[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 611 - 615

Chapter 611

Deep in the London Sanctum

Master Tobi and Strange followed a young sorcerer into the depths of the sanctum. Both men looked apprehensive, as if they already knew what awaited them ahead. After all, they had all heard rumors about the coldness and ruthlessness of the interrogating sorcerers. If nothing else, the fact that no one had seen the captured traitor sorcerers since they were brought in was enough to make anyone uneasy.

Tread! Tread! Tread!

As the sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor, Master Tobi quickly composed himself. After all, if you are upright, you have nothing to fear. He had been a battle sorcerer for so long that he knew how to read people. Besides, what could he, a well-established sorcerer from the London Sanctum, possibly have to worry about?

He glanced at Strange beside him. Seeing his companion's usual expression, he nodded slightly.

Soon, the three of them arrived at a door.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

After the knock, a voice from inside invited them to enter. The three of them filed in and saw Master Martin studying at a table. He was dressed in plain white clothes with a gentle expression that didn't seem at all intimidating. He appeared to have been looking at something interesting, a faint smile perpetually resting on his face.

After the lead sorcerer brought Tobi and Strange in, he quietly retreated. Master Martin looked at the two of them, stood up quickly, and said enthusiastically, "This is Master Tobi and Master Strange, correct? I've heard your names for quite some time."

"Master Tobi, you just captured a traitor alive, which made a significant contribution to rooting out traitors in the London Sanctum."

Tobi raised his head slightly at the compliment, a trace of pride crossing his face. No matter what, praise always felt good.

Then Martin turned to Strange and continued, "Master Strange, perhaps this is the first time we've met. I heard about your reputation as a genius when you were at Kamar-Taj. You are indeed remarkable. In less than three months, your combat prowess is comparable to that of an average battle sorcerer. With you joining the London Sanctum, I believe we will be better equipped to deal with dimensional invasions."

Strange studied Master Martin as he spoke and smiled politely. He didn't know why, but he felt uneasy. Yet something gave him confidence. He raised his head slightly and replied with restraint, "You're too kind. I have gained so much from my time in the London Sanctum. I consider myself fortunate to be here."

"Come, come, sit down. Would you like some tea or water?" Master Martin waved them over with the same enthusiasm. Two chairs had been placed in front of the table for them.

"Anything is fine," Tobi and Strange said simultaneously.

Martin waved the sling ring in his hand, and the fragrance of tea began to emanate from the cups. He sat down with a notebook in hand.

"We invited you two here for a routine inquiry. Don't worry, this is my job too—every sorcerer goes through this. You just need to answer a few questions."

Tobi and Strange sat at the table and glanced at the tea in their cups. Neither moved to drink, but both nodded in agreement.

"Sorcerers, the first question is simple. Have you known the two traitor sorcerers we arrested before? Or to what extent are you familiar with them?"

"Both sorcerers know each other and have had drinks before, but we don't have a close relationship," Tobi replied after a moment's thought.

"I know Master Laurent. When I borrowed books previously, he recommended some to me," Strange added. "And Master Rook, I only met him briefly before."

Strange paused and explained casually, "I have only been in the London Sanctum for two months. Many sorcerers I've just met and barely know their names. I am familiar only with those who have participated in missions with me."

There seemed to be no doubt about their answers. Martin nodded, wrote a line of text with his pen, and continued.

"Sorcerers, can you describe the process of capturing the traitor today? I need to briefly record it."

"I fought against Master Laurent. He was weaker than me, but he had many tricks and various spells, which made me somewhat anxious. However, his strength was ultimately limited..." Master Tobi detailed his battle process while Martin wrote continuously.

When Master Tobi finished speaking, both turned their attention to Strange.

"I was fighting against Master Rook. He was stronger than me and has much more melee experience than I do..." Strange described his own fight, explaining that due to his inexperience, Rook had managed to escape.

"Oh, then traitor Rook was quite fortunate," Master Martin commented simply after listening.

Then he added, "I have a small question. Why not let Master Tobi fight traitor Rook? Sorcerer Strange, you've only recently joined the London Sanctum and are weaker than Rook."

Martin's tone conveyed genuine confusion.

"This was the battle plan I proposed," Strange replied quickly, his heart skipping a beat at the question. "My original intention was for Tobi to capture Laurent first, while I kept Rook occupied. Then, once the superior sorcerer had dealt with Laurent, he could support me."

"Yes, I thought it was a good plan," Tobi added. "I've fought Laurent before and knew he was weaker than me. I just didn't expect him to have so many tricks that could hold me back. Unfortunately, it gave Rook a chance to escape." His face showed clear annoyance.

Martin nodded and didn't pursue the question further. It seemed he had learned what he wanted, which reassured Strange.

He proceeded to ask the two several more questions in succession: Had they dispatched immediately after receiving the mission? During the arrest process, had they noticed any unusual behavior? Had they observed other sorcerers acting strangely recently?

