Chapter 93
The original plan had been to invite Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg.
It made political sense, he was a Magician, after all.
But Zelretch also held a seat among the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors, and considering the core objective of this Grand Resolution was to forge a military alliance with the Holy Church, inviting a literal vampire to the table was a diplomatic non-starter. So, the Association pivoted.
They extended the mandatory summons to the current wielder of the Fifth Magic: Aoko Aozaki.
Unfortunately for the Clock Tower, Aoko took one look at the guest list, saw her older sister's name, and immediately told the messenger to go to hell.
The Association was furious, but entirely impotent. What were they going to do? Slap a Sealing Designation on a girl who could casually punch holes in the space-time continuum? Good luck with that.
"They sent an invite to my idiot sister… but her 'survival instincts' kicked in the moment she heard I was coming," Touko Aozaki laughed, taking a long drag from her cigarette. She looked entirely too pleased with herself.
"You can't blame her for avoiding you, Touko."
Lord Inolai Valualeta Atroholm offered a fond, grandmotherly smile, shaking her head as she bypassed the lower seating tiers. She took her rightful place in the innermost circle, the elevated seats reserved exclusively for the Three Great Families.
Centuries of political maneuvering had cemented the Clock Tower as the undisputed capital of the magus world, relegating the Wandering Sea and the Atlas Institute to the fringes. Yet, out of historical respect, seats were still reserved for them beside the Great Families. The Wandering Sea, as expected, hadn't bothered to show up. But a delegation of famously stoic alchemists from the Egyptian deserts of Atlas had actually made the trip.
Just as the delegates were settling in, the heavy oak doors groaned open again.
The murmuring in the hall died instantly. Lord Rufleus's face darkened into a scowl, while Kayneth arched a sharp eyebrow.
Riddell Archelot entered the room, but she wasn't leading. She was walking silently, respectfully, half a step behind a withered, hunchbacked old woman leaning heavily on a cane.
Inolai's eyes lit up. "It has been entirely too long, Lord Archelot."
"Inolai. Hah. You're still as obnoxiously energetic as ever."
The old woman let out a dry, rattling wheeze of a laugh. She swept her milky, cataract-clouded eyes over the grand hall.
Instantly, a suffocating, physical weight dropped over the room. The younger magi in the outer tiers physically flinched, hastily lowering their heads to avoid her gaze. Even Touko's smug grin widened into a tense, manic smirk. Look what crawled out of the crypt, the puppet master thought.
This was Riddell's mentor. The original head of the family. The woman who had ruled the Botany Department with an iron fist for over four hundred years before finally stepping down. The nightmare of the Industrial Revolution. The Coal Witch.
If you retired, just stay home and wait to die, you old hag! That was the collective, terrified thought echoing through the minds of half the room.
But before the ancient witch could take her seat, a sudden commotion erupted in the Church's delegation. Several black-clad Executors hurried up to the Bishops, whispering frantically in their ears.
One of the Bishops suddenly slammed his hands on the table and shot up from his chair.
"What?!" the holy man roared, all poise completely abandoned. "A Grand Resolution among the Dead Apostles?!"
Dead silence.
The elite of the magus world froze, their casual greetings and backroom deal-making dying in their throats. Every eye in the room snapped to the trembling Bishop.
The man collapsed heavily back into his chair, his face entirely drained of blood. He stammered, holding up a freshly deciphered missive.
"E-Esteemed Lords… we just received word…"
"The White Wing Lord and Leviathan, the new White Knight… they are convening a summit to negotiate the territorial disputes over Austria and Cornwall. And they… they…"
The Bishop swallowed hard.
"Using the authority of Altrouge Brunestud, the Black Princess, they have issued formal invitations to the remaining Twenty-Seven Ancestors. They are calling them to gather as witnesses and participants in this negotiation."
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The Bishop took a ragged breath, stating the horrifyingly obvious.
"The timing. The location. The scale. It's an exact mirror of our own assembly."
"The Dead Apostles… have convened their own Grand Resolution!!"
The brazen arrogance of the move was impossible to misinterpret. They hadn't just picked a random date. They had synchronized their underworld summit to exactly match the Clock Tower's schedule. It was a massive, raised middle finger to the human world.
As the two intelligence reports collided, every magus in the room slowly looked up, as if trying to peer through the ceiling into the shifting, turbulent sky above.
Europe… is going to burn.
…
Far away in the Far East.
A gentleman in a pristine, tailored red suit sat in his study, elegant fingers resting against a porcelain teacup. Tokiomi Tohsaka stared down at the piece of paper resting on his desk.
It bore the unmistakable crest of the Dead Apostles. It read like a formal declaration, distributed almost like… a propaganda flyer.
A cold bead of sweat formed at the base of his neck. He suddenly realized just how terrifying the Association's enemy had become.
Since when do bloodsuckers use coordinated PR campaigns? And to think their reach had already extended all the way to the secluded vampires hiding in Japan.
He fell into deep thought, calculating the political risks of reporting this "minor" anomaly to the Mage's Association, when soft footsteps echoed from the stairs.
His wife, Aoi, walked into the study. Cradled in her arms was an eight-month-old baby girl with striking, curious eyes. The infant reached out her chubby little hands toward the man at the desk, letting out a bright, gurgling laugh.
"Pa… Papa!"
…
Meanwhile, Rimuru stepped off the train and back onto German soil.
This land had always been steeped in a certain austere, rigid solemnity. Heavy black trench coats were practically the national fashion trend. But as Rimuru walked out of the station, the veil of mundane society peeled back.
His tuned senses immediately picked up the anomalies. Hidden in the bustling crowds, standing in alleyways, or leaning against streetlamps, dozens of gazes locked onto him. Some eyes held deep, fearful reverence. Others burned with feral, territorial hostility. But they all recognized the aura of the White Knight.
Countless Dead Apostles were pouring into the streets.
Above them, thick, unnatural storm clouds rolled over the city, blocking out the sun. The shadows were literally devouring the capital. Even the daylight seemed to shy away from the gathering horde.
Berlin.
Just as the heretics and stray magi had completely evacuated London to avoid the crossfire of the Clock Tower's Grand Resolution, the exact inverse was happening here.
As the vampire elites flooded the city, the last bastions of "Justice" finally buckled under the sheer, overwhelming pressure. The local dioceses of the Holy Church evacuated their priests and bolted their massive cathedral doors shut. The German magus families activated their deepest Bounded Fields, turning a blind eye to the monsters marching past their front lawns.
It's just for a few days, the humans told themselves, burying their heads in the sand. Once the summit ends, the monsters will disperse.
Nobody in the human world actually believed the Dead Apostles could reach a consensus. Because vampires, by their very nature, were solitary, feral, and obsessively territorial. Just look at Zelretch. They might share the title of Ancestor, but their goals, their hatreds, and their philosophies…
They had never aligned.
Never.
….
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