[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 11

“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” remarked Albert, watching the magus work.

Archibald was just finishing the chalk outline of a circle on the dusty, tiled floor, occasionally glancing at a detailed diagram for reference. Before that, he had to clear the area of debris and accumulated grime. The two were currently inside a boarded-up abandoned cafe near an old gas station off the Portsmouth highway. For experiments like this, desolate and abandoned locations were a necessity. In this case, Archibald had specifically avoided conducting the test in his laboratory. First, a strong magical surge might bypass his wards and reveal his location. Second, the potential for destruction couldn’t be ignored—either would compromise his secrecy completely.

“And why did we have to drive across two counties for this? Last time you and William did your rituals, you weren’t this far from the suburbs.”

“Updated information, Mr. MacDuggal,” Archibald replied without looking up. He had learned the details from Tonks in a casual conversation about her Auror training; she had mentioned the vast area they patrolled. Perhaps it wasn’t classified knowledge, or maybe she was subtly reminding him that magic use outside authorized zones was strictly prohibited, even in the countryside. “Auror jurisdiction extends another forty miles around London. We’re fifty miles out, which means even if we’re detected, the response won’t be immediate.”

“I’m still not convinced this is worth the risk. I understand testing a new product for sale or conducting a paid ritual for someone. But now you’re risking exposure for… some weapon? Don’t you have enough of those?”

“First of all, your last transaction with those transforming blades yielded quite a handsome profit—judging by the percentage you passed along to me,” Archibald replied coldly. He valued luxury and understood the allure of wealth, but magic always came first. “Second, I’m doing this for our mutual safety, Mr. MacDuggal. To increase the odds of survival in a serious magical confrontation, not just against some low-level thugs. Unlike you, I place significant value on my personal safety.”

“And that’s why you’re conducting a dangerous experiment in the middle of nowhere, with only a seventy percent chance of success by your own admission,” Albert shot back. He gave up trying to clean a dusty, cobwebbed sofa and settled onto it with a grimace. “And don’t even get me started on that last explosion. You said yourself—if one of those fragments had struck your neck, no amount of bandages or even surgery could’ve saved you.”

“You’re still thinking in mundane terms,” Archibald said with a weary sigh. Dealing with someone who didn’t share the magus perspective was always exhausting. Unfortunately, he had no other assistants at the moment, so he had to endure the complaints and spell out the obvious. “Knowledge and power are what make life safer in the magical world. They’re the only things with real value. Money is just a means to acquire them, not an end in itself. Risk is acceptable when it’s calculated and serves a greater purpose. Without risk, we’d still be sitting in caves.”

“Good thing I’m not a creationist, or that last line would’ve offended me,” Albert said dryly, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. He had no patience for the lofty ideals of magi; they seemed alien to any practical logic.

“A creationist?” Archibald paused and looked up from the circle, genuinely puzzled.

“You know, the ones who believe the Earth was created in its current form, along with humans and everything else, about six thousand years ago. They’re multiplying like flies these days—soon they’ll be pushing to teach it in schools as an ‘alternative perspective.’”

“What utter nonsense!” Archibald scoffed, returning to his work. “Six thousand years ago? Sure, the Age of Gods was still in full swing, and there might’ve been a village of goat herders where Uruk would later rise. Gilgamesh was still fifteen centuries away. But even then, not even the gods had the power to create an entire planet.”

“You actually believe in gods?” Albert asked, startled by the direction the conversation had taken.

“Believe? No. I know they existed. But they’ve been gone for millennia. Do you ‘believe’ in Admiral Nelson? He lived, achieved great things, and then he died. It’s a matter of historical knowledge, not faith.”

“Er… right…” Albert trailed off, unsure how to respond.

“By the way, I’m finished,” Archibald said abruptly, ignoring the merchant’s stunned reaction. He tucked the chalk and blueprint into his pocket, gave the simple magic circle one last inspection, and nodded in satisfaction. “Your turn, Mr. MacDuggal. Did you bring everything?”

