Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 553 The Wise Regulus

Dumbledore sat opposite him, listening with a smile. His gaze lingered on Fabian's face for a moment before moving to Geralt's, where a slight curve was hidden in his white beard.

Geralt met the old man's gaze and gestured with his chin towards him.

Dumbledore chuckled and shook his head.

Fabian continued speaking, describing the panoramic view of the giant camp. From the hilltop, one could see dozens of stone houses, smoke rising from the forging area, and armored sentries patrolling the high ground.

He became more and more excited as he spoke, his voice growing louder and his gestures more and more frantic, then he suddenly paused, swallowing the bread in his mouth: "By the way, Geralt, you really are from Germany?"

He leaned closer, craning his neck over Geralt's plate, his voice full of curiosity: "You know all those old guys over there? What's it like over there? Do they punch people like you do?"

Dumbledore's gaze drifted over from above the rim of the cup again, his blue eyes flashing in the firelight with a strange, yet somewhat helpless, look.

Geralt didn't look at the old man, but tilted his head slightly. His amber pupils stared at the fire in the fireplace, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

A piece of toast suddenly flew off the plate, turned in mid-air, and landed precisely in Fabian's open mouth.

Fabian's mouth was gagged, his eyes were wide open, and he could only whimper without being able to utter a complete word.

Gideon watched this scene from the side, a smirk playing on his lips.

He glanced at Fabian with his mouth stuffed with bread, then at Geralt's nonchalant profile as he stared at the fireplace, and then at Dumbledore's smiling face as he held his cup. He silently took a sip of soup.

Fabian chewed the bread in his mouth and swallowed it, his cheeks puffed out. He stared at Geralt's back of the head, opened his mouth a few times as if to say something, but finally snorted and grabbed another piece of bread to continue eating.

The fire in the fireplace burned quietly, and the fjord outside the window sank into the twilight, its surface reflecting the shimmering moonlight.

The four people sat around the fireplace, and none of them were in a hurry to speak.

Geralt finished the last bite of fish, picked up the coarse cloth on the table, wiped his hands and mouth, and put it back on the table.

"Let's get down to business."

The three people turned their gazes toward them.

Geralt leaned back, stretching his legs out onto the floor in front of the fireplace. He tilted his head at Dumbledore, his amber pupils fixed on the old man: "Old man, you said before that gentle methods wouldn't work, that you couldn't reason with people."

Dumbledore looked at him gently with his blue eyes, and his beard twitched.

"I went up there today and took a look," Geralt grinned. "Those giants have created an orderly society, with clear hierarchies, a reasonable division of labor, and they even manage the hunting grounds very well. You call that something that can't be explained to reason?"

Dumbledore blinked, looking completely innocent. "I'm getting old, my memory isn't what it used to be. There are so many kinds of giants, I might have just mixed them up."

Geralt stared at the old man for a while, then snorted.

"Old Avery went once, bringing gifts and wine, but was refused," he said with a smirk. "Giving wine, giving wine to those giants."

He turned to Fabian: "If you were a giant, living in a camp with dozens of stone houses, your own blacksmith's shop, and nearly a thousand years of history carved into stone pillars, and someone came up to you with two jars of wine and said, 'Come help me with some work, and I'll give you some good wine,' how would you feel?"

Fabian paused for a moment, then opened his mouth and said, "Then I—then I definitely won't be willing."

“To say you’re unwilling is just politeness; to say you’re humiliating someone is,” Geralt turned back to Dumbledore, his tone becoming more serious. “What I see is roughly the same as what you want me to see. You want me to decide for myself what to do, so I’ll state my decision: no wine, no meat, no supplies, and no promises.”

Gideon listened quietly, his eyes shifting from Geralt's face to Dumbledore's, then back again: "So, what should we give?"

Geralt gave him an approving look: "Knowledge."

Fabian exclaimed in surprise, "Know—what?"

Geralt ignored him and continued, "I want to make an alchemical plate with loops engraved on it, store the story inside, activate it with magic, and tell a strategic story from the perspective of giants, presented in a graphic way that giants can understand, using alchemy as the medium."

He glanced at Fabian, then at Gideon, but avoided looking at the old man: "The first step in diplomacy between civilizations is equality and respect. If you treat a group of people with brains the way you would treat animals, why should they listen to you?"

