It was a deep, pitch-black corridor.
For John, it left no particular impression.
But...
John stared at the Headmaster walking ahead of him. This old man was neither a witcher nor someone enhanced like him by Night-Stalker, so how was he managing without even lighting a lamp?
Seemingly unaware of John's curiosity, the Headmaster continued speaking.
"Lord Silverhand, what do you think the essence of magic is?"
"Magic?" John replied calmly. "Energy and emotion."
The Headmaster's steps halted. In that instant, John caught the look of delight on his face.
"Yes—exactly—emotion!"
The Headmaster was visibly excited, like parched land finally meeting rain, like a fine steed encountering a discerning patron, like kindred spirits meeting through high mountains and flowing waters.
He chuckled warmly. "As wizards, we experience emotional surges far stronger than those of Muggles."
"And it is precisely this that allows us to manipulate magic through our will."
He spoke like an old scholar, animated and unrestrained.
"Young wizards, because their emotions are unstable, often struggle to control their power properly. Their emotional fluctuations are intense, yet the magical effects they produce can be astonishingly powerful."
When wizards are young, magic can spiral out of control. Harry, for instance, before even enrolling in school, once vanished an entire pane of glass with a Vanishing Charm.
Such a refined Vanishing Charm—if Harry were asked to cast it now, he wouldn't be able to achieve even half of that effect.
The Headmaster's theory was clearly not just idle talk. He said, "You've heard of an Obscurial, haven't you? Its predecessor, the Obscurus bearer, originates from young wizards."
"In my view, as wizards grow up, that power gradually weakens."
"Young wizards should be at their strongest."
The more John listened, the deeper his frown became.
What nonsense was this old man spouting?
Stronger the younger you are?
Give me a break.
It's like a cup of water. When you're a child, you just fling it out all at once. The effect may be impressive, but the force dissipates quickly.
An adult wizard, on the other hand, after years of study and battle, learns restraint.
It's like installing a tap. You can control the flow.
But many wizards also end up being constrained by that tap. Over time, their power seems weaker.
Yet when one truly masters the tap, or throws caution to the wind and unleashes everything, the power that erupts can far surpass what they had in childhood.
It's absolutely not as this old man claims, that childhood is the peak of one's life.
Put present-day Dumbledore against his younger self and see what happens.
Young Dumbledore would be beaten senseless by old Dumbledore.
Scoffing at the Headmaster's views, John continued walking forward.
After turning a corner, a faint glow seeped out from ahead.
When they walked closer, it opened into a vast, hollow chamber.
Above them stretched a dense web of root-like tendrils, each one connected to a pane of transparent glass.
The Headmaster said with a smile, "In my view, some Muggles also possess the potential to become wizards. Their structure is similar to that of wizards, and just like wizard-born children, Muggle-born children also have a chance of awakening magic."
"Since that's the case, why shouldn't we start with Muggles?"
"By stimulating their emotions, we can push them beyond their limits and turn them into wizards."
John stood there. Below him were figures clad in protective suits.
He watched as one of them opened a glass chamber connected to the roots. Inside lay a child, soaked through, with more than a dozen electrodes embedded into his head and body.
And beneath this enormous cavern was a sunken pit filled with viscous liquid.
John saw countless corpses submerged within it.
On some of the bodies were markings written in characters he recognized.
"Silverhand," the Headmaster said fervently, "I sincerely invite you to join this experiment of mine. As long as we master this method, we can create an army. There's no need to care about wizard casualties. As long as we have enough Muggles, we can keep converting them endlessly."
John's eyes were locked on the child being dragged out below, his face twisted in terror as he screamed.
The personnel in protective suits coldly flipped a switch. Electricity surged through the child's body, tearing a heart-rending scream from his throat.
Several people stood nearby, calmly recording the data.
Black smoke began to rise from the child's body. Someone noticed and shut off the current.
But it was already too late. The child lost control, fluids spilling out, his body utterly devoid of life.
Beside him, one of the record keepers said coldly, "Send him to the Night Parade Division. See if he can be added to the Hyakki Yagyō."
At the words, someone stepped forward, hoisted the child onto their shoulder, and carried him away.
The child's body was transferred to another department.
He was a Muggle child.
These people were conducting experiments to stimulate a child's magical potential through extreme pain, so that, as the Headmaster claimed, they could be turned into wizards.
The countless corpses beneath the murky liquid told John exactly how many Muggles had died for this experiment.
And that viscous liquid was a potion.
A potion that allowed those submerged within it to cling to life.