“Ah, yeah, got it all,” Albert said, moving to the battered counter and retrieving two unusual pistols from a bag. “This one’s a taser—fires electrodes with a charge strong enough to incapacitate. The other’s a dart gun with tranquilizers. I’ve prepared doses ranging from mild enough for a child to something that could drop a horse. Unfortunately, you can’t adjust the taser’s output. Oh, and this too,” he added, handing Archibald a pair of steel handcuffs.

“Excellent. Let’s hope all of this is enough for a worst-case scenario. What about your guards?” Archibald gestured toward the door, referring to the hulking brutes waiting outside near the car. They looked like they had cave men somewhere in their ancestry, with skulls thick enough to stop a bullet without helmets.

“They’ve both got pistols. They’re mainly there for unwelcome visitors. I specifically told them not to shoot you, even if something goes wrong.”

“Let’s hope they remember that,” Archibald said disdainfully, pulling out a small case from his pocket. Inside were a silver medallion engraved with runes and a complex magical circle on its lid, as well as a tungsten energy storage core. He carefully placed the core into the medallion’s slot, secured it, and hung it around his neck with a sturdy steel chain. Stepping into the circle, he hesitated for a moment.

“Are you sure about this?” Albert asked, noticing his hesitation. He had taken a seat at a dusty table, laying the pistols within easy reach. “With all this preparation, what spirit are you even trying to summon? Jack the Ripper? Blackbeard?”

“No, though those are interesting suggestions,” Kayneth replied quickly, seemingly glad for the brief delay before starting. “You went to school, didn’t you, Mr. MacDuggal? Surely you’ve heard of Alexander the Great?”

“Of course. I won’t lie—I was never a top student—but who hasn’t heard of him?” Albert admitted, caught slightly off guard by the question.

“Good. What about Cú Chulainn?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him too. You can’t share a drink with an Irishman without him bringing up his great-great-great… whatever ancestor who shook hands with him, fought alongside him, or got drunk with him.”

“Excellent. And do you know who Diarmuid is?”

“Who? I know Dionysus—always liked the stories about him. Sounds like he was a great god to hang out with.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Kayneth remarked rhetorically, shaking his head. Inwardly, he cursed his former student yet again and silently wished the arrogant failure would cross paths with a Dead Apostle under the full moon. If it weren’t for that incompetent fool, Archibald wouldn’t have ended up “bargain summoning” a hero barely known outside Dublin’s city limits. “Diarmuid Ua Duibhne—also known as Diarmid O’Dyna—was the foster son of Aengus Óg, a warrior of the Fianna and vassal to Fionn mac Cumhaill. A swordsman and spearman so skilled, legends were written about him. A contemptible traitor who betrayed his lord and stole his bride right from their wedding. He died for it, like a dog, somewhere in the forest.”

“Now that you mention it, I think my granddad told me a story like that when I was a kid. Though he called him something else,” Albert mused.

“In Scotland, they call him Dermid. But that’s not important. What matters is that I had the... misfortune of meeting his shade once. Not just meeting—we were practically inseparable for about a week. I even experienced his memories as dreams. The man once stood against three and a half thousand warriors with nothing but a spear and sword and survived. As a figure from the Age of Heroes, he’s immensely dangerous as a summoned spirit.”

“Then what’s the problem? Afraid he’ll turn on us the moment he shows up?” Albert asked. He didn’t sound entirely convinced by the story but refrained from voicing outright doubt.

“No, that’s not it.”

The problem is that I utterly loathe the bastard, Kayneth thought bitterly. To my core. His theatrics, his obsession with turning battle into some kind of game, and his pathetic attempts at chivalry cost me victory. His indecisiveness and adherence to foolish notions of honor cost me my life. He betrayed me just as he did Fionn—trying to steal my fiancee—and I will never forgive him for that. Yet for all my disgust, I need his strength. And I can’t summon anyone else now. I’ll attempt to call him, but considering he despises me as much as I do him, controlling him will be a serious challenge.

