"The Department of Policies wishes to purchase today's Internal Edition."
The white pigeon tilted its small head, its eyes darting from side to side in a rapid, jerky motion.
"What's it doing? Is it refusing?" Wayland asked, watching the bird's eccentric behavior.
"No. A pigeon's eyes are positioned on the sides of its head, unlike ours. Each eye sees a separate image. It has to keep its head moving to piece together a complete, three-dimensional picture of its surroundings."
Pascal straightened up and spread his fingers wide. Faint trails of elemental energy flowed from his fingertips, coalescing into a shimmering, blue tunnel that stretched into the distance.
"This is a specialized spell developed by the Archelot family. It's similar to an Imaginary Space, but the sense of direction within it is completely distorted. Only a trained pigeon can navigate the path. If a human were to wander in there, they'd be lost forever."
With a sudden beat of its wings, the pigeon vanished into the blue tunnel.
"And how do we pay?" Wayland asked.
"You have to have a membership card to buy the Internal Edition. The Archelots deduct the fee directly from the account. The pigeon's eyes are actually artificial Mystic Eyes with recording capabilities; they transmit my image and voice back to the headquarters. If there's not enough money on the card, the transaction fails. But you can deposit funds at any magical-friendly bank, and the deal stays valid once the money clears."
"How do you get one of those cards?" Wayland asked. Even if most of its content was clickbait, The Magician's Daily clearly provided access to high-level intelligence. In a crisis, it might be worth the investment.
"A membership is three hundred pounds a month. If you set up a recurring payment, it's two hundred and ninety-nine. A full year is three thousand, five hundred."
Wayland stared at him. 'Did you learn your business model from Tencent?'
"Do they offer 'early access' too?" he asked dryly.
"They do."
"?" Wayland looked at him, confused. "How can you get 'early access' to the news?"
"It's simple, really. You're forgetting that we live in a world governed by magecraft. Future Vision, Clairvoyance, Astrology, Time Magecraft... they use it all. Of course, the future isn't set in stone. The answers they provide are merely the most probable outcomes. If you know the future ahead of time, your actions can deviate from the path. The more accurate and further into the future the prediction, the higher the price. But they don't guarantee correctness. Lord Archelot calls that service 'Personalized Destiny'."
Pascal paused as a flicker of movement caught his eye. "Ah, she's back."
He held out his right hand, and the white pigeon emerged from the tunnel to land on his palm. It gave a small, dry cough and produced a rolled-up newspaper from its throat.
"Shrinkage Magecraft. They shrink the newspaper so the pigeon can carry it. If anyone tries to intercept the bird, it'll simply swallow the paper, allowing its stomach acid to dissolve the evidence."
Pascal unrolled the Internal Edition, and his expression immediately darkened. "The Seven Holy Paladins?"
"What is it? Is it a dangerous organization?"
"Extremely," Pascal said, nodding. "No one knows where they came from or how they were founded. All we know is that they possess seven legendary Age of Gods Mystic Codes, which is why they call themselves the 'Guardians of the Paladins.'
"They're secretive to a fault, always operating in the shadows. No one knows their ultimate goal, and they rarely show themselves in public. According to the internal report, the reason they've appeared in Oxenholme is to hunt down a traitor from within their own ranks."
"So that man attacked the station because a traitor was hiding there?" Wayland asked. "But to be so blatant... aren't they afraid of being hunted by the Mage's Association or the Holy Church?"
"A common magus would be, certainly. But a thousand-year-old organization has many ways to evade pursuit. In fact, over the centuries, quite a few Magi have managed to hide from both the Sealing Designations and the Church's Burial Agency."
Pascal fell into a deep silence for several beats. "The Seven Holy Paladins have a unique trait: almost every member possesses an unnatural obsession with high-level Mystic Codes. I suspect the traitor stole something incredibly valuable, which is why they're being pursued with such single-minded ferocity."
"Troublesome." Wayland thought of the man's Tarot cards,a set of Mystic Codes that provided a perfect balance of offense and defense. "The man we injured is unlikely to let this go."
"Perhaps not," Pascal said, allowing the pigeon to fly off. "But he likely didn't expect to run into someone like you at a train station. If he investigates and finds out we're under the protection of the Association, he might decide to cut his losses."
"Only temporarily." Wayland shook his head. Magi were an arrogant lot. A man of that caliber wouldn't take kindly to being humiliated by a teenager. Even if he didn't want a direct confrontation with the Association, he would eventually come for Wayland. His final words,'I will remember your face',had been a promise, not a threat.
***
In a dark, secluded basement.
A thick, suffocating scent filled the air, a mixture of ozone and burnt hair that swirled through the unventilated room.
A series of candles flickered with a dim, sickly light, illuminating the form of a deformed monster on the floor.
It looked like a massive black wolf, its body covered in sharp, metallic thorns. It was a black so deep and absolute that it seemed to swallow the light, stretching from its head to the tip of its tail.
The creature lay on the cold stone, its breathing heavy and ragged, like a bellows wheezing in a furnace.
With every breath, a faint spray of red elemental energy escaped its nostrils, sending tiny sparks dancing through the air.
Its front limbs were a mangled mess of blood and bone, looking like charred pieces of wood that had been thrown into a bonfire.
Aside from its labored breathing, it was as still as a corpse.
Only the twenty-two Tarot cards hovering in the air above it showed any sign of life. They moved with a frantic, agitated energy, constantly shifting into strange and erratic patterns.
Half an hour later.
The candle flames suddenly danced.
A man in a pure white robe, his hair a shock of snowy white, appeared in the center of the basement.
"You look pathetic, Jax Eaton."
The sudden voice startled the black wolf.
"Who,?!" A flicker of predatory alertness crossed its eyes, but it quickly subsided as it recognized the newcomer. It slumped back onto the floor. "Your Eminence... please forgive me. I am in no condition to stand."
The old man held out a hand. His skin was pale and smooth, looking more like a doll's than a human's, devoid of even the faintest palm lines.
A dense cloud of red mist erupted from his palm, swirling through the air before settling onto the wolf's mangled limbs.
"ARGH!" The creature let out a pained, animalistic shriek.
The mist acted like acid, producing a violent, hissing sound as the wolf's flesh and bone began to dissolve.
The creature's agony intensified, its roars no longer sounding human. Its red magical energy flared out of control, erupting in a series of violent shockwaves that tore through the room as its body convulsed in blind agony.
The old man made a sharp downward motion with his left hand, and the shockwaves vanished as though they had never existed.
The wolf let out one final, tortured howl as it was crushed into the floor by an invisible weight, its body sinking three inches into the solid stone.
No matter how hard it struggled, it was pinned.
Within the red mist, its front limbs completely dissolved and vanished.
"Regenerate."
The old man softly intoned the command. A massive white clock manifested behind him, its crystalline hands glowing with a brilliant, shimmering light. The hands spun rapidly, coming to a halt at the twelve o'clock position.
In an instant, the black wolf was whole again.
A long, silence followed, broken only by the creature's low, pained growl,a sound that carried a deep, indelible hatred that could never be erased.
[Translated and Rewritten by Shika_Kagura]