Alchemy Principles of Type-Moon World

"I'll get a car," Xing Qingfeng replied. "It's got to be tough, bulletproof and explosion-proof, and even better if it's faster."

Old Joe walked over to the newly modified SUV and tapped on the car body, making a dull metallic sound. "This one, then. It has a V8 engine. It's guaranteed to be powerful enough."

"Really?" Xing Qingfeng nodded. "Can it withstand military firearms?"

"Damn it," Old Joe was stunned for a moment, narrowing his eyes and looking at Xing Qingqi, "Are you going to rob the White House?"

Xing Qingqiu smiled faintly. "A friend asked me to rescue someone from FBI surveillance." Xing Qingqiu said casually, "A former astronaut who was accused of leaking state secrets and, incidentally, collaborating with the Communist Party."

"......?" Old Joe frowned. "Wait a minute, do you need a car to rescue someone?"

"Try your best not to reveal your secrets in front of that guy," Xing Qing added, his tone still calm, but revealing a hint of helplessness. "My friend can't reach the United States to rescue him for the time being, so I have no choice but to come here—"

"--At least if I come, I can guarantee that the guy won't die."

"By the way," Xing Qingqiu thought for a moment and continued, "Please help me plan a route for sneaking from Los Angeles to Mexico."

"I see," Old Joe nodded, his eyes returning to the SUV. After a moment of contemplation, he said, "Give me a week."

"That's perfect," Xing Qingfeng smiled. "I'll go take care of those drug-dealing bastards."

"Ha," Old Joe shook his head, looking down at the bag of white powder spilled on the ground at his feet. "A few years ago, you busted the drug dealers in this damn place, but right after you left, these bastards showed up right after you left."

"I know it's useless. It's just treating the symptoms, not the root cause." Xing Qingfeng smiled indifferently, "But I just can't stand these beasts."

"By the way, how is the compensation calculated?" He suddenly remembered something and asked casually.

"Leave me a few of those drug dealers' bodies in good condition, preferably ones you've processed," Old Joe replied casually, "so I don't have to dig up their graves to open blind boxes."

"Damn it, did you know I only met a necromancer who didn't dig graves last year?"

"He must be a damned good fellow," Old Joe replied nonchalantly. "I've never seen a fellow who didn't dig graves in my life."

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There is still a short interlude to make the transition, and then the South American volume officially begins.

Damn, a lot of sensitive words popped up while writing this chapter, it’s so troublesome to change them (

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

Interlude: GTA Limited Time Crossover: Battle of Folpoler: 2. Get in the car, let's go

Xing Qingyu stood in the middle of the garage, his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. He glanced at the black SUV and nodded with satisfaction. The SUV's exterior was pitch black, reflecting the dim garage light. The garage was filled with the smell of motor oil, a mixture of rust and dust, with a whiff of stale oil.

He turned and glanced around, finding several figures busy at work, responsible for modifying the vehicles. One after another, their stiff movements mechanically tightened screws and assembled parts. Their skin was pale, drained of all color, their cheeks sunken, their eyes half-closed, devoid of any sign of life. These workers showed no signs of breathing, their chests as stiff as stone.

——A group of manipulated corpses.

If someone outside the area wasn't in the know, they might mistake these people for tired night shift workers and might even say hello. But if the local gangs came here, they would definitely recognize these guys as drug dealers who were thriving on the streets just a few days ago.

That's why, even though Old Joe never held a gun and didn't have any armed bodyguards around him, he was still the guy no one wanted to mess with in this area. The local thugs had learned their lesson and no one dared to mess with him easily. Only the new and stupid outsiders would make the mistake of messing with him, and naturally, the consequences would not be much better.

Rumor has it that the last person to challenge Old Joe was a new, overconfident thug leader. He thought his few street thugs gave him the upper hand, and he even reached out to Old Joe. The next morning, he woke up to find his dead grandmother sitting on his chest, her rotting face half-smiling grimly. Her knuckles clenched around his neck, and he was strangled to death by his dead grandmother.

The story wasn't over yet. The next day, he and his entire family, whose bodies had already decayed, were dug out of their graves and forced to work illegally in Old Joe's shop. The gang leader's grandmother's rotten face was visible to everyone. Old Joe never hid it.

Besides that, a few years ago, if you had enough money, he would let you have a few words with your recently deceased relatives and have a farewell ceremony with your deceased grandmother. Thanks to Old Joe, there haven't been any heir disputes in this place for a long time. Of course, not everyone buys it. From time to time, a few people will come out to question whether Old Joe can communicate with spirits, but Old Joe usually ignores them, and such things usually don't cause any trouble. But if someone really keeps talking and offends Old Joe, thinking that they can get to the top by stepping on him -

——They often disappeared without a trace the next day, and when they reappeared, these tactless guys had become employees of Lao Qiao's store.

