boyutpedia Page 624
Page 624
The riding crop, held between his fingers and hanging naturally, had smooth lines and was made of neither gold nor leather. It subtly emanated an obscure aura of energy, making it less a tool for controlling livestock and more a scepter symbolizing absolute authority and punishment.
hard to imagine.
The "King of the Clock Tower," who single-handedly tore apart the mysterious, thousand-year-old Iron Curtain, ignited a global catastrophe, and now reigns supreme over the ruins of London like a cold moon, uttered his first words during their historic first meeting...
Such a... casual greeting?
It felt like being at the epicenter of a nuclear explosion, when someone politely offered you a cup of afternoon tea.
Barthelon's eyes, as calm as a frozen lake, reflected the undisguised strangeness on Matou Ike's face.
She seemed to have a complete understanding of the other person's inner confusion and the huge cognitive dissonance.
There were no unnecessary pauses.
She continued, her voice still perfectly calm and even, as if stating an objective fact, adding the explanation that Matou Ike instantly understood, yet found even more absurd:
“People from Area 11…” her pronunciation was standard and clear, “…isn’t that how they all greet each other?”
This statement is like a pebble of reality thrown onto the stage of an absurd drama.
It reveals Matouike's Far Eastern background and, in an almost darkly humorous way, "explains" why she chose this opening line—
It wasn't a deliberate attempt to be friendly or lower her stance, but rather based on her understanding of certain stereotypical "etiquette norms" regarding the other person's place of origin.
This is an absolute, superior manifestation of control.
She understood him as well as she understood the basic attributes of a chess piece, and chose a way of communicating that she considered "suitable" for his background, even if that way seemed so abrupt in this situation.
Matou Ike's lips twitched slightly, the curve so subtle it was less a smile and more a perfunctory, formulaic muscular response to Barthez's stereotypical "Area 11 greeting."
The action itself was a silent response—he heard it, he understood it, but this set of superficial etiquette seemed so pale and superfluous at this moment, in this place, between these two people.
That subtle arc vanished in an instant, like ripples created by a pebble thrown into a deep pool, quickly swallowed by the cold water.
"More or less," he replied briefly to the other person's "explanation" of the greeting, his voice flat and emotionless, glossing over this insignificant interlude.
Then, without any pleasantries or probing preamble, he cut straight to the heart of the matter. His deep voice rang out clearly in the silence of the ruins, carrying an unavoidable questioning tone:
"I just don't know..." He bowed slightly, his posture seemingly humble, but his eyes unwavering, "...that the sovereign of the Ministry of Justice...will personally come here..."
He pronounced the four words "personally here" with exceptional clarity.
On the heart of this disaster she herself had created, after she had just completed a cleanup operation against the Dead Apostles, she made a point of appearing before him—
Before him stood a being who was not a member of the Clock Tower, yet was clearly caught in the eye of the storm.
This was by no means a chance encounter.
"...What brings you here?"
This concise question, like a sharp blade drawn from its sheath, directly points to the core intention of the other party's actions.
Barthelo Loreleia's answer was as crisp, direct, and unambiguous as the whip she wielded.
Her voice remained steady, yet carried a chilling, insightful, and unquestionable quality:
"You carry the scent of a Dead Apostle." Each word was as clear as an ice bead falling to the ground, echoing in the silence of the ruins.
She didn't even use vague words like "seems" or "maybe," but made a firm and unequivocal assertion.
Matouchi's eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly upwards.
This subtle movement was not one of surprise, but rather a mixture of knowing "I knew it" and a slightly offended, cold, amused expression.
“That’s right.” He admitted frankly, his voice low and calm, without the slightest hint of panic at being exposed, but rather with an almost defiant openness.
"The aura that clings to me does indeed come from those decaying things."
He paused slightly, his gaze like an invisible probe meeting Barthelon's frozen lake surface.
“But…” his tone suddenly shifted, carrying a precise rebuttal, “that I am not a Dead Apostle…”
He deliberately emphasized the word "no," as if stating an unambiguous ironclad rule.
"...As the captain of the CLONE Squadron of the Anthem," he uttered clearly the title that represented extremely high authority and precise hunting power even within the church, his gaze sharp as a knife, "...you shouldn't have failed to notice, right?"
Barthez was able to clearly smell the lingering "scent" on Matou Ike's body, a scent from his contact with the Dead Apostles.
With her extraordinary perception and profound understanding of the nature of the Dead Apostles, she would definitely be able to distinguish whether it was merely an "tainted" aura or a "corruption" originating from the very essence of their lives!
She couldn't possibly have misjudged!
