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One has to say that Nicolas Flamel’s exclamation was indeed very loud, startling the Bowtruckle that had fallen to the ground. The little guy immediately panicked and found a drawer to hide in.
“What do you mean? I didn’t kill anyone… not many.” Ian was slightly stunned for a few seconds, and after regaining his senses, he roughly realized why Nicolas Flamel had exclaimed.
“Are you saying that making the Philosopher’s Stone requires killing? Is it the same as Voldemort making Horcruxes?” To be honest, Ian had never come into contact with the process of creating the Philosopher’s Stone.
It wasn’t in the Hogwarts library, nor was it in the alchemy books he had found on his own. This kind of creation, which was at the cutting edge of alchemy, was almost impossible to be recorded in books.
The reason why such knowledge is extremely precious and mostly monopolized by private individuals is that even if this knowledge were recorded, it would be meaningless for almost all alchemy learners.
Of course.
Alchemy practitioners like Ian were not worried about not being able to learn; as long as he was given enough time, once his alchemy level increased, all difficulties would no longer be difficulties.
If Voldemort hadn’t consumed Nicolas Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone, he originally wanted to use that stone for reverse analysis and research.
Now, unexpectedly, he had harvested quite a few Philosopher’s Stones in the Twilight Zone. Ian had initially planned to study them himself, and he only took them out earlier because he had seen Nicolas Flamel.
It wasn’t entirely to start a conversation, after all.
Nicolas Flamel was the only one who had truly created the Philosopher’s Stone. With Nicolas Flamel’s guidance, Ian would save a lot of time and trouble needed for reverse research.
“Where did you get so many Philosopher’s Stones… Although they don’t have much Magic power left, I don’t think such things should be found so easily, right?” Nicolas Flamel did not answer Ian’s question immediately but was deeply puzzled about the origin of the Philosopher’s Stones.
He hadn’t heard of any country being destroyed in recent years.
“A good friend gave them to me?” Ian blinked as he spoke, trying to bluff his way through.
However, Nicolas Flamel certainly couldn’t believe such nonsense. He helplessly slapped his forehead, “How come I haven’t encountered such a good friend?”
The little wizard’s words were full of loopholes. Nicolas Flamel didn’t even know where to start to deceive himself. He simply couldn’t understand how the little wizard could have such good fortune to obtain so many Philosopher’s Stones.
“Maybe your emotional intelligence isn’t as high as mine, and you don’t have as many good friends as I do.” Ian responded seriously, explaining that the origin of these Philosopher’s Stones was too complicated.
“…”
Nicolas Flamel was silent for a while before he spoke with a strange expression, revealing his guess, “It seems that the rumors about your fondness for digging up other people’s graves are indeed not wrong.”
“Previously, Albus privately reminded me not to hide good things in my own grave, and I didn’t believe it, but now it seems that Albus’s reminder was still too conservative.”
As he spoke, Nicolas Flamel grabbed the Philosopher’s Stones that Ian had dumped on the table, his tone filled with emotion, “I think you must have dug up a very remarkable ancient wizard.”
Clearly, in Nicolas Flamel’s view, he couldn’t think of any time during his hundreds of years of life that could have produced so many Philosopher’s Stones.
Because of this, he, under the inertia of his logical thinking, found an excuse for Ian that Ian hadn’t even thought of. The little wizard immediately nodded like a chick pecking at rice.
“Yes, yes, that’s right, I discovered an ancient wizard’s tomb.” To be honest, Ian felt that this statement was not only reasonable but also could not be considered a lie. That tower was buried in the Twilight Zone, so how could it not be considered an ancient tomb? He didn’t mind being seen as a grave-digging fanatic by Nicolas Flamel.
After all.
He quite liked such a title. Compared to titles like Skywalker, Dark Lord, or White Monster, the title of grave-digging fanatic was definitely more intimidating than the others.
No matter how bold and brave a person was, they would probably weigh the significance of their own ancestors’ graves before daring to provoke someone bearing the title of grave-digging fanatic.
“Is that really the case?”
Seeing Ian’s earnest expression, Nicolas Flamel was first taken aback, and then his expression became even stranger, with a sense of wanting to say something but holding back.
The little wizard immediately realized what this alchemy Master wanted to ask.
He preemptively answered, “It’s not Merlin’s grave; I don’t know whose it is, but there are many of these magic texts inside.” As he spoke, Ian immediately pulled out the magic texts he had imprinted from memory.
To be honest, when he took out this large batch of magic texts, Nicolas Flamel, who had initially been somewhat skeptical, immediately had no doubts left about the origin of Ian’s Philosopher’s Stones.
“I’ve come across fragments of magical scripts from the ancient eras before,” Ian said thoughtfully, “but the pieces were too scant. I’ve never managed to fully unravel the meaning or the magical potency they might hold.”
Nicolas Flamel barely glanced before adjusting his spectacles, his eyes narrowing in astonishment as though he’d just stumbled upon a priceless Gringotts vault key.