Fabian's mouth remained open for a long while before he finally closed it.

Treating giants as civilization? Offering them knowledge?

He had never heard anyone talk about giants like this before. He couldn't explain why Geralt's words made sense; they were unlike anything he had ever heard before. But he just felt that this direction might be right.

Gideon frowned as he looked at Geralt's face.

Geralt's expression when he said these words was completely different from when he usually made up adventure stories; he wasn't taking it too seriously, so it must have been fabricated.

Febian might not be able to tell the difference, but Geralt could. When making up stories, Geralt would add details, variations in tone, and many other things to make himself seem believable.

The previous section didn't have these items; it was just laid out one by one.

He nodded.

Dumbledore sat across from the fireplace, his blue eyes watching Geralt behind his half-moon spectacles. The firelight from the fireplace flickered on his lenses. He placed his cup on the small table beside him, took off his glasses, and slowly wiped them clean.

The room was quiet for a while, the fireplace was burning, and the fjord outside the window was even more still in the night.

Fabian snapped out of his daze, blinked twice, and unconsciously grabbed a piece of bread with his right hand, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed it, and swallowed it.

Geralt pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket—a piece of paper he didn't know had written on at some point—unfolded it, and slapped it on the table.

The materials list includes copper ingots, silver ingots, and auxiliary mineral powders, with the product name, purity, and quantity all listed.

He gestured with his chin toward the two brothers: "Go to Bergen to buy some things first thing tomorrow morning."

Fabian picked up the list and looked at it: "Bergen? Tomorrow morning? So many!"

Gideon also looked through the list, frowning slightly: "The categories aren't complicated, but the quantities are a bit large, but I should be able to buy everything in one trip, no problem."

Fabian looked up at Geralt: "Have you calculated how many Galleons this will cost?"

Geralt shrugged: "I haven't calculated it, because I don't have any money."

Fabian glared at Geralt as if to protest, then glanced at Dumbledore out of the corner of his eye, his expression changing to one of hesitation: "Professor... this... about the money..."

He rubbed his fingers together.

Dumbledore chuckled, pulled a small dark brown cloth bag from the inside pocket of his robe, and tossed it aside.

Fabian reached out and caught it, weighed it in his hand, and found it to be quite heavy. He grinned and then glared at Geralt.

Geralt turned his head away, muttering, "Poor bastard."

Fabian's smile froze on his face, and his voice suddenly rose: "I'm poor? Who paid for our drinks and meal at Three Brooms last time? Huh?"

Geralt was already looking out the window, as if he hadn't heard anything.

Dumbledore watched the group of young people from the side, the smile never fading from his lips.

Gideon stood up, glanced at Geralt, then at Dumbledore, and could sense that Geralt still had something to say to the professor.

He patted Fabian on the shoulder and tilted his head toward the door.

Fabian paused for a moment, followed Gideon's gaze to Geralt, then to Dumbledore, and realized what was happening. He stood up and said, "Let's go out for some fresh air."

The two went outside, a bit of the cold wind from the fjord blew in, the fire in the fireplace flickered, and then the door closed again.

Outside the door, the faint sound of two brothers' footsteps could be heard as they walked down the path. Inside the wooden house, only two people remained.

Geralt rose from the fireplace, walked to the window and stood there for a moment, then pulled up another chair and sat down again opposite Dumbledore.

Regulus was waiting for the old man to speak; he was ready.

The old man knew everything about Roel's affair: the war of genocide, the killing of all the able-bodied members of a pure-blood family, and the beheading of a peer. He felt the old man would definitely ask him something.

Are you alright? How did that night go? What were you thinking when you committed the murder?

He has the answer.

His soul was strong enough, his direction was clear, and his will was firm. Killing was not the goal, but the means. He did not kill for the sake of killing; everyone he killed had a reason.

Dark magic had no effect on him because his mind was clear enough that the erosion of dark magic could not find a crack, and his guardian spirit remained bright.

If the old man had asked, that's what he said, but the old man didn't ask.

Dumbledore stood up first, went to the kitchen, took a rough earthenware pot from the shelf, placed it on the stove, lit a fire, waited a while, and then poured out two cups of very light-colored tea.

He brought the cups over, placing one in front of Regulus and keeping the other for himself before sitting back down in his chair.

