Chapter 606: The Exact Answer

Perspective shift.

The night spreads like a massive curtain, shrouding every corner of the planet in the same darkness.

Yet within this darkness, something is changing silently, like a mute plague, spreading from the tiny origin of Winterwood City outward in all directions, crossing oceans, traversing continents, seeping into every city, every street, every window behind which unguarded lives reside.

London, Clock Tower.

Weber lifted his head from the mountain of papers and rubbed the sour spot between his brows.

Outside the window it was already dark; London's night fog wrapped the dim streetlights, casting a hazy warm hue onto the glass.

Lately he kept feeling that something was off, yet he couldn't pinpoint what.

The students' papers were as terrible as ever, his colleagues' faces as obnoxious as ever, and even the century‑old painting hanging in the hallway remained in its original spot.

Everything was normal to the point of absurdity.

Until he opened his mouth to speak.

"That's it for today, banana, class dismissed, banana."

A few students looked up, confused, at him.

The little girl in the front row with a ponytail blinked and whispered to the classmate beside her, "Did the teacher just say something strange, banana?"

"I think it was banana," another classmate nodded.

Weber's mouth twitched.

He had definitely heard "banana" just now.

It wasn't one student, but two, both tacking that inexplicable syllable onto the end of their sentences.

And he himself—he had said it too.

He inhaled deeply and placed the chalk back into the blackboard tray.

"Sorry, banana."

He added another, his complexion growing even more subtle, "Today's lesson ends here, banana; everyone go home and preview the next chapter, banana."

The students gradually stood, gathered their things, and left the classroom.

Weber stood at the podium, watching their backs, listening to their low murmurs—

"The teacher was really weird today, banana."

"Did he not sleep well, banana?"

"Maybe, banana; I heard he's been researching some new topic, banana."

"Come on, come on, let's go to the cafeteria, banana; they have fish and chips today, banana."

Weber leaned on the podium, feeling his temples throb.

Having lived so many years, having endured the Fourth Holy Grail War, having seen the most absurd Heroic Spirits and the craziest Masters, he swore he had never encountered anything more outrageous in his life.

Everyone's speech ended with a "banana" syllable, including his own.

He hurried back to his office, closed the door, pulled a thick Magic Dictionary from the shelf, flipped to the index, and his fingers raced over the dense entries, trying to find any magical phenomenon linked to "banana".

None.

He leafed through several treatises on Spell Contamination and Language Erosion, still finding nothing.

The books lay quietly on his desk, pages yellowed, script clear; every character was normal, no sentence ended with "banana".

His gaze fell on the stack of student assignments on the desk, and he casually opened the topmost one.

The student had written a paper on Spirit Summoning Technique, argument rigorous, citing sources, and no extra material followed any period.

He opened another; it was normal.

He opened a third; still normal.

Only spoken words carried the "banana".

Weber leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to calm his mind.

It must be some unrecorded language‑based magic, with unknown spread and infection routes; the only known symptom is the addition of a meaningless syllable at the end of sentences.

It's painless, harmless, doesn't affect thought, action, or even writing—reminding him of the little tricks he'd seen at academic conferences meant to disgust, yet not exactly the same, because those tricks usually last minutes, whereas now the "banana" seemed lodged on his tongue, impossible to shake off.

He simply shut his mouth, silently stuffed the lesson plan into his briefcase, moving a few beats faster than usual, not even noticing the folder's corner prick his finger.

The hallway had grown quiet, only a distant classroom still lit, faintly hearing someone argue inside, but every few sentences a strange "banana" would surface, like a code, or like evidence he himself refused to acknowledge.

Weber quickened his steps, his leather shoes striking the marble floor with a rapid clack.

He needed a definite answer, to know where this spine‑tingling weirdness originated.

Lainice sat on the lounge sofa, holding a cup of tea, her posture impeccably elegant, if one ignored the faint, half‑smile at the corner of her mouth.

She saw Weber push the door open; her violet eyes curved slightly, and in a mildly teasing tone she spoke.

"Oh dear, Weber, was today's class smooth, banana?"

Weber's steps halted at the doorway.

He looked at Lainice, and Lainice looked back at him.

Silence spread between them, like a river slowly rising with the tide.

Then Lainice's smile froze; she set down the teacup, the porcelain meeting the table with a faint crisp sound, unusually clear in the near‑still room.

"You too, banana?"

Weber gave no reply, merely walked to the window and pushed open the heavy wooden sash.

The night wind, laden with London's characteristic damp mist, surged in, ruffling the strands of hair across his forehead.

He stared at the distant black sky; beneath it, far, far away, lay a city he once thought he would never pay attention to again.

"Winterwood City."

He whispered, this time the syllable absent, as if suppressed, "Winterwood City is in trouble."

Lainice stepped beside him, following his gaze toward that direction.

She obviously can't see Winterwood City, but she can see the rare solemnity on Weber's face.

"How do you know Jiao?"

"I don't know."

Weber said, "But I can feel it. Moreover—"

He paused, pulled his phone from his pocket; the screen showed several unread messages, the sender's name making his fingers grip the phone a little tighter, "Yuan Ban Lin returned to Winterwood City a few days ago. Since then I haven't received any word from her."

Lainice fell silent.

She knows Yuan Ban Lin, one of Weber's most prized students.

She also knows Winterwood City, the place that once devoured countless lives, including a wound in Weber's heart that could never heal.

"Are you going to Jiao?"

Weber gave no answer, merely slipped the phone back into his pocket, turned around, and in those eyes—once youthful, now settled with too much—there was a light Lainice hadn't seen in a long time.

"I need to find out first what this actually is."

He pointed to his own lips, where a syllable that shouldn't exist had just been uttered, "And the Holy Grail War—why has it started again."

His voice was calm, but Lainice heard the undercurrent beneath that calm.