At the cost of other lives.
There was no doubt—this was evil.
Beneath the most beautiful cherry blossom tree lay a foundation built from innumerable corpses.
On the lush, blooming branches was a pale pink hue formed from blood and pulverized bone.
"I have always believed that a school exists to teach and nurture," John took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. "Even Durmstrang, which teaches the Dark Arts, has never abducted Muggles for experiments."
"Silverhand," the Headmaster said with a genial smile, "Muggles are the cheapest resource of all. Their reproductive ability is astonishing—like sows endlessly birthing litters. The rate at which they die is far slower than the rate at which they reproduce."
"We have experienced failures, but those were nothing more than minor setbacks."
"Human experimentation," John scoffed. "A war criminal, and you're actually proud of it."
The Headmaster stared at John, his voice fervent. "Join us, Silverhand."
"I've wanted to work with you for a long time—not just because of your influence, but because of one thing in particular: your power. Born a Muggle, yet possessing strength beyond compare!"
The Headmaster had completely lost his mind. Like a crazed animal, he clawed at the scar on his scalp again and again, scratching until blood flowed, yet he still did not stop.
"You are unique. Never before has a Muggle-born wizard reached your level of talent. You are the finest research subject imaginable."
His greedy gaze swept over John.
John said calmly, "So that's it. No wonder you were so generous, letting me stay in the library for half a month. You were preparing for something, weren't you?"
From their very first meeting, the Headmaster had been unusually enthusiastic.
He hadn't minded at all letting an outsider read the school's ancient texts, even sealing off the library just for him.
So it had all been planned.
He invited John in good faith—but if John refused, he would resort to other means.
"I'm curious," John said, "how did you know I'm Muggle-born? Perhaps you could tell me the name of your friend."
John found it interesting that the Headmaster had seen through his background.
As Johnny Silverhand, he had never once revealed his blood status to the outside world. The only people who could know he was Muggle-born were those who knew his true identity.
The Headmaster grinned viciously. "Of course I can. My friend—someone Silverhand knows quite well—is called… Voldemort."
Realization dawned on John. Indeed, only Voldemort fit the bill.
The Headmaster continued, "Thirty years ago, a wizard crossed the seas and came here. Like you, his talent was extraordinary."
"Later, I heard he had died abroad. But last year, he suddenly appeared before me. That was when I learned that there was another wizard of astonishing talent—John Wick."
No longer bothering to hide it, the Headmaster laughed smugly. "Your body isn't as fragile as those Muggles'. Your blood must have quite extraordinary properties."
He greedily examined every inch of John. "The legendary Second King—beneath that mask—is a child not even seventeen years old."
"You still have so much potential. Let me awaken it for you, Silverhand!"
Several wizards had already appeared around them. John even noticed that a few of them seemed to be Aurors.
In his manic state, there was no trace left of a teacher's dignity.
John drew his wand.
The Headmaster, however, was utterly unafraid. He laughed and said, "Silverhand, you should have noticed what's different about this place."
Hearing that, John lifted his gaze.
The surrounding walls were covered with dense layers of talismans and runes.
After half a month of study, John immediately recognized their function.
Sealing charms.
Talismans plastered all around formed a magical field, suppressing any wizard caught within it.
"Even the terrifying Second King," the Headmaster said smugly, "would be nothing more than a lamb to the slaughter without magic."
A tall man stepped up behind the Headmaster and respectfully offered him a blade.
The Headmaster took it and drew it from its sheath.
Cold light gleamed along the edge. With fascination, the Headmaster said, "Compared to magic, I've always preferred the clash of steel."
His fingers brushed along the blade as he continued, "This sword is called Mitsumichi Kawahira. It was bestowed upon me by the Emperor when I followed the army—a treasured blade."
Staring at John's silver mask, he bared a grin full of broken teeth.
"Don't worry, Silverhand. I'll make you even more perfect. Losing a few limbs from such a perfect body is hardly a problem."
The dagger was finally revealed.
The Headmaster went on, "Don't bother trying to escape. That door can only be opened by me—no one else."
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw dozens of people already closing in, forming a tightening ring around him.
"Can't use magic?" John asked calmly. "That sounds like good news to me."
There were more than a hundred people here.
If thirty or more wizards attacked him with magic, John wouldn't dare claim certain victory.
But thirty people engaging him in close combat?
Heh~
He didn't put his wand away. Instead, he shifted his grip, holding it in reverse.
John smiled darkly. "Before we begin.. does anyone want to leave?"
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