LRAB Page 627
Page 627
The "fruit" principle of the Blood Ring is also a very important part of his plan.
Hand it over?
It's tantamount to cutting off one's own arm.
This is impossible!
However, unexpectedly—
Faced with this resolute rejection, the monarch of the Department of Law and Politics, Barthelon Lorelei, who held a riding whip and exuded absolute pressure like a cold moon, did not show the slightest ripple on his face, which was as smooth as a frozen lake.
There was no anger.
No threat.
There wasn't even a hint of frustration from the plan being thwarted.
She simply stood there quietly, her lake-blue eyes, which seemed capable of freezing the soul, calmly gazing at Matou Ike, her gaze so profound that it seemed to see through all the considerations and schemes behind his rejection. The riding whip, neither gold nor leather, still hung steadily at her side, its tip gleaming with a faint and dangerous light under the cold moonlight, yet showing no sign of being raised.
After counting the breaths.
She nodded very slightly, almost symbolically.
The gesture was so subtle as to be almost imperceptible, as if it were merely a polite confirmation of the fact that "rejection had been received."
then……
She fell silent.
I will no longer try to persuade them.
No more pressure will be applied.
It was as if she had personally descended upon these ruins, revealing the contact between Matou Ike and Van Fim, exposing his secret of sending Servants into Lostbelts, and even using the secret of Crimson Moon and the past of Matou Zouken as a prelude, before finally demanding the "Blood Ring of Principle"...
Its true purpose is not necessarily to obtain it at this moment.
It's more like...
A declaration.
One mark.
A tacitly agreed-upon showdown!
She declared the extent of her understanding of his core plans.
She marked the crucial position of the "Principle Blood Ring" in this grand storm that is about to sweep everything, concerning the fate of the Lostbelts and the planets.
She laid out the Legal and Political Science Department's stance and needs regarding objectives such as preventing The Dark Six and connecting the British Lost Belt.
Her silence and her turning away were more meaningful than any words.
It seems to be saying silently: the ring is yours for now. But its ownership, and the game surrounding it, has only just begun. We... will meet again in the storm.
Barthezmello's figure, just as she had arrived, made no sound as she silently began to blend into the dense, all-consuming shadow of the ruins behind her.
The cold moonlight seemed to follow her, gradually dimming and dissipating as she retreated.
Matouchi stood still, his azure demonic eyes following the fading silver light intently, his gaze solemn and profound.
The fact that the other party did not take forceful action was unexpected, yet it was within a deeper logic.
Barthezmello is not a brute; she is a chess player.
Her trip was more like a close-up "assessment" and "positioning" of him, a key piece, on a chaotic chessboard, and planting an invisible flag in his territory marked with "Principle Blood Ring".
"Ah……"
A soft, ambiguous hum, tinged with a cold, playful tone, escaped from deep within Matou Ike's throat.
He slowly withdrew his gaze, no longer looking in the direction where Barthemello had disappeared.
The monarch from the Department of Law and Politics seemed to have only come on a whim to have a chat with him, an "insider"...
However, this did not cause much of a stir in Matou Ike's heart.
The warning and markings from that Minister of Law and Politics were like cold coordinates recorded into the star map at the core of his mind, becoming variables that must be considered in the future, but... only one of the variables.
In this grand game of chess, which is already spinning rapidly and concerns the survival of the planet and the throne of the Lostbelt, threats and opportunities are intertwined like twins.
He did not linger, nor did he look back too much.
My steps resumed, still carrying that almost languid nonchalance, as I traversed the devastated streets of London. The soles of my shoes crunched over broken bricks and solidified grime, producing a subtle yet distinct sound that stood out starkly against the deathly silence.
He needs to think.
We need to recalibrate our compass amidst this chaotic ruin created by others.
Should I go to the Himalayas to deal with Wuzhiqi's invitation? Or should I continue to follow up on the matter of the Fairy Realm?
However, he has something more important to do right now: to get his hands on the Butterfly Magic.
The chips are ready.
The passage will be opened.
Next…
Matouchi stopped at a relatively open intersection where the outline of the not-yet-completely-collapsed clock tower could be seen in the distance.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing through the lingering dust and turbulent energy of the disaster over London, as if directed towards a predetermined coordinate.
The cold night wind ruffled the wisps of hair on his forehead, and his azure demonic eyes gleamed in the dim light like stars in the abyss.
No hesitation.
The acquisition of the Butterfly Magic was a predetermined and unshakeable milestone in the plan.
Bang!
The scenery began to shake violently.
London's dilapidated streets groaned under the weight of an invisible giant hand, as if being choked by a massive, unyielding force.
