Alchemy Principles of Type-Moon World

"Ha, because what he wants is just that little." He looked down at the empty plate on the table and continued, "He says he doesn't like the state of Japan today, but what he wants is a few hundred years old bones like me, hoping that I can bring down the Tosho power and rebuild the Edo Shogunate—"

"--And then, he only wanted that little bit of support as a retainer, just wanted to become a daimyo, ha! What an unambitious guy!"

"Even though you say that, you don't really have any ambitions yourself, do you?"

"Don't bring this up," Tokugawa Ieyasu said with a pout. "Well, I really don't like the messed-up, filthy state Japan is in right now."

"Are you planning to...?"

"Just by the way, if it's really possible--"

"—It's not impossible to bring this filthy world back into the hands of the Edo Shogunate, right?"

"If you don't die from eating too much tempura again," the boy said nonchalantly, "I'll still have to do the work anyway."

"Hahahaha" Tokugawa Ieyasu laughed, grabbed the remaining tuna belly sushi on the porcelain plate, and stuffed it all into his mouth in one breath -

——Oh, he ate three pieces of greasy organic big belly sushi in one bite!

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Well, this chapter declares the end of tonight and the end of the previous section.

The purpose and character of Tokugawa Ieyasu's group are further portrayed. The two's evaluation of Tokugawa Yoshinobu, the last ruler of the Edo Shogunate, at the beginning actually reflects his master Fujiwara no Shigenobu to a certain extent, and then slightly hints at their purpose. That's about it.

The next chapter will start from the next day during the day, and will further depict and expound on the non-combat daily life. The pace will be slightly slower, but I will try my best to ensure that the plot remains interesting.

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

Volume 22: The Kyoto Holy Grail War Without a Nagging Talk: . The So-Called Trend

Inside the bright classroom, the air was filled with the faint scent of chalk dust. Outside, the sky was gray, clouds hanging low. Occasionally, a few crows flew past, emitting a lonely cry. Although winter had arrived, Beijing hadn't seen any snow this year. Through the window, one could see the withered, yellow leaves shivering in the chill wind. Inside, the students sat in groups of three or four, making the classroom seem sparse.

A young female teacher stood at the podium, seemingly only a few years older than the students seated below. She wore a dark blue turtleneck sweater and a light gray skirt that barely covered her knees, appearing dignified yet elegant. Her long, smooth, dark brown hair was casually tied into a low ponytail, with a few strands tumbling down from her temples, swaying slightly as she moved. Her voice was low, but clear and penetrating.

"Before summarizing and summarizing so-called creative techniques, if they are separated from aesthetic feeling, then these techniques are worthless." As she spoke, she wrote a few key words on the blackboard. The classroom was so quiet that only the rustling of chalk could be heard.

She paused, her eyes sweeping across the audience, before continuing, "In the mid-1870s, Alexandre Dumas's The Illegitimate Son was revived at the Comédie-Française, and a critic meticulously analyzed every detail of the play, deeming it a work of exquisite craftsmanship."

The female teacher held the chalk very steadily. As she spoke, she extracted the key words from her story, wrote them on the blackboard, and finally circled the string of key words to enclose them.

"That critic believes the rules he's developed are effective for any play," she continued, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. "Of course, we can tell that his so-called rules are ineffective. Otherwise, he wouldn't have such a mediocre reputation."

"However, this was only a definitive conclusion after the fact. At the time, Zola, after seeing the play, quoted the critic's opinion in his famous 'Naturalism and the Theatre Stage', and pointed out with great shrewdness and accuracy that the play was 'quite cold'."

She put down her textbook, picked up her chalk, and drew another arrow across the circle she had just drawn. Then she continued writing on the blackboard: "Thus, if we are more convinced of Zola's feelings, we can see that the tragedy of technical theories that are divorced from aesthetic feeling is that they may be perfectly suitable for a play that is not good to watch."

"Whether to trust aesthetic feeling or certain technical rules, I think there's no need to explain this to the students," she said, her tone gentle yet forceful. "That critic always believed in so-called rules that were divorced from aesthetic feeling, thus blocking his own aesthetic feelings, making them numb and monotonous."

"And George Bernard Shaw mocked such people as 'peasants accustomed to the smell of garlic,' saying that once they were given something without the smell of garlic, they would insist that it had no taste and was not food." Her tone rose slightly, with a hint of irony.

She put down her chalk, turned her back to the blackboard, folded her arms across her chest, and said with a touch of emotion, "Sadly, many people still rely on the same numb rules that are divorced from aesthetic feeling. Since 1867, the Parisian daily L'Epoque has published a drama review every week by the same reporter, and this has lasted for over thirty years. That reporter was Sasse."