“We didn’t part on the best of terms,” Kayneth finally said, carefully choosing his words. “He might hold a grudge. That’s why I’ve taken so many precautions.”

“And?” Albert prompted.

“Did you remember the video camera? This time I’ll need to review the footage. Also, try to time the summoning.”

Albert gestured to a table where he had already set up a recording camera. Once Kayneth saw that everything was ready, he took a deep breath and snapped the handcuffs onto his wrists behind his back. He cleared his mind, letting go of all distractions and sinking into a near-trance state to facilitate the spell. He couldn’t tell how long he remained that way, but eventually, his lips moved almost of their own accord, uttering the command for the mystic code.

“Verite ad me, bellator.”

The medallion around his neck flared with bright white light, heating instantly as the energy stored in the tungsten core began to flow through its circuits and magical structures. The circle drawn on the floor glowed faintly, easing the process by temporarily dampening external forces.

Just a few months ago—though it felt like years—Kayneth had participated in the Holy Grail War, an ancient ritual where seven magi summoned the spirits of legendary figures as powerful familiars to fight one another. The summoning required a “catalyst”—an item tied to the hero in life, such as a fragment of their weapon, armor, or clothing. Without a catalyst, any random spirit might answer the call. Though it took two tries, Archibald had managed to summon Diarmuid’s Shadow—a hero of modest fame (and fame directly impacted a spirit’s strength) but he managed to somewhat compensate for that by summoning him on Irish soil.

In the days leading up to the war, Kayneth had studied the magical contract binding Master and Servant, an astral connection that allowed them to sense each other’s location and status, communicate telepathically, and share memories. Not only had he examined this bond, but he had also managed to alter it—something no one else had ever achieved. He retained control over the servant while outsourcing the energy required to sustain him to another magus: Sola, his fiancee. This innovation let Kayneth preserve his full magical reserves for battle, unlike other masters who fought at reduced capacity to fuel their Servants.

That contract had been nearly unbreakable—even when Kayneth lost all his magic circuits, and Sola inherited command spells, the bond persisted until both Diarmuid and Kayneth were dead. Now, Kayneth intended to use the remnants of that bond as a makeshift catalyst while applying insights from his earlier experiments to refine the ritual.

These thoughts flickered through his mind in an instant. Then the surge of magical energy stabilized, and he opened his eyes. He was still in the same dingy, cluttered cafe, the faintly glowing circle etched on the floor beneath him. Dust swirled in the air, disturbed by the wind generated during the summoning. Yet everything felt different.

He could see the tiniest cracks in the ceiling and walls, hear the hum of traffic on the Portsmouth highway, catch the distant voices of the guards outside. He could even sense the subtle drafts from the shattered windows. It was like controlling another person’s body—familiar yet alien.

Flexing his hands, Kayneth tested the cuffs binding his wrists. With effort, he forced the chain to snap cleanly in the middle.

The shadow that once fought under his command wouldn’t have even strained a muscle for such feats. Of course, Grail Servants weren’t the true souls of heroes, merely weakened replicas forced into the rigid framework of a combat familiar bound to a specific class. They were merely shadows, simulations.

What Kayneth had summoned now was a shadow of that shadow—a minuscule fragment of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne’s spirit lingering on the astral plane. Moreover, since James Murphy didn’t have nearly enough energy to grant the spirit a physical form even with the use of magic accumulators, the summoning was directed inward. He temporarily allowed the spirit to inhabit his own body, borrowing a portion of its power in return.

To Kayneth’s immense relief, the hero’s personality—something he greatly feared—barely registered. It lingered only on the farthest edges of his consciousness.

“There’s no need for that. I’m in control,” he said calmly, watching Albert’s slow (to his heightened perception) movement toward the taser on the table. “Now I need to test its capabilities.”

