The chill deep within Gringotts and the secret of the Black Box were interrupted by the goblin guide's dry, "Please make haste." Ares swiftly stuffed the Galleons from the stone platform into an Extension Charm money pouch Dumbledore handed him, then carefully picked up the Black Box. It was cold and heavy in his hand, and the dark-red gem seemed to pulse faintly beneath his fingertips. He tried touching it with the Twin Soul Key, but the box showed no reaction.
[High-intensity magical seal detected! (⊙?⊙) Specific conditions or a spell are required to open it.]
Without betraying anything, Ares put away both the box and the key. He then quickly glanced over several books on the shelves, picked out a few ancient scrolls that appeared to concern A History of Magic and basic theory, and stuffed them into the money pouch. He knew better than to bite off more than he could chew, and Dumbledore's gaze had been following him like a searchlight the whole time.
By the time they rode the mad little cart back to the marble hall aboveground, Tom had already exchanged his currency and was waiting there. His money pouch looked somewhat flatter than Ares's, but there was no disappointment on his face—only a deep, calculating expression. When he saw Ares and Dumbledore emerge, his gaze paused for an instant on the unremarkable Black Box in Ares's hand, and a flash of swift scrutiny passed through his dark eyes.
"Next," Dumbledore said lightly, as though he had not noticed the silent exchange between the two boys, "we'll visit Ollivanders Wand Shop. The wand best suited to you is a wizard's most important companion."
Those words instantly lit every spark in Tom's eyes. A wand! This was what he truly desired—the embodiment of power, the key to the halls of magic! He could barely suppress his excitement, yet he still forced himself to maintain a calm exterior. Only his steps unconsciously quickened.
Ollivanders Wand Shop was small and shabby. Peeling golden letters on the door read: Ollivander: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. In the dusty display window, a single wand lay alone upon a faded purple cushion.
The shop was tiny. Aside from a long bench, nearly every inch of space was occupied by thousands of narrow boxes stacked to the ceiling. The air carried a faint scent of dust and something strange, a blend of wood and metal. An aura of magic accumulated over countless years washed over them, making them instinctively hold their breath.
A faint bell rang from the rear of the shop, and an elderly man with graying hair and pale, moonlike eyes glided out as silently as a ghost. His gaze immediately fell upon Dumbledore.
"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore," Mr. Ollivander said softly, his voice possessing a dreamlike quality.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore said with a smile. "I've brought two new students to purchase their first wands."
Mr. Ollivander's pale eyes, as though capable of seeing through everything, immediately turned toward Tom and Ares. His gaze was like a precise ruler, measuring them both.
"Ah, yes," he murmured. "Another new generation begins." He approached Tom first. "And this gentleman is?"
"Tom Riddle." There was a trace of barely perceptible tension in Tom's voice.
"Mr. Riddell," Ollivander said, pulling a long tape measure marked with silver graduations from his pocket, "which hand do you favor?"
"My right hand," Tom said.
The tape measure flew up by itself and began measuring Tom's arm length, height, head circumference, and even the distance between his nostrils. Tom frowned slightly, but endured it without moving.
Ollivander began weaving between the shelves, taking down box after box. "Try this one. Ebony and Unicorn Hair, nine and a half inches, reasonably flexible."
Tom took the wand and had only just given it a wave when Ollivander immediately snatched it back. "No, no. Try this—Hawthorn Wood, Dragon Heartstring, ten inches, quite rigid."
Tom tried again. A string of sparks burst from the wand tip, but Ollivander still shook his head. "No, no, not this one..."
After trying six or seven wands in a row, the boxes on the counter had piled higher and higher. Tom's expression grew increasingly gloomy. He hated this feeling of being out of control, of being chosen by an object. Every failure seemed to question his exceptional identity.
Yet Ollivander seemed to be growing more excited. He muttered, "A discerning customer, hmm? Never mind, there will always be one that fits perfectly... Let me think..." His gaze roamed over Tom, as if deciphering some invisible mark. Then, as though something had occurred to him, he turned and took down a dust-covered box from the highest shelf. Blowing away the dust, he revealed the deep-purple velvet lining within.
"Then try this." Ollivander's tone carried solemn expectation. "Yew Wood, Phoenix Feather Core, thirteen and a half inches."
