Alchemy Principles of Type-Moon World

Then, there were the settings for vomiting blood, the soul-body swap, algae infection, and even Izanagi's substance. First, the setting for the vomiting blood character, because the Saber team summoned Souji very early on, so when I was thinking about it, I thought, is there any setting that is both eye-catching and can be more in tune with Souji? I quickly thought of vomiting blood and being sickly, but who should be responsible for this setting?

Remember, Patricia's nickname is Patty? Yeah, I thought of Muq (Patch), and the setting was easily handed over to Patricia. But I also wanted to think about the setting where Meili falls into a dream and enters Gensokyo. That's a problem. How can someone be unconscious and vomit blood? The setting is too focused on one side.

So I came up with the next setting: a soul-body swap. That's right, let Patricia's body (Mizuki Ringo's soul) be in a coma every day, and let Patricia herself (Mizuki Ringo's body) vomit blood every day. That would balance it out! It would become a character setting where Mizuki Ringo is in a coma and Patricia is responsible for vomiting blood.

The algae infection and even Izanagi substance are the contents of the South American chapter. I won’t spoil it here, and will talk about it slowly later.

Then there is the ending of Okita Souji, which was actually based on the ending of the original work Amber ACE. Amber and the others thought that the demon Souji was dead, and were about to leave, but suddenly Souji came back!

"Oh no - I thought I was going to die." It unfolded like this, well, and then there was no news about the 1945 European Dead Apostle Front.

The above is the idea of the Saber group. It is already late at night while I am writing. I will just write this much for now. I may take a day off every day but will continue to talk about the ideas of other groups. The reason for taking leave is to consider the subsequent plot and organize the detailed outline.

Volume 2: The Kyoto Holy Grail War Without a Nagging Message: End of Volume (It's OK to Kill It)

After talking about the Saber group, let’s talk about the Archer group and the Assassin group. The first one is the design of Tokugawa Ieyasu.

In my design for Tokugawa Ieyasu, I wanted to retain the experience value setting and add some additional extensions for "singularity" situations.

The original concept for experience points was that Tokugawa Ieyasu was long dead, and his Kagemusha group was now the one carrying on his name. Perhaps because of this, Ieyasu didn't have his own Noble Phantasm. Instead, he could borrow the Noble Phantasms of seven other Servants, switching to their corresponding classes and gaining the bonuses shown on the board.

The Noble Phantasms are:

Saber: Yagyu Munenuki’s Daitengu Masaika;

Archer: Otomo Sorin's Kokubō Cannon;

Lancer: Honda Tadakatsu’s Dragonfly Kiri;

Rider: Naomasa Ii’s Akabi;

Caster: The seven treasures of the Pure Land Buddhism that the Tokugawa family has believed in for generations;

Assassin: Hattori Hanzo's nameless kunai;

Berserker: Muramasa Blade

In this volume, I retained this setting, but at the same time, as part of the singularity of Type-Moon history—

—The real Tokugawa Ieyasu survived. Since it doesn't affect official history (everything is done in Tokugawa Ieyasu's name), the singularity is small, and even if left alone, it will repair itself (a limited event, haha) and continue to exist.

However, because this singularity was covered up for some reason and has yet to be repaired, humanity can only know that "something is wrong here" but not "why it's wrong here." Perhaps it's like being diagnosed with some mysterious chronic disease, which is why three guardians were summoned at once to deal with it.

After all, I don’t know if this chronic disease will suddenly worsen or something (

As for the other contents of this singularity, we will reveal them later.

And Tokugawa Ieyasu's Master, that Fujiwara something? I think it was Fujiwara Shigenobu? Originally, I intended to create a strong counterpart to Assassin's Master, Ryosuke, but I later realized that if I designed it that way, the regency would be a bit too much. Originally, the two had a strong correspondence from Master to Servant:

It can be said that to some extent, the strongest servant Tokugawa Ieyasu corresponds to the weakest servant Twenty-Faced Servant (Edogawa Ranpo), both of whom have a strong connection with Edo, symbolizing the conservative and royalist Fujiwara Shigenobu and um... Ryosuke.

However, most of the scenes of this pair of masters were cut, because the content involved might not only distract from the main plot, but also be a bit dangerous, so I finally decided to delete it, so there is no need to say more.

However, I still want to talk about the design of Twenty Faces (Edogawa Ranpo). In fact, from the design point of view, everyone can understand after the answer is finally revealed. This Holy Grail War can be said to be a crime against human principles, and Edogawa Ranpo also tacitly agreed with what Tokugawa Ieyasu said about the servants of human principles sent by the restraining force -

——But Caster's position was locked by the protagonist in advance. Logically, Edogawa Ranpo should not have a suitable position to respond to the summons. The one who should come out is a certain generation of Hassan with the name Assassin as the medium.

