Conditions

Friday.

Artoria finished deciphering the entire Inner Seal.

Zhang Wen knew she had finished because the way she put down her pen was different from usual—normally, she would gently set it beside her notebook. This time, she shoved it straight into the pen holder. With slightly more force than normal. The holder wobbled on the desk.

"Finished?" Zhang Wen looked up from his pile of homework.

"Finished."

Artoria's voice was flat. But Zhang Wen could now distinguish that kind of calm with precision—this was the calm of "I need to sort this out before I tell you," different from the calm of "I'm furious but suppressing it" or "I'm considering a tactical plan."

"Have some tea first." Zhang Wen had already made it—he had judged from the increasing pace of Artoria's translation that she would finish today. Two and a half spoonfuls of sugar. Just the right temperature.

Artoria took the cup and drank a sip.

Then she flipped her notebook to the last few pages, placed it on the table, and pushed it toward Zhang Wen.

"Read it yourself."

Zhang Wen read it.

Artoria's handwriting had always been neat—an ingrained habit from handling government affairs in Camelot. But the handwriting on the last few pages was noticeably sloppier than before. Her emotions had been disturbed during the translation.

The complete translation of the Inner Seal was divided into three parts.

The first part—description of the sealed subject:

"Mordred, Knight of Camelot, bloodline of Arthur. One-third of a soul. Status: dormant. Consciousness: retained but restricted. Power level: reduced to forty percent of its original state."

Bloodline of Arthur.

Zhang Wen paused when he saw those words. He glanced at Artoria.

She was looking out the window. Not at him.

Zhang Wen continued reading.

The second part—the Sealing Protocol:

The contents matched Artoria's previous description—a system of rewards and punishments. Staying calm granted freedom of consciousness; going berserk brought suppression. There was also a supplementary clause: "The sealed subject has the right to obtain complete release upon fulfilling the release conditions. After release, her actions shall no longer be bound by this protocol."

The third part—the release conditions:

Zhang Wen slowed down when he reached this point. He read it word by word.

"The release conditions are as follows:

"First, the King's return. King Arthur's soul or consciousness must once again exist in any form upon the land of Britain.

"Second, the King's confrontation. King Arthur must personally stand before the seal and touch its surface with her own will.

"Third, the King's choice. King Arthur must, with full knowledge of the sealed subject's identity, choose of her own free will to release the sealed subject. No coercion. No deception. It may not be triggered while unconscious.

"If all three conditions are fulfilled simultaneously—the seal shall automatically be lifted. The sealed soul fragment shall be completely released.

"—In Merlin's hand."

Zhang Wen closed the notebook.

He leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling, and spent roughly ten seconds processing the information.

Then he looked at Artoria.

She was still looking out the window.

"You're the condition," Zhang Wen said.

"I'm the condition."

"The King's return—you came to this world. The King's confrontation—you stood in front of the cabinet. The King's choice—you decide whether to release Mordred."

"Three conditions. The first has already been fulfilled. The second—I stood in front of the cabinet last week. But I didn't touch it."

"The third is the key. Your free will."

"Merlin left the final decision to me." Artoria finally turned to look at him. "He foresaw fifteen hundred years ago that one day, I would return. One day, I would stand before Mordred's seal. And then I would decide—release her, or continue imprisoning her."

"Or destroy it."

"Or destroy it," Artoria repeated.

The room fell silent for a while.

Buzz—

It was not the cabinet. It was the wind outside the window. December wind.

"What do you think now?" Zhang Wen asked.

"I don't know."

Zhang Wen nodded. He did not urge her to decide.

Some choices could not be rushed.

Saturday.

Zhang Wen organized Artoria's complete translation into a report and sent separate copies to Dumbledore and Filius Flitwick.

Filius Flitwick's reaction was one of academic excitement—"Merlin's Sealing Protocol! This is the earliest known intelligent sealing system in magical history! If possible, I want to write seven papers—"

Dumbledore's response was more profound.

He wrote only one sentence in his reply:

"The decision rests with Miss Pendragon. Whatever choice she makes, I will support her."

Zhang Wen showed Dumbledore's letter to Artoria.

She said nothing after reading it.

Saturday afternoon.

Zhang Wen decided to do something completely unrelated to the cabinet—he took Harry, Draco, Neville Longbottom, and Hermione to the Quidditch pitch.

Not to play a match. To relax.

"No training today. No classes. No discussion of anything related to the Dark Arts." Zhang Wen stood in the center of the pitch. "Today's only task—fly."

"Fly?" The four students all looked confused at once.

"Yes. Fly. Take a broom and fly. Fly as high as you want, as fast as you want. No timing, no scoring."

Harry was the first to understand. His eyes lit up.

Flying was pure joy for Harry—probably one of the few joys in his life that had nothing to do with being "the Boy Who Lived."

Draco hesitated. He looked at Zhang Wen, seemingly making sure this was not some hidden test.

"Really? Just flying?"

"Just flying."

The corner of Draco's mouth lifted. He ran toward the broom shed.

Neville's face did not look so good.