The tea is light golden in color and has a very faint floral fragrance.

Dumbledore, holding the cup with a relaxed posture, looked at Regulus with gentle blue eyes: "After you used that thing, a part of you felt empty inside. What do you think that empty part is?"

Regulus was taken aback, not expecting the old man to ask this directly, and to be so accurate.

"A void has formed in my mind"—this phrase pinpointed his own description of that feeling. Indeed, the old man had experienced something like that.

Nothing unexpected, and nothing that can't be said.

He was silent for a while, then thought for a moment: "My magic was full that day, but it took almost a month for the empty part to grow back. The feeling wasn't just tired, it was more like something had been taken out of my brain. I couldn't put anything in, it was like I was gone."

After listening, Dumbledore nodded, a hint of admiration flashing in his blue eyes: "You have already passed a certain stage."

He continued, "Ordinary wizards spend their entire lives doing the same thing: turning magic into spells. From holding the wand to casting the spell, the wizard is just an executor throughout the entire process. Magic is the tool, and the spell is the channel for transmission. You transmit your intentions to the magic through the spell, and the magic carries it out for you."

You're different now. You use your will itself. You don't need to use spells to convey your intentions; you directly let the world know what you want to do.

Dumbledore's blue eyes, reflected in the firelight, appeared even deeper than usual.

"This is a threshold; once you cross it, you cross it. But with each invocation, a part of your soul will follow you out."

The emptiness you feel is the price you pay; it's the price you made by exchanging something deep within your soul with the world.

Your will acts upon the world, and the world acts upon your will. The part that went out didn't disappear; it was spent on what you did that night.

Dumbledore looked up from the fireplace at Regulus: "It will grow back, but the part that grows back won't be exactly the same as before."

Regulus listened, his mind racing.

The gap between what Dumbledore said and what he heard from Nicolas Flamel is closing.

A part of his soul was spent, which, in his understanding, meant a change in the world; the part that went out had an effect on the world.

As Nicolas Flamel said, the soul is not a fixed container; the soul is alive. Every decision, every choice, every impact on the world nourishes the soul. The soul grows stronger and changes shape because of what it does.

Dumbledore's concept of emptiness and Flamel's concept of nourishment are two sides of the same coin.

To change the world with willpower is a fact that has already occurred; those facts are an extension of willpower, a part of the soul manifested externally.

Then the empty space will grow back, but it will be different from before because it has been shaped by the things that have happened. Whatever things have been done will determine the shape of the empty space.

The interaction between the soul and the world is accomplished through will. Each use is an exchange: giving a part of oneself to the world, and the world giving back a new part.

So when Lemaître said that every decision you make defines your soul, it wasn't a metaphor, but the literal meaning.

Consumption and feedback follow the same path, only in different order. First, you spend it out, the world changes, and then the results of that change come back to fill your soul.

So the old man meant for him to practice this move more?

A glint of wisdom flashed in Regulus's eyes.

But something seems off. Dumbledore's words certainly make sense, and his thoughts are not off track either. The two logics can be linked together. The problem is that he can't find the link to connect them for the time being.

The old man was probably encouraging him to use it more, try it more, and use it until he was comfortable with it. But here's the problem: who should he hit?

This tactic can be used once and then rested for a month. It should only be used on people who are worthy of it; ordinary people are not qualified to use it.

He could count the names on two hands that were worth using this move on, but most of them were inconvenient to use, and using them could easily lead to trouble.

So the old man told him to practice more, but where was he going to find so many people to practice with?

Voldemort was the perfect size, but he wouldn't cooperate with him.

Regulus sighed inwardly and suppressed the thought.

The old man's idea was good, but it wasn't very practical to implement. Let's leave it for now and wait for an opportunity; there will always be one.

Dumbledore's blue eyes looked at Regulus, noticing the change in the young man's gaze.

He was thinking, connecting what he was saying with what he already knew. His thoughts were racing, and you could see the golden light dancing in his eyes.

The old man nodded in satisfaction.

A smart child speaks concisely, without needing to elaborate or explain in detail. Just a hint is enough for him to get to the point, or even go further than what was mentioned.

He waited for Regulus to return from his thoughts.

After a while, the light in the amber pupils quieted down, and Regulus's gaze returned to Dumbledore's face.

Dumbledore continued, "I had it once when I was young."