The cracked stone floor is no longer just broken, but has been completely "disintegrated" by some force that transcends the laws of physics.
Boom!Boom!Boom!
The entire street pulsed as if it were alive, each beat causing ripples in the depths of space.
The Victorian brick walls and crooked gas lamp poles twisted, stretched, and folded in the tremors, like fragile paper models thrown into a turbulent eddy.
Click——!
The surfaces of the windows and walls were instantly covered with countless fine black cracks!
As if slashed by a blade of supreme existence at a speed beyond visual perception, dozens, hundreds, thousands...
Countless faults are proliferating wildly!
These faults are not static scars, but meander and pulsate as if they have come to life, undulating and extending in the gaps between matter and space, like a series of abyssal serpents that greedily devour light.
Everything in sight transformed into frantically writhing 'waves'.
The buildings were torn apart by the fault lines, turning into misaligned building blocks. The leaden clouds in the sky were ripped into jagged fragments. Even the air, filled with the scent of sulfur and ozone, solidified into glassy fragments that shimmered with an eerie phosphorescence, suspended in a web of countless interwoven fault lines.
In an instant, Matou Ike's body collapsed—as if it had been brutally slashed by an invisible, physics-defying giant shear! Compression! Cutting! Fracture!
The form that constitutes his existence disintegrates instantly under the forced distortion of something.
It's not a collapse, but a more thorough erasure—
One moment the figure stood intact at the crossroads, the next, on the London streets, which swayed violently like a reflection on water due to abnormal spatial fluctuations, only a lone foot remained, stepping on the cracked cobblestones.
Thump! Buzz—The strange phenomenon that had been pulsating violently throughout the street, like a living behemoth convulsing, froze and stopped instantly, then completely dissipated like a burst bubble!
The leaden-gray sky reappeared. The distinctive post-disaster smell of sulfur and ozone filled the nostrils once more.
The hazy outline of the distant clock tower also stabilized. The previously breathtaking scene of spatial distortion and the spreading fault lines seemed to be merely a fleeting illusion left on the retina.
----only.
The tall, slender figure that stood like a living monument on the ruined street was now reduced to just one foot and a few wisps of faint, severable ether particles floating in the sulfurous air.
however--
"Ah─────"
A low groan, almost a sigh mixed with the dizziness inherent after a spatial leap, suddenly rang out from where that foot was!
next moment.
The foot moved. It lifted. It stepped down. It took a step forward—following the trajectory of the previous spatial teleportation, along the remaining, distorted lines of law.
An incredible process then unfolds: with each step forward—smooth skin, strong tendons, and stark white bones appear out of thin air from the ankle that touches the ground!
A new calf! Another foot! Thighs that stretch upwards, a strong waist, an upright spine!
It was as if an invisible, precise "reverse playback" program, exceeding the limits of the naked eye, was forcefully and irreversibly "searching," "tracing back," and "reconstructing" the form of Matouchi's existence, using that remaining foot as the reference origin and coordinate axis.
Like a spatial structure that has been violently torn apart and forcibly pulled back to its original position, it is spontaneously "healing" itself—re-anchoring the part that was just forcibly separated by the spatial fault back into this spacetime continuum! The distorted force is being forcibly straightened.
The cut wounds are stitched up by the law itself. Hands grow from below the shoulders.
A straight neck, lifted high. Finally—a sharply defined jawline. Thin lips, tightly pressed together, carrying a hint of cool indifference after a moment of reflection.
A high, straight nose.
Beneath tightly closed eyes, deep-set brow bones.
Finally! Those iconic demonic eyes, burning with a deep, dark blue light, suddenly opened from beneath their tightly closed eyelids!
Chapter 655 The Princess (4k)
In the darkness, thick with the smell of dust and sulfur, a white figure, like a phantom phosphorescent flame, flickered silently on the edge of the shadows across the street.
She sat on a twisted and deformed metal railing, which had once marked the boundary of a bustling street but was now just part of the ruins.
Shoulder-length blonde hair, even in the almost completely dark night, seemed to draw upon the last bit of faint energy from its surroundings, flowing with an unnatural, almost chilling soft light.
She wore pure white clothes, the cut of which was so simple as to be almost abstract. They stood out starkly against the thick darkness, yet strangely blended into the dilapidated background, as if she herself were a paradox born from these ruins.
Beneath his slender eyebrows were a pair of crimson eyes.
The red color was neither the viscous consistency of fresh blood nor the intense heat of flames; it was more like a solidified, translucent ruby, faintly reflecting a non-existent light source in the darkness.