"Professor Zhang—I'm not very good at—"

"You don't need to be good. You don't need to perform for anyone today. Fly slowly, fly low, whatever you like."

Neville hesitantly picked up a broom.

Hermione raised her hand.

"Professor Zhang, can I not fly? I can just watch from the stands. I brought a book—"

"Miss Granger. Today's only rule is—leave the ground. Even if it's only one meter."

Hermione's expression was even more miserable than Neville's.

But she still mounted a broom.

Five minutes later, four people were flying above the pitch.

Harry flew the highest and fastest—he was performing all kinds of difficult maneuvers: rolls, dives, sharp turns. He laughed in the air like a real thirteen-year-old boy—not "the Boy Who Lived," just an ordinary, happy child.

Draco flew beside him. To everyone's surprise, the two of them began an impromptu chase—not a competitive contest, more like two birds seeing who could fly more nimbly.

Neville carefully circled the pitch at a height of three meters. He was slow, and his posture was not very graceful, but he did not fall. There was an expression on his face Zhang Wen rarely saw—somewhere between nervousness and enjoyment.

Hermione flew in a straight line at a steady pace, one and a half meters above the ground. Both hands gripped the broom handle tightly. She looked as if she were enduring torture.

But she was flying.

Zhang Wen stood at the edge of the pitch, watching the four people in the sky.

Artoria came to stand beside him at some point.

"You didn't tell me about this activity," she said.

"You were busy with the runes."

"The rune translation is finished."

"I know. That's why you came."

Artoria watched the students in the sky.

"You made them fly."

"They've been under too much pressure lately. Harry is worried about the aftermath of Glenmore Lake. Draco is worried about the cabinet at home. Neville is adjusting to increasingly difficult training. Hermione is handling both her studies and rune research. They need to relax."

"You need to relax too."

"I'm watching them fly. That's how I relax."

"Watching other people fly is how you relax?"

"Watching the people I care about be happy is how I relax."

Artoria did not reply.

She took a broom from the nearby rack.

"You're going to fly?" Zhang Wen was a little surprised.

"You said today's only rule was to leave the ground."

She mounted the broom and kicked off—

She flew up.

The sight of Artoria Pendragon flying on a broom—

Zhang Wen froze for about three seconds.

Her flying posture was almost identical to riding a horse. Her back was straight, her center of gravity stable, her legs clamped tightly around the broom handle. She did not perform any flashy movements—she rose in a straight line, then flew level at a height of roughly twenty meters.

She was not fast. Her posture was perfect.

Her control was astonishing—someone riding a broom for the first time could not possibly have such control.

Harry spotted her in the air and was so startled he nearly fell off his broom.

"Assistant Professor Pendragon can fly?!"

"She can do anything," Zhang Wen muttered from below.

Artoria made a circle in the air. Then she did something that surprised everyone—she flew over to Neville.

Neville was trembling as he maintained a height of three meters. When he saw Artoria approaching, he grew so nervous he nearly tipped over.

"Longbottom." Artoria hovered beside him. "Your right hand is gripping too tightly. Relax it by thirty percent."

"I-if I relax, will I fall—"

"No. A broom's balance relies on overall weight distribution. Your right hand is using too much force and disrupting that balance. Relax."

Neville cautiously loosened his right hand.

The broom immediately became steadier.

"...It really is steadier." Neville's voice was full of surprise.

"Try rising to five meters."

"F-five meters?"

"I'm beside you. You won't fall."

Neville swallowed. Then he slowly raised his broom.

Four meters. Four and a half. Five meters.

He did it.

"Very good," Artoria said.

Two words. But the smile on Neville's face showed that they were probably worth a hundred compliments.

Zhang Wen watched the scene from the ground.

She was helping Neville overcome his fear in the air.

The King of Knights.

Teaching a little boy to fly a broom.

He thought it might be one of the best sights he had ever seen in his life.

After about forty minutes of flying, everyone landed.

Harry and Draco's faces were red—from the cold wind and excitement. When they landed, they looked at each other. Draco said, "That roll of yours wasn't clean enough," and Harry replied, "At least it looked better than your dive."

But they were both smiling.

Neville landed steadily—probably for the first time in his flying history. His legs were a little weak, but his expression was satisfied.

The moment Hermione's feet touched the ground, she let out a long, relieved sigh—probably the most relaxed moment she had had all day.

"Professor Zhang," Hermione said, "can I not fly next time?"

"I'll arrange something else for future relaxation activities."

"Thank goodness."

After the four students left, only Zhang Wen and Artoria remained on the pitch.

Artoria returned the broom to the rack.

"How did it feel?" Zhang Wen asked.

"A broom's handling is worse than a horse's. Its acceleration response has a delay of roughly 0.3 seconds. Its steering sensitivity is inferior to reins. But—"

"But?"

"Flying feels good."

"That's all you have to say?"

"The view was very broad. From high above, I could take in Hogwarts in its entirety—the castle's structure, the lake's shape, the forest's boundaries. You couldn't see those things from the ground."

"You conducted a tactical terrain assessment from the air."

"...Habit."

"Was there ever a moment when you were simply enjoying the flight? Without analyzing anything?"

