The Only One in the World

Early Saturday morning, Zhang Wen and Artoria arrived in Diagon Alley via Floo Powder.

Even after using Floo Powder twice, Zhang Wen still wasn't used to it. The sensation of spinning at high speed between fireplaces reminded him of the instant the Counter Force had kicked him out of the Type-Moon Universe—his world spinning, his insides turning over.

When he stumbled out of the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace, he nearly fell flat on his face.

Artoria walked out of the fireplace.

Walked out.

Steady and composed, without even a wrinkle in her clothes.

"How did you do that?" Zhang Wen asked, dusting himself off.

"Control of my center of gravity," Artoria said. "Basic training."

Zhang Wen decided not to ask any further. Comparing physical coordination with someone who had trained as a knight since childhood was simply asking for humiliation.

Diagon Alley was bustling on the weekend.

September sunlight shone over the cobblestone street, and the shops on both sides stood open. A long line stretched outside Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, probably students buying uniforms at the last minute. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes—no, that wouldn't open until years later.

Zhang Wen sorted out his thoughts and led Artoria straight toward their destination.

Ollivanders Wand Shop.

The shop sat on the southern side of Diagon Alley. Its storefront was tiny, its sign faded, and a lone wand rested on a purple cushion in the display window. Compared to the flashy shops beside it, it was so understated it was almost easy to overlook.

But every wizard knew it was the most important shop on the entire street.

Zhang Wen pushed open the door.

The shop was dim, and the air carried the mingled scent of old wood and dust. Long boxes were crammed across every wall from floor to ceiling, like a maze built from wand boxes.

There was no one behind the counter.

"Hello?" Zhang Wen called.

No response.

"Mr. Ollivander?"

An aged voice spoke from behind him.

"Good afternoon."

Zhang Wen whirled around.

An old man with silver eyes was standing less than half a meter behind him, though Zhang Wen had no idea when he had appeared.

Zhang Wen's heart skipped a beat. Artoria's right hand was already resting at her waist—where Invisible Air was.

"My apologies. I startled you." Ollivander smiled faintly, his eyes glimmering with a soft light. "I remember every wand I have ever sold, but your face... I do not recognize it."

"I've never bought a wand here." Zhang Wen forced his heartbeat to settle. "I'm from the East. I've been using someone else's wand until now, but I need one suited to me."

Ollivander's gaze fell on Lockhart's wand tucked at Zhang Wen's waist.

"Cherry wood, unicorn hair, nine inches." The old man recognized it at a glance. "Gilderoy Lockhart's wand. It truly doesn't suit you—its core is too gentle to restrain your magic."

Zhang Wen drew out the wand and handed it to him.

Ollivander took it, examined it briefly, set it on the counter, then turned toward the shelves.

"Let us see... Hold out your wand arm."

Zhang Wen extended his right hand.

A tape measure flew out of Ollivander's pocket and began measuring him on its own—arm length, finger length, palm width, shoulder width.

"Your magical fluctuations are unusual," Ollivander murmured as he measured. "Not like an ordinary wizard's magic... denser, more concentrated, as if it has been compressed..."

He was right. Zhang Wen's magic came from the Magic Circuits of the Type-Moon Universe, and its nature was not entirely the same as the magic of wizards in this world. They were compatible, but their characteristics were indeed different.

"Try this one." Ollivander took a box from the shelf. "Elm, dragon heartstring, ten and a half inches, quite flexible."

Zhang Wen took the wand and gave it a wave.

The ink bottle on the table exploded.

"No." Ollivander snatched the wand back and wiped the ink from his face with his sleeve. "The rejection is too strong."

The second wand: redwood, phoenix feather, twelve inches.

The moment Zhang Wen touched it, the wand began vibrating violently. He hurriedly put it down, and it bounced three times on the tabletop before finally going still.

"Not that one either."

The third wand: cypress, unicorn hair, eleven inches.

He waved it once, and nothing happened. Not even a spark.

"Too weak." Ollivander shook his head.

The fourth, fifth, sixth—

All failures.

Either the force rejection caused something to explode, or the wand core was too weak to bear Zhang Wen's magic. Ollivander's expression shifted from anticipation to confusion, then from confusion to solemn seriousness.

Artoria stood at the side, watching the pile of wand boxes on the table grow higher and higher without saying a word.

After the fifteenth wand was rejected, Ollivander stopped.

He stood before the shelves, his silver eyes fixed in a certain direction, as if hesitating over something.

"What is it?" Zhang Wen asked.

Ollivander did not answer.

He turned and walked toward the deepest part of the shop. A wall there looked no different from the others, but Ollivander pressed his palm against it. The wall silently split open, revealing a small room behind it.

Zhang Wen and Artoria exchanged a glance.

Ollivander walked inside and did not return until about a minute later.

He was holding a box.

Unlike the mass-produced standard boxes on the shelves outside, this one was black, without any markings on its surface. The wood looked exceedingly old.

Ollivander placed the box on the counter, resting his fingers on the lid without opening it immediately.

"Mr. Zhang." His voice had changed from before. "Before I tell you the origin of this wand, I need you to understand something—I have made wands for over sixty years and sold countless numbers of them. But there are a very few wands that I made and never sold."

He opened the box.

Inside lay a wand.

Its shaft was deep black, almost without any sheen. Strange patterns ran over its surface—not wood grain, but more like traces of something flowing that had been frozen into the wand.

