After the women completed their transformation, the newly reborn Witches gradually adapted to their physical changes under Arwen's patient guidance.
Arwen also prepared to personally instruct these new Witches, teaching them how to sense and control magic.
Meanwhile, Sylas was overseeing the men's transformation, guiding them one by one into the blood pool to merge with dragon blood and awaken their magical abilities.
However, because the number of candidates exceeded the original quota and the existing dragon blood was insufficient to complete all the transformations, Sylas specifically selected the hundred most outstanding and loyal individuals to go first, while instructing the rest to wait.
After the first group successfully absorbed the power of dragon blood and completed their bloodline fusion, Sylas began preparing a new batch of bloodline fusion Potion in an enlarged "cauldron pool," sufficient to transform the remaining candidates.
Since there was no regular dragon blood left in storage, Sylas decided to use the blood of a Frost Dragon instead.
The Frost Dragon was an ancient and powerful creature, and the magical energy in its blood was said to be thousands of times stronger than that of an ordinary dragon.
While a single barrel of normal dragon blood could only transform one person, one barrel of Frost Dragon blood was potent enough to transform ten.
The Frost Dragon's body had been immense, and Sylas had collected hundreds of barrels of its blood during the battle.
He took out ten barrels and poured them into the massive pool.
Unlike the previous bloodline fusion Potion that glowed red and churned like molten lava, this new mixture turned into a glacial, ice-blue hue, releasing waves of bone-chilling cold.
The temperature of the entire room plummeted in an instant, the air frosting over until it seemed as though winter itself had descended upon the Castle.
Looking at the shimmering, icy pool, which emitted cold vapor but did not freeze solid, many of the men couldn't help but shiver. They suspected that the moment they entered, they would turn into frozen statues.
Leading them was Brog, the chieftain, who took a deep breath and, without hesitation, leaped straight into the pool.
The moment he entered, his body stiffened. His consciousness slowed, and his thoughts seemed to freeze. A cold that pierced straight through the soul enveloped him, stripping away sensation until even screaming became impossible.
Yet Brog did not give in. His courage inspired the others, and one by one, the men who had been chosen for their bravery, willpower, and loyalty followed him, diving into the icy depths.
Soon, the entire pool was filled with men locked in silent agony.
The icy dragon blood invaded their bodies, freezing their blood vessels, hearts, and bones, even slowing their brain activity. Yet the pain of it was sharp and unmistakable, like countless ice blades slicing through flesh, or thousands of frozen needles stabbing deep into their marrow.
The torment was no less than, and perhaps even greater than, that of those who had merged with ordinary dragon blood.
But the rewards were equally immense.
The first group had absorbed the blood of a dragon.
This group was absorbing the blood of a Frost Dragon, their magic would be far stronger.
As time passed, the dragon blood in the pool was completely absorbed. One after another, the men broke through their icy shells, breathing raggedly as they emerged.
Their bodies had changed, stronger, leaner, more resilient, and in their eyes now shimmered faint traces of icy blue light. A thin chill radiated from their skin.
Everyone looked at their own transformation in awe.
Brog, whose aptitude was the highest among them, raised his hand curiously and brushed a fingertip against the surface of the pool. Instantly, a thin layer of ice spread out across the water.
Seeing this, Sylas's eyes gleamed in mild surprise.
This man truly exceeded expectations, he had just acquired magic, yet he was already able to channel and manifest it instinctively.
Such talent was rare.
When all five hundred and forty people had completed their transformations, Sylas waved his hand, clearing the remaining residue and liquid from the pool with a burst of magic, and led the new Wizards into the great banquet hall.
Yet as he gazed upon the assembled crowd, another problem presented itself.
He would need to craft wands for all of them, and doing so alone was impossible.
A wand was not just a magical focus; it was a Wizard's personal weapon, a conduit for their soul's power. Without a proper wand, even a talented Wizard could not cast spells efficiently, or at all.
And whoever mastered the craft of wandmaking would hold immense power, for they would control the source of every Wizard's strength.
Naturally, Sylas could not entrust such a responsibility to just anyone.
He would need to choose carefully, someone with talent, unwavering loyalty, and no ambition to betray. Such a person would be bound by multiple magical oaths and contracts to ensure absolute obedience.
With that in mind, Sylas looked over the hundreds of newly transformed Wizards before him.