Tobi and Strange answered each question truthfully. Martin didn't appear fixated on any particular issue, maintaining his gentle demeanor throughout. Most of the time, he simply recorded their conversation.

Both Tobi and Strange began to relax. Being questioned wasn't as harsh as they had imagined.

Then, as if making casual conversation, Martin seemed to complain, "The London Sanctum is very good to these traitors. It provides all kinds of resources and magical knowledge. Yet surprisingly, this couldn't satisfy them, and they chose to betray us."

"They talk about becoming free, getting rid of the shackles of gods, devouring them, and so on. How can there be pure freedom in life? Some people simply use the glorious coat of freedom to cover up their dirty purposes."

"Don't you think so, sorcerers?"

Chapter 612

Hearing those words, Strange’s heart suddenly skipped a beat.

Yes... those were the very words used by the fallen sorcerers—the ones who had lured traitors to their side. He had heard them with his own ears. Their rhetoric was always the same: all gods are alike, feeding on the souls of believers.

The only difference, they claimed, was that the evil gods like Dormammu and Mephisto were more overt and brutal in their methods—devouring souls directly or refining them into soul essence. Others, like turning followers into mindless puppets of faith.

By contrast, gods aligned with order, such as the Vishanti, used subtler, more graceful means. Souls would be claimed only after death, and then transformed into so-called Holy Spirits—beings akin to angels.

But the essence was no different: servitude. One lost their mind; the other retained just enough to function. Still puppets, either way.

When this cruel truth of the dimensional gods came to light, many sorcerers wavered.

Even Strange had been shaken.

A genius like him had no desire to be someone’s puppet, in life or after death.

And when a fallen sorcerer whispered of a forbidden ritual—one capable of severing the soul’s tether to the Vishanti...

That was the first taste of temptation. The first step toward the fall.

At first, the dealings seemed small—harmless.

But it was just like striking a deal with the devil.

One step… then another... deeper and deeper into the abyss.

Forbidden arcane magics. Mysterious chaos spells. The promise of divinity itself.

Each step led further down.

And it had all started with a simple slogan:

“Free from God. Free!”

“This is utter nonsense,” Master Tobi said dismissively.

“Master Martin, you’re absolutely right. How can one learn magic without sacrifice? Those fallen sorcerers surely struck deals with evil gods. I fear their souls are already damned.”

“Our duty at Kamar-Taj is to preserve order and protect Earth from the gaze of the dimensional fiends. If every sorcerer gave in to such selfish delusions, the Earth would’ve fallen long ago.”

“Would we still be learning magic now? Or would our souls be flickering like lanterns inside the eye sockets of demons?”

He scoffed, voice rising with righteous fervor. “It’s nothing but self-serving drivel. High-sounding excuses for cowardice. They take themselves too seriously and dress up their betrayal in talk of freedom.”

“Everyone dies eventually. No one escapes it. As Kamar-Taj sorcerers, when we fall in battle, we return to the realm of the Vishanti and Agamotto.”

Martin’s eyes lit up as he listened to Tobi’s words.

What a loyal soul, he thought. Worthy of Kamar-Taj.

Tobi had trained in Kamar-Taj since childhood. His parents didn’t even know if he was alive or dead. He had received the most orthodox magical education Kamar-Taj had to offer.

Just as he said—Kamar-Taj never shied away from the truth that their path led to battle... and death. Yet they chose it to protect the Earth. To uphold peace.

And when they died, it was like the legends of Asgard’s warriors entering the Halls of Valhalla.

A sorcerer’s sacrifice meant ascension to the realm of the Vishanti—a noble afterlife.

This belief was the spiritual pillar many Masters leaned on in their darkest hours.

Strange’s expression shifted subtly as he listened.

He understood Tobi’s words, of course.

But he couldn’t fully believe them.

He was a latecomer to the mystic arts. And deep down, he suspected all of this was just Kamar-Taj’s version of indoctrination.

Brainwashing, in essence.

After all, he had once been a world-class neurosurgeon with dual doctorates. Rationality still ruled his thoughts.

“What do you think, Sorcerer Strange?” Master Martin asked.

His gaze was probing, intrigued. It was clear he wanted to hear what Strange had to say.

After all, Strange was famous both inside and outside Kamar-Taj.

Especially considering he had only joined less than a year ago.

“I agree with you, Master Martin,” Strange said evenly. “These slogans are nothing more than bait—misleading words used to seduce inexperienced sorcerers into corruption and betrayal.”

As he spoke, Strange recalled the request the fallen sorcerer had made—for intel.

“They’re clearly following a calculated plan,” he continued. “They want cannon fodder. Spies. And they want to uncover the defenses of the London Sanctum.”

“Spreading confusion, leaking sensitive information, throwing the Sanctum’s strategies into disarray…”

Strange’s calm analysis made Martin’s brows twitch slightly. His eyes gestured for Strange to go on.

“They use half-truths—blending lies with real concerns—to shake the faith of sorcerers who can’t think independently.”