"Yew," Ollivander said in a low voice. "Thirteen inches. The core—"

He paused.

"Thestral tail hair and phoenix tears. A dual core."

Zhang Wen did not know much about wandlore, but he noticed Artoria's brow furrow slightly.

"Are dual-core wands rare?" he asked.

Ollivander looked at him, a bitter smile touching his lips.

"Rare? Mr. Zhang, in my career, I attempted to make seventeen dual-core wands. Fourteen exploded during the process. Two barely took shape, but their natures were extremely unstable, so I ultimately destroyed them."

He lowered his gaze to the black wand in the box.

"Only this one succeeded."

"Thestral tail hair represents death and acceptance—only those who have witnessed death and understood it can wield it. Phoenix tears represent rebirth and healing. The natures of these two materials are contradictory—death and rebirth, ending and continuation. Forcing them together in a single core required extraordinarily precise balance."

Ollivander's silver eyes stared directly at Zhang Wen.

"The bearer this wand requires must have experienced both death and rebirth—not metaphorically, but truly and personally. He must have witnessed death with his own eyes and returned from its brink."

Zhang Wen's breath stopped for an instant.

The Holy Grail War.

During that war, he had nearly died more than once. Lancer's spear had pierced his shoulder, Caster's magecraft had blasted him away, and Berserker's shockwaves had shattered three of his ribs.

Every time, Artoria had pulled him back from death's doorstep.

He had witnessed too much death. Golden Sparkle's rain of Noble Phantasms, an assassin's daggers, Berserker's roars—the passing of those Heroic Spirits had been real, weighty deaths every time.

And he himself had indeed returned from the edge of death. More than once.

"I made this wand thirty-seven years ago," Ollivander said softly. "For thirty-seven years, no customer has ever been compatible with it. Some were flung away the moment they touched it. Others felt agonizing pain. At one point, I thought I had created something that would never be used."

He pushed the box toward Zhang Wen.

"Try it."

Zhang Wen extended his hand.

His fingertips touched the wand.

A warm sensation spread from his fingertips into his palm, flowing up his arm and throughout his body.

It was not the burning sensation when the Magic Circuits of the Type-Moon Universe activated, nor was it the awkward feeling of Lockhart's wand reluctantly cooperating with him.

It was simply—

A perfect fit.

That was the word. A perfect fit.

As if this wand had waited thirty-seven years for him to pick it up.

Zhang Wen gripped the wand tightly.

A gust burst from its tip, making the boxes in the shop rustle loudly. A dark golden glow lit up along the black shaft, spreading through those flowing patterns before slowly fading away.

Ollivander froze.

He had made wands for more than sixty years and seen the scene of "the wand choosing the wizard" countless times. But this time, his hands trembled.

"It worked." The old man's voice was hoarse. "It actually worked."

He stared at Zhang Wen, his expression complicated, as though he were looking at a miracle that should not exist.

"Mr. Zhang, what exactly have you been through?"

Zhang Wen glanced at Artoria beside him.

Her expression was as calm as always, but Zhang Wen noticed her eyes resting on the black wand longer than usual.

"A lot," Zhang Wen said. "And most of it wasn't very pleasant."

Ollivander was silent for a long time.

Then he nodded.

"Seven Galleons."

Zhang Wen blinked. "That's all?"

"A wand that waited thirty-seven years to find its owner is not something I intend to profit from," Ollivander said. "Besides—"

He looked at the black wand in Zhang Wen's hand, an indescribable emotion flashing through his silver eyes.

"I'm simply glad someone has finally picked it up."

After leaving the wand shop, Zhang Wen took a deep breath.

The sunlight of Diagon Alley fell across his face. Wizards passed around him, and cries from vendors rose and fell on all sides. Everything was normal, ordinary.

But the weight of the wand in his hand made him feel that something had changed.

"How does it feel?" Artoria asked.

Zhang Wen raised the wand and gave the air a gentle flick.

A beam of light shot from its tip, drawing a perfect arc through the air before dissolving into a small cluster of harmless sparks.

Nothing exploded.

There was no loss of control.

Precise, smooth, completely under control.

"It feels like—" Zhang Wen considered how to put it. "Like the first time I successfully activated my Magic Circuits in the Type-Moon Universe."

Artoria nodded slightly.

"You found a weapon that suits you," she said. "Now you need to practice."

"Can't you let me enjoy this for two minutes?"

"You can. In two minutes, we'll buy teaching supplies, then go back to prepare lessons."

"...Your time management is way too strict."

"Time management is a knight's basic discipline."

Zhang Wen sighed and slid the wand into the holster at his waist.

The yew felt warm and steady against his palm.

Thirty-seven years.

This wand had waited thirty-seven years.

He had crossed two worlds, fought a Holy Grail War, been kicked away by the Counter Force, impersonated a fraud, and only then finally walked into that inconspicuous little shop in Diagon Alley.

Maybe this was what people called fate.

Of course, Zhang Wen did not particularly believe in fate.

But he believed in the weight of the wand in his hand.

"Let's go," he said.

Artoria fell into step beside him.

The two of them walked side by side beneath the sunlight of Diagon Alley.

A fake professor and a fake teaching assistant.

A wand that had waited thirty-seven years.

And an entire semester of unknowns waiting ahead.