"Many young people at the time always thought that Sarsai wrote so many reviews according to the same set of rules. Therefore, they took great pains to search, collect, summarize and generalize his reviews, and then wrote plays based on the results of the summary, saying, 'I have diligently read your journals that explain the general principles of drama. If you are willing to read my plays, you will find how I conform to the correct rules you have established.' Then they would give the scripts to Sarsai—"

"—The result is predictable. We haven't even seen anything these people wrote yet," she said, her tone tinged with sarcasm and helplessness. "At least they failed miserably."

"Theologians preach based on a priori principles, using a few general rules to frame various artistic phenomena." The female teacher smiled. "If this class is going to cover that, we might as well change the title to Theology."

"Although I've stressed this to my classmates many times, I still have to say it again: Don't rush into so-called popular trends. Those who do so will only be left to follow the real trends and eat their tail gas."

"Okay, this class we're going to talk about Hugo and his 'Hernani.' Let's first briefly introduce the historical background..."

Beneath the podium, in a corner of the classroom, sat two young men. Light from outside filtered through the slightly worn curtains onto the desks, illuminating the books and notes scattered across them. This was a secluded area, a place many students chose to sit in, either to slack off or to avoid conspicuous attention.

One of the young men was looking down, concentrating on taking notes. He was a thin man in his early twenties, wearing a light-colored wool sweater with the sleeves slightly rolled up, revealing his slender, bony wrists. His hair was slightly messy, with a few strands of hair hanging in front of his eyes.

"What do you think?" In the brief moment when the female teacher turned around to write, the young man, while furiously writing down the contents on the blackboard, took the time to softly ask another young man sitting next to him.

"Ryosuke, listen to the class carefully," the young man withdrew his gaze from the podium after hearing Ryosuke's question. He turned his head to look at Ryosuke. Although he looked quite young, his tone was quite mature. "It's very impolite of you to do this." After he said this, he raised his hand and gently tapped Ryosuke's head.

"I just wanted to—"

Before he could finish his words, the young man shook his head, silencing him. While his Master appeared calm and composed, he was actually more anxious and anxious than anyone else. Every word Ryosuke wrote betrayed the undisguised emotional turmoil within him. While seemingly calm and rational, each word shone with anxiety and anticipation.

The young man knew that Ryosuke claimed not to rely on the outcome of the Holy Grail War, but ever since he was summoned, all his hopes and bets seemed to be placed on him. Whenever Ryosuke looked at him, his eyes were always filled with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. The young man saw it all, but could only sigh inwardly. Alas, this generation of children had been lost since birth, but he was ultimately a ghost of the past, unable to guide them.

The bell rang suddenly, bringing a brief commotion. Ryosuke waited until the female teacher at the podium announced the end of get out of class before he breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly lowered his head and neatly wrote down the last line of the blackboard in his notebook.

Ryosuke closed his notebook, put down his pen, and let out a soft breath. He turned his head and his gaze fell on the young man sitting next to him. The young man still maintained his leisurely appearance, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes looking calmly ahead, seemingly unconcerned with everything around him.

"Why are you looking at me?" The young man noticed Ryosuke's gaze and raised his eyebrows slightly. "If you have any ideas, go ask after class."

"I just feel..."

"If I must say, it's a bit result-oriented." The young man interrupted Ryosuke, choosing his words carefully before continuing, "It's much better than those things you wrote in silence."

As soon as the bell rang, the classroom was immediately filled with the sound of students packing up their books, and the chairs rubbing against the floor made a slight harsh sound.

"Teacher Sakura, please wait a moment..." He breathed slightly and stretched out his hand to signal, his voice full of urgency.

Sakura, who was about to leave the classroom, stopped, turned around, and looked at Ryosuke who had caught up with her. She looked at the young student who was obviously still confused, smiled and nodded.

Ryosuke walked up to her, collected his thoughts a bit, and said, "I want to ask you about the Onani that we mentioned in get out of class."

The classroom window was half-open, letting in a gentle breeze that brought a hint of chill. The shadows of the trees outside swayed softly in the wind, making a rustling sound. The other students in the classroom had already left, leaving only a few people chatting quietly.

"You said that Hugo's Hernani didn't conform to the aesthetic habits of the general public at the time, that is, the aesthetic standards of classicism," Ryosuke continued hesitantly, trying to organize his thoughts. "So, he took the play to the Théâtre Française, the headquarters of classicism at the time. Because the play conflicted with the habits of most audiences at the time, the performance was met with constant boos—"

Teacher Sakura nodded slightly, looking at Ryosuke with soft eyes, and listened patiently as he continued.

