Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 554 Reveille and Getting to Work

Dumbledore's blue eyes held a hint of reminiscence as he looked at Regulus, as if gazing into the distance.

"I made a choice, using the power deep within my soul. For a long time afterward, I felt like something was missing. I couldn't pinpoint what it was, but I just knew I was empty. Later, it slowly grew back, and that part that grew back changed the way I see things."

Regulus sat opposite him, watching the old man.

This level of application, where the will within the soul directly influences the world, was probably only at the beginner level when he did it at the Rohr family's house that night.

The first time I crossed that threshold, I took one step and then pulled back, leaving a month behind.

Dumbledore was talking about his youth, which must have been decades ago. Given the old man's current level, what he did in his youth must have far surpassed what he did that night in terms of depth and scale.

That kind of impact on the world should be mature, profound, and still leave its mark today.

The old man said he made a choice, and in Dumbledore's life, that was probably the only time that could match it.

The duel in Newmont, 1945, in which Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald, is known as the greatest wizarding duel of the 20th century. What the old man used in that duel has never been publicly revealed.

Regulus looked into Dumbledore's blue eyes, which were filled with reminiscence and emotion.

The interaction between the soul and the world is accomplished through will, and each use redefines the shape of the soul.

Lemaître taught him this, and Dumbledore probably followed the same path.

In that case, we're of the same generation, so it's not too much for me to call you senior brother, is it?

Dumbledore's eyes were gentle and bright, carrying the encouragement an old man would give to a young man, as if telling him, "You're on the right path, keep going."

Regulus composed himself and decided not to provoke him further; the old man had already said so much, which was already quite remarkable.

Dumbledore's tone returned somewhat, still tinged with emotion, as he spoke of Regulus, yet also as if he were talking about his own situation.

"The next time it might recover faster, but it will never be effortless. Every use is a process of reaffirming who you really are."

You confirmed it once in that war: you won, you survived. The next time you confirm it, you'll know even more clearly where you stand.

Regulus listened, sitting quietly by the fireplace with Geralt's long silver hair and amber vertical pupils, and nodded.

The fire in the fireplace had almost gone out, leaving only dark red embers burning underneath. The teacup had cooled on the table next to it, and a layer of water droplets had condensed on its surface.

The two sat quietly for a while, then Dumbledore stood up, picked up the cold teacup, and walked towards the kitchen.

As he passed Regulus, the blue-eyed man blinked and said, "I'll be waiting to see the gift you've prepared tomorrow."

Regulus stood up, stretched, and pulled his arm above his head, his eyes full of smugness: "Just you wait and see."

Dumbledore's silver beard twitched twice as he walked into the kitchen, and he laughed.

Geralt pushed the chair back under the table and walked toward the room. As he passed the door, a cool breeze from the fjord's surface seeped in through the crack. He paused and glanced out the window.

The fjord had completely darkened, with only the outline of the opposite rock face faintly visible in the last glimmer of aurora-like light on the horizon.

Geraltra opened the door and yelled, "What time is it? Aren't you back to sleep? Don't you know you have things to do tomorrow?"

After yelling, he turned and went inside, closing the door behind him. A muffled curse could be heard from afar, but it was blown away by the wind before it reached him.

Geralt twitched the corner of his mouth, walked into the house, kicked off his boots, climbed onto the bed, pulled the blanket up to his shoulders, closed his eyes, turned over, and his breathing slowly subsided.

The morning sunlight in Norway in August streamed through the window, casting a bright white rectangle on the wool blanket on the bed.

The air in the cabin was cool, with the crispness unique to high latitudes. Regulus opened his eyes in bed, feeling a little uncomfortable that there wasn't a dark red buttocks hanging above his head.

That little thing was in Grimmauld Place. I didn't bring it with me when I came out. It's probably struggling with that half-dead potted plant on the windowsill right now.

He first sensed his surroundings. There was no trace of Dumbledore's magic in the cabin, and the old man was gone; he didn't know when he had left.

In the next room, Fabian and Gideon were still asleep.

Fabian's snoring was very regular, occasionally pausing before continuing, while Gideon's breathing was lighter and very even.

He first cast a spell to block his ears, and his ears were immediately enveloped in a dense silence. Then, with a casual wave of his hand, a stream of magic shot out from his fingertip and landed precisely above the bed in the next room.

A sharp, continuous, high-frequency blast erupted from the cabin, so piercing it made one's teeth ache, like the sound of some kind of alarm horn being squeezed out by being crushed.

The walls of the entire cabin were buzzing and vibrating, dust was falling from the doorframes, the glass was trembling, the tin cup on the table was jumping, and the lampshade of the oil lamp on the mantel was rattling.

The sound echoed repeatedly in the cramped wooden hut, continuing incessantly.

A scream and a thud came from the next room. Fabian probably hit something with his knee or shoulder when he sprang up from the bed. He then frantically rolled over, kicking something over and making the bed creak.

Gideon was a little faster and could also hear the hurried movements. The blanket was thrown back, footsteps landed, and a hand reached for a wand from under the pillow.

Geralt lay in bed, his ears plugged in, the world quiet and still.

He rolled over, facing the wall, and gestured towards the next room. There was a list of materials on the table; he quickly went to buy them.

Fabian appeared at the door with messy hair, looking like a clump of hay blown over by the wind. He opened his mouth and mumbled something, but Geralt couldn't hear anything he said.

He saw the guy facing the wall, the blanket pulled up to his shoulders, his expression constantly changing, one moment saying "I'm going to kill you," the next "I'm not awake yet," and finally he put on a resentful look.

Gideon also appeared at the door, looking more tidy than Fabian, though his hair was messy, his eyes weren't fully open, and his expression was calmer than Fabian's.

