Hogwarts Raven

Chapter 419, Section 418: The Genius's Notebook
Love is infinite.

The ability to unleash the most brilliant power has always been an ironclad rule in the Harry Potter world, and in Musa's case, this rule is once again proven to exist not only at Hogwarts.

“Mr. Musa, please take care of yourself. I will contact you as soon as possible,” Ian said.

Musa simply nodded slightly and waved to indicate that he was unharmed.

Ian said no more. He took a few steps back and stood in the open space of the courtyard. With a slight thought, the surrounding space began to ripple subtly, almost imperceptibly. He did not chant any lengthy incantation, nor did he make any exaggerated gestures; with merely the flow of his will, he established a link with the spatial coordinates in the distance.

The next second, his figure swayed gently like a reflection in water, then suddenly blurred, shrank, and finally disappeared completely from the spot. There was no explosion, no shockwave, not even the slightest breeze. The entire departure was quiet and swift, carrying an effortless elegance and absolute control.

In the field, only Musa remained, carrying his farming tools and gazing at the empty space and the stew still bubbling on the low fire.

After Ian disappeared, the old man's gaze slowly swept across the courtyard.

In the shadow of the fence, in the corner of the eaves, beside those seemingly randomly placed earthenware pots, some extremely hidden runes flickered briefly before quickly disappearing. These were the arrays he had painstakingly set up to detect and suppress spatial magical fluctuations.

Any spatial movement without his permission, even the most skillful "apparition," will inevitably trigger these alarms and may even be countered by spatial disturbances.

However, until Ian left, these formations remained dormant, showing no signs of being disturbed.

Musa's eyes did not show any displeasure at being offended, but rather a deep shock that then transformed into an even more blazing light of hope.

"Is this... the power of legend?"

He muttered to himself, his voice trembling slightly, not from fear, but from excitement, "Completely ignoring the constraints of space, coming and going freely, without even leaving a ripple..."

He looked up at the void where Ian had disappeared. Dusk had fallen, and the last rays of sunset were fading. But in the old man's eyes, a faint yet tenacious flame seemed to be ignited. Decades of searching in the darkness seemed to have finally revealed a glimmer of hope for piercing through the fog.

He slowly sat back down in his chair, and exhaustion washed over him again. But this time, mixed in with that exhaustion was something he hadn't felt in a long time—something called hope.

He closed his eyes, and he seemed to hear his wife's clear laughter and his son's excited shouts again, accompanied by the sound of the wind over the distant Arctic ice field, lingering for a long time.

Meanwhile, Ian's figure had already traversed thousands of miles, appearing in a bustling yet secluded wizarding community on the African continent—a magical street, similar to Diagon Alley, hidden in the cracks of a modern city. The street was bustling with people; wizards of various skin colors wore robes or local costumes, and the sounds of conversation and hawking filled the air. His sudden appearance went unnoticed by anyone, as if he had always been standing there.

Ian felt the heavy weight of the stack of notes in his bag and looked into the distance.

The affairs in Africa need to be concluded as soon as possible, and then, it's time to head to that frozen land to unravel a tragic mystery spanning decades, and to fulfill a promise made to a solitary seeker. The path of legend is never just about climbing the ladder of power, but also about shouldering the corresponding responsibilities and commitments.

“This trip, perhaps Tantal Lyle wants me to do more than just collect materials.” Ian walked along the bustling, exotic streets of the African wizarding community.

On both sides were rows of shops selling all kinds of goods that shimmered with magical luster.

Colorful snake and bird feathers, strange roots slowly writhing in potions, amulets engraved with ancient totems—a cacophony of voices, a mix of languages, as shamans dressed in traditional tribal attire and adorned with numerous bone ornaments brush past academic wizards in simple robes.

It formed a bizarre and fantastical scene. However, all this splendor was somewhat blurry in Ian's eyes at this moment. His attention was occupied by waves of clear emptiness in his stomach. Hunger, a purely physiological need, was stubbornly reminding him that this legendary body still needed to replenish its energy.

The feeling was somewhat ironic.

He had just left the home of an alchemist who had devoted his life to the study of gastronomy, and the enticing aroma of the carefully stewed meat still lingered in the air, yet he was starving. The reason was none other than the "specialties" from the frozen soil of the Soviet Union fifty years ago served at Musa's restaurant.