He had acquired a handful of scrolls inscribed with similarly archaic magical texts in his time, and that made him certain, absolutely certain, that what Ian had brought forth couldn’t possibly have been copied from any known volume in existence today.
“Does creating the Philosopher’s Stone involve killing?” Ian seized the chance to repeat the question Nicolas Flamel had dodged earlier, while the famed alchemist remained transfixed by the tower’s ancient runes.
This time, Nicolas Flamel didn’t sidestep the issue.
“Yes. Yes, it does. The creation of a Philosopher’s Stone requires the sacrifice of life. Many lives. Do you recall the foundation of alchemical theory?”
Perhaps it was from standing too long, or maybe from sheer excitement, but Nicolas Flamel wobbled slightly as he lowered himself back into his chair, his eyes still glued to the intricate symbols Ian had brought. For a master alchemist, the chance to study new material was nothing short of exhilarating.
“Of course. Equivalent exchange,” Ian replied, reciting the tenet repeated in nearly every alchemical tome he’d studied.
“Precisely. Equivalent exchange,” Nicolas echoed, drawing out a faded collection of rune fragments from his own stores and comparing them meticulously to Ian’s reproductions.
“The Philosopher’s Stone doesn’t just hold immense magical energy. Its power to grant immortality lies in the boundless vitality embedded within it.”
“And the price of life… is life itself. That’s why these Stones, though still faintly magical, can no longer brew the Elixir of Life. Their life force was consumed long before their magic began to fade.”
With those quiet, weighty words, Nicolas Flamel finally revealed the true secret behind the Philosopher’s Stone.
“Are there no exceptions? Every single one of them is depleted like this?”
Ian’s curiosity remained piqued, his thoughts racing.
“Yes, there is not a single exception. The Stone’s remaining magic primarily serves to preserve what little life energy remains. But in time, every Philosopher’s Stone ends the same way.”
As he spoke, Nicolas Flamel’s gaze drifted back to the pile of glimmering red stones upon the table. A flicker of melancholy crossed his features, not fear of death, but a wistful regret.
A sorrow for what had been left undone.
Or rather, a yearning for a lifetime’s work that still hadn’t been completed.
“These scripts you’ve brought me, there’s enough here for me to build upon. I’ll do my utmost to help you decipher them in the time I’ve got left. Sadly, I doubt I’ll manage to solve the last riddles I’ve carried with me all these years.”
“You have a rare gift, and a vast road ahead of you. Before I go, I’ll leave you with the foundations of my research. Perhaps, just perhaps, you can finish what I never could.”
Nicolas Flamel had always dreamt of crafting a universal elixir, something to heal all ailments, preserve life, even purify magic itself. It was his last great ambition. And now, as his time waned, he found comfort in knowing there was someone worthy to inherit the burden.
He had come to peace with the inevitable.
Because he had found Ian.
A young man whom Albus Dumbledore had quietly praised, a wizard of startling aptitude in the ancient art. If his successor could one day glimpse what he himself never had, then perhaps Nicolas Flamel’s story wouldn’t be unfinished after all.
“Why not just create another Philosopher’s Stone?” Ian asked, puzzled. “Even if it takes lives, surely there are plenty of people who die in accidents and misfortune every year? Couldn’t you collect that lingering life force over time?”
Nicolas Flamel chuckled softly at the suggestion.
“It’s not quite so easy, I’m afraid. The Philosopher’s Stone demands that hundreds of thousands of lives be gathered within a short span.”
“I discovered the formula during the time of the Black Death, a plague so devastating it filled the air with sorrow. And it was through that unspeakable grief that the miracle was born.”
“You wouldn’t ask me to wish for such catastrophe again, would you?” He added gently. “I’ve lived more than long enough. The world’s peace means more to me now than the continuation of my own days.”
There was no denying it, Nicolas Flamel was a man of remarkable wisdom.
“By that logic,” Ian mused slowly, “Muggle World War Two should’ve met the same conditions, shouldn’t it?”
“That era was indeed an opportunity,” Nicolas Flamel replied, his voice distant, thoughtful. “But it was not mine to claim.”
His words sent a quiet shiver down Ian’s spine. His pupils contracted, and a flicker of unease crept across his features.
“Ah? What do you mean by that?”
The conversation trailed off just as the latest edition of The Evening Prophet began to rustle through the enchanted post chute nearby.
But Ian’s thoughts remained tangled around Flamel’s words, and the longer he considered them, the colder he felt, like someone had walked over his grave.
“Some say there was a wizard who stood beside that infamous little moustache man, and that he was the one who stirred the war into motion, solely to forge a Philosopher’s Stone.”
“You’d best ask Grindelwald about that,” Nicolas Flamel said, voice quiet but pointed. “He may be the only one alive who truly knows what happened.”
Nicolas Flamel’s cryptic interpretation of World War II sent a jolt through Ian’s chest.
“Whoa~”
Ian exhaled, genuinely stunned.
