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In the clearing of an ancient forest.
Dappled sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, scattering across Merlin's figure in fragments of shifting light and shadow. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves into a restless murmur. On Merlin's face, however, was an expression so rare that it bordered on unthinkable; it was the expression of pure, unguarded astonishment.
He had lived through countless ages, witnessed mysteries and truths that would shatter the minds of ordinary men. Very little in the world could surprise him anymore. And yet, in this single instant, his composure cracked.
Beneath the blazing sun, Ian's silhouette stood out with unnerving clarity. In his hand was a wand that looked no different from any other, ordinary, unremarkable. But the light flaring at its tip made Merlin's heart jolt violently.
That was no illusion. It was the unmistakable pulse of power belonging only to a Legendary Wizard. A vast and unfathomable magic, one that seemed to hold within it secrets without end, a force capable of overturning the very laws of the world.
"Bloody hell!"
Normally, Merlin was the epitome of refinement, a gentleman who disdained vulgarity. But this was no ordinary circumstance. The magic erupting from Ian surged like a floodtide, fierce and inexhaustible, slamming against him as if to declare with merciless clarity:, 'I am qualified to challenge you.'
The boy's face was young, too young, almost childish. Yet it blazed with a brilliance that could not be ignored.
"This…"
Merlin's lips parted as though to speak, but the words strangled in his throat, smothered by the sheer weight of the shock. His entire body locked up, frozen as if bound by an unseen spell.
Impossible.
Impossible!
This single thought roared through his mind, echoing endlessly. Merlin had seen geniuses by the dozens, the hundreds, bright talents who had burned quickly and faded just as fast. But never, not once in his life, had he encountered someone who could truly rival himself.
That belief had long since hardened into pride, a conviction rooted deep within his soul. The world might teem with prodigies, but none were even a fraction of what he was. For Merlin, such pride was not arrogance; it was truth.
And yet…
Now, before his very eyes, stood a boy no more than twelve years of age. This boy was not simply gifted. Not merely precocious. But a Legendary Wizard.
A Legendary Wizard at twelve?
Earlier than he himself had been by a decade, perhaps even longer?
What was this child? Did he begin studying magic in his mother's womb?! Even then, wasn't this too absurd?!
"So… that is the reason you dared challenge me," Merlin murmured, his pupils trembling with a flicker of light. His heart still reeled, but clarity dawned at last. This was why the little wizard had wagered so boldly.
It was not because of courage. But because the new generation will always test their edge against the old. As for that gemstone the girl mentioned earlier? Merlin nearly scoffed. No true Legendary Wizard would ever be moved by such a trinket.
It was nothing more than an excuse.
A flimsy pretext at best.
Just as Merlin's thoughts surged in turmoil, Ian moved.
He tapped his wand lightly. Runes of ancient origin flickered to life, and in the blink of an eye, an invisible binding spell snapped into place, locking the writhing shadow creature in an unyielding grip. The entity shrieked in a piercing cry, but it didn't stop Ian from casually tossing it toward Young Morgan.
Carrying such a thing into battle against a wizard of Merlin's level would never sit right with him. Who could say what kind of treacherous tricks this sinister being might attempt mid-duel?
Better not to risk letting it interfere with his chance at winning the three great gemstones. Or the Time-Turner. Between the two, Ian himself could hardly tell which he desired more.
"Keep an eye on it," Ian said quietly.
"Yes, Professor," Young Morgan replied.
She accepted the shadowy creature with visible curiosity, fingers itching to toy with the strange, magical lifeform. But her attention was instantly torn away by what Ian did next, making the thing in her hands suddenly lose all appeal.
Because before her eyes, Ian's wand swept through the air once more, this time with blinding speed and ruthless precision. A torrent of blazing fire erupted from its tip, surging outward before coalescing into massive, serpentine dragons.
They roared, bellowing with a fury that made the air itself tremble, and then lunged toward Merlin. These fire-dragons carried a terrifying dual nature: the consuming might of Fiendfyre fused seamlessly with the artistry of supreme transfiguration.
The Fiendfyre spread at terrifying speed, devouring everything in its path. Thick trees, ancient and sturdy, ignited at once under its assault, snapping and crackling as they collapsed into cinders. Within mere seconds they crumbled to ash, with smoke billowing skyward in choking waves, drowning the entire clearing in darkness and suffocating dread.
The sight left Young Morgan trembling, awestruck to her core.
And yet, It also revealed to Merlin a glimpse of a wholly different magical system.
"Well now," Merlin murmured, his tone both amused and grave, "What fortune, to cross paths with a living Legendary in his early teens."
He had been ready for this from the start. Courtesy demanded that the elder allow the youth the first move, and so he had granted Ian the opening strike.
But as the Fiendfyre dragons sealed the battlefield, cutting off every escape, a flicker of genuine surprise passed through Merlin's eyes. Still, he did not move. The torrent of cursed flame surged toward him, only to pass straight through, dissolving in golden ripples as though his very body were but water disturbed by a stone.
It was magic, certainly. Or perhaps… something deeper. Something born from his Bloodline.
In the instant when the flames should have consumed him, Merlin's form had turned unreal. At times, his outline was sharp, almost tangible, as if one could touch him. Next, he blurred into a phantom, insubstantial as mist, blending seamlessly into the air itself. The Fiendfyre tore through him without leaving so much as a scar.
Magic cannot touch what does not exist.
"Such brilliance… Could it be that you hail from the Age of Gods?" Merlin's gaze lingered on the boy before him, wreathed in the storm of Fiendfyre, a figure more demon-god than wizard. His mind whirled with speculation.
It was not baseless. Merlin had already sensed the strange dissonance in Ian's magical presence, an aura not of this time.
Thus, to Merlin, the only answer was clear: only in that ancient, miraculous age, when miracles and divinity walked side by side, could a prodigy like this be born. The Age of Gods, the most mysterious era in all wizarding lore. In those legends, wizards often consorted with gods themselves. Unlike the present day, when divine wonders lay dormant, back then the extraordinary was commonplace.
Only in such a crucible could a legendary wizard of twelve years age could exist.
At least, that was Merlin's conclusion.
But Ian gave no reply. His eyes remained calm, as if he had long since known Fiendfyre could not touch Merlin. He merely raised his wand again, its tip pressing lightly into the air.
(To Be Continued…)