However, since the Philosopher's Stone shaped his spiritual base according to the Alterego model, the Philosopher's Stone still found a way to squeeze him into the Assassin's job list. He was originally supposed to be summoned as Kogoro Akechi (Ranpo Edogawa), but he was centrifuged into the Twenty Faces (Ranpo Edogawa) to facilitate the arrival of his spiritual base.

Well, the design for Edogawa Ranpo is that both Kogoro Akechi and Twenty Faces represent his observations on the society and on human beings. Kogoro Akechi represents his early orthodox criticism of human bestiality, while Twenty Faces represents his later avant-garde thinking, with a more curious description of human bestiality and ugliness.

Considering the time he had experienced, and the purpose of writing detective novels to reflect human animality, what did he witness that made him move from the orthodox school to the deviant school?

The topic has gone too far. Edogawa Ranpo, who came as an Assassin, not only caused Akechi Kogoro (who has the same surname as Akechi Mitsuhide), who should have been a stronger opponent to Tokugawa Ieyasu, to have twenty faces, but also his spiritual inclination also changed to the aberrant school. His observation of humans was more inclined to perceive the animal nature of humans, and the detective side was suppressed.

Therefore, he ultimately failed to solve the crime committed by the three protagonists. After all, it was a bit too much to ask a thief to solve the case.

The above are the designs of these two groups.

Next up is, um... the Berserker team.

Seriously, the Berserker crew was just a bunch of extraneous characters I created for the sake of a little vinegar. Because the Berserker crew didn't have a lot of screen time in the original storyline, and it was a bit off-topic, I even considered bringing in someone from the original manga to fill in the roles.

But then I thought about it and decided to forget it. It was a bit irresponsible to just fill in the numbers. While thinking about these issues, someone came to talk to me about some people's one-sided understanding of rock because of the current rock anime and other content, and some people use rock as a cover to write literary and artistic content.

First of all, if you ask me whether those rock anime are rock? My answer is——

——Yes, they are also rock, because they use music to interpret their own ideas, use music to defend their own lives, and can fight against other things in life for what they love.

What exactly is the so-called rock spirit? Rebellion? Subculture? Or is it just weird hair, black leather jackets, tattoos, drug abuse, and alcoholism? There seems to be no precise definition. By imitating trends, wearing rock clothes, singing rock songs, and imitating the rebellious, one can consider oneself a rocker, a rebel.

Is that really the case? In my opinion, rock music is nothing more than an interpretation of one's own life. There is no need to worry about so many nonsense. There is no such thing as some people saying that it is not rock music if it is not so good.

Dare to interpret your own life, dare to express your emotions through music, and give the middle finger to those idiots who try to interpret your life with their hands stretched far away. This is rock and roll.

The rebellious spirit of rock 'n' roll means daring to punch any idiot who tries to interpret your life, and daring to shout out your own interpretation to the so-called mainstream.

But I don't see any of this in those works that use rock music as a cover. Instead, I see a bunch of people trying to interpret other people's lives, either intervening in their attempts to interpret their own youth and acting like a dad, or engaging in some kind of self-projected hipster style. You're rebelling against a fringe of shit, you can't even be independent, and yet you think you're young. Just writing something like "Oh, the oppression of capital" or "Oh, my talent is underappreciated" and you think you're rocking?

No, this is a chicken rock?

You may think I'm teasing you, but I'd like to make a statement here:

Yes, I'm being direct. Not only am I expressing my dissatisfaction, I'm also going to criticize some of these self-proclaimed folk music hipsters. They're the ones who toy around with their acoustic guitars all day without taking care of them, or trimming their nails, and then rush out to show off how they're the coolest folk musicians. The strings are thicker than their fingers, and they've never been tuned once. The moment they start playing, the tune is completely off. I can't understand how these people can think they're playing folk music with guitars like that.

Acoustic guitars require more maintenance than electric guitars, bro. Music will not fade because of cheap equipment, but can this way of playing really be said to be serious playing?

Now that I've spoken my piece in anger, let me say this: If you want to talk to me about this normally, and refute me with examples, I'm happy to do so. But if you confront me about this, I can only say that I do have the internet shield of my bipolar diagnosis and medical records.

In my opinion, these two phenomena are essentially the same; they're just skins and whining. It's with this disapproval of these phenomena that I designed the Servant Corben and the young man Alex. However, they weren't meant to be directed at these phenomena; it was purely a laning match, with no value in exchanging emotional trash.