Artoria thought for a moment.

"Yes."

"When?"

"When I flew over to Neville Longbottom. When I saw him change from scared to happy. In that moment, I didn't analyze anything."

Zhang Wen looked at her.

"You're smiling," Artoria suddenly said.

"You're analyzing me again."

"The corners of your mouth lifted twice as much as usual when you smile. That indicates your emotional fluctuation is stronger than in a normal state."

"Could you not quantify everything—"

"You started it."

Zhang Wen shut his mouth.

She was right. He had started it. From eating speed to the extent of a smile to the frequency of speech—he had turned all of her behavior into data.

Now she had learned to observe him in the same way.

Fair.

Very fair.

"Let's go," Zhang Wen said. "We're heading back. Your release conditions have been translated—we need to discuss the next step with Dumbledore."

"Not today."

"What?"

"You said we wouldn't discuss anything related to dark magic today. You made that rule yourself."

"That was for the students—"

"What you said on the pitch was, 'Today's only task—fly.' You didn't exclude yourself."

Zhang Wen opened his mouth.

"Then what are we doing today?"

"Taking a walk," Artoria said. "Last time, you said the air by the lake was good for the eyes. Today's air should be just as good."

"You're looking for an excuse to make me take a walk with you."

"You were looking for an excuse last time too. Now we're even."

Zhang Wen looked at her.

The winter afternoon sunlight was faint. Light streamed through the gaps in the stands around the pitch and fell across her shoulders. Her golden hair held a faint warmth in the light. A gray scarf was wrapped around her neck—the same one, worn from November into December.

"Let's go," he said.

He held out his hand.

Artoria glanced at it.

Then she placed her hand in his.

Their fingers intertwined.

This was already the third time. Once in the office. Once by the lake. And now, once on the pitch.

Each time had felt more natural than the last.

The first time had taken three seconds of hesitation. The second, one second. This time—half a second.

If the trend line were plotted on a graph, the slope would be exceptionally steep.

Zhang Wen thought that at this rate, after a few more times, she might reach out first.

The prediction made his heartbeat speed up by twenty percent.

The two of them walked out of the pitch hand in hand.

Toward the Black Lake.

Hogwarts in winter. Snow. Wind. The castle in the distance.

And her hand.

Warm.

When they reached the lakeside, Artoria suddenly spoke.

"I've decided."

"Decided what?"

"The release condition. My choice."

Zhang Wen stopped walking.

Artoria stopped as well. But she did not let go of his hand.

"I choose the third option," she said. "Speak with her first. Understand the situation. Then make the final decision."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Mordred—no matter what she did—was locked in that cabinet for fifteen hundred years. The choice Merlin left me included the option of release—which meant he believed release was possible, reasonable. At the very least, I should hear what she has to say."

"The risks of speaking with her—"

"I can handle it. She only has one-third of the power of a complete soul. And the sealing protocol states that—as long as I don't touch the cabinet or actively trigger the release conditions—a conversation can take place while the seal remains intact."

"How will you speak with her? The seal is in the way."

"A blood ritual," Artoria said. "Abraxas communicated with her through blood for thirty-five years. The same method—pouring magically charged blood into the altar—can establish a temporary mental connection."

"You're going to use your own blood."

"A small amount. It won't affect my health."

Zhang Wen was silent for a few seconds.

"I'll go with you."

"You can't participate in the mental connection. Mordred's mental pressure—"

"I won't participate in the connection. I'll stay beside you and watch. If anything abnormal happens to you—I'll pull you out."

Artoria looked at him.

The winter lake reflected silvery-white light in her eyes.

"Okay," she said. "You'll stay beside me."

"When?"

"Next week, after we've prepared thoroughly."

"What do you need me to prepare?"

"Notify Lucius Malfoy. We need to go to Malfoy Manor again. We'll use the underground altar."

"Okay."

"And—" Artoria's fingers tightened slightly around his palm, "prepare a way to pull me back. If Mordred tries to control me during the mental connection—you need to be able to sever it within three seconds."

"Three seconds."

"Three seconds is the maximum window in which I can retain my sense of self under mental intrusion. Beyond three seconds—I can't be sure."

Zhang Wen tightened his grip on her hand.

"I won't let it go beyond three seconds."

The corners of Artoria's mouth lifted slightly.

"I trust you."

Two words.

But Zhang Wen knew that coming from Artoria Pendragon, those two words carried the weight of a knight's oath.

She trusted him.

"Let's head back," Zhang Wen said. "It'll be dark soon."

"Don't you want to walk a little longer?"

"I thought you were in a hurry to go back and make a plan."

"The plan can be made tonight. Right now—" She glanced at the lake. "The air is good for the eyes."

Zhang Wen smiled.

"Fine. Ten more minutes."

"Fifteen minutes."

"You're raising the price."

"Last time, you added ten minutes. This time, I'm adding five. Inflation."

"Walking time has inflation too?"

"Anything valuable is subject to inflation."

Holding her hand, Zhang Wen continued along the lakeshore.

Fifteen minutes.

Enough.

No—actually, not enough.

But for now, enough.