Old Joe is undoubtedly skilled at manipulating corpses. But his magic is as chaotic and disjointed as America's racial makeup. His necromancy blends Kabbalah spells, voodoo rituals, and even some Eastern meditation techniques. If pressed to explain the base he uses, he can't even answer. The result is what matters; who cares about the process?

But one thing is certain: allowing people to communicate with the recently deceased is not something that a half-baked person like him can do at all.

He simply drugged everyone present, added some sleight of hand, and then the rest was showtime. Under the influence of hallucinogens, those who claimed to have spoken with their loved ones often couldn't distinguish between reality and illusion. As for the will and the division of property, it was all just Old Joe's fabrication; as long as the money was in place, he didn't bother to take it seriously.

This is of course also magic, at least that's what Old Joe said. He is a half-baked person and always feels that the so-called magicians or wizards are actually no different from the magicians who perform magic on TV.

As for why it was a few years ago? It's simple: he's done it now. Why did Joe stop? This story goes back a few years. On the surface, he claimed to have retired from the world, no longer involved in the mess between the living and the dead, giving himself the high honor of a retired person. Of course, the reality was not so glorious.

The story goes back to one night a few years ago when Old Joe was digging graves and opening blind boxes. He loved doing this kind of thing. In his words, no one in this business doesn't like to open coffins. If he could dig up a woman who had just died, he would be happy for at least half a year.

That night, he was halfway through digging when he was caught off guard. Before he could swing his shovel, his head slammed against the tombstone, sending a daze. Then came a second attack, even more brutal. A pair of solid fists knocked him flat on the ground. Only when blood dripped from his forehead and chin into the wet earth did he realize he was dead.

The man beat him up while saying that he was just another tomb-robbing magician. After beating him up for no apparent reason, he patted his butt and walked away, leaving Old Joe with nowhere to vent his anger.

——He can’t tell everyone that he was beaten by someone unknown while digging a grave. Does he still have any face left?

The incident wasn't over yet. The second time Old Joe was using hallucinogens to trick people, the man came back. This time, he didn't just give him a beating; he beat him to death. Old Joe lay on the ground, gasping for breath, begging, "Please, I'll never do this again. I'll never touch this again!" Finally, he was forced to sign a self-imposed agreement, promising not to give people hallucinogens or dig up ordinary people's graves. Only then was the incident over.

That's right, the person who beat him up was Xing Qingqiu, who was now contentedly sitting in the driver's seat of his SUV, constantly examining the interior. When Xing Qingqiu had come to the United States and wandered the West Coast, perhaps because of the prevalence of voodoo there, eight out of ten magicians he met there were half-baked necromancers.

Logically, Xing Qingqiu had no reason to get involved with them. It was just that the necromancers in this awful place on the West Coast were mostly up to no good, most of them tainted with drugs, and Xing Qingqiu hated that. He'd originally investigated thoroughly before taking action, but honestly, none of the necromancers he'd seen were good. Xing Qingqiu had killed so many of these bastards that he'd gotten used to beating them up the first time he met them. At least the fact that he didn't beat them to death on their first encounter was enough to prove he was a reasonable person.

So how did Old Joe survive? Simple: he didn't do drugs. The first corpse he learned necromancy from was someone who had smoked too much. He said, "When you're alive, you should look like a human, and when you're dead, you should look like a corpse." But those high-drinkers scared him, leaving him looking neither human nor corpse. From then on, he swore off drugs.

This is also the reason why Xing Qingjiu let him go. The biggest bad thing Lao Qiao did was playing with corpses, and the hallucinogens he used were not addictive. Apart from that, he did not commit any major crimes, so he was let go after signing a compulsory essay.

Outside the SUV, the garage was dimly lit. A cigarette butt in the corner emitted a faint orange glow, which, along with the lifeless employees around Old Joe, mechanically twisted their limbs, making the place look particularly eerie. Old Joe leaned against a rusty steel pipe and slowly lit a cigarette. The smoke swirled around his pale face, and with each smoke ring he exhaled, a strange musty smell filled the air.

"It's a great car. I'll reinforce and modify the frame later and it'll be perfect." Xing Qingfeng sat in the driver's seat of the SUV, leaning back slightly, his left hand on the steering wheel, his right foot gently pressing the clutch. The car body swayed slightly, and the engine underneath emitted a low and powerful roar. "How much is this car?"