I simply wanted to use their voices to explain the spirit of rock and roll, to convey the confusion that a young American living in 1999 might have felt when faced with these things. Why did grunge rock take the live house scene so seriously? Because Cobain and Alex expressed their own confusion, and we resonated with it emotionally.

That demon, then, represents my perspective on the rock 'n' roll spirit. In my view, the emergence of rock 'n' roll requires a direct confrontation with reality. The painful cries of those confronting reality attract demons, demons who admire their souls and seek to drag them into materialistic indulgence. However, if they truly fall into materialistic desires, the demons lose interest in them.

After I found out that the devil legend of 27club included Mephistopheles, I started to design this devil. I referred to the original work of the Divine Comedy and designed the relationship between this devil and 27CLUB based on the relationship between Faust and Mephistopheles.

However, what's interesting is that when I was designing it, I deliberately mentioned some drugs that seem to be often associated with rock music. And the devil commented on anesthetics like this:

"Fictional stories and real anesthetics will eventually form a sacred religion, which will temporarily save you humans from the painful reality and rush you to heaven. Oh, my friend, you will be in the arms of the Lord when the time comes."

Yes, the devil actually hates anesthetics. In his eyes, it is a way to escape the pain of reality and reach heaven.

Cobain was suffering from reality and tried to rely on anesthetics, but because he was very clear about the harmfulness of anesthetics, he fell into another layer of pain. When he was finally called a heroin idol by his fans, he fell into deeper pain when he saw his fans learning to use anesthetics from him.

But the devil was happy at this moment, happy because of the anesthetic he hated, happy because Cobain briefly ascended to heaven to escape reality, because he believed that "Faust"'s ascension to heaven was only temporary, and he would eventually fall back into this reality and then face the more cruel reality again.

He loves humans, and when he persuades them to give up, he sincerely believes that this is better, but he also feels pain for the pain caused by humans facing reality, and he feels happy for their resistance in the pain.

This is what I wanted to write. I am very satisfied with Mephistopheles, who symbolizes humanity and desire in the Divine Comedy, and his performance in 27Club and even in rock music.

Then there is the Rider group. Actually, I didn't have many ideas when designing it. I simply wanted to design a cute girl and a name that sounds light and airy, and use her to lead to the domestic line, and then use the domestic line to write about what I have always wanted to write, the dialogue between the protagonist and the undoubtedly number one person in contemporary physics, and finally lead to the analysis of magic.

However, since the introduction to the next volume is also related to China, we are considering improving it as much as possible.

Finally, it’s the Lancer group. I’ve said enough about the character of Sharma, and at most I’ll just add a few words.

Because of the existence of Indian curly hair, I started thinking about an Indian character very early on. But since it was an important supporting role, I was thinking about how to write a character who would make people feel that "he is an Indian" but at first glance there are not many stereotypes.

So, since he appeared in the Clock Tower, he must be a high caste. I looked up information and found that it is indeed popular for high caste Indians to study in the UK, and they often study law.

So the initial setting came out like this: an upper-caste Indian man studying law in the UK. Then I started thinking, how can I make it more fitting and unique?

Then I thought about combining Hinduism with law. As a highly educated person with a background in humanities, he would certainly have some thoughts on religion, law, and the current situation in India, but he would also understand that he could not do anything about what he was thinking.

So I integrated all of these and designed the image of Sharma, a man who appears to be a believer who almost worships the law as God, but whose heart is actually filled with pain due to the contradictions of reality.

What about his Servant? Isn't it normal for a Brahmin, a Master who ponders caste issues and is conflicted by them, to summon Karna based on their affinity? I've already discussed some of the characterizations of these two pairs, so I won't go into detail.

That’s about all I have to say. There’s no need for the end-of-volume remarks to be too long.

In short, please look forward to the next main storyline, the South American volume.

Above, caramel color distance

Oh, by the way, the book club group has been established, group number 472487103

Interlude: GTA Limited-Time Crossover: Battle of Folpor: 1. West Coast Necromancer

In 2000, a black market on the west coast of the United States.

This place is located deep within the abandoned harbor, where abandoned shipping containers are stacked high, obscuring any view from the outside world. Hidden in this dark corner is a modified car shop. The containers are rusted, and the air is filled with the salty, damp sea breeze, mingled with the pungent aroma of diesel and engine oil. A tattered neon sign flickers, its faint blue light illuminating the grease-stained concrete floor. A few startled crows circle overhead, startled by the roar of engines.

