carefully managed, not to mention that it has to be done every day—"

"——This kind of willpower, a mother's strength of steel?"

Cibia did not respond to Xing Qingjiu's praise. He just frowned slightly and looked away slightly, not understanding Xing Qingjiu's praise at all.

"But what will become of this place in the future?" Xing Qingfeng suddenly said, "Suppressing the villagers is the easiest thing, but what happens after that?"

"It will be completely taken over by the Holy Church and the British government," Zibia replied. "The mystery of this place will be completely eradicated."

"No, no," Xing Qingfeng shook his head. "What I mean is, when will they truly be able to break free from the shackles of hundreds of years ago?"

"There's no hope for this generation," Zibia replied. "I've roughly estimated the length of their drama. In the days to come, these villagers will forever live in the regret of King Arthur's failure to resurrect him in their generation."

"Yes," Xing Qingfeng sighed, "They have long been living tombstones—"

"——What about the fourth generation?"

"With your calculation ability, you shouldn't be unable to come up with a conclusion for even this kind of thing." Zibia paused and continued, "They will grow up surrounded by the villagers' regret. Perhaps some will even try to restart the ritual, but that's impossible under the strict control of the Holy Church."

“…” Xing Qingyu sighed silently.

"This village is nothing to me. I've witnessed countless scenes much bigger than this," Xing Qingfeng said after a long silence. "After deciding to take action, the conflict was easily resolved. The whole incident is not worth mentioning to me. In the end, no one died and everyone is alive and well. It should have been a happy ending—"

"—but why do I feel so powerless?"

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This small volume almost ends here. In the end, it makes the protagonist realize the problems of education and so on again, and gradually gives him another motivation, a motivation other than "opening a classroom is simply to develop power."

The next chapter should also be the final conclusion of the whole incident. The protagonist is not the kind of person who simply takes the things and suppresses the villagers, and walks away after "solving the incident on the surface", so the existence of the next chapter is still necessary (

I'm not in a good mood today, so I'm sorry I've only just started posting.

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

Volume 35: Xing Qingjiu's Perfect Arithmetic Classroom: . Epilogue

Belsac remained silent as he chopped firewood in the hut next to the cemetery.

The crackling of wood startled chickadees from their nests in the elderberry bushes. Midsummer cicadas chirped outside the hemlock fence, and the cemetery moss, steaming in the midday sun, emitted a damp, musty odor, blending with the scent of pine resin to create a unique scent unique to gravekeepers.

The indentation on the axe handle, rubbed over the years, dug into the calluses on his palm. The entire axe bore the marks of time, except for the blade, which was still polished to a shine. When the axe was raised, the silver light reflected from the blade's edge could be seen.

The chopped oak logs were stacked in a waist-high square array in the corner of the wall. The fresh wood fragrance mixed with the smell of pine resin permeated the cracks of his slightly dilapidated stone cottage as usual.

"Click——"

The dull thud of the axe blade striking into the annual rings rang out one after another. If it were any other birds, they would have been scared away long ago, especially those silly doves. Unfortunately, there were only crows on the treetops in the cemetery, and they were listening there as if they were used to it.

Without an apprentice to teach, time suddenly felt luxurious and empty. The "click" sound of the axe blade wedging into the tree rings formed a strange rhythm with the croaking of frogs coming from the direction of the swamp.

When the last section of the wood was chopped in half by Belsac, beads of sweat ran down his neck into the collar of his linen shirt. When he bent down to pick up the split wood, the skin on the back of his neck, exposed to the midday sun, was already red and shiny.

He habitually turned his head to the right—

There should have been a pair of hands holding a pitcher of water, but now there was only a linen cloth hanging on a wooden stake, swaying gently in the breeze. As sweat trickled down his spine and into his coarse shirt, he suddenly remembered the towel Gray always offered him, soaked in well water, between each chop. Belsac reached for the towel hanging from the stake, and as the rough linen brushed against his brow, he vaguely imagined the girl standing on tiptoe to wipe his forehead.

The freshly pounded elderflower tea in the stone mortar had long since cooled down, with a few sun-wilted mint leaves floating on the surface.

This was his original life.

Belsac wedged his axe into the crack of the stump and watched the sawdust dance in the shaft of light. The cast iron kettle gurgled by the fireplace, and steam condensed into fine beads on the windowpanes, dripping down the oak window frames he had nailed in countless years ago.