“Judging by how many traitors they’ve developed within the London Sanctum…”

“I suspect they have a much larger plot involving London.”

“And whatever that plot is, it’s significant enough to justify direct infiltration of the Sanctum. That kind of risk… it means they’ve likely made contact with one or more dimensional evil gods.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed.

“Why are you so sure, Master Strange?”

Strange met his gaze. “Because of that slogan—‘Free from God.’ You don’t chant something like that unless you’ve seen something… or learned something forbidden.”

“If they’re shouting that kind of slogan, it means they’ve accessed information the average sorcerer shouldn’t know.”

“And to access such secrets... they either spoke with a dimensional god directly or received knowledge exchanged between those beings.”

Martin hummed, low and thoughtful. “Oh?”

It sounded disinterested, but something flickered behind his eyes.

Strange fell silent, sensing he might’ve spoken too much.

Did I go too far? he wondered.

At some point, a small purple incense burner had appeared on the table beside them, releasing a faint, soothing aroma into the room.

Martin’s voice remained calm. “The questioning is over for now. You may both return.”

“Oh—and please don’t share anything we discussed today with others.”

Tobi and Strange nodded. Rising, they turned and exited the chamber.

Thud.

The door closed behind them.

Martin leaned back in his chair, eyes falling on the incense burner. Its fragrance curled like smoke, calm and delicate. But his gaze darkened.

As a Kamar-Taj interrogation sorcerer, his methods weren’t limited to questions alone.

The incense had properties that gently loosened the tongue—compelling sorcerers to speak their truths.

Master Tobi’s righteous outburst. Strange’s composed deduction.

Both were colored, perhaps subtly, by the incense’s influence.

Of course, if someone resisted and attempted to lie...

Martin could still detect the smallest ripple of deception.

He chuckled quietly.

“This Master Strange is… fascinating.”

“I wonder what he’s hiding.”

Chapter 613

The world-renowned British Library stood majestic in London, its halls always welcoming patrons from all walks of life. At this moment, people moved throughout the library with practiced reverence—voices lowered to hushed whispers and footsteps lightened to gentle taps against the polished floor. In such a hallowed sanctuary of knowledge, any disruption was considered a breach of the unspoken covenant between visitors and the ancient tomes that lined the walls.

Throughout the vast space, reading tables were strategically placed, appearing every few steps as islands of concentration. Each table hosted a diverse collection of individuals: young academics with furrowed brows, elegant women with notebooks poised, elderly gentlemen peering through wire-rimmed spectacles. Many visitors weren't just reading but typing away on keyboards, their fingers dancing across the keys as they transcribed their findings or composed their thoughts.

Tread. Tread. Tread.

A faint sound of measured footsteps broke the ambient silence as a middle-aged man in an impeccable black suit approached a desk tucked away in the corner by a large window. A man was already seated there, his attention fixed on the leather-bound volume before him, slender fingers tracing lines of ancient text with practiced precision.

The newcomer settled into the chair opposite and studied the sorcerer who continued reading, seemingly oblivious to his arrival.

"Master Strange," he finally said, keeping his voice low enough to avoid drawing attention but clear enough to penetrate the sorcerer's concentration. "I didn't expect you to arrange a meeting with me here."

"Of course," Doctor Stephen Strange replied, lifting his gaze from the book to study the vaguely familiar face before him. His eyes, having seen dimensions beyond mortal comprehension, assessed the fallen sorcerer with clinical detachment. "Almost no one knows what you are doing now. I'm already taking a huge risk by meeting you."

Hearing this, the fallen sorcerer's expression momentarily hardened, but he quickly composed himself, glancing around the library before offering a practiced smile. "That's right. No one would have thought that we would meet in the British Library." He clicked his tongue in appreciation. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. You are indeed Master Strange. You have a very flexible mind."

"Don't flatter me," Strange countered, his tone sharpening. "The day before yesterday, I put one of your people away."

The middle-aged man's smile never faltered. "That shows my sincerity."

"Now, don't forget what I asked for before."

"Of course, of course. I will never forget this," the fallen sorcerer assured, his voice smooth as silk. "The secret method is ready. As soon as the contract is signed, it can be given to you immediately."

What Strange sought was no ordinary spell—it was an arcane technique capable of blocking or even severing the watchful gaze of gods themselves. A power that could grant him unprecedented freedom from cosmic surveillance. However, the fallen sorcerer, while willing to trade this secret, had imposed strict conditions: a magical contract.

By signing this contract, Strange would bind himself to never reveal secrets or information about the fallen sorcerers' order. The consequences would be severe—just like the traitorous Master Laurent before him, any attempt to betray them would result in immediate death, thoughts extinguished before they could materialize into words, culminating in a gruesome explosion of the mind.

The terms were draconian, and Strange wasn't one to sign such agreements lightly. Even if it was purportedly for confidentiality alone, the implications weighed heavily on him.

Strange's face betrayed his internal conflict. