Alister sat on the floor of the abandoned classroom, his chest heaving slightly as he recovered from the massive expenditure of magical energy. The black, leather-bound tome lay before him, radiating a cold, silent pressure. The name Herpo the Foul on the cover was embossed in silver.
"System," Alister thought, his caution overriding his curiosity. "Scan for active traps, curses, or cognitohazards."
[Analysis complete. No active offensive countermeasures detected. The saturation lock was the primary security mechanism. The object is dormant.]
Reassured, Alister reached out. His fingers brushed the cold leather, which felt disturbingly like touching a living reptile. He flipped the heavy cover open.
The first page was not paper or parchment. It appeared to be a thin sheet of vellum, pale and smooth. The ink upon it was a deep, dried crimson, shifting slightly as Alister looked at it. The text was written in Ancient Greek, but to Alister who had learned most of languages in order to read books in library it read as clear as day.
To whosoever possesses the strength to break my seal after the turning of years or centuries:
I am Herpo the Foul. I am the first to breed the King of Serpents, the Basilisk. I am the architect of the Soul-Anchor, the Horcrux—a process to separate the immortal essence and bind it to the material plane.
Yet, I admit defeat. My flesh failed before my mind could conquer the deepest abyss. I could not perfect the soul's division, nor delve as deep into the dark arts as the cosmos demands. I died leaving the Great Work unfinished.
Therefore, I created this Grimoire. It contains the sum of my life's work. But it is not a gift; it is a trade.
By reading these words, you invoke the Covenant. The book demands an exchange: in return for the wisdom of the ancients, you must record your own lifetime of research within these pages before you die. The knowledge must grow. The darkness must deepen.
As Alister finished reading the last word, a sudden, sharp tendril of magic lashed out from the book. It wasn't an attack; it was a binding spell, a magical contract seeking to anchor itself to his core and soul to enforce the trade.
Alister didn't flinch. He didn't need to.
["Alert: External Soul-Binding Contract attempted"]
["Host connection to World Core supersedes all local magical contracts. Attempt nullified. Contract accepted with zero binding authority."]
The tendril of magic touched Alister's core, found the infinite, overwhelming connection to the World itself, and simply dissolved, tricked into thinking the contract was sealed when, in reality, it held no power over him.
Alister ignored the failed binding, his eyes widening as the implications of the text hit him.
He looked past the introduction. The book wasn't just written by Herpo the Foul.
He flipped the page. Different handwriting. A different era. notes on Necromancy by Godelot... He flipped another. The properties of pain by Morgana le Fay... Another. Modifications to the Killing Curse by an unknown hand...
This wasn't just a book of dark magic. It was a cumulative archive.
For centuries, every dark wizard powerful enough to break the seal had been forced by Herpo's contract to add their own discoveries to the book. It was a peer-reviewed journal of the most brilliant, dangerous, and unethical minds in magical history.
It was a repository of lost knowledge, a direct line to the magic that had vanished from the modern world. Some magic may even contain the potential to surpass its tier after further research.
Alister stared at the pages detailing the creation of a Horcrux, his expression one of cold disdain. The text described the splitting of the soul through murder, the binding of a fragment to an object to achieve a twisted form of immortality.
To Herpo the Foul, this was a masterpiece. To Alister, it was garbage.
He flipped the page without a second thought, dismissing the darkest secret of the wizarding world as if it were a smudge of dirt. He had no interest in fracturing his own existence. A Creature's strength came from the unity of mind, body, and spirit. To deliberately shatter one's own soul was to introduce a fundamental flaw, an imperfection that would prevent true ascension. A broken soul could never reach the pinnacle of Tier 9.
Furthermore, the idea of anchoring pieces of himself into the world was strategically unsound. He didn't want the liability of "clones"—echoes of himself that could develop their own wills or become targets for his enemies. He intended to conquer death through absolute power, not by hiding pieces of himself like a squirrel hoarding nuts.
"System," Alister commanded silently. "Index the contents. Filter out soul fragmentation, necromancy, and torture rituals. Search for Physical Augmentation, Blood Alchemy, or Magical Body Refinement."
"Scanning..." The System hummed. "Relevant entry found. Page 394. Author: Egbert the Egregious."
Alister turned to the cited page. The handwriting here was jagged and heavy, written with a force that had nearly torn the vellum.
The Blood-Forging of the War-Mage
Alister's eyes narrowed in interest. He began to read.
Egbert described a lost art from an era when wizards fought on the front lines with swords and spells alike. The theory posited that the human body was a poor vessel for high-tier magic. To wield the power of dragons and thunderbirds, one had to become like them.
The text warned: "The pain is absolute. The mortality rate is high. The body will burn away the weak flesh to make room for the magic. But he who survives shall wield the strength of the beast in the form of a man."
Alister sat back, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips.
This was it. This was the answer to his bottleneck.
He had the Ascension System to manage the mortality rate. He had the perfect control to manage the infusion. And thanks to Hagrid today, he had the raw materials: Phoenix feather sheddings, Thunderbird feathers, and Dragon scales.
Alister stared at the jagged handwriting of Egbert the Egregious, his mind breaking down the ritual into a series of actionable steps. The promise of a Tier 4 Physique was intoxicating—a body capable of channeling the full might of his magical core without breaking—but as he read the finer details, the cold reality of his current limitations set in.
The Blood-Forging wasn't as simple as mixing blood and drinking it. It was a masterpiece of lethal precision.
