· The Retreat of the White Winged Ancestor

The lord of this Barthomeloi was at least over seventy years old, a man with one foot in the grave by human standards.

But a mere seventy-something human was nothing but a brat before the White-Winged Duke, one of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors who had lived from the age of Solomon to the present. In that regard, the Duke's address was not wrong.

Lord Barthomeloi's arrival only solidified Shirou's decision to retreat. Since the one drawing all the aggro had shown up, why the hell should he stick around?

But since he was here, he might as well milk every chance to show off. What was the point of crossing over if he couldn't strut his stuff?

"Looks like this is your defeat, Ortolocke." Barthomeloi and the White-Winged Duke were sworn enemies, their grudge said to have accumulated over a thousand years—a genuine blood feud. Using honorifics toward the Duke in front of Barthomeloi's boss would be as stupid as calling the Six-Eared Macaque "Great Sage" right in front of Sun Wukong. It wouldn't cause a huge disaster, but it would definitely earn a wave of ill will.

Of course, if he threw all caution to the wind, Shirou was confident he could make the scene feel like the Old Man of the Mountain had walked in—absolute secrecy.

But he couldn't do that, because it would mean more people dying, and that clashed with Shirou's values.

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

Under Lord Barthomeloi's look of utter disbelief, the White-Winged Duke spoke words that would shake the entire Clock Tower: "Ah, yes. I have to admit, in our battle, I, the White-Winged Duke, have lost. The great White-Winged Duke, beaten by some unknown brat. How disgraceful!"

"Tch! Less talk! Too bad the situation doesn't allow it. If this place were far enough from the city, I'd definitely kill you. After all, the job I took was an assassination. In my book, the perfect assassination is when all witnesses are dead." (Some Old Man of the Mountain nodded furiously in agreement.)

"There aren't that many 'ifs,'" the White-Winged Duke said, flatly ignoring Lord Barthomeloi standing nearby, who was still drowning in shock over the Duke admitting defeat. "You've already decided not to keep fighting, haven't you?"

Come to think of it, despite having gone through a battle of that caliber, Shirou was disheveled and battered, while the White-Winged Duke showed no visible damage, and even his magical energy seemed bottomless. With that absurd quantity, even if Shirou just threw raw power at him now, he could bury the Duke.

What terrible luck did I have to run into a monster like you? the White-Winged Duke thought.

"Looks like that's right. There's no need to keep fighting," Shirou said, glancing at the sky, which had already turned a pale fish-belly white. "It's almost dawn. I'll just say good luck to you!"

As he spoke, Shirou had already landed softly, and even the Zanpakuto in his hand had dissolved into spirit particles. He truly had no intention of continuing the fight.

"Goodbye—oh no, I mean, never see you again!" In a few breaths, Shirou had vanished from the White-Winged Duke's field of vision. As for the Lord El-Melloi who had been there earlier, Shirou's response was: What the hell do I care?

The next day, when El-Melloi's team returned, the entire Clock Tower was in an uproar.

They'd gone mad—the whole Clock Tower had lost its mind. Any magus with a shred of common sense knew who the White-Winged Duke was.

The de facto leader among the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors. If that old man ever declared he wanted to throw down with the Clock Tower, the entire institution would have to brace for war. Yet this very existence, thirty-six hours ago, had admitted defeat and surrendered to some nobody right in front of his archenemy Barthomeloi.

Was the world changing too fast, or were they magi just failing to keep up?

Barthomeloi searched high and low but couldn't dig up the name of this unknown powerhouse. Logically, someone who could outfight a True Ancestor shouldn't be obscure, but no matter how he investigated, Barthomeloi found no trace of the man's origins—as if he had appeared out of thin air.

The only clue now was that pile of rubble from back then. According to the investigation, it was a family that had betrayed El-Melloi, and El-Melloi had sent an assassin to wipe them out.

The date was yesterday.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that the White-Winged Duke couldn't have been the assassin, so all leads on Shirou now pointed to El-Melloi.

El-Melloi was suddenly thrust into the spotlight. As the head of El-Melloi, Webber had to temporarily set aside his classes and worked nonstop for a whole day and night.

As for Shirou having killed Kenneth, Webber no longer cared. As long as he made everyone believe Shirou was connected to El-Melloi, that was worth more than ten Kenneths.

On the advice of his strategist, Lady Reines, Webber privately discussed the matter with Shirou. Shirou gave him just one line in reply: "If you really want to hire me, bring money. Nothing else works!"

Done! Problem solved! Magi were realists, and most of them were like that. Shirou's influence was now enormous—soloing a True Ancestor was a feat that would make any family treat him like a god.

With combat power like that, El-Melloi's standing would naturally rise. Who dared to object?

Fine! Webber could now swear by the name of Conqueror Iskandar that El-Melloi would convince people with (phy)sical reasoning!

After causing such a huge stir, where was our protagonist, Shirou?

Well, he was currently feasting on the leylines under El-Melloi's jurisdiction!

That wasn't a metaphor. Literally—steak, cheese, pasta, anything related to Western cuisine had been laid out before Shirou. But the guy still wasn't satisfied—

"Not enough, totally not enough! That's what I keep saying about you Europeans—the point of cooking is first and foremost to fill people up. The most important parts are taste and portion size, not appearance. All that decoration, and the actual food portion is so small—are you asking for trouble?"

Shirou elegantly wolfed down his food while complaining. The food in front of him was visibly disappearing at an alarming rate. God knows how he managed to eat both quickly and gracefully, consuming a volume of food larger than his own body.

El-Melloi's chef was on the verge of tears. Just what kind of little deity was this? He could eat, he could complain, and on top of that, he could fight like a beast. Even their CEO, El-Melloi II, didn't dare provoke him lightly.

If you find this book enjoyable, to avoid losing track next time, please remember to add it to your bookshelf.