The magus stepped out of the circle, then leapt into the air, soaring two meters high. He twisted mid-flight and landed lightly on his feet without a sound. Another jump followed, two steps up the wall that sent dust and grime scattering, a flip near the ceiling, and he landed on the fingertips of one hand. Springing back to his feet, he spun and delivered a sharp punch to the wooden counter, leaving a deep dent. His hand, however, remained unscathed, and there was no pain.

Turning back to Albert, he was about to ask him to fire one of the tranquilizer darts to test his reaction speed when the strain suddenly hit him. His body wavered, his arms and legs went numb, and his once-full magical reserves drained rapidly. The sensation spread through his magic circuits, radiating pain as they struggled to sustain the spirit’s presence.

“Revertemur…” he whispered hoarsely, canceling the spell. He caught sight of the rapidly approaching tile floor before darkness claimed him.

The steady hum of an engine, the gently swaying ceiling, the flickering trees outside the window against a blue sky, the scent of leather upholstery and tobacco—it was more than enough for Kayneth to realize he was in Albert’s car the moment he regained consciousness. He was strapped into the back seat by a seatbelt, with MacDuggal sitting beside him. Albert’s muscle-bound guards occupied the front.

“Where are we?” the magus asked weakly. He felt utterly drained, both magically and physically. His head swam as though he’d suffered a severe blood loss, and even turning to face Albert was a struggle.

“We made it to Portsmouth, circled the suburbs a bit, and now we’re heading back to London along a different route. You’ve been unconscious for almost two hours,” the squib replied in a low voice. “No signs of pursuit or attention. Either we weren’t detected at all, or they didn’t make it in time.”

“Good. That makes the experiment… a success,” Kayneth murmured.

“A success?! All that trouble for twenty seconds?” Albert shot back.

“Twenty seconds?”

“That’s roughly how long it was from when you broke the handcuffs to when you hit the floor.”

“It felt much longer,” Kayneth remarked, glancing feebly at his hands.

“I took off the cuffs,” Albert said, noticing the movement. “Explaining to a cop why I have an unconscious child in my car is hard enough. If you were also cuffed, well…”

“It doesn’t matter. In any case, the result is positive.”

“Are you planning to crack your skull on the floor every time you pull this trick? Or is that one of your ‘special methods’ too?”

“I just need to lower the power. I took in too much, and even an E-rank enhancement is beyond my current capacity,” the magus replied. Seeing Albert’s confusion, he weakly waved his hand and added, “Don’t worry about it. Professional terminology. What matters is that the effect worked. All that’s left is fine-tuning. I’m hopeful that I now have a reliable trump card for any future... complications.”

“I’d rather avoid those altogether.”

“So would I. But I’ve never been an optimist.”

The two fell into silence, each lost in thought. For Kayneth, the foremost concern was the adjustments he’d need to make to the ritual and the mystic code to stabilize it. With some effort, he removed the now-cooled medallion from his neck, awkwardly flipped open the cover, and touched the accumulator inside. The tungsten fragment was dead—completely drained of energy before his internal reserves were also exhausted. But the core itself had survived without melting or losing its internal structure, meaning it could be reused without crafting a new one.

The medallion, however, was a different story. The metal was too damaged internally to withstand another summoning and would need replacement. Closing it with a snap, he traced the lines of the magic circle etched on the cover, mentally reviewing his calculations.

The Holy Grail War’s summoning ritual had introduced a ranking system to classify the relative strength of Servants and their weapons for the masters’ convenience. The scale, simple but effective, ranged from E to A, with pluses and minuses, akin to modern academic grading. Though developed nearly two centuries ago, it was still a rough approximation, given the limited data from the few times the ritual had been conducted.

An E-rank stat represented an ability—strength, endurance, agility—ten times greater than that of an average modern human. Each rank multiplied the baseline by ten. Thus, A-rank agility indicated speed and reflexes fifty times greater than a human’s. Diarmuid, under Kayneth’s control, had possessed B-rank strength (roughly forty times human capacity) and A+ agility, capable of breaking the sound barrier on foot and delivering spear strikes at over twice Mach speed with, with potential bursts exceeding the human limit by a hundredfold

Even at his most ambitious, Kayneth hadn’t aimed for such stats. Not even with his native circuits and family crest, let alone his current state. His goal had been far more modest: enhancing his physical abilities to an E-rank equivalent—ten times human capacity in speed, strength, and durability.