Although Musa explained the workings of the time system, and that the food had theoretically undergone the necessary passage of time, Ian felt a strange nausea in his stomach when he thought about their origin—the bizarre underground project that had devoured Ella and little Kam. He didn't eat much.

The psychological discomfort far outweighed the negligible risks that the food itself might pose.

"Let's find a place to eat something 'normal'," Ian thought to himself.

What he needs is food that can truly fill his stomach and soothe his spirit, not "antiques" that carry a heavy history and unknown mysteries.

He strolled along, his eyes scanning the streets. Soon, his attention was drawn to a relatively clean but bustling street stall.

The stall owner was a dark-skinned, lean local wizard dressed in a simple linen jacket, skillfully manipulating a ball of orange-red magical flame floating in the air.

Above the flames, several iron skewers skewered with large chunks of meat from an unknown animal were slowly rotating, dripping grease onto the flames and making a pleasant "sizzling" sound, while bursts of smoke carrying a rich aroma of meat were rising up.

The key point is that the entire process was completed right before Ian's eyes, from the vendor taking bright red chunks of meat from a freezer next to him that had been enchanted with a preservation spell, to cutting, skewering, and then grilling them—it was all clearly visible.

“This is it. It’s not pre-made food or zombie meat.” Ian walked over. This method of making and selling food on the spot gave him a strange sense of peace.

“Boss, five skewers, please,” Ian said in Common, handing over a few gem fragments, faintly magical and circulating among local wizards, as currency.

The stall owner grinned, revealing his white teeth, and his hands moved even faster. He used a rather sharp-looking bone knife to quickly make several cuts in the meat skewers, then grabbed a handful of seasoning mixed with chili powder, salt, and various local spices from a ceramic pot and sprinkled it evenly over the meat.

He precisely controlled the temperature of the magical flames, and the outer skin quickly became crispy and fragrant, while the inside remained juicy and flavorful.

Soon, five perfectly grilled skewers of meat were handed to Ian.

He took the still-hot meat skewer, not caring about manners, and stood by the stall, blew on it to cool it down, and then took a big bite.

The rich aroma of meat, mixed with spicy spices, explodes in your mouth instantly, creating a wonderful contrast between the crispy outer skin and the tender, juicy interior. The pure, intense, and vibrant flavor quickly dispels the subtle discomfort caused by the Soviet canned food and the lingering heaviness after listening to Musa's story.

The emptiness in his stomach was filled by the substantial meat, bringing a simple and direct satisfaction. "This must be what they call wok hei (the smoky aroma from a hot wok)," he said. He quickly devoured the five skewers of grilled meat, licking the grease from the corners of his mouth with a lingering sense of enjoyment. He then asked the vendor for a bowl of herbal tea, brewed from some kind of sweet plant root and infused with the aroma of mint, which he downed in one gulp. Only then did he feel truly alive again.

The previous fatigue and strange feeling vanished completely.

"Indeed, it's best to keep food simple and straightforward."

Ian paid for the tea, a thought creeping onto the mind. Sometimes, overly complicated stories and backgrounds can rob food of its most genuine joy. Having eaten and drunk his fill, Ian didn't linger and headed towards his inn. It was a relatively quiet place in the settlement.

It had a small courtyard filled with drought-resistant magical plants, and the environment was relatively quiet. As he entered the inn, passed through the slightly dim lobby, and headed towards the corridor leading to the guest rooms in the back courtyard, his keen senses immediately detected a faint but malicious energy fluctuation hidden in the shadows of a corner.

The energy carried a familiar chill and corrosiveness, instantly reminding him of the dark wizard from that morning who overestimated himself and tried to test him with a clumsy mental attack.

Ian's steps didn't falter in the slightest, nor did his gaze shift even slightly, as if he hadn't noticed anything amiss. However, in his mental perception, the creature lurking in the shadows, like a venomous snake, was carefully weaving a vicious curse. The curse's energy, like an almost invisible black thread, silently coiled around his back, its target aimed directly at his mental core.

The intention is to incite chaos.

Pain, even damage at the level of the soul.

"They're really courting death," Ian sneered inwardly. Last time, he had only offered a psychological counterattack, ensuring that his opponent would gradually become a dud.

On the surface, it's a minor punishment to serve as a warning, hoping the other party will back down.