The ritual required brewing a Catalyst Potion, a volatile substance that acted as a solvent to break down the magical beast essence so it could merge with human blood. The brewing process involved three distinct stages of temperature manipulation, requiring a Tier 3 Potioneer's touch to prevent the mixture from turning into a deadly poison. Alister was just a beginner in potion. He was nowhere near ready to handle volatile dragon essence.
Furthermore, the infusion process relied on a network of Runic Tattoos. These weren't simple surface carvings like the ones he had practiced on wood. They were Subdermal Anchor Arrays, complex three-dimensional rune structures that had to be inscribed onto his own skin using a magical needle while the potion was circulating in his veins.
One slip of the hand, one imperfect angle in the rune, and the beast's magic would run wild, likely tearing his body apart from the inside out.
"System," Alister thought, "calculate success probability if ritual is attempted with current skill levels."
["Calculating... Probability of successful infusion: 0.1%. Probability of catastrophic biological failure: 99.9%."]
Alister closed the heavy black book with a sigh. He had the fuel, he had the engine, but he didn't know how to drive the car yet.
He wasn't disappointed at least he has a clear path now.
He stood up and carefully placed Secrets of the Darkest Art into his expanded pocket, wrapping it in a cloth to dampen its malevolent aura. He did the same with the pouch of high-tier materials from Hagrid. These were his treasures, the keys to his future, but for now, they had to remain locked away.
He looked around his secret base—the abandoned classroom he had cleaned and warded. It was good for basic rune practice, but it lacked the equipment for serious brewing. He would need a cauldron, phials, scales, and a steady supply of ingredients to practice until his hands moved with the same certainty in brewing as they did in combat. All of this needed Snape's help which gave Alister a headache.
"Time to grind," Alister murmured to the empty room.
He extinguished the lights with a wave of his hand, re-cast his invisibility charm, and slipped out of the room. He returned to the Slytherin dorms just as the first hint of grey dawn began to touch the lake outside the windows.
He slipped into his bed, his mind already organizing a grueling schedule for the coming weeks.
__________________________________________
The weeks bled into one another, marked by the turning of pages and the slow, steady accumulation of power. October arrived at Hogwarts, painting the grounds in russet and gold. The air turned crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from Hagrid's hut and the damp chill of the Black Lake into the stone corridors.
For Alister, this month was a period of ruthless, disciplined absorption.
He attended classes with the precision of a clockwork soldier. In Charms and Transfiguration, he no longer hid his competence, though he refrained from flashy displays. He simply executed every task perfectly on the first attempt, earning points for Slytherin and silently extracting every ounce of theoretical knowledge Professor Flitwick and McGonagall had to offer.
He wasn't learning how to cast—the System handled that—he was learning the why, the fundamental laws of magic that would allow him to modify and improve spells later.
In Potions, his strategy was more aggressive. He needed to bridge the gap to Tier 2 to attempt the Blood-Forging ritual. He treated the dungeon classroom as his operating theater. While other students struggled to chop roots or crush beetles, Alister's workspace was immaculate. He memorized Magical Drafts and Potions and moved on to Moste Potente Potions in the library.
Snape, though he never offered praise, had stopped hovering over Alister's cauldron to sneer. Instead, the Potions Master would occasionally pause, observe the perfect consistency of Alister's brew, and move on with a silent, calculating look. It was the highest form of acknowledgment Snape was capable of giving.
The library became his second home. Madam Pince, the strict librarian, had grown used to the quiet Slytherin who sat in the same secluded corner every evening, surrounded by towers of books on Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Alister read until his eyes burned, feeding the System raw data. He deciphered runic alphabets from the Viking era, studied the geometric principles of magical stability, and cross-referenced them with the dark knowledge found in Secrets of the Darkest Art.
He returned to his secret base only after curfew. There, the air was thick with the smell of ozone and sawdust. The floor was no longer cluttered with simple carvings. It was lined with complex arrays etched into stone and metal scraps he'd scavenged.
He practiced linking runes, creating chains of logic that could hold and direct magical energy. He failed often, the stone cracking or the magic material warping under the strain of conflicting magics, but every failure was data for the System.
By mid-October, the results of his relentless grind were undeniable.
He sat on his bed in the Slytherin dorms, the heavy curtains drawn. Enzo Nott was snoring softly. Alister closed his eyes and called up the panel.
___________________________________________________
[Status]
Name: Alister Potter
Age: 11
Race: Human
Tier: 1 (Apprentice Mage)
Magical Attributes:
Magic Power: Tier 3
Beast Tamer: Tier 0
Potion-maker: Tier 1
Alchemist: Tier 1
Astrologer: Tier 1
Transfiguration: Tier 1
Physique: Tier 1
Magic learnt: Tier 1[.....]
Skill Proficiency:
Runes: Tier 2
Language Master: [English, Ancient greek....]
______________________________________________
Alister studied the screen. He had reached Tier 2 in Runes. The constant practice and the System's analysis had paid off. He could now carve the subdermal arrays required for the ritual without blowing the material.
However, Potions was still at Tier 1. He was still far from tier 2, and the Catalyst Potion for the first Blood-Forging was a Tier 2 complexity brew. Attempting it with Tier 1 skills and just "hoping" his perfect control would bridge the gap was a statistical gamble the System advised against.
He needed a breakthrough in Potions. He needed access to a real lab, not just a classroom cauldron, and ingredients that weren't standard student issue.
(END OF CHAPTER)
Please Support me on patreon for accessing 10+ chapters: patreon.com/xxSUPxx
Bonus chapter when power stones reach 500
[GUYS please leave a review if you read till here! It's free and it doesn't take much of your time]
Patreon members:
~ Warren