"Those employees are worth the price." He raised his chin and pointed to the side of another car. Several bodies were slowly moving, tools in hand, repairing another car. "They are much more useful than the corpses I picked up on the ground."

"Don't give me that," Xing Qingqi pulled a bag full of US dollars from his backpack and casually threw it to Old Joe. The bag arced through the air and landed at Old Joe's feet. "Is this enough?"

Old Joe casually lowered his head to pick up the bag of US dollars. Without even glancing at it, he tossed it into the pile of tires behind him. Xing Qingfeng didn't waste another word. He took the steering wheel and stepped on the accelerator. The SUV jolted with a jolt and then slid smoothly out of the garage. The roar of the engine echoed in the empty garage, the wheels kicked up a cloud of dust as they rolled over the ground, and the red light of the taillights gradually faded into the darkness.

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Los Angeles, USA

James D. Weatherby sat on his lawn, the glaring Los Angeles afternoon sun shone brightly on his faded jeans. He clutched a third-rate magazine, its cover dog-eared and yellowed, its paper a worn, aged sight. The silence was almost unreal, broken only by the occasional car and the distant barking of a dog.

His gray hair swayed slightly in the wind, but his eyes were somewhat empty. He flipped through some outdated magazines, feeling that his solitary life was as dull as the dead grass on his lawn.

A few years ago, he voluntarily applied for retirement, bidding farewell to his glorious career as an astronaut. But even so, the FBI's surveillance never ceased. On the corner across from his house, an inconspicuous car was parked year-round. The figure behind the window occasionally changed, but their movements remained the same: they stared at him.

Of course James knew they were there. These bastards didn't even bother to pretend, just watching his every move. Even the magazines in his hands were censored, arriving two or three days late. Whether it was news, gossip, or those boring serialized stories, they had long lost their timeliness, as if his own life was also late, locked in some invisible prison.

The Los Angeles nights were bustling and vibrant, but for James, it was just the scenery outside his window. Born in Florida, he had originally planned to return to Florida to retire after his retirement. However, to avoid disrupting his wife and children, he decided to divorce and entrust his children to his wife's care. He then chose to come to Los Angeles alone, as if to isolate himself, away from those he didn't want to be associated with.

He sat on the lawn. The Los Angeles sun was no longer glaring, the orange glow of dusk shimmering all around, lengthening the shadows of the trees. His gaze drifted occasionally to the familiar car across the street, the afterglow reflecting off the windows, blurring the view inside. FBI surveillance seemed nearly impenetrable, its scrutiny always suffocating, but even the most perfect surveillance occasionally revealed cracks. Over the years, he gradually discovered tiny loopholes: occasional interference in the phone lines, brief breaks between surveillance officer rotations, even the few minutes before a letter arrived. Someone, or rather, some organization, had quietly contacted him, exploiting these tiny flaws.

Initially, James was wary of their approach. He knew their purpose: the information he had in his head about aerospace technology and space exploration. He initially refused to communicate, responding coldly and even cutting off communication. If he had truly been so determined, he would have reported the matter to the FBI long ago.

As time passed, loneliness, like poison, slowly eroded his mind. His loneliness intensified under this near-militarized surveillance, turning his life into a relentless psychological torture. He gradually discovered that even the hunted had a desire to listen.

After repeated attempts, he no longer resisted their attempts to contact him, and began to listen to their ambitious plans and grand visions. Over time, James's attitude shifted from apathy to a hidden anticipation. He began actively engaging in conversation, discussing aerospace technology and those suppressed dreams. It was as if, through their words, he once again touched upon the boundless starry sky.

Perhaps his next choice could truly be called treason. But the other party told him that he could guarantee his escape from this invisible prison and offered him a price he couldn't refuse—

——It allows him to return to the space he loves and continue the career he loves.

James had no way to refuse, he really had no way to refuse. In the communication over the past few years, he was sure that the other party was serious about his idea, and he was sure that the other party also loved that sky.

Dusk gradually fell, and the orange-red light stained the street before him with a gentle hue. He looked up at the corner. The car was still silent, and the street was empty. A gentle breeze brought a cool breeze, and the air was faintly filled with the smell of dust.

"Looks like it's not today either." James couldn't help but think so, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. He looked away from the car on the corner, as if he had become accustomed to this kind of constant surveillance. However, a few seconds later, he instinctively sensed something unusual -

He glanced at the car again, his brow furrowing involuntarily. The familiar feeling of surveillance—that naked, needle-piercing sensation—suddenly vanished. James narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed once again on the driver's seat of the sedan, carefully examining the situation inside. Through the window, he could see the driver's seat, but... the man didn't move.