But even that modest goal was out of reach with his current resources. To maintain such a level of contact with the spirit for even one minute would require another six months of charging the accumulator at the same rate. The solution was obvious: he’d have to scale back. Accept less power. Even so, the technique could still give him a critical edge against local wizards, their reflexes, and their reactions.

But something was still missing...

"Mr. MacDuggal, do you remember our conversation about exotic weaponry?" Kayneth asked suddenly.

"What?" Albert replied, pulled out of his thoughts. "Yeah, I remember. So, that's what you needed for this 'insurance' of yours?"

"Precisely. I’ll need a spear. It’s not urgent, not before next month, but I’ll be expecting it to be crafted to the highest standard."

"Anything you want, as long as you’re paying," the merchant agreed easily. "Is there a specific design, or will any spear do?"

"When we’re back at the workshop, I’ll show you a replica. You can examine it, record measurements, and so on." After a moment's thought, Kayneth added reluctantly, "We’ll also need to adjust it for my height and reach."

"That all?"

"For now, yes. Later, there might be more orders. Besides, in a couple of years, it’ll need resizing when I grow taller."

"Fine by me, as long as the money flows."

Kayneth said nothing in response, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. His strength was completely drained, even the effort of turning toward Albert or raising his hand felt insurmountable. It had only been a few days since the wounds from his previous experiment had healed. He made a mental note to thank that young witch—her recommendations for potions had been genuinely helpful. On his next trip to the magical quarter, he’d have to stock up again. Magical injuries and curses were professional hazards, after all, occurring with unsettling regularity.

His thoughts drifted from injuries back to weaponry. His Servant's spear in the Grail War possessed a conceptual attack that inflicted wounds that wouldn’t heal, but with only a surface-level connection to the spirit, reproducing that mystery—even in a diluted form—was impossible. All he could hope to replicate was the weapon's craftsmanship and balance.

Additionally, the real Diarmuid Ua Duibhne had been famed (among the few who even knew his name) for wielding four distinct weapons of rare power, each with a name: two swords and two spears. However, Servants summoned in the Grail War were limited to a specific combat role. For example, King Arthur was proficient with a spear in life, but as a Saber-class Servant, that skill was set aside in favor of swordsmanship. In Kayneth’s case, the inverse had occurred—he summoned Diarmuid as a Lancer because the Saber role had already been claimed by the cursed master of the Einzberns.

The spirit summoned today retained those same class limitations. Kayneth could feel it—using a replica of Moralltach, Diarmuid’s primary sword gifted by his foster father, the god Aengus, would be far less effective than wielding a copy of his spear. Perhaps one day, as his rituals advanced and his energy reserves grew, he could bypass such limitations. But that day was far off.

"By the way, August is around the corner," Albert remarked as they reached the workshop, now sealed off from the outside world with wards. His guards waited in the car below. "I’ve got a few ‘patients’ in the works. Should I assume they’ll need to be moved out of the city for the operation?"

"Yes, the risk has to be minimized. Ideally, we’d meet outside of England altogether. Somewhere in Wales, perhaps—away from major cities. I’ll need a few hours to examine them, plus all the data from their doctors. Then three days to prepare, and about half an hour for the actual… procedure."

"You’re telling me you can read ultrasound and MRI data?" MacDuggal asked skeptically.

"Of course," Kayneth replied with a shrug, adding dismissively, "Though the technology is primitive compared to our methods, it’s useful for verification."

"Hey, James, how old are you really?"

"Does it matter?" Kayneth responded indifferently. He harbored no illusions about his acting skills—he could fool children or a naive trainee like Tonks, especially when playing a specific role, but even Fletcher had seen through him. Albert, who was privy to most of his projects, certainly wouldn’t buy into any pretense.

