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Campione: Strongest# 478: Full Throttle
🕑 Added 2025-11-17 11:47:01 +0000 UTCLondon, England.
The city that first heralded the Industrial Revolution lay smothered under a blanket of gray smog, nature’s so‑called “revenge” hanging over it year‑round and twisting the weather into something as moody and unpredictable as a little girl’s temper.
Carriages cut through the thick fog one after another, wheels rattling over cobblestones as they raced down the streets from all directions, converging toward the outskirts of London.
“Hey! Learn how to drive a damn carriage!”
A passerby who’d nearly been run over shouted furiously at the coach that had just thundered past.
An elderly man at his side grabbed his sleeve in a panic and hissed, “Keep your voice down. Didn’t you see the crest on that carriage?”
The man’s face twitched.
Family crests like that only belonged to those noble lineages from the last century who’d stubbornly clung to their status into modern London.
Understanding that, he could only curl his lip and mutter under his breath, “Tch. New century and they’re still throwing their weight around. Sooner or later, the world’s gonna leave them behind.”
At the end of the road where all those carriages converged.
The main assembly hall of the Clock Tower was packed wall‑to‑wall with people.
After finishing a brief chat with a familiar magus, the young man known as Waver Velvet wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead from the stifling heat and stared at the crowd ahead of him.
“With this many people… did every magus on the planet decide to show up?”
Standing beside him was his mentor, Lord Kayneth El‑Melloi Archibald.
At that moment, Kayneth adjusted his beloved green felt hat, the noble smile he wore at all times starting to feel a little stiff after being held for so long.
He heard the doubt in his student’s voice, so he offered an explanation.
“Looks like something big has happened out in that little Far Eastern country. A whole pack of the older generation — and even the generation before them — abandoned their workshops and left. Which means almost everyone you see here now is part of the Clock Tower’s true backbone.”
He cleared his throat, his tone turning more solemn.
“Later, I’ll introduce you to the former Lords of each Department, get you properly acquainted. Consider it laying the groundwork for when you inherit El‑Melloi…”
Kayneth blinked — then stared around him in total confusion.
Where was Waver?
High above London, deafening thunder rolled again and again through the sky.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
Dangling by the neck, Waver clutched at the massive hand gripping his collar, eyes wide in sheer terror.
He couldn’t see the ground at all through the fog, but he knew perfectly well they were hundreds of meters up in the air.
Oh God.
He was terrified of heights.
“Wahahahaha! My vassal — this king is taking you to the Far East to witness a grand spectacle!!!”
A boisterous laugh shook the air, the sound waves blasting the fog away in rippling circles.
The man known as the King of Conquerors, Iskandar, stood at the reins of the Gordius Wheel, his massive, red‑haired frame braced as the divine bulls dragged his chariot eastward at full speed.
Waver froze for a heartbeat, then exploded.
“You can’t seriously be planning to ride this thing all the way to the Far East?!”
“Wahahahaha! The Counter Force finally decided to support us with mana — of course this king is going to use it for a world tour!” Iskandar’s laughter boomed across the sky.
“World! Here I come — and I will conquer you!”
“A‑achoo— it’s freezing up here! At least let me bring a blanket!!!”
Kayneth no longer had the time — or the patience — to worry about his mysteriously vanished student.
Because the star of today’s meeting had finally arrived.
A brown ponytail swayed behind her like a living thing, each sharp flick tracing the air.
Her back was ramrod‑straight, radiating a pride that needed no words.
Dressed in a white, close‑fitting combat uniform, the girl’s clean‑cut features only sharpened the fierce, knightly aura she carried.
Like a noble lord who’d spent a lifetime on horseback at the head of an army, she strode in through the main doors of the hall, every step sure and unhesitating.
“Lord Barthomeloi!”
Voices old and young, gentle and harsh, rose from all corners of the hall as magi greeted the queen who ruled over the Clock Tower.
Lorelei Barthomeloi came to a stop at the center of the chamber.
Her gaze — as sharp and cold as a blade’s edge — swept slowly across every face present.
The atmosphere went silent in an instant.
Conversations died; whispers cut off mid‑breath.
Under that gaze, not a single magus dared to keep talking.
“I won’t waste words.”
Her cool voice rang out, not particularly loud, but a faint breeze carried every syllable clearly to every ear in the hall.
“The latest sealed report from the Association’s Tokyo branch: nearly the entire human population of Tokyo has been converted into Dead Apostles.”
The moment those words dropped, the entire hall sucked in a collective breath.
“—Hsssss!!”
“The capital of that Far Eastern country — Tokyo?”
“That city with over fifteen million people? All turned into Dead Apostles?”
“This isn’t funny in the slightest. There aren’t even a million Dead Apostles in the whole world, and now you’re telling me that number just jumped fifteen‑fold?”
Not even the authority of the Barthomeloi family could completely suppress the uproar.
The news was simply too horrifying for the magi present to swallow quietly.
Dead Apostles were not cabbages you could buy by the crate.
Even with their weaknesses — hiding from the sun, feeding on blood to sustain their bodies — they were still vastly superior to ordinary humans.
Within the seven official ranks recognized by the Clock Tower, only magi of the Third Rank and above, and specifically those who specialized in combat thaumaturgy, could reliably handle even a low‑level Dead Apostle.
Fifteen million Dead Apostles like that could, in theory, wipe out the Association’s entire lower and middle tiers.
Without top‑class forces entering the field, they could roll over those ranks dozens of times.
And yet, now, the Association had no choice but to face those Dead Apostles head‑on.
The magi who clung to the secrecy of the Moonlit World all understood one thing very clearly.
The moment the existence of Dead Apostles became public and the veil over Mystery was torn away, the “mystic” power that had once been divided among fewer than two million magi would have to be shared with six billion humans.
No magus was willing to see their magecraft weakened three thousandfold.
At that point, their spells would be no better than stage tricks — and the lofty magi of the Moonlit World would be nothing more than clowns hired to perform cheap illusions.
So there was only one option left.
Fight this to the bitter end.
Once that truth settled in, the murmurs died away one by one.
Almost every magus fell silent, turning their eyes toward Lorelei Barthomeloi with grim, solemn faces.
“Issue a global directive.
All combat‑oriented magi of the Fourth Rank and above are to assemble.
All magi of the Fifth Rank and higher — assemble as well…”
Lorelei hesitated for a brief moment.
Then her gaze turned icy, and she spoke the chosen rally point.
“Rendezvous point — Vatican City.”
With that, Lorelei turned on her heel and walked out of the hall.
The orders had been given.
As head of the Barthomeloi family, she had far too many matters to handle to linger.
A white‑haired magus stared blankly after her, voice barely more than a murmur.
“Vatican City, huh? The Mage’s Association and the Church, going all‑in together? Really hope this is just a bad joke…”
A few dozen minutes later, the two great war machines of the hidden world — the Mage’s Association and the Holy Church — began to run at full throttle.