"—But Hugo didn't back down. Instead, he gathered a group of young cheerleaders to confront the critics. This lasted for a full month and a half, and finally shook the audience's aesthetic preferences." Ryosuke continued, his speech gradually speeding up and becoming more and more excited. "When the play was performed again eight years later, the audience no longer felt any discomfort."

Ryosuke took a deep breath and continued, "I really don't understand. This kind of thing has happened many times in history. Even some literary works nowadays try to bribe writers to publish a large number of positive reviews in an attempt to deceive the public into accepting their shortcomings, but the result is nothing more than disrepute in the end."

“But why did Hugo succeed?”

"Hmm... I only briefly mentioned this in class, not elaborating on it in depth. Ah... I'm definitely lacking in teaching experience. I'll have to explain it clearly next time." Teacher Sakura frowned slightly, a hint of self-blame in her tone. She unconsciously twirled a strand of slightly curly hair between her fingers, the soft, dark brown strands tangling between her fingers. This seemed to be a habit she adopted when thinking. "I mentioned in class that while 'Onani' runs counter to the principles of classicism, it also aligns with the trends of the times—"

"--Hugo's success wasn't due to his exceptional talent." She paused briefly, her brows relaxed, and a smile appeared. "Of course, he was truly great. Compared to others, his insights into society and the times were indeed more profound."

"As for Hernani, it was created after Hugo had a profound insight into the trends of his time. He saw the inevitable demise of classicism and the embryonic form of romanticism. He was a trendsetter of his time, a key figure and leader in the replacement of classicism by romanticism—"

"--But you have to understand," Sakura-sensei leaned forward slightly and emphasized to Ryosuke, "the tide of that era was not pushed and set off from scratch by Hugo alone."

“Whether they are artists or writers, they may differ from ordinary people in many ways, but the most important thing is that they have a deep understanding of the times in which they live.”

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" She clutched the creed to her chest with one hand, the other still unconsciously playing with her hair. "As for those current literary and artistic works you mentioned, they haven't truly grasped the pulse of the times."

"Ah, it would be a bit arrogant to say they failed. After all, for these works, a mere brief blip is enough."

"Is that so..." He was silent for a moment, as if hesitating whether to continue speaking, his hand unconsciously stroking the edge of his bag. Finally, as if he mustered up the courage, he quickly pulled out a stack of manuscripts from the bag, the pages making a slight rustling sound.

"Um... Mr. Sakura," Ryosuke's voice was a little nervous and expectant as he handed the manuscript to Mr. Sakura. "I wrote something, I wonder if you could help me take a look?"

"Hmm, let me see." Teacher Sakura let down her hair and took the manuscript from Ryosuke's hand, "Hmm..."

After taking the manuscript, she lightly adjusted the somewhat messy papers, causing them to rub against each other, making a small, crunching sound. She lowered her head, her gaze fixed intently on the first page. The classroom light softly shone on her face, illuminating her delicate features.

As Sakura read, she nodded gently, occasionally tapping the edge of the manuscript with her fingertips. Her eyes moved from left to right, following the rows of text, and from time to time she would linger on certain special words and phrases.

"Kobayashi Takiji, Hayama Yoshiki, Miyamoto Yuriko..." She muttered a few names while reading the contents of the manuscript, "Tokunaga Nao, Murayama Tomoyoshi——"

"—Is there a trace of Edogawa Ranpo?" Sakura-sensei said, nodding slightly. "Well, I can see that it's a blend of many styles. And it's also a realistic work, right?"

Ryosuke looked at her in surprise, "Yes, how did you see all that..."

"Different authors have different writing habits. Plus, you habitually quote sentences from different works while blending them together, so it's easy to guess who it is." After she finished speaking, she glanced down at the manuscript and continued, "You blend so many styles, and I can see that your depiction of the 1940s and 1950s is quite realistic—"

"—But what about your own work?" Sakura-sensei suddenly asked, "It's going to be the 21st century in a few days, so why are your works still reflecting events from decades ago?"

"Of course I can see your thoughts. Between the lines, you can see that you are eager to get others to agree with your ideas and to promote your concepts. But what you wrote is completely backward Frankenstein."

She paused, pointing to a paragraph in the manuscript. "You can't even unify your writing style. I can't discern where your own work lies. It reads like a collection of excerpts." Her criticism grew increasingly harsh, but she quickly realized she might have gone too far and softened her tone. "Still, for a first work, it's quite impressive."

