Magic Conversion Potion and Another Attack (I)

"A thirty-six-year-old man named Marcel Dubois has reached the Auror admission threshold in magical power after conversion. He is now our outer liaison in France."

At that, Madara's lips did not move. His eyes left Circe's face and settled on Warlock.

Warlock lightly tapped the tabletop twice with his fingers, the signal that he was about to speak. "The stability of the Cursed Mark has no direct connection to the recipient's magical foundation."

His voice was hoarse and slow. "What matters is the integrity of the soul."

He raised his right hand and drew a circle in the air with his wand. Within it appeared a blurry gray mass, like smoke. It was a magical image of the soul.

It was not an actual soul, but a shadow projected by the soul into the magical field, captured through detection spells.

"A Squib's soul differs from that of an ordinary wizard," Warlock said, his voice lowering until it sounded like he was sharing a secret no one else could hear. "There is a... hole in their soul. Not a gap, not a crack—a hole. Magic leaks out through that hole. That is why they cannot retain magic or cast spells. The essence of the Bloodline Grafting Art is not to stuff someone else's magic into their bodies, but to patch that hole."

He tapped the gray smoke with his wand. A tiny dark-red dot appeared within it, like a mark burned by a red-hot iron rod. The dot slowly writhed, like a living eye that was still breathing.

"The material used to patch it is Lord Madara's Cursed Mark." Warlock lowered his wand and folded his hands before him, his fingers trembling more noticeably than before. "Once the Cursed Mark enters the body, it clings to the edges of the hole