Then he spoke clearly, his voice echoing through the hall:
"I will choose one among you to learn the art of wandmaking."
His words instantly stirred every heart in the hall.
After all, they had all seen the wands wielded by the Lord, by Butler Edward, and by the two Mayors. They knew that those slender, elegant instruments were the keys to the power they all now sought to master.
They all understood that with so many of them, it was impossible for Lord Sylas to craft wands for each person individually.
However, if one of them could learn the art of wandmaking, that person would not only possess a personal wand but also earn great favor from the Lord, and gain the privilege of creating wands for others.
So everyone gazed at Sylas with hopeful anticipation, eager for his acknowledgment.
But Sylas did not choose anyone immediately. Wandmaking required a special kind of talent, a sense for magic and harmony between materials, something that could only be revealed through practice.
Raising his hand, Sylas conjured a neat pile of polished woods and wandmaking tools before the crowd. Then, with calm authority, he began to teach them the most basic techniques of the craft.
Of course, he only demonstrated the simplest and most superficial parts, carving, sanding, and balancing the wand shaft, while keeping the true core secrets of wandlore to himself.
Even in the Wizarding World, countless people knew about wand materials, yew, oak, dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, yet they could not make even the simplest wand that could channel magic, much less one that rivaled the work of master wandmakers like Ollivander.
After Sylas's brief demonstration, everyone eagerly began carving, each person desperate to impress and earn the Lord's favor.
Even Butler Edward, with Sylas's permission, joined in the competition, carefully selecting a piece of mahogany and beginning to carve with quiet focus.
But not everyone had the touch for delicate craftsmanship. Some were clumsy, their hands trembling; others couldn't even maintain the shape of the wood. Before long, Sylas found himself surrounded by a collection of uneven, misshapen sticks, objects that could hardly be called wands.
He sighed softly and shook his head.
To his practiced eye, most of these attempts were hopeless, "rotten wood that cannot be carved."
Those who realized their own shortcomings soon laid down their tools, their faces flushed with embarrassment, silently withdrawing from the contest.
When Sylas examined Edward's work, however, he nodded approvingly.
Though Edward's craftsmanship wasn't exceptional, it was solid. His wand was balanced and well-shaped, sufficient for an apprentice.
He was worth keeping an eye on.
But then Sylas's gaze stopped on one particular figure, a young man with tousled red hair and freckles, sitting quietly at the end of the row.
The carving knife in his hand moved with steady confidence, guided by instinct rather than hesitation. Bit by bit, the rough block of wood transformed into a slender, elegant wand shape. The curves were smooth, the grain aligned, and the proportions naturally harmonious, as though the wand itself wanted to be born from his hands.
Sylas stepped closer, intrigued. He picked up the nearly finished wand and examined it closely, his expression softening into a look of genuine admiration.
Then he looked at the young man and asked with a faint smile,
"What is your name?"
The red-haired youth froze for a moment, then straightened nervously and stammered, "Bill, my name is Bill, my Lord."
"Alright, Bill. Don't be nervous," Sylas said warmly, his tone reassuring. "You're very skilled at woodcarving. Tell me, are you a carpenter?"
Bill's eyes lit up, both nervous and excited as he shook his head. "My Lord, I'm not a carpenter. I'm a militiaman from Hogsmeade… but my father was a carpenter. I learned woodcarving from him when I was young, so I'm quite familiar with working with wood."
Sylas nodded, still turning the wand piece in his hand, his tone filled with approval. "Your craftsmanship is fine, precise, balanced, and patient. More importantly, I can feel you have a natural sensitivity for wandmaking. Would you like to learn this craft from me?"
Bill froze, his eyes widening as disbelief and joy collided. "I...I would! I'm willing, my Lord!" he said eagerly, nodding so hard it nearly made the others chuckle.
Around them, murmurs spread among the new Wizards, envy, admiration, and excitement all at once.
Sylas smiled faintly, satisfied by Bill's sincerity.
"Very good," he said. "From this day on, you will remain here at the Castle and study wandmaking under my guidance. When you succeed in crafting your own wand, your apprenticeship will be complete. After that, you will be responsible for making wands for everyone else. Can you do that?"
Bill's voice trembled slightly, but his answer was firm. "Yes, my Lord. I can!"
...
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