At this moment, the shop entrance was crowded with people, and the atmosphere around them was even more tense than usual. Their gaze was fixed on the newly commissioned SUV in the center of the store. It was sharp-edged, covered in matte black steel, with specially reinforced tires. Its windows were pitch black, and the interior was shrouded in darkness, barring any light.

At the front of the crowd, a tattooed black man walked up to the car, carrying a heavy white package. He roughly threw the package at the front of the SUV, and white powder scattered everywhere, landing on the black paint like a layer of fine dust.

"Half of the fare has been paid," he said, his cigarette between his lips, revealing his yellow and black teeth, and smiled smugly, "this will be the balance."

White powder was sprinkled on the car, and the dazzling white formed a sharp contrast with the dark black body.

A soft clinking sound came from under the car. The owner of the modified car was tightening the final screw with a wrench when he paused. He noticed the noise, frowned, and looked up slightly. He was a thin, middle-aged man with a stubbled face. His skin was rough and dark from constant contact with motor oil, and he was wearing a greasy leather jacket. He pressed one hand against the bottom of the car, and with the other, he casually tossed the wrench with a crisp, metallic clang.

"Are you fucking joking?" He slid out from under the car, his voice gruff and angry. He glanced up at the bag of powder, then stood up, wiped the grease from his hands, and glanced at the gang members gathered around him. "I only want cash. Don't try to fool me with this crap."

"This cheap stuff of mine is worth a lot more than your junky car." He tapped the white powder on the hood of his car, exhaled a puff of cigarette, and his eyes were threatening. "You've made a killing, don't be so shameless, understand?"

The gang members surrounding them exchanged gloomy glances with each other, then stepped forward together and surrounded the boss. Their movements were neither hurried nor slow, but the handles of the guns at their waists were faintly exposed, and the metallic luster was faintly visible in the dim light.

"Pay up or get out," the modified car owner said, undeterred. He stood there tugging at the greasy scarf around his neck. "Don't try to be tough with me. Who the hell do you think you are?"

The black leader's face darkened instantly. He tossed the cigarette butt from the corner of his mouth to the ground and crushed it with his foot. Without a word, he suddenly drew his gun and fired a single shot at the SUV. The bullet struck the steel plate, sparking a shower of sparks and a sharp, metallic clang that echoed throughout the area.

"Nice car, tough enough." He looked down at his boss with a provocative look in his eyes and added slowly, "I just wonder if your fucking head is just as tough."

The boss glanced around, glancing at the gang members and noticing the gun handles protruding from their waistbands. While the guns weren't pointed at him, he knew they could strike at any moment. He was the only one in the shop, and the few he had were rotten and stinking, and he hadn't had time to replace them. The thugs across from him were clearly well-prepared, so a direct confrontation would be a bit tricky. He might end up in trouble.

But if these bastards really took the car, not only would he lose it, but if word got out, his reputation would be ruined. The black market in this area wasn't big, so word would spread quickly. After all these years in this area, if he got ripped off by these idiots from outside, he'd never be able to work in this business again.

The modified car owner narrowed his eyes and slammed the wrench in his hand against the iron frame next to the car, making a loud noise. He no longer hesitated, pointing a vicious finger at the black boss's face and saying, "If you dare say another word of nonsense, I'm going to smash your head in today."

The air seemed to freeze, a suffocating tension permeating the small space. The dim light flickered, casting a shadow on the grease-stained floor. The modified car owner's hand remained tightly gripped on the wrench, his knuckles white from the strain. His eyes stopped wandering around the room, fixed on the heavily tattooed black leader before him. The gang member hunched slightly, his hand quietly resting on the rifle handle at his waist, his nervous breathing becoming more pronounced.

"boom--!"

A gunshot rang out, and the previously arrogant black leader suddenly let out a cry of pain. He stared down at the hand holding the gun, blood gushing from his arm. The bullet had penetrated his right arm, tearing the muscles in his forearm, leaving it in a bloody mess. The pistol, out of control, slammed heavily onto the greasy concrete floor with a dull thud. The air suddenly filled with a strong smell of blood, mixed with the pungent odor of diesel and motor oil, making one's stomach churn.

Before the black leader could react, a powerful arm suddenly grabbed his neck and dragged him up like a sack of garbage, his heels scraping against the ground with a harsh sound. Then, he felt an icy cold sensation on his neck—the black muzzle of a gun pressed against his chin, the cold metal of the muzzle seeming to penetrate his skin.

"Okay, everyone," a frivolous male voice sounded from behind him, "what happened?"

The surrounding gang members instinctively began to stir, their guns quickly pointed at the man behind the black leader. Their fingers were already on the trigger, but no one dared to act rashly. Everything that had just happened was so fast that they didn't even have time to react before they realized that their boss had been taken hostage.

