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Love was infinite.
It could unleash the most brilliant power imaginable; this had always been an iron law within the world of Harry Potter. And through Musa, that iron law once again proved that it existed far beyond Hogwarts.
"Mr. Musa, please take care of your health. I'll contact you as soon as possible," Ian said.
Musa merely nodded slightly and waved his hand, indicating that he was fine.
Ian said nothing more.
He stepped back several paces and stood in the open space of the courtyard. With a slight shift of thought, subtle and nearly imperceptible ripples began to spread through the surrounding space.
He spoke no lengthy spell, nor did he make any exaggerated gestures. Through nothing more than the flow of his will, he established a connection with a distant spatial coordinate.
The next second, his figure trembled lightly like a reflection on water, then abruptly blurred and contracted before vanishing completely from the spot.
There was no explosive sound.
No shockwave.
Not even the faintest breeze stirred.
The entire departure was silent, swift, and carried an effortless elegance along with absolute control.
Within the farmyard, only Musa remained, carrying his farming tools as he stared at the empty space and the pot of stew still bubbling softly over the low flame.
After Ian disappeared, the old man's gaze slowly swept across the courtyard.
Beneath the shadows of the fence, in the corners beneath the roof, beside clay jars placed seemingly at random, several extremely concealed runes briefly flickered before quickly fading again.
These were formations painstakingly arranged by Musa to detect and suppress spatial magic fluctuations.
Any unauthorized spatial movement, even the most advanced Apparition, would inevitably trigger those alarms and perhaps even suffer retaliation from spatial disturbances.
And yet, until Ian left, the formations had remained as silent as though asleep, showing not the slightest sign of activation.
There was no displeasure in Musa's eyes at having his defenses bypassed.
Instead, a profound shock flashed through them, soon transforming into an even fiercer light of hope.
"So this… is the power of the Legendary realm?" He murmured softly, his voice trembling not from fear, but excitement.
"To completely ignore the shackles of space itself, to come and go freely without leaving behind even a trace of a ripple…"
He looked toward the empty space where Ian had vanished. Dusk had already descended, and the final streaks of sunset on the horizon were fading away.
Yet within the old man's eyes, it seemed as though a faint but stubborn flame had finally been lit.
After decades of searching through darkness, there finally appeared to be a possibility of piercing through the fog.
Slowly, he sat back down in his chair.
Exhaustion washed over him once more, but this time, mixed within that exhaustion was something he had not felt in a very long time.
Hope.
Closing his eyes, he could almost hear his wife's clear laughter again and his son's excited shouts, accompanied by the distant howling winds of the Arctic ice plains, lingering endlessly in his ears.
Meanwhile, Ian's figure had already crossed mountains and seas, appearing on another part of the African continent, a prosperous yet hidden gathering place for wizards.
It was a magical street similar to Diagon Alley, concealed within the cracks of a modern metropolis.
The street bustled with people. Wizards of every skin color wore robes or local garments, their conversations and merchants' cries filling the air.
Ian's sudden appearance drew no attention at all, as though he had always been standing there from the very beginning.
Feeling the heavy weight of the notebooks stored within his satchel, Ian looked into the distance.
The matters in Africa needed to be settled quickly.
After that, he would head toward that frozen land to uncover a sorrowful mystery spanning decades and fulfill the promise he had made to a lonely seeker.
The path of the Legendary realm was never merely about ascending in power.
It was also about bearing the responsibilities and promises that came with such strength.
"This journey… perhaps Claire doesn't merely want me to gather materials," Ian thought as he walked through the noisy, exotic streets of the African wizarding settlement.
Shops lined both sides of the road, displaying all kinds of goods shimmering with magical radiance.
Colorful serpent-bird feathers.
Strange roots slowly writhing inside potion jars.
Talismans engraved with ancient tribal totems.
The street roared with noise as countless languages intertwined together. Witch doctors dressed in traditional tribal clothing and adorned with bone ornaments brushed shoulders with wizards wearing simple robes from established magical Houses.
Together, they formed a bizarre and dazzling tapestry.
Yet all of that prosperity appeared somewhat blurred in Ian's eyes.
His attention was occupied by the clear sensation of emptiness rising from his stomach.
Hunger, a purely biological need, stubbornly reminded him that even a Legendary body still required energy.
The feeling carried a certain irony.
He had only just left the home of an alchemist who had dedicated his entire life to the art of cuisine. The tempting aroma of that carefully simmered stew still lingered in the air around him.
And yet he remained hungry.
The reason was simple.
