Retreat of the White-Winged Duke

The Lord of Barthomeloi before him was at least seventy years old, an old man with one foot in the grave by human standards.

Unfortunately, a human who had merely lived for over seventy years was a genuine brat before the White-Winged Duke, one of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors who had lived since Solomon's era. In that respect, the White-Winged Duke had not been wrong to call him that.

Lord Barthomeloi's arrival made Shirou even more determined to retreat. Since someone had come to draw the aggro, why the hell should he keep hanging around here?

But since he was already here, he had to show off while he still could. What was the point of transmigrating if he did not show off?

"Looks like this time, you lost, Ortolocke." Barthomeloi and the White-Winged Duke were mortal enemies. Rumor had it that their grudge had accumulated for over a thousand years—a proper feud spanning generations. If he still used honorifics for the White-Winged Duke in front of Barthomeloi's boss, it would be as stupid as calling the Six-Eared Macaque the Great Sage in front of Sun Wukong. Nothing major would happen, but it would definitely earn him a wave of ill will.

Of course, if he went all out, Shirou was confident he could turn this place into something like the Old Man of the Mountain entering a country—absolute secrecy.

But he could not do that, because more people would die. That did not align with Shirou's values.

Hearing Shirou's words, the White-Winged Duke shifted his gaze back to him. That Resurrección had made him feel the threat of death for the first time in ages. If not for the powerful vitality of a True Ancestor and a powerful Age of Gods magic scroll barely keeping him alive, he would have died who knew how many times already. In the White-Winged Duke's eyes, even ten Barthomelois were not as terrifying as one Shirou.

Under Lord Barthomeloi's expression as though he had seen a ghost, the White-Winged Duke spoke words enough to shock the entire Clock Tower. "Ah, yes. I have to admit it: in my battle with you, I, the White-Winged Duke, lost. The great White-Winged Duke lost to some unknown brat. What a disgrace!"

"Tch! Cut the crap! It is a pity the circumstances do not allow it. If this place had been farther from the city, I would definitely have killed you. After all, my assignment was assassination, and in my view, the perfect assassination is one where every witness is dead." (A certain Old Man of the Mountain nodded madly.)

"There are no what-ifs." The White-Winged Duke simply ignored Lord Barthomeloi standing beside him, while the latter was still too immersed in the shock of the White-Winged Duke admitting defeat to pull himself free. "You have already decided not to keep fighting, haven't you?"

Come to think of it, they had clearly gone through a battle of that level, yet Shirou was grimy and bedraggled while the White-Winged Duke did not even show any visible injuries. Even his magical energy still seemed bottomless. With such an absurd quantity alone, Shirou could pile him to death even now.

Just how unlucky did I have to be to provoke a monster like you? the White-Winged Duke thought.

"Looks like that is indeed the case. There is no need to continue fighting," Shirou said, glancing at the sky that was already beginning to pale with dawn. "It is almost daybreak. All I can say is, good luck."

As he spoke, Shirou slowly descended to the ground. Even the Zanpakuto in his hand had dispersed into spirit particles. He truly had no intention of continuing the fight.

"Goodbye—no, never see you again!" Within a few breaths, Shirou vanished from the White-Winged Duke's field of vision. As for the Lord El-Melloi who had been there just moments ago, Shirou's response was: What the hell did that have to do with him?

The next day, when El-Melloi's party returned, the entire Clock Tower erupted.

They had gone mad. The entire Clock Tower had gone mad. Any magus with even a little common sense knew who the White-Winged Duke was.

He was the de facto leading figure among the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors. If that old master declared he wanted to throw down with the Clock Tower, the entire Clock Tower would have to prepare for war. Yet such an existence, such an ancient monster, had surrendered and admitted defeat to an obscure brat in front of his archenemy Barthomeloi thirty-six hours earlier.

Had the world changed too quickly, or were magi like them simply unable to keep up with the times?

Barthomeloi investigated for ages but failed to uncover the unknown powerhouse's name. By all rights, someone who could fight better than a True Ancestor should not have been unknown, yet no matter how Barthomeloi searched, he could not find the other's origins. It was as though this person had appeared out of thin air.

The only clue related to him now was that pile of rubble from the scene. According to the investigation, it had belonged to a family that had betrayed El-Melloi and been exterminated by assassins dispatched by El-Melloi.

The date was yesterday.

Anyone could tell that the White-Winged Duke could not possibly have been the assassin, so every clue concerning Shirou now pointed to El-Melloi.

El-Melloi was immediately thrust into the spotlight. As the head of El-Melloi, Webber even put his classes aside and worked nonstop for an entire day and night.

As for Shirou's father having killed Kenneth, Webber no longer cared. As long as everyone believed Shirou was connected to El-Melloi, that was more useful than ten Kenneths.

At the suggestion of his strategist, Lady Reines, Webber privately spoke with Shirou about the matter. Shirou gave him only one sentence: "If you really want to hire me, bring money. Nothing else!"

There. Problem solved! Magi were pragmatists; most of them were like that. Shirou's influence was simply too great now. Soloing a True Ancestor—if any family had such an achievement to its name, they would worship Shirou like their father.

With such combat power, El-Melloi's status would naturally rise with the tide. Who dared object?

Fine! Webber could now guarantee in Conqueror Iskandar's name that El-Melloi would absolutely convince people through physics!

After causing such a huge stir, where was the man at the center of it all, Shirou?

Well, he was currently feasting atop a spiritual vein owned by El-Melloi!

It was not a metaphor; it was literal. Steaks, cheese, pasta—every dish related to Western cuisine had been placed before Shirou, yet this master was still dissatisfied—

"Not enough! Nowhere near enough! This is what I mean about you Europeans. Food, first and foremost, is something meant to fill people up. The most important parts are flavor and quantity, not appearance. You decorate it so much, yet there is so little actual food. Isn't that just asking for trouble?"

Shirou complained while eating voraciously with elegant movements. The food beside him was disappearing at a visible rate. God knew how he managed to eat so quickly and so gracefully, when the volume of food he ate was even greater than his own body.

El-Melloi's chefs were nearly in tears. Where had this little deity come from? Not only could he eat and complain, but he was ridiculously strong as well. Even their CEO, El-Melloi II, did not dare provoke him lightly.