The ripples sparked by Alan's paper were spreading at a speed far beyond the walls of Hogwarts.
It was no longer confined to academic debates within the British magical community; it pierced the veil of time itself, touching certain long-dormant entities almost forgotten by the world.
Two weeks after the paper's publication, it was breakfast time in the Hogwarts Great Hall.
Above, the enchanted ceiling displayed a clear, cloudless sky. Thousands of candles burned quietly, and the air was a mix of toasted bread, sweet oatmeal, and the hum of excited student chatter.
Alan stirred his porridge absentmindedly with a spoon, yet in his mind's palace, optimization data streams for his "Runic Firewall" continued to scroll at lightning speed.
A strange, unnatural quiet cut through the surrounding noise.
A screech owl silently glided above the tables. Its feathers were not ordinary white, but a pure, unreal snow-white. Its flight path was precise, without the slightest deviation, as if guided by an invisible line.
Alan had seen countless owls before, yet he had never seen one like this.
The owl hovered in front of him, then released its grip.
A letter landed on his table without a sound.
It was not made of ordinary paper, but of thick, yellowed, ancient parchment. The envelope bore no stamp; its seal was a deep blue wax, the color as profound as the midnight ocean. The seal was not stamped with a typical family crest, but with an intricate emblem composed of countless fine lines, resembling a miniature magical array.
Alan's gaze moved from the texture of the parchment to the complex emblem. His mind's palace immediately began cross-referencing, scanning all known ancient noble crests.
The result: none.
A family that existed in no public record.
He picked up the envelope; the wax felt cold and smooth under his fingertips. With a gentle press of his thumb, the hard seal cracked, emitting a crisp "click".
He withdrew the letter.
Elegant, ancient script, slightly curved, appeared before his eyes. Every letter followed a strict rhythm, radiating an unspoken pride and meticulousness.
"Esteemed Mr. Alan Scott:"
"Please forgive my intrusion. My name is Phineas Blackwood, the last descendant of a long-forgotten, ancient family. Our family has, for centuries, been guardians of knowledge."
Alan paused. Guardians of knowledge? A rather arrogant self-title.
"I read your paper in the latest issue of Today's Magic. Your insights into 'Information Magic'—"
This was how his family referred to such magic—"—are profound. Your proposed 'Modular Spell' theory almost perfectly aligns with certain forbidden knowledge passed down in my family for generations."
Alan's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. His theory aligned with the forbidden knowledge of an unknown ancient family. This was no longer coincidence—it was a convergence of paths.
"Out of respect, I have decided to reveal a secret hidden for centuries. The last page of The Fortress of Thought that you seek was torn out by my ancestor, Oswald Blackwood."
Alan's pupils contracted sharply.
This problem, which had troubled him for so long, was suddenly answered in this unexpected way.
"Because the page contains not a simple mental defense spell, but an extremely dangerous, thought-weapon-forming forbidden magic."
Thought Weapon.
Those four words carried a tangible weight, striking heavily into Alan's mind palace.
"My ancestor believed that if this knowledge were misused, it could bring catastrophic destruction to the entire magical world. Thus, he chose to hide it."
"However, your appearance shows another possibility. Knowledge itself holds no inherent right or wrong; it depends on the one who wields it. Your rigorous, scientific-like rationality may be the key to safely using this knowledge."
Every word in the letter struck precisely at Alan's most sensitive points. The writer had clearly conducted deep research on him—or perhaps, merely from a single paper, had already discerned the essence of his thought process.
Therefore, I sincerely invite you this Christmas holiday to visit our family's ancestral castle in Ireland, so that we may discuss together how to safely and controllably reawaken this knowledge long sealed by time.
"I look forward to your reply.
Yours faithfully,
Phineas Blackwood"
There were no further words, no lingering whispers.
When Alan finished reading the last letter, it felt as though all the sounds of the world had faded away.
Deep within his mind palace, built of icy rationality, a long-dormant, grand, and utterly emotionless voice suddenly thundered:
[Chain Quest Triggered: Trial of the Knowledge Guardian]
[Quest Description: On the edge between wisdom and madness, claim the inheritance of ancient knowledge.]
[Stage One Quest (Mandatory): Travel to Blackwood Castle, pass Phineas Blackwood's trial, and earn the right to read the "Lost Page."]
[Quest Reward: Unknown.]
[Failure Penalty: Permanently lose the right to access this knowledge.]
Alan slowly, meticulously, folded the precious parchment letter. His movements were precise and steady, as if executing a carefully designed ritual.
He tucked the letter into his pocket, pressed close to his chest.
His face remained expressionless, calm as the still surface of deep water.
But in his deep, dark eyes, a cold, flickering flame quietly ignited.
It was a light called "desire."
Thought Weapon…
That sounded far more intriguing than a simple defensive spell.
~~----------------------
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