Those "specialties" from the frozen Soviet tundra fifty years ago that Musa had served in his Feast Hall.
Although Musa had explained the effects of time's laws, and those foods had theoretically already endured the years they were meant to endure, the moment Ian thought about their origin, that bizarre underground complex which had swallowed Armani and Sohm, he felt an indescribable discomfort in his stomach.
He had not eaten much.
The psychological revulsion far outweighed whatever negligible risks the food itself might have posed.
"Better find a place and eat something 'normal,'" Ian thought to himself.
What he needed was food that could genuinely fill his stomach and soothe his mind, not "antiques" burdened with heavy history and unsolved mysteries.
He strolled casually down the street, his gaze searching the shops lining both sides.
Very quickly, his attention was drawn toward a relatively clean but lively little food stall.
The owner was a dark-skinned, lean local wizard dressed in a simple linen tunic. He skillfully manipulated a floating orange-red magical flame suspended in midair.
Above the flame, several iron skewers threaded with large chunks of unknown beast meat slowly rotated. Fat dripped onto the fire with cheerful sizzling sounds, sending up waves of fragrant smoke rich with the scent of roasting meat.
Most importantly, Ian could see the entire process happening right before his eyes.
The vendor pulled fresh red meat from an icebox enchanted with preservation spells, cut it into pieces, skewered it, and roasted it openly in front of customers.
"Here's good enough. At least it's not pre-made food or zombie meat," Ian muttered as he walked over.
This made-to-order style strangely reassured him.
"Boss, five skewers," Ian said in the Common Tongue, handing over several gemstone fragments infused with faint magical power, currency commonly used among local wizards.
The vendor grinned broadly, revealing bright white teeth as his hands moved even faster.
Using a sharp-looking bone knife, he quickly sliced several cuts into the meat, then grabbed a mixture of chili powder, salt, and local spices from a clay jar and evenly sprinkled it over the skewers.
The temperature of the magical flame was controlled with remarkable precision.
The outer layer quickly became crisp and charred, while the inside remained juicy and tender.
Soon, five perfectly roasted skewers were handed to Ian.
He took the still-burning-hot meat skewers and, caring little for manners, stood beside the stall, blew on them briefly, and took a huge bite.
Rich meat juices mixed with fiery spices exploded instantly in his mouth. The crunchy exterior contrasted perfectly with the succulent interior.
The pure, intense, life-filled flavor rapidly swept away the subtle discomfort left by the Soviet canned food and the heavy emotions lingering from Musa's story.
The emptiness in his stomach was filled by the solid richness of meat, bringing a simple and direct sense of satisfaction.
"So this is what people call wok hei."
He quickly devoured all five skewers, then licked the grease from the corner of his mouth with lingering satisfaction.
Still wanting more, he ordered a bowl of iced herbal tea brewed from some kind of sweet local plant root and infused with a refreshing mint fragrance. He drank it down in one gulp.
Only then did he feel fully alive again.
The earlier fatigue and strange discomfort vanished completely.
"As expected, food is best when it's simple and straightforward."
After paying for the tea, Ian sighed inwardly. Sometimes, overly complicated stories and backgrounds robbed food of its purest joy.
Now full and satisfied, Ian wasted no more time and headed back toward the inn where he was staying.
It was located in a relatively quiet section of the settlement, complete with a small courtyard planted with drought-resistant magical vegetation. The atmosphere was fairly peaceful.
However, the moment he stepped through the inn's entrance, crossed the dimly lit lobby, and entered the corridor leading toward the guest rooms in the rear courtyard, his keen senses immediately caught a faint but malicious energy fluctuation hidden within the corner shadows.
That energy carried a familiar coldness and corrosive quality, instantly reminding him of the overconfident Dark Wizard from earlier that morning, the one who had tried to probe him using a crude mental attack.
Ian's footsteps did not pause in the slightest.
He did not even shift his gaze, as though he had noticed nothing unusual at all.
Yet within his spiritual perception, the hidden figure was carefully weaving a vicious curse like a venomous snake lurking in the dark.
The curse took the form of an almost invisible black thread that silently slithered toward Ian's back, targeting the core of his mind.
Its intent was to induce chaos.
Pain.
Perhaps even damage at the soul level.
"How truly tired of living," Ian sneered inwardly.
The previous time, he had merely retaliated mentally, causing the man to gradually become a Squib in the future.
On the surface, it had only been a minor punishment meant as a warning, giving the other party a chance to retreat after recognizing the difference in power.
Unexpectedly, not only had the fool failed to learn his lesson, he had escalated things further, resorting to an even more sinister and vicious method.
