"How did I do it?"
Dumbledore spoke unhurriedly, his silver hair faintly gleaming in the candlelight.
"It's simple—through practice."
"Practice?" Ian raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, practice." Dumbledore cut off a piece of honey cake and smiled as he put it into his mouth.
"The Magic Core is like the muscles of the human body. Keep training it, and it will grow stronger—perhaps even break through the first limit."
"That sounds like it would take a long time." Ian's voice was low.
"Not necessarily," the old wizard said calmly. "With the right method, the time can be greatly reduced."
Ian did not ask any further questions.
He knew perfectly well that Dumbledore was deliberately guiding him into asking for instruction—trying to make him abandon Bloodline Modification and accept his guidance instead.
But Ian would not take the bait.
As a transmigrator, he had long seen through this world's "protagonist mentor"—this white wizard might have been great, but he was by no means selfless.
Newt Scamander, Harry Potter... anyone who became too close to Dumbledore eventually fell into the whirlpool of fate.
Take Snape, for instance—
That pitiful man who spent his entire life protecting another man's son.
Under Dumbledore's arrangements, he was both a piece in the salvation of the world and a sacrifice burdened with infamy.
He protected the child of the woman he loved, yet had to face the surname he hated more than anything every day.
Even Dumbledore himself ultimately met his end in a death he had planned himself.
I don't want to repeat their mistakes, Ian thought coldly.
Then there were Nicolas Flamel and his wife, Perenelle.
By all rights, they should have enjoyed eternity in peace, yet they ultimately gave up the Philosopher's Stone so easily—
How could Dumbledore's "gentle persuasion" not have played a part in that?
Ian sighed softly and set down his teacup.
He understood that no matter how the professor hinted at it, he would not ask for that "method of practice."
He already owed the other man too much—the foundations of Alchemy, support for his experimental grounds, and special access to the Restricted Section.
Any more, and it would become a shackle.
--
Although he had refused Dumbledore's proposal, Ian still yearned for his knowledge.
Not only the techniques for breaking through "limits," but every magical system he had accumulated over his lifetime.
He had even considered it—if the opportunity arose, he would make Dumbledore sign the same knowledge contract as Voldemort.
And not only him; he wanted Grindelwald to sign one as well.
That would be the ultimate Fusion of two schools of thought—the Incursion of "light" and "belief."
If he could master all their knowledge, he would truly stand at the pinnacle of magic.
Of course, he knew that was almost impossible.
Dumbledore's will was like steel. There was no way he would submit to a contract.
If he sensed Ian's ambitions, he would only become wary at once and view him as the "third-generation Dark Lord."
Even offering to resurrect his sister in exchange would not shake that old wizard's convictions.
He would sacrifice himself before compromising with anyone else.
So—Ian was in no hurry.
He still had time, and he still had plans.
Until he had completely finished modifying his body and reached the same level of magical power as Dumbledore and Grindelwald, he would not act rashly.
He first had to gain equality in strength before he could discuss an equal bargain.
--
"Professor, what did you want to see me about?" Ian suddenly changed the subject.
A trace of regret flashed through Dumbledore's eyes—he could tell Ian had no intention of taking the conversation further.
But he quickly recovered his smile.
"Harry told me you borrowed the Invisibility Cloak over the Christmas holidays." His tone was calm. "He asked me to remind you that if you're done with it, remember to return it to him."
"Ah, thank you for the reminder. Otherwise, I really might have forgotten." Ian smiled and took the imitation cloak from his bag.
It was a counterfeit he had made from Thestral mane and soul runes, almost indistinguishable from the genuine article.
Dumbledore accepted the cloak. His fingers brushed over it, and a flicker of realization passed through his eyes.
The mysterious aura hidden within seemed to have weakened—but he did not say much, only asked softly:
"Have you discovered its true nature?"
"Of course." Ian answered calmly. "From the perspective of an Alchemy master, this is no ordinary Invisibility Cloak. It is—the 'Deathly Hallows.'"
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Then how do you view 'death'?"
Ian pondered for a moment.
"An existence so powerful it is beyond imagination." His tone remained steady. "If one day it decides to interfere with the world, then even if Merlin returned to life, I'm afraid he would be powerless. We would all be like helpless children."
"There is no need to worry." Dumbledore said gently, "Death is merely a part of the world. Like ancient magic, it is part of the natural order."
Ian nodded, but did not agree.
In his eyes, death was by no means an indifferent law, but an existence with thoughts of its own.
He had sensed it during their previous transaction—the fluctuations of those emotions had been anything but mechanical.
As long as there are emotions, there will be desires, he thought.
If one day death grows tired of its own rules and seeks a way out—who could stop it?
The answer was: no one.
Therefore, he had to find a way to guard against it.
Even if that plan was never needed, he had to prepare in advance.
He wanted to design a contingency for "death"—a mechanism capable of countering a god when necessary.
--
A few minutes later, Ian rose to take his leave.
"Thank you for the tea, Professor."
"You are welcome anytime, Ian." Dumbledore watched him leave, his gaze deepening slightly.
When the sound of footsteps had faded away, he lowered his head and looked at the cloak again.
His fingertips glided over the fabric, and he could vaguely sense that the flow of energy within it was different from before.
"What is he doing..." Dumbledore murmured to himself.
He was not sure, nor did he intend to investigate it now.
After all, that young wizard's thoughts had always been like Ravenclaw's symbol—that wise eagle—lofty, mysterious, and filled with dangerous curiosity.
--
Ian left the office and entered the corridor.
The night was quiet, and the wind murmured softly.
He gently rubbed his fingertips, where the warmth of Phoenix blood still lingered.
"Dumbledore... Grindelwald... and death."
He murmured, the corners of his lips lifting slightly.
"One day, I will uncover the secrets behind all of you."
He raised his head toward the night sky. Starlight reflected in his eyes, gleaming like blades.
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