"Not really," Albert said with a shrug. "But if it’s marketable—"

"Forget it," Kayneth cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "It’s impossible. I couldn’t replicate it even for myself, nor would I. It was a unique case. End of discussion."

"Fair enough, unique is unique," the squib replied, surprisingly agreeable. "Let’s focus on your spear for now."

"For now, yes," Kayneth replied, summoning the image of Gáe Buidhe—the Yellow Spear of Diarmuid—etched vividly into his mind from both the Servant’s memories and his own visions. He pictured every detail: its weight, the feel of it in hand, the sensation of striking an enemy. Raising his hand, he cast a spell, conjuring a temporary replica from magical energy.

"Gradation Air."

Late that night, after setting aside a book on magical creatures, Kayneth stretched and practically slumped into his chair. Even with his experience in such rituals, summoning a spirit into his own body was profoundly exhausting, especially when it involved a being as powerful as a hero’s soul—however small a fragment it might have been.

The chair didn’t help, either. He’d outright refused to use a child-sized one, but the adult chair delivered was far from ideal. He practically sank into it, and his feet barely touched the floor. Humiliating.

Pushing such dreary thoughts aside, he glanced at the tungsten accumulator now back on its stand. Tomorrow, he’d need to start recharging it again. And the day after that. And many more days to come.

But for now, he had a new weapon—a safeguard that could save his life in a crisis. That brought a sense of certainty and confidence to his plans. For the immediate future, today’s events changed little. The mystic code would be ready by the end of the month, opening the door to more experiments. Next on his agenda was meeting the magus girl from the first generation in two days.

Kayneth wasn’t so sure he wanted to go. He’d reviewed his options repeatedly over the past few days, and the picture was far from clear.

In about thirteen months, he—or rather, James—would receive the letter inviting him to Britain’s Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There was no alternative institution to choose from, though with widespread teleportation mysteries, traveling from Manchester to a school on the French coast once every six months shouldn’t have been an issue if their curriculum was more appealing.

The letter, according to Hogwarts: A History and other sources, wasn’t a geas or magical contract that compelled a wizard to attend. The selection process relied on two ancient artifacts over a thousand years old, their workings largely a mystery to modern wizards. It was widely believed they never erred.

However, after receiving the letter, a wizard could decline enrollment. They could pursue magical education independently, due to financial constraints, or even reject the magical world altogether. While rare, the last option was mentioned in one book, along with an ominous note that such refusals resulted in close surveillance by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if all attempts at persuasion failed. The reason for this wasn’t specified.

The last option was never seriously considered by Kayneth. And the potential problems with finances were already resolved. That left him with two realistic paths, each with its own advantages and drawbacks.

Self-study offered unparalleled freedom. It allowed him to choose his subjects without interference (as long as it didn’t attract the Aurors’ attention), balance theory and practice as he pleased, and select his learning materials. Moreover, it wouldn’t prevent him from pursuing personal research or other projects. He wouldn’t be confined to books either; magical newspapers frequently advertised private tutoring services, available for the summer, an entire year, or even longer. These services often covered subjects not fully explored in the standard Hogwarts curriculum, like runic magic.

Additionally, an unstructured schedule would make it easier to maintain connections in both the magical and mundane black markets, ensuring a stable and even growing income. However, self-study came with a significant drawback: it required a robust foundation of knowledge and resources—a luxury the Archibald family had in his former world but which he lacked here.

On the other hand, Hogwarts was more than just a chaotic gathering of hyperactive student wizards, each carrying a wand capable of turning someone to ash with a single word. According to Hogwarts: A History, the school boasted a vast library, various laboratories, extensive supplies of potions, rare reagents, mystic codes, greenhouses with unique magical plants, and an expansive forest teeming with mythical creatures and beings like centaurs. There were also many reputable professors and the prestige of attending Britain’s most renowned magical school—a claim he cautiously accepted, given his lack of foreign sources for comparison.