He looked closely and saw the surveillance officer inside the car slumped silently against the steering wheel, his face smashed into the half-eaten pizza box in his hands. Greasy ketchup splattered on his cheeks and collar, making him look extremely embarrassed. The passenger seat next to him was also motionless, fallen into an unnatural sleep.

Not far away, a pitch-black SUV slowly came into view. The car moved very slowly, almost unhurriedly, as if afraid to draw attention. Its exterior reflected a faint luster in the twilight, and its windows were completely dark, making it impossible to discern any movement from within.

The SUV finally came to a slow stop in front of James. The engine roared low and steady. James stood there, his eyes narrowed slightly, observing the movements inside the car. His heartbeat began to accelerate, but he remained calm, not revealing any nervousness.

The passenger door was pushed open with a click, and the person sitting in the driver's seat slowly turned his head, revealing a young face of Asian descent.

"You have about half an hour to clean up," the young Asian man said casually, without a trace of urgency in his tone. "Hurry up."

James didn't ask any questions, not even a hint of hesitation. He ducked straight into the passenger seat, his movements quick and decisive, without a trace of hesitation. The door slammed shut, the car started, and the roar of the engine rang out again, shattering the stillness of the evening.

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I have slightly changed the writing style of the first half, I don’t know if you like it.

This interlude is intended to be written in this way, slowly interspersed with a brief mention of what happened when the protagonist came to North America as mentioned in the previous interlude, and then went to South America to start the third volume of the main line.

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

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My Dark Elf 9 motherboard seemed to be burned out, so I borrowed my friend's Dark 9 (it was my friend who recommended it to me that year) to use for typing, but it also burned out inexplicably. I have complained about the details in the group. Anyway, I may only be able to use a tablet to type in the next two days, and the update will be later. Sorry!

Interlude: GTA Limited Time Crossover: Battle of Foboler: 3. Religion is only a humanistic aspect and has nothing to do with God

"Have we met before?" James sat in the passenger seat, his fingers gently stroking the car door as he pulled the seatbelt over his shoulders and buckled it into the slot. His eyes never left Xing Qingqi's profile. "I always feel like you look familiar."

"Really?" Xing Qingyu held the steering wheel firmly with both hands, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "I did come to the West Coast a few years ago. Maybe I saw him then?"

"No... I remember it was even further back." James leaned back in his seat, frowned slightly, and squinted his eyes to recall carefully.

"Farther away?" Xing Qingqi replied nonchalantly, glancing at the rearview mirror from the corner of his eye to make sure there was nothing unusual on the street. "Maybe I've seen it somewhere else."

The air inside the car gradually fell silent, filled only by the low roar of the engine and the scrape of tires against the road. The afterglow of the setting sun shone through the car window onto James' face, casting a golden glow over his time-wrinkled features. James tilted his head slightly and gazed out the window at the distant horizon gradually being swallowed by darkness.

He sighed softly and let out a dry laugh. "Maybe these past few years have messed up my brain, haha... How do you say this in French, 'Déjà vu'?"

"It's a sense of déjà vu," Xing Qingwu replied calmly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel. "Cognitive science seems to think it's the hippocampus that's the factor."

"You're really not romantic."

"Is it because I'm a realist?" Xing Qingfeng replied calmly. "Maybe it's because I'm a realist."

"Ha, hearing you say that, I suddenly feel at ease." He relaxed his body, letting himself sink into the softness of the seat, his eyes half-closed, as if enjoying the tranquility of the moment. "Realists, that's great."

"By the way," James suddenly broke the brief silence in the car, turned around and asked, "I haven't asked your name yet. As for my name, they should have told you."

"Xing Qingfeng," he said, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead. Outside the car window, dim streetlights shone on the ever-changing streets, occasionally a few lights flashed from neon signs in the distance.

Xing Qingyu glanced behind him through the rearview mirror and noticed that a police car had quietly followed him. He glanced down at the dashboard, silently calculating the time in his mind, ignoring the presence of the police car.

"Sounds like a Chinese name?" James frowned and asked doubtfully, "But didn't I remember saying it was a Japanese who would come to pick us up?"

"Are you talking about Kiritsugu?"

"Ah, yes, that's him." James suddenly smiled, a hint of embarrassment in his tone, "Sorry, I have trouble pronouncing his name."