Teacher Sakura gave an apologetic smile. "Oh, I was a little blunt just now. I didn't mean to offend you." She patted Ryosuke's shoulder gently. "Actually, it's normal to imitate your favorite authors when you're just starting to write."

"Is that so... Thank you for your guidance!" Ryosuke bowed deeply, "Well, teacher, I'll be leaving first..."

"Wait a minute," Sakura stopped Ryosuke who was about to leave, scratched her cheek a little embarrassedly, then took out her wallet from the pocket of her skirt and handed him a ticket to the Livehouse, "This is for you. If you are free tonight, you can go and listen to it."

"Consider this a reward and a thank you." She stuffed the ticket into Ryosuke's bag without hesitation and said in a slightly forceful tone, "If you hadn't listened carefully and noticed something I didn't explain clearly, then I would have been remiss. Well, that's it. I'm leaving now."

Teacher Sakura sorted out the messy lecture notes in her arms and quickly left the classroom.

"I'm already a teacher and I'm still like this," she thought, "It's a good thing I didn't say that it was just a whining..."

Ryosuke slowly walked back to his previous seat, and the young man was still sitting there waiting for him.

Ryosuke slowly walked back to his seat, feeling mixed emotions. The young man was still sitting in his original seat, seemingly waiting for him.

"Have you finished being scolded?" The young man gave a teasing smile, with a hint of ridicule in his tone.

"Sir, you should know exactly what's wrong with what I wrote..." Ryosuke looked a little unhappy, "Why don't you just tell me directly?"

"What do I know? What do I know?" The young man shrugged deliberately and replied innocently, "I died in 1965. How can I know anything about your generation? You're asking the wrong person."

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图片:"BB迪拜的个人资料4"踆wu易祁〓八扒冥泣li〦u1,位置:"Images/1724856138-100406584-112061782.jpg"

The new setting of Mushroom, now I can really let go and write, haha, in the future, the mystery has been clarified and is no longer an unknown existence.

I didn’t expect that I wouldn’t get backstabbed for writing fan fiction. That feels so good!

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I was a bit hesitant when writing this chapter; honestly, it's almost completely beyond my knowledge. The person uttering these words is a teacher, and while I might intentionally create some differences and "flaws" in the words and philosophies of other characters, if I were to "teach students" as a teacher, I had to give this section a lot more thought.

As an author, I must be responsible for the content I write.

While writing, I was actually constantly asking my writing teacher many questions about this topic, and only then did I dare to write about it. To be honest, I was also scolded when I asked her questions.

I don’t know what you think of it, but as a new author with a new book, I’d appreciate any feedback. Thank you!

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If you want to create a new group, you should wait for a while before creating a new one.

Volume 23: Not Chattering II: Spirit Umbrella II | Mio⒎Si (VIII/) Chattering Kyoto Holy Grail War: . Schrödinger's Cat

Kyoto was shrouded in midnight darkness, the scattered stars flickering in and out, as if peeking into the city's secrets. The sound of footsteps rustled from a dark alley, shattering the stillness. The back door of the nightclub gently opened, and a figure emerged. Schrödinger, draped in a loose windbreaker, hunched his shoulders slightly, as if to protect against the cool night breeze. He stretched, sighed softly, and gazed up at the night sky. It was already dark, the hour of midnight.

Schrödinger glanced around, his eyes revealing a sense of ease and casualness. In the quiet alley, only a few stray cats wandered around the trash cans, occasionally emitting a few low meows that echoed in the empty street. Suddenly, Schrödinger turned and walked towards the end of the dark alley.

It was a dead end. The wall, cold and silent in the dim moonlight, offered almost no sign of passage. Yet, Schrödinger seemed unfazed. He walked up to the wall, reached out, and gently touched the cold brickwork. A chill tingled sensation spread across his fingertips. Then, as if the wall didn't even exist, he stepped forward and passed right through it.

To illustrate the tunneling effect, imagine the following scenario: a particle encounters a potential barrier with slightly higher energy than its own. In the macroscopic world governed by classical physics, it's absolutely impossible for a particle to penetrate this barrier. How could a person suddenly walk through a wall? However, in the microscopic world governed by quantum mechanics, the wave function can exhibit exponential decay within the barrier, with a non-zero probability of "tunneling" through to the other side.

The insurmountable gap between the macroscopic world and the microscopic world seemed to have disappeared at this moment. Under the effect of Schrödinger's treasure, the characteristics of the microscopic world were reproduced in the macroscopic world.

Schrodinger walked out from the other side of the wall, brushed off the non-existent dust on his windbreaker, yawned, and lazily scanned the surrounding street scenes.

"Let me see, um... there are still three nodes that have not been arranged." He muttered, his voice was particularly clear in the silent night, and his pace was slow and leisurely.