Tom took the wand. It was cold in his hand, its wood grain fine and delicate, carrying an ancient, powerful aura. The instant his fingers closed around the handle—
A warm current seemed to surge directly from the wand into his heart!
He instinctively raised his hand and swung it—
A scarlet flash burst from the wand tip like lightning. Accompanied by a sharp tearing sound, it struck the opposite wall and left a scorched black mark! The entire shop seemed to instantly fill with a dangerous, unsettling energy, while a faint scent like burnt bitter almonds spread through the air—the smell of cyanide.
Tom froze where he stood, the hand gripping his wand trembling slightly—not from fear, but from wild delight! This was it! This power, this feeling that the wand obeyed him like an extension of his own body!
Mr. Ollivander drew in a sharp breath. His moonlike eyes widened as he muttered, "Oh, how marvelous... What a marvelous combination..."
Behind Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes narrowed slightly, his expression becoming incomparably sharp and grave. Yew Wood symbolized death and rebirth, and was often associated with dark magic; Phoenix feather was exceptionally rare and powerful. Yet the aura radiating from the wand before them carried such a distinct sense of ill omen.
"A Yew Wand will usually grant its wielder... great power, particularly in dueling and curses." Ollivander's voice held a trace of barely perceptible reverence—or perhaps wariness. "And Phoenix feather... is among the most difficult wand cores to tame, but it can perform the widest range of magic, recognizing and remaining loyal to a truly powerful master. This wand chose you, Mr. Riddell. There can be no doubt."
He looked at Tom as though he were looking at a walking legend filled with unknown danger.
Tom gripped the wand tightly, his knuckles whitening from the force. He felt the perfect resonance between the wand and his magical core, a wonderful sensation—dark, controlling, and filled with power. He raised his head and looked at Ollivander, then glanced at Dumbledore. Finally, his gaze settled on Ares, and the corner of his mouth curled into a cold, satisfied arc that he could not suppress.
He had obtained power—real power, acknowledged power.
Now it was Ares's turn.
Mr. Ollivander turned to Ares. His pale eyes lingered on him longer, filled with even greater confusion and curiosity. "And this young man is...?"
"Ares Phoenix." As Ares gave his name, he could feel Ollivander's gaze almost piercing through him, especially as it lingered on his heterochromatic eyes and the Blood Pact Mark.
"Phoenix... another ancient name." Ollivander murmured as the self-measuring tape flew over again and began measuring Ares.
The process was equally unsuccessful. An Elder Wood, Dragon Heartstring wand showed no reaction; a Laurel Wood, Unicorn Hair wand gave off only a faint glow; a Vine Wood, Veela Hair wand even rejected him, burning his hand...
Ollivander tried wand after wand, his brow furrowing ever more deeply. The way he looked at Ares was filled with unprecedented confusion. "Most unusual... Your magical signature... I have never felt such a... contradictory yet harmonious existence. Light and darkness, intertwined so closely..."
He had nearly tried every wand in the shop with conventional combinations, yet not one produced a true resonance.
Just as Ollivander clutched his messy hair and was nearly ready to admit defeat, his eyes happened to sweep over a nearly forgotten corner at the deepest end of the shop. There sat an ancient box covered in dust, made of neither wood nor stone.
He froze as though struck by lightning.
"Wait..." he said dreamily, slowly walking toward the corner and carefully lifting the box. Its surface was coated in thick dust, but beneath it, one could vaguely see natural spiral patterns of interwoven dark gray and pale gold.
"This wand..." Ollivander's tone carried an almost devout reverence. "Its origin... even I cannot fully explain. Legend says that its wood was not naturally grown, but born from magic and emotion, created amid the ultimate opposition and fusion. Its core... is even more unique—the ashes of a phoenix's rebirth and the wing feather of a Thestral that sees death, perfectly fused through alchemy..."
He opened the box. Inside lay a wand in silence. Its shaft bore spiraling patterns of profound gray and pale gold, like two eternal lights and shadows chasing one another. It was cold to the touch, but after holding it for a moment, one could feel a warm tide within it, beating like a heart.
Ollivander handed the wand to Ares, his voice as soft as a whisper. "Try this... Eternal Cycle."
Ares took a deep breath and reached out to grasp the handle.
The instant his fingertips touched the wand—
A sudden change erupted!
Before you continue