"Something happened to him, and he's still bedridden." Xing Qingyu answered succinctly, "He was injured in Japan half a year ago and is currently recovering from a serious illness."

"You seem quite familiar with this area?" James nodded, looking somewhat relaxed. He leaned sideways in the passenger seat, as if ready to continue chatting. "You said you were going to South America?"

"I happen to be going to South America for some business. I've been here a few years ago, so it's a familiar place, so I decided to come this time." Xing Qingyu adjusted the steering wheel slightly, and the car smoothly rounded a corner. The light from the street lamp flickered across his face, sometimes bright and sometimes dim. "As for my name? Yes, I am Chinese."

"Oh my God..." He rubbed his neck and sighed, "It seems that the accusation of my collaborating with the Communist Party has been fully proven."

Xing Qingyu was about to respond when he noticed something unusual happening to James. He opened his coat with one hand, rummaging through the interlayer, and pulled out a wrinkled booklet. James smiled mysteriously and unfolded the booklet in front of Xing Qingyu.

"Look, I got this with great difficulty. You should be familiar with it." He looked proud.

"...Huh?" Xing Qingqi raised his eyebrows slightly, not even paying attention to the road ahead. He turned his head and stared at the wrinkled book in James's hand. He was stunned for a moment and muttered softly, "Bro, I remember you weren't an American astronaut?"

"Yeah, yeah," James said cheerfully, taking the booklet back and smoothing out the wrinkles bit by bit. He was extremely careful, as if he were handling a precious piece of art. "You know, people need to have some faith in life."

"Spiritual sustenance?"

"Yes, especially for realists like us." James sighed, his fingers gently stroking the edge of the page, his eyes a little vague. "Realists without faith will eventually fall into pain. Because we can only see the cruelty of this world."

Xing Qingfeng was speechless for a moment. He could tell from James's Shenzhou VI expression that this man, who had once soared through space, was deeply repressed by endless loneliness and anguish. He watched him talk nonstop, clearly having held it in for too long. Xing Qingfeng thought for a moment, silently retracted his words of agreement, and decided to listen quietly to him vent.

"I used to believe in my country, that free country," James said in a low voice, his eyes wandering to the lane ahead, but he didn't really see the road clearly. "Whether it was when I joined the army or when I was undergoing astronaut training, I always believed that we were indeed the beacon of mankind—"

Xing Qingyu held the steering wheel and listened to James's story in silence.

"—That's why I'm passionate about my career." James paused and took a deep breath. "I always believe and trust that our career is not just for ourselves, but for all of humanity."

"So, even though I encountered many setbacks back then, I didn't feel that much pain." He raised his hand, his knuckles white from clenching it so tightly. "Because I don't think I was ever deceived by anyone. I still believe to this day that the United States at that time was truly a beacon to the world."

The atmosphere in the car grew heavy, with only the low hum of the engine echoing between the two of them. James's eyes dimmed, as if shrouded by an invisible gray cloud. He slowly lowered his head, fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out a wrinkled cigarette pack with mechanical and practiced movements.

"But, when did it start..." He took out a cigarette and handed it to Xing Qingwu.

"Ah, I don't smoke, thank you." Xing Qing glanced at him from the corner of his eye and gently declined. But he noticed James' hesitation and watched him put the cigarette back to his lips, then silently took it off. "But if you want to smoke, go ahead, I don't mind."

"Thank you," James put the cigarette case back into his pocket without lighting it, as if he had suddenly lost interest. He leaned back in his seat, his eyes wandering out the window. "When did this really start? That lighthouse seems to have gone out a long time ago."

"Looking back now, it was probably in the late 1980s." His voice lowered, almost as if he was muttering to himself, "The collapse of the Soviet Union may not only have buried their ideals..."

"When did I realize this?" James paused. "Ah, a few years ago, due to some things, I was forced to retire."

"At that time, I still held out hope, and I still believed in my country," James chuckled, his laughter dry and weak. "Ha, a country that used to be Puritan, a country that was once free, but is now full of corruption and ignorance."

"When my hopes were completely dashed, I moved to Los Angeles." He stretched out his hand, as if trying to grasp something, but then withdrew it powerlessly into thin air. "Here, my faith... completely collapsed."

"After my faith was shattered, I realized how much courage it takes to face reality." James' voice was hoarse, his low tone mixed with inner fatigue. He turned his head to look out the car window. The neon lights of Los Angeles shone through the window on his face, but his vision remained dim. "During my time in Los Angeles, I didn't suffer any actual persecution. My body was intact, but my spirit was already shattered."