Faced with such repeated provocations, Ian had already run out of patience.
He could not even be bothered to break or dispel the curse anymore.
The Legendary could not be insulted.
At the very moment the black cursed thread was about to touch his body, Ian's thoughts shifted slightly. An invisible yet ocean-like spiritual force naturally flowed around him like the smoothest and hardest mirror imaginable.
There was no violent collision of energy.
No dazzling burst of light.
The vicious curse, the instant it touched that mental barrier, behaved like a beam of light striking a perfect reflective surface. It rebounded violently along its original path, faster, more precise, and carrying with it a trace of Ian's will.
"Ugh, AAAH!"
A short yet miserable scream erupted from the shadows in the corner before abruptly cutting off, as though an invisible hand had seized the man's throat.
A dull thump followed.
The black-robed figure stumbled out from the darkness and collapsed heavily onto the floor. His limbs convulsed violently a few times before going completely still.
He had fainted.
Ian did not even bother turning around to look.
He could clearly "see" that the rebounded curse had not only fully struck the caster himself, but had also been infused with an even stronger mental shock by Ian.
The result was no longer as simple as gradually losing his magical powers from the previous mental backlash.
Under the combined effects of the curse and spiritual impact, the Dark Wizard's central nervous system would suffer catastrophic destruction.
His entire body would become paralyzed.
He would lose all ability to move.
Even blinking would become an impossible luxury.
His consciousness might still remain awake, yet he would be forever trapped inside a body incapable of movement.
Endlessly experiencing darkness and despair.
This would be a punishment far crueler than death.
Ian had never been stingy when it came to giving such malicious, unrepentant people the "reward" they deserved.
Several guests chatting or admiring flowers in the corridor and courtyard were startled by the sudden disturbance and turned to look.
But after seeing the collapsed Dark Wizard, and then seeing Ian continue calmly toward his room without even pausing, most revealed expressions of understanding or indifference.
On the vast and chaotic African continent, conflicts and ambushes between wizards occurred every single day.
Strength ruled supreme here, an unspoken law everyone understood.
No one would meddle in someone else's business by asking what had happened.
Nor would anyone sympathize with a Dark Wizard who had clearly failed in an attempted sneak attack and suffered the consequences.
A few passing witches merely glanced at him before calmly contacting specialists responsible for handling these sorts of "incidents," their expressions utterly unsurprised, as though it were merely another insignificant episode in daily life.
Ian returned to his room and shut the door behind him, completely isolating himself from the outside noise and the minor disturbance that had just occurred.
The room was simple yet tidy, carrying a strong local style. Brightly colored woven tapestries hung from the rough earthen walls, while the air carried the scent of dry soil and insect-repelling herbs.
He sat down at the wooden table beside the window and took out the thick stack of notebooks Musa had entrusted to him.
They felt heavy in his hands.
Not merely because of the number of pages or the weight of the paper, but because of the knowledge and emotions they contained.
Ian did not immediately begin studying the core portions concerning time magic.
Instead, with the mindset of casually familiarizing himself first, he picked up the oldest-looking notebook from the top of the pile, one bound in dark brown leather, and began flipping through it.
The earlier sections mostly contained deductions regarding fundamental alchemical principles, along with ideas for applying alchemical arrays to cooking utensils and stoves in order to achieve more precise heat control and flavor integration.
The handwriting appeared somewhat immature, yet the thinking behind it was clear and full of imaginative creativity.
One could easily picture the young Musa passionately exploring the intersection between cuisine and alchemy.
As the pages turned, however, the contents gradually shifted into deeper and more mysterious territory.
Discussions began appearing regarding "time" as a perceivable and guidable "energy flow." Beside them were all sorts of complicated geometric diagrams attempting to illustrate variations in temporal dimensions.
Ian saw experimental records about accelerating local time flow to rapidly ferment dough or ripen fruit.
Some experiments had succeeded.
Far more had failed.
Yet beside every failure were detailed reflections and new hypotheses.
The further he read, the deeper and more profound the notes became.
And the further they drifted away from the original culinary theme.
Clearly, by this stage, the old man's wife and child had already completely disappeared.
Every line radiated anxiety, despair, and a reckless madness willing to risk everything.
The theoretical framework regarding temporal regression grew increasingly bold.
The formulas concerning stable time channels became more and more complicated.
There were even numerous dangerous hypotheses involving higher-dimensional space and causality itself.
"Hiss… He really is a genius."
Only now did Ian fully realize it.
(End of Chapter)