"Those white powders," the man said, even though he was being pointed at, he nonchalantly poked the muzzle of the gun at the black leader's chin, his voice as relaxed as if he were chatting with a friend, "Whose are they?"

An eerie silence enveloped the abandoned car repair shop. The gang members stared at each other, a flicker of panic in their eyes, but no one spoke. Only a few subconsciously raised their guns higher, trying to suppress the situation with their aura.

"Hmm, Old Joe," he suddenly tilted his head, his eyes sweeping over to the modified car owner standing next to his car, "Come tell me, what's going on? What's with all this white powder? I haven't seen you in these years, and you've gotten addicted too?"

"Xing, do you fucking think I'm some street thug?" The modified car owner, known as Lao Qiao, stood beside his car, his face grim, but he didn't look frightened at all. He tugged at his leather jacket. "These bitch-born, foreign bastards want to use this stuff—" He pointed at the white powder scattered on the ground, "—to trade for my car."

The man who appeared in this place at this moment and held the black leader hostage was Xing Qingjiu.

"Come on, tell me," Xing Qingqiu lowered his head, resting his chin on the black leader's head, and gently patted his shoulder, with a hint of teasing in his tone, "Where did you get this thing?"

The muzzle of the gun was still pressed against the man's chin, and the black leader felt that the cold metal seemed to threaten his every breath. He tried to struggle, but Xing Qingqi's arms locked his neck like a vise, leaving him no room for resistance.

"Of course," Xing Qingqi smiled, his tone becoming more relaxed, "You can take a gamble and bet that your men can kill me before I shoot—"

"—or bet that I wouldn't dare to shoot you outright."

The black leader's lips trembled slightly, and he clenched his teeth, as if every word was squeezed out of his throat. "The white stuff is from Los Angeles," he said, his voice so low that it was almost inaudible, "Don't you fucking think that—"

"boom--!"

Beads of sweat the size of beans on the black leader's forehead slid down his temples, and his breathing became rapid. Along with the gunshots, there was a sharp pain in his legs, which made him almost unable to stand, and his legs kept shaking.

"You fucking—" He gritted his teeth, wanting to curse loudly, trying to maintain a last shred of dignity. But the deepening pain instantly robbed him of his courage. Blood was still oozing from his leg, staining his trouser leg red. The pain made his breathing rapid, and a few drops of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

"Listen, my patience is limited." Xing Qingyu increased the force in his hands once again. The black leader could only raise his head stiffly, unable to even look down at the wound on his leg. The muzzle of Xing Qingyu's gun was pressed against his chin again, and the residual heat of the barrel made him shudder. "Tell me where the goods are, don't make me ask again."

"Tony... Tony Sanchez's goods... Long Beach..." The black leader's breathing became more and more rapid. He could feel the blood dripping down his legs to the ground. He gritted his teeth and gasped, "In the warehouse... It's all fucking there."

"Very good," Xing Qingyu chuckled, but the strength in his hands did not relax at all, "Isn't this something you can answer?" He patted the other person's cheek gently as if to comfort him, then slowly let go of his hand, and the other person's body slid down and collapsed to the ground.

The dim light shone on the steel panels of the SUV, reflecting a dull glow. The old garage was filled with the mixed smell of engine oil and diesel, with a hint of gunpowder and the lingering scent of the recent conflict. On the ground, the blood spilled by the gang leader when he was recently beaten had begun to dry. A few drops of blood dripped from his limp leg to the ground, blending into the oil.

Xing Qingfu retracted his gun, and the gangsters dragged their leader away in a panic, fearing that they would stay even for a second longer.

"Of course, of course, and you too." Xing Qingyu watched them fleeing, then turned to look at the remaining gang members who were still hesitant with their guns raised. He raised his chin, his tone filled with contempt and disdain, "I don't care whether you guys will shoot or not, but I want to say one thing—"

He paused, his eyes sweeping over Old Joe, then turning back to the hesitant gangsters, "--Neither of the two people here is afraid of death, literally afraid of death."

"No, I'm still afraid of death," Old Joe snorted after hearing this, then took over the conversation, "A few random ordinary people can just shoot people like us to death. Guns really are fucking stupid things."

Seeing this, the thugs' faces became even more tense, and their grip on the guns became noticeably tighter, their knuckles turning white. But none of them made the first move.

"Well, my dear Asian top student," Old Joe lazily leaned against a pile of tires, sizing up Xing Qingfeng with a teasing look. He looked at the gangsters who had finally fled with his prisoner, and asked casually, "What son of a bitch brought you back?"