She chose to point out the "taste of the Dead Apostles," but deliberately ignored the core fact that he was not a Dead Apostle. Her intention was by no means a simple statement of an objective phenomenon.
Is this more like a warning, a reminder, or... a test?
or?
Barthelo Loreleia's demands, like the whip she wielded, were utterly direct and hit the nail on the head.
There was no explanation, no reason, no roundabout probing. Her voice remained steady, yet carried an unquestionable, self-evident authority, echoing clearly in the night amidst the ruins:
"I want you to entrust me with the Principle Blood Ring that belongs to Anshuna."
Straightforward.
It was so straightforward that it bordered on crude.
unreasonable.
It's so unreasonable it's almost absurd!
Demand that he hand over this item?
Or is it under the guise of "safekeeping," a noble but actually tantamount to robbery?
The target is the monarch of the Department of Law and Politics, the marshal of the demonic path, an existence who has just personally torn apart the world order.
Matou Ike didn't hesitate for a moment.
The words of refusal were like an ice blade drawn from its sheath, carrying an unwavering resolve and chilling anger, instantly severing the other party's request:
"impossible."
Barthezmero remained silent.
This silence was not a sign of wavering after being rejected, but rather a predictable and brief assessment.
The dust of the ruins seemed to float in this silent standoff.
Her eyes, as deep as an icy lake, revealed no ripples, only absolute calm.
The horsewhip in his hand, neither gold nor leather, still hung steadily, its tip gleaming faintly in the cold moonlight.
After counting the breaths.
She spoke again, her voice still steady, but subtly, like a venomous snake, she instantly shifted the angle of her attack:
“Eight years ago…” her tone even carried a hint of reminiscence, “…I saw you…”
She paused deliberately for half a second.
A name, like a boulder thrown into a deep pool, is clearly revealed:
"……grandfather."
"…………!"
Matou Ike's brows furrowed instantly! The icy anger that had been building up because of the other party's unreasonable demands now surged up like boiling magma, giving rise to a deeper, more filthy disgust and vigilance!
"—Matou Zouken?"
Barthelo Loreleia's voice, like an underground river flowing beneath the ice, stated calmly and coldly:
“That’s right.” She confirmed Matou Ike’s guess. “He has talked to me about quite a few things.”
Her words showed no emotional fluctuation towards that decaying name, as if she were discussing a specimen long since archived. "I also learned quite a bit of information from him..."
"What type of intelligence?"
Matou Ike's voice trailed off, her eyes lowered, and her long eyelashes cast shadows on her demonic eyes, concealing the turbulent thoughts within.
The fact that the old worm had contact with this demonic marshal in the final stages of his life is itself a very ominous sign.
Barthelon's icy eyes gazed at Matou Ike's lowered posture, seemingly quite pleased with the reaction. She uttered clearly the word powerful enough to shake the very foundations of the world:
"Naturally, it's some information about the Lostbelts."
"Oh?" Matou Ike suddenly raised his eyebrows, the shadow instantly disappearing from his face, his sharp gaze piercing the figure in the darkness like a cold moon.
"So?" His voice held a hint of cold interest that had been genuinely piqued.
Lostbelts—that old bug actually leaked this information? He leaked it to Bartholomew?!
Barthezmero did not directly answer "So?"
She seemed absorbed in her own narrative rhythm, continuing on her own, her voice still steady, but she dropped an even more explosive bombshell:
“Following the information he provided…” Her gaze seemed to pierce through time and space, “…I once went to Fuyuki City, the location of the Greater Grail.”
Fuyuki City! The Greater Grail!
“There…” Barthemello’s voice carried a rare hint of “success,” though that hint remained cold.
"...I gained so much more."
She didn't specify what the "thing" was, but it must be a secret or power of immeasurable value related to Lostbelts, the essence of the Greater Grail, or even the Root!
She paused, then uttered the most crucial sentence:
"And also made some deals with one of them."
"…………!"
Matouchi's breathing seemed to freeze for a moment.
"That one"?!
"—What deal?" Matou Ike's voice rang out, deep and urgent, carrying an unprecedented, intensely drawn-out curiosity.
The previous rejection and wariness were temporarily suppressed by the desire for the core secret.
Barthezmero seemed to have anticipated this reaction. Instead of answering immediately, she slowly revealed one of her cards, as if showing her trump card:
“Many transactions…” her words remained in a maddeningly vague way, “but one of them…”
Her voice paused slightly, as if confirming the weight of this information, before she uttered a name clearly, like a divine pronouncement, a name that would make every being on the planet who knew its meaning tremble: