Chapter 0-1. A Great Archmage Fallen into the Modern Era (I)
The late 19th and early 20th centuries. What sort of age was it?
In the Muggle world, a maelstrom of malice was brewing—the inception of imperialism, the emergence of colonialism.
The industrial revolution had cleaved society into the haves and have-nots, sparking the flames of communism and laying the kindling for a Great War that would supposedly end all wars.
It was a time when the lives of those dying in the slums each day were beneath consideration.
What, then, of the world's hidden face? What was the 19th century like for the wizarding kind?
Paradoxically, the wizarding world's end of the century was an age of tranquility.
It was an era when even the infamous Grindelwald dared not make his move. Death Eaters were a distant nightmare, and Voldemort himself was not yet even a notion in the mind of his father, Tom Riddle.
The greatest societal woes were the perennial squabbles with other magical species and the occasional gang of ruffians wielding Dark Magic.
For reasons unknown, however, even those disturbances began to fade away.
To be sure, private justice and duels to the death were commonplace, but these were hardly considered problems. On the contrary, they were seen as the very elements that lent the era its 'romance.'
Thus, posterity would remember it as the Age of Romance. The final century where stories torn from the pages of chivalric epics unfolded in the real world.
An era unfettered by regulations and constraints—an age that truly overflowed with romanticism.
And there was one who savored this romantic age with more zest than any other: Aisen Knightly.
The list of his deeds was staggering. Having gained special admission to Hogwarts as a fifth-year, he proceeded to shatter every record and claim every honor.
His magic was formidable. Part of what made Aisen Knightly so extraordinary was his status as the sole successor to a secret and ancient magic.
More primal than incantations, ancient magic was a raw, wild force of nature. This power was fused with the overwhelming magical talent that flowed through his veins.
And, as the cherry on top, he possessed a cheerful disposition brimming with a mischievousness worthy of any Gryffindor.
Wielding these weapons, Aisen carved a name for himself across the wizarding world, earning both fame and infamy in equal measure.
So great was his reputation that it was whispered Grindelwald himself gave Britain a wide berth to avoid him.
He was a sensation, a living legend whose exploits were so central to the times that no conversation in the magical salons was complete without his mention.
Then, one day.
Aisen Knightly, the eye of a hurricane of fame he had summoned before even turning thirty, vanished from the magical world.
He disappeared as if by 'magic.' Without a single trace, he was gone. Countless theories followed, but none could ever be substantiated.
Aisen had been a gale that swept through the wizarding world, but the relentless current of time washed away even his renown.
His name faded into a dimly recalled echo, familiar only to those who knew their history.
And time marched on.
Grindelwald fell, Tom Riddle was born, Harry Potter was born, and Voldemort was vanquished. More than ninety years slipped by, and then—
Fwaaaah!
In a cave near Hogwarts, abandoned for ninety years, a brilliant light bloomed with a colossal surge of magical energy.
Boom!
Thrown back by the vortex that erupted with the blinding light, I coughed and staggered to my feet.
"Cough, cough. Damnation. A truly magnificent failure."
I had no clue how the spell had gone so wrong, but my entire cavern hideout was now blanketed in soot and an astonishing layer of dust.
The soot I understood—there had been an explosion, after all. But where in Merlin's name did all this dust come from?
I wasn't particularly perturbed, however. Unpredictable caprice—that was the soul of ancient magic. For a professional of my caliber, this was hardly anything to lose sleep over.
"...Eh?"
At least, that had been my assessment until I lifted a hand to wipe the dust from my robes.
"...What's this?"
My hand looked... smaller than I recalled. Smaller by half, to be exact.
And now that I thought about it, my perspective of the world was a little lower.
My brilliant mind had already deduced the cause, but a part of me refused to believe it.
"No, that's impossible. Tell me I haven't been turned into a child."
But no amount of denial could alter the reflection that gazed back from the mirror I summoned. It was, without a doubt, the face of a boy.
A young boy, perhaps eight years old.
My defining features remained—the luminous golden eyes, the hair like ash tinged with blue—but the face was undeniably my own from long before I knew the first thing about magic.
Bloody hell. What has happened to me?
I'd run into countless mishaps while researching ancient magic, but I could say with certainty that none had ever been this stunning.
The worst I'd ever managed before was collapsing a mountain or causing an earthquake; never did I imagine I'd shrink myself into a little brat.
How could this have happened? I'm sure the last branch of ancient magic I was researching was...
"Ah, of course. Ancient magic related to time."
Damnation. The Keepers' warnings echoed in my mind now, their words about staying away from time magic ringing with newfound clarity. So this is what they meant by a 'major incident.'
"Oh, no!"
A sudden, dawning horror at the implications of my new form had me inspecting myself frantically.