Unexpectedly, this guy not only failed to learn his lesson but escalated his actions, resorting to even more insidious and vicious methods. Ian had lost patience with this repeated provocation. He had even lost interest in breaking or dispelling the curse.

A legend cannot be dishonored.

Just as the black curse threads were about to touch his body, Ian's mind stirred, and an invisible yet boundless spiritual force, as smooth and hard as the smoothest mirror, appeared.

It flowed naturally around him.

There was no violent energy collision, no dazzling burst of light. The moment that malevolent curse power touched this mental barrier, it was like light hitting an absolutely reflective surface. With a force even faster and more precise than when it came, and imbued with a trace of Ian's will, it rebounded violently back along its original path!
"Ugh—!"

A short, piercing scream erupted from the shadows in the corner, then abruptly ceased, as if an invisible hand had gripped its throat. With a muffled thud, a figure in a black cloak staggered from the shadows and collapsed to the ground, its limbs convulsing violently.

Then, he completely lost consciousness and became unconscious.

Ian didn't even glance back. He could clearly "see" that the rebounded curse not only acted entirely on the caster but also inflicted an even stronger mental shock. The result was that this dark wizard's fate was far more than simply losing his magic due to the previous mental impact.

His central nervous system will be devastated by the combined effects of the curse and the mental shock, leaving him paralyzed and unable to move, even blinking will be a luxury. His consciousness may remain, but he will be forever trapped in an immobile body.

Feeling endless darkness and despair.

This would be a punishment crueler than death. For such treacherous and incorrigible individuals, Ian never hesitates to give them the "reward" they deserve.

A few guests who were chatting or admiring the flowers in the corridor and backyard were startled by the sudden commotion and turned to look. But when they saw the dark wizard lying on the ground and Ian walking straight to his room without even pausing, most of them showed an expression of understanding or indifference.

In the vast and chaotic land of Africa, conflicts and betrayals between wizards unfold daily. Might makes right is the unspoken rule here. No one bothers to inquire what happened, and no one sympathizes with a black wizard who clearly suffered a failed sneak attack and is now reaping the consequences of his own actions.

Several passing witches merely glanced at it.

He then skillfully began contacting specialists to handle such "emergencies," showing no surprise on his face, as if it were just a trivial little episode in daily life.

Ian returned to his room, closing the door behind him to completely shut out the outside noise and the little incident that had just occurred. The room was simply and neatly furnished with a strong local style; brightly colored woven tapestries hung on the rough earthen walls, and the air was filled with the scent of dry earth and some kind of insect-repelling herbs.

He walked to the wooden table by the window and sat down, taking out the thick stack of notebooks Musa had given him from his magic bag. The notebooks were quite heavy.

It wasn't just because of the quantity and weight of the paper, but also because of the knowledge and emotions they carried. Ian didn't immediately begin to delve into the core of time magic; instead, with a mindset of gaining a rough understanding, he casually picked up the oldest-looking notebook on top, with a dark brown hardcover, and began to flip through it.

The preceding part.

Most of them are deductions about basic alchemical principles, and ideas on how to apply alchemical diagrams to kitchen utensils and stoves to achieve more precise heat control and flavor fusion.

The handwriting is slightly immature, but the thought process is clear and full of imaginative ideas. One can imagine how passionate the young Musa was in exploring the combination of gastronomy and alchemy.

As the pages of the notes were turned, the content gradually shifted to deeper areas. Discussions about "time" as a perceptible and guideable "flow of energy" began to appear, accompanied by various complex geometric figures attempting to depict the changes in the dimension of time.

Ian saw some experimental records about accelerating local time flow rates for rapidly fermenting dough or ripening fruit; some were successful, but more were failures, but each failure was accompanied by detailed reflections and new hypotheses.

The further one flips through the pages, the deeper the notes become, and the more they stray from the original theme of food. Clearly, the old man's wife and children must have completely disappeared by this time.

The words convey a sense of anxiety, despair, and reckless madness.

Theories about time reversal are becoming increasingly bold, and the calculation formulas for stable time channels are becoming increasingly complex, with even many dangerous conjectures involving high-dimensional spaces and causality emerging.

"Wow! He's a genius!"

It was only at this moment that Ian truly realized this.

(End of this chapter)