However, as he turned, he was confronted by a shadow warrior shrouded in black mist. The mist seemed alive, entwining the shadow warrior's form, surging and shrinking. Unlike the other shadow warriors, this one carried a cannon at his side. The cannon was compact, with a short barrel, mounted on a simple wooden carriage. Two large wooden wheels enabled it to move with the shadow warrior's steps.

Using the emanating magical fluctuations as a recognition mechanism, Shadow Warriors can accurately distinguish between Servants and ordinary people.

But it completely ignored Schrödinger, who passed by. Schrödinger even leaned in with interest, scrutinizing his face. Though the shadow warrior's features were still shrouded in black mist, their features were already taking shape. His face was thin, with regular features, and his short, neat black hair was tied up in a high bun, giving him the appearance of a typical Japanese daimyo. However, his eyes remained blank and lifeless.

"It's almost done... Interesting." Schrödinger nodded, and then continued to move slowly towards his destination.

Schrödinger continued walking through the night, his steps brisk and unhurried. Turning another alley, he saw the entrance to the shrine. It was three quarters past midnight, and the red torii gate stood out in the moonlight. Its vibrant red, like blood, seemed to deliberately assert its presence, creating a stark contrast with the surrounding darkness.

Schrödinger raised his head and his gaze lingered on the torii gate for a moment. He stretched lazily, then stepped forward without hesitation and walked straight through the first torii gate.

The approach between the torii gates was densely packed with barriers. These barriers intertwined the air like invisible webs, emitting only faint magical fluctuations. Any ordinary person approaching would inevitably be blocked by the barrier's power. But Schrödinger paid no heed to them. His steps were steady and lazy, as if he saw no such obstacles, passing through them effortlessly. As he passed, the barrier trembled slightly, as if sensing an outsider, but then returned to calm.

After passing through the barrier, Schrödinger arrived at the shrine's inner courtyard. The shrine's interior seemed even more serene and tranquil under the veil of night. Stone lanterns lined the approach, their flames flickering faintly. The wind rustled through the pine and cypress trees, their dense branches obscuring the sky. Only a few rays of moonlight filtered through the leaves, illuminating the moss-covered stone steps.

Schrodinger walked around the central worship hall. Its eaves rose high, its wooden structure rusted with age. Beside it, the coin hall stood quietly, its walls hung with various talismans and silk offerings. The talismans swayed gently in the breeze, oblivious to the uninvited visitor.

Not far ahead, the main shrine loomed. Encircled by a wooden fence called the "Tamagaki," the outer side of the fence marked the mortal world, while the inner side was considered the boundary of the divine realm. Despite the towering fence, Schrödinger paid no heed to these taboos. His gaze was calm, and he walked forward, silently and like a ghost, he passed through the "Tamagaki" and entered the inner courtyard of the shrine, considered the divine realm.

The stone steps in front of the main hall were covered with a thick layer of fallen leaves, giving it a desolate and desolate look. The surrounding trees grew denser, almost completely blocking out the moonlight, making the area seem even darker. Shimenawa ropes snaked between the trees, and the paper hangings hanging from them occasionally emitted a faint fluorescent light. Schrödinger narrowed his eyes slightly and then stepped onto the stone steps. He pushed open the wooden door of the main hall, and the hinges creaked softly.

After entering the hall, Schrödinger glanced around and quickly locked onto his target—

Within the inner sanctuary, the "divine body" is enshrined as the object of worship. It's a mirror set in an exquisite wooden frame, its surface smooth as water, reflecting a hazy image of the main hall. Modeled after the "three sacred treasures" of the imperial family, it's said that the enshrined deity possesses it.

But that was before the Age of Gods. If there really was a god with his own consciousness possessing this mirror, he would have driven Schrödinger out long ago.

Schrödinger approached the ancient mirror and gazed at it quietly. The mirror hung securely on a wooden stand, its frame covered in cracks and mottled marks from the passage of time. Though its surface had dimmed slightly with age, it still reflected his figure clearly. However, Schrödinger's face was blurred in the mirror, like a painting splashed with water, its lines and contours blurred, as if floating in a hazy mist.

After a moment, Schrödinger stretched out his hand and lightly brushed his fingertips across the mirror frame. As his fingers moved, tiny particles of dust floated in the air and finally stopped on the mirror surface. With a little force, he took the mirror down from the wooden frame.

Then he raised his head and took off the round-frame glasses on his nose. He took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the lenses. After wiping them clean, he did not put his glasses back on immediately. Instead, he took the handkerchief and gently tapped the mirror with the edge of the lens.