A wizard's body is tempered over years of accumulating magical power. That power dictates everything—the force of one's spells, the delicacy of their control.
Naturally, the older a wizard gets, the more power they can command. And I, through ancient magic, wielded a power that dwarfed that of any ordinary wizard...
Could this untrained, childish body possibly contain it?
"—Hrmm, hmmm..."
To my relief, my worries were baseless. The immense magical core within me was stable, humming along without issue.
Still, no matter how safe it seemed, it would be best to avoid overusing it in a child's body.
Otherwise, the strain on my magical development could be significant... Wait a second.
"Isn't this actually a massive advantage?"
A wizard's magical power grows continuously, irrespective of physical aging. But the period of most explosive growth is fixed:
The most dramatic increase happens during adolescence.
In layman's terms, you could say it's the period when your growth plates are open.
And this magical power grows exponentially. In other words, the greater your existing power, the greater the increase.
So, what if I were to go through my adolescence with my current magical power, which already ranks among the strongest of all wizards?
The mere thought was so staggering that my eyes began to sparkle.
"With such power, I might reach a whole new plane of existence...!"
The thirst for knowledge every wizard possesses, amplified in my case by my dealings with ancient magic, made this incredibly good news.
"Haha! The time is nigh for the wizarding world to be awed by my greatness once more!"
Perhaps my mind had regressed along with my body. An irrepressible joy bubbled up inside me, and I began to laugh, swinging my arms like a delighted child.
In his office at Hogwarts, Dumbledore was idly stroking his phoenix, Fawkes, while mulling over his grand designs—no, his great plans—when a shiver went down his spine.
Rumble... rumble...
Hogwarts Castle gave a slight tremble, and the faint sound of a vibration reached him.
That meant a disturbance powerful enough to be felt within the walls of Hogwarts—a fortress shielded by innumerable layers of ancient and protective magic—had just occurred nearby.
As a great wizard, Dumbledore sensed more than just a simple tremor. This was no earthquake.
This was something far more perilous. He could clearly feel the lingering residue of a magical detonation.
"...Hmm!"
Stranger still was the familiar echo in the magical wavelength. It was faint, distorted, and yet undeniably recognizable.
Dumbledore could count on one hand the number of wizards whose signatures he knew by heart, and most of them were dangerous in the extreme.
To think that such an event would unfold so brazenly, right on the doorstep of Hogwarts.
The web of wrinkles around Dumbledore's eyes tightened as he grasped his faithful Elder Wand.
Hogwarts was warded against all forms of Apparition, making such travel impossible by normal means. For his wand, one of the Deathly Hallows, however, it was a trivial matter.
"Scree!"
With a final, gentle stroke for Fawkes, who let loose a strangely melancholic cry, Dumbledore instantly vanished and reappeared at the source of the disturbance.
"Hm? A cave."
Was there always a cave here? The Highlands were vast enough that it was certainly possible he had overlooked it.
He swept his wand through the air. The traces of magical power were potent.
A sharp, electric scent, like ozone after a storm, saturated the air.
The gaping maw of the cave looked unsettling. Dumbled-ore could not think of a single living wizard capable of wielding so much power at once.
Could it be? Had Voldemort already used his cursed Horcruxes to claw his way back from death?
Bracing himself for the worst-case scenario, Dumbledore silently cast Lumos with a flick of his wand.
The cave's interior was thick with dust and, to his surprise, utterly devoid of protective enchantments.
He moved cautiously down the straight, narrow tunnel until he was met with the sight of... a boy.
Thump.
At the sight of the boy's strangely familiar form, Dumbledore's heart lurched in his chest for reasons he could not fathom.
Mysterious, blue-tinged silver hair. Eyes of burnished gold that seemed to glow in the gloom. He knew, with absolute certainty, a man who looked just like that.
This was not Voldemort. No, this was a presence that was, perhaps, far more fearsome.
Dumbledore's aged frame shuddered like an aspen in the wind. He, who prided himself on a will that would not yield even to death itself, found that the trauma seared into his soul was a foe his mind could not conquer.
Piercing golden eyes cut through the darkness and locked onto his.
Involuntarily, Dumbledore's lips parted, and a trembling voice dared to utter a name that he had long since buried in the deepest vaults of his memory.
"A-Aisen Knightly?"
The name had barely escaped him when his rational mind recoiled.
No, that was impossible. A man who disappeared ninety years ago could not possibly reappear with the face of a child.
With that thought, a measure of composure returned to Dumbledore.
But the boy's appearance was too unique to be a coincidence. A descendant, perhaps... If so, he could be an asset to his plans.
The boy's next words shattered that fleeting calculation.
"Oh? So you know me? Quite sharp of you to recognize me, even in this state."
As the boy spoke, a cloak twice his size dragging on the dusty floor, a chill of absolute certainty froze Dumbledore where he stood.