However, the downsides were significant. Nine months of constant supervision, living in close quarters with noisy children, and being surrounded by universal mystic codes capable of destruction at the slightest whim were far from ideal. Adding to this was the school’s isolation, preventing students from leaving legally, and the necessity of sharing a dormitory. Even during his time at the Clock Tower as a student, Kayneth had lived separately, supported by his family’s wealth. He would now have to endure eight years without the option of moving into better, more spacious accommodations due to a lack of funds that would dry out during the school year and time. The implications for his comfort and freedom were bleak.

Beyond these considerations, the social aspect loomed large. Simply walking through the magical quarter, one couldn’t avoid overhearing snippets of conversation. Nearly all of them revolved around Hogwarts—who studied there, with whom, in what year, and in which house. The school held a far more central role in magical Britain than the Clock Tower did for magi in the Mage’s Association. To decline attendance would mean forfeiting a vast network of connections, acquaintances, and potential future allies. These ties could prove invaluable. Moreover, skipping Hogwarts would make taking the OWLs and NEWTs far more complicated—exams without which finding a job in the Ministry or private sector would be impossible. While it was technically possible to take these exams independently, doing so would create additional challenges.

Kayneth sighed, casting a tired glance at the cluttered table in front of him. One side was piled with finished products for sale and the results of his personal projects, while the other held unfinished items awaiting refinement. Among them were gloves, another dagger, the beginnings of a summoning amulet, a few bracelets, rings, and even two small piles of ordinary coins.

The coins, in particular, filled him with quiet pride—a clever solution to the problem of circumventing inspections. Using a catalyst, typically blood, the scattered coins could fuse into a single blank that would reshape into a slim stiletto. While the nickel-copper-steel alloy blade wouldn’t pierce chainmail or enchanted fabrics, it was more than sufficient against mundane clothing and flesh.

Still, the scene revealed a pressing issue: he was already struggling with a lack of hands. For now, he relied on MacDuggal and his resources to test his prototypes, but that was far from ideal. Albert was only human, charged for his assistance, had plenty of his own affairs to manage, and likely humored Kayneth only because he recognized the value of such an asset. What Kayneth needed were his own assistants—but where could he find them in his current position?

Legally, he wasn’t even considered a wizard until the age of eleven, when he would acquire his own wand. Without a recognized pedigree or patronage, attracting apprentices or helpers was a pipe dream. While he could hire assistants for a fee, the cost would be prohibitive, and skilled experts wouldn’t take such a job. Mediocre talent, meanwhile, was useless to him. The creation of homunculi or chimeras, especially intelligent ones, as assistants required resources, equipment, and time—things he lacked. The only viable option left was the slow, arduous route of building relationships and eventually gaining followers among his peers, establishing authority over time.

Unable to reach a definitive decision, Kayneth resolved to gather more information about Hogwarts. Firsthand accounts, even from a first-generation witch like Granger, would help him better anticipate what to expect. He needed to know what would seem surprising and what wouldn’t, where to show interest, and where to feign indifference.

Kayneth wasn’t as disconnected from the mundane world as the pureblood wizards here. At the very least, he wouldn’t mistake a television remote for a telephone. His primary interests lay in applied sciences—medicine, chemistry, and biology. Secondary priorities included non-magical innovations that could make life more comfortable, such as household electronics, fast transportation, and modern communication methods. However, he had no insight into what fascinated modern children from less affluent families, what they watched on TV, what they read (if they read at all), how they dressed, or what they discussed. Nor did he particularly want to know. Nonetheless, a firsthand perspective from a typical "Muggle-born," as the locals called them, could help him refine the credibility of his cover story.

Settling on this course of action, he nodded to himself, turned off the desk lamp, and closed his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly in his chair. The day’s exertions—especially the brief contact with the spirit—had drained him entirely.

For once, his dreams were not of his death but of battles between powerful summons, ancient blades glowing with magic, and Diarmuid Ua Duibhne pierced by a crimson spear, cursing him, his killer, over and over.