“Are you saying it was Grindelwald who incited the war?” The idea was absurd, completely contradictory to what Dumbledore had told him, and to what Ian had come to understand about the man himself.
Just as suspicion began to cloud Ian’s thoughts, Nicolas Flamel gave a slight shake of his head, offering a measure of clarity that restored Grindelwald’s image in Ian’s mind.
“I only said Grindelwald might know the truth. That doesn’t mean he was the architect behind it all… Though, of course, Grindelwald is no saint, he is just not that kind of devil.”
“No, it was another, an even more elusive wizard. If Grindelwald himself knows nothing, then no one does. The only thing I can say for certain is that a Philosopher’s Stone was forged during that era.”
Nicolas Flamel clearly had no interest in defaming Grindelwald unjustly. An alchemist of his calibre had to keep a balanced view of the world.
“This is… completely mind-bending.”
Ian struggled to absorb the enormity of what he’d heard. History, Muggle and magical, had never mentioned such things.
“Let’s return to my final wish,” Nicolas Flamel said, gently steering the conversation away from war. “These magic texts, this particular script, has always been my greatest regret. I’ll give you a solid foundation for interpreting them.”
“But much of the rest… will be up to you and the time you can give it.” He spoke with a soft finality that made Ian’s chest tighten.
“Absolutely, I promise. And once I’ve completed your assignment, I’ll share with you every answer you ever longed to know.” Ian knew well, Nicolas Flamel likely had little more than a year left to live.
But Ian’s words weren’t just to comfort him. For him, death was not the end.
What the heart desired could guide a wizard’s path. And should it come to that, Ian would seek Nicolas Flamel in the Twilight Zone. But of that, Flamel remained unaware, merely chuckling with visible relief.
Most students he’d mentored in his lifetime would’ve hesitated at the thought of inheriting an unfinished dream. Most would’ve nodded politely and never pursued it.
No wonder they hesitated, Nicolas Flamel was the greatest alchemist in over six centuries. The things he had left unresolved would seem insurmountable to others. No sane alchemist would confidently declare they could finish what Nicolas Flamel could not.
But Ian had.
Not out of arrogance, but with a quiet certainty. It was as though he truly believed he could do it. And that was precisely the kind of successor Nicolas Flamel had long wished for.
“Very well then. Burn the answers for me when you find them, maybe I’ll still catch a glimpse.”
The old alchemist’s eyes were now warm with fondness as they lingered on the young wizard. In Ian, he saw a reflection of his own youth: a mind bursting with brilliance, confidence that bordered on reckless, and magical prowess far beyond his own. This young man would rise. Unstoppable.
A hexagonal wizard, well-rounded and dangerously gifted.
The last boy to spark such envy in the magical world had been Albus Dumbledore himself. But Dumbledore had chosen to abandon this branch of magical pursuit after discovering the limitations of alchemy.
“You’ll see it,” Ian said with a wink.
Nicolas Flamel’s grin deepened.
“To unravel an entirely foreign magical script… that’s years of work. And I doubt I’ve got that long left.”
He turned his attention back to the annotated pages Ian had brought him, already losing track of time, and of the time-turner repair Dumbledore had left in his care.
“There’s always room for miracles.”
Ian leaned in beside him, eyes scanning the partially translated sections of the tower’s magic texts.
“Hahaha! Then I’ll take your good wishes and aim for another year at least,” Flamel said, shifting slightly to make room for Ian.
“Why not be a bit more ambitious?” Ian smiled. “With a little effort, three years should be easy. Five’s within reach. Maybe even ten.”
He meant it. Deep down, Ian wanted Nicolas Flamel to live longer, not for sentiment’s sake, but because otherwise, he’d have to traverse into the Twilight Zone to continue their collaboration.
Yes.
He would literally have to find Nicolas Flamel’s spirit in the realm between life and death, just to carry on their deciphering work.
When it came to completing a task, no one was more relentless than Ian.
But even he feared that Flamel’s spirit wouldn’t hold the same fire it did now, in life.
“Why do I feel like there’s something odd about the way you said that?” Nicolas Flamel narrowed his eyes, his prophetic instincts, dull though age had made them, still sharp enough to sense the undertone.
“What’s strange about it? I’m just wishing you well! Wishing you could live another ten or eight years!” Ian hurriedly explained, trying to cover up his intention to pursue Nicolas Flamel into the Twilight Zone.
Just as the words left his lips,
Ian suddenly froze in place.
“What in Merlin’s name…?”
The young wizard let out an involuntary yawn.
In the depths of his consciousness, he sensed a shadowy sigil stir faintly, an obscure magical imprint that shimmered briefly like a whisper in the dark.
In that instant, a substantial surge of his inner magical reserves was drawn into the hidden rune, drained without warning or explanation.
Yet, nothing seemed to manifest.
Only a crushing wave of weariness washed over him, undeniable in its suddenness and weight.
(End of this chapter)
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