He gave Geralt a meaningful look, first conveying the implication that Geralt had learned this trick, and then glanced at Fabian beside him, wondering if he could use the same trick as Geralt.

He tugged at Fabian's arm, pulling him toward the door. Before leaving, Fabian glanced back and saw Geralt already soundly asleep. His lips twitched slightly.

The two brothers put on their robes, grabbed the list of materials and the money bag from the table, and went out the door, which slammed shut behind them.

A morning passed, and Geralt didn't wake up until almost noon. He lay in bed for a while, staring blankly at the wooden beams on the ceiling, then sat up, rubbed his eyes by the bedside, a few strands of hair sticking up, and walked to the door in his bathrobe to take a look.

The fjord's surface shone brightly under the midday sun, with white spots of light dancing across the water, and seagulls flying low over it.

He washed his face, sat by the fireplace for a while, leaned back in his chair, and continued to stare blankly out the window.

His stomach growled, and he stood up, looking around the kitchen shelves. There was still a small piece of bread left over from last night, rock hard.

He broke off a piece and put it in his mouth to chew. The bread tasted almost like chewing wood, so dry it scratched his throat.

No one made him breakfast, which he could blame no one for, since he didn't get up in the morning. But why didn't he get lunch either?

He broke off another piece of dry bread and put it in his mouth, his amber pupils fixed on the fjord outside the window as he chewed mechanically.

Before I could chew two bites, I heard footsteps at the door.

Fabian pushed open the door and came in, carrying a heavy cloth bag. Gideon followed behind him. Fabian's face was red, and the front of his robe was open.

He placed the cloth bag on the table, causing the tabletop to shake slightly. Inside were copper and silver ingots wrapped in oiled paper, and a corner of it could be seen to reveal the dark red metal surface.

Gideon placed another, smaller bag beside him containing several bottles of auxiliary mineral powder, the glass bottles labeled in Norwegian and sealed with wax.

Fabian sat down in a chair, wiped the sweat from his brow, and began his accusation: "Do you know where Bergen's wizarding district is? Underground! All underground! You go down about three floors of inconspicuous stone steps next to the dock before you see an alleyway..."

He gestured in the air to indicate the width of the alley, which was very narrow, and then gestured to indicate the shops on both sides of the alley, which were very crowded.

"The alchemy materials shop is at the very end of the alley. There isn't even a sign at the entrance; there's just a copper snake biting its tail logo nailed to the door."

The boss was a short, stout Norwegian wizard with two braids in his beard and a very eccentric temperament.

He started to put on airs: "What do you need so much copper-silver alloy for? To make furnaces? Or ships?"

"This is insane!" He slammed his hand on the table, looking furious. "He actually suspects we're making contraband! These local wizards are so rude! Nobody asks this much when I buy things in Knockturn Alley!"

Gideon nodded in agreement, unusually acknowledging his brother's words: "And they're not cheap. I think if you bought these in France, the price would be at least half off."

Geralt chewed on his dry bread, listening to the brothers' complaints, and a slight smirk appeared on his face.

So why don't you go to France to buy it? Is it because you don't speak French? Or is it because the distance is too far to travel there by teleportation? Don't you have a guardian deity who can travel through space?

Thinking of this, his hand suddenly stopped in mid-air, and he looked down at the piece of bread that had become dry, hard, and white.

So why doesn't he go out to eat by himself?

He could easily fly to Nice, Marseille, Paris, London, or Hogsmeade, find a nice restaurant, and sit down for a hot meal.

Why was he squatting in Norway eating dry bread?

The dry bread lay silently in his hand for a moment, Regulus gave it one last look, and silently put it back on the plate.

Another figure appeared at the doorway, Dumbledore, almost immediately after the two brothers.

The boots were now a different color of soil, this time a grayish-black with a subtle shimmer, probably from volcanic ash soil containing minerals.

He was carrying a paper bag with oil stains seeping from the edges and steam rising from it.

Geralt stood up to greet him, giving the old man an approving look; he had returned just in time.

Dumbledore glanced at the hard, dry bread with teeth marks on the plate, then chuckled and held up the oil paper bag in his hand.

The four people sat at the rough wooden table by the door and ate lunch.

The wooden table faces the fjord, offering views of the grey-blue water and the steep rock walls on the opposite shore.

The food was hot: grilled fish wraps, cod-flavored, wrapped in a thin tortilla, filled with yogurt sauce and pickled cucumber strips, a local Norwegian style, along with a box of roasted potatoes and a small pot of hot soup.

And a drink that Dumbledore somehow brought back, in a clear glass, with not a drop spilled, a dark purple-black color that made your throat feel sweet and astringent just by looking at it—a bizarre color.

Fabian, with a fish roll stuffed in his mouth, was still recounting his experiences in Bergen. The underground alleyways of the wizard district were lined with all sorts of strange shops, including one that sold dragon scales, another that sold specimens of North Sea monsters, and yet another that displayed a real giant's tooth in its window.

Gideon ate quietly, nodding occasionally.

Geralt chewed his food heartily, his amber pupils fixed on the seagulls flying low over the fjord.

Dumbledore sat at the other end of the table, watching the young people wolfing down their food, a slight smile playing on his lips.

After finishing his meal, Geralt stood up, pushed the plates aside, and began taking copper and silver ingots out of his cloth bag, stacking them one by one on the rough wooden table.

The copper ingots were standard cuboids, each weighing about two kilograms, with a dark red luster on their surface. The silver ingots were smaller and brighter, and were stacked next to the copper ingots.

He carried the metal to the flat ground outside the wooden house, where there was plenty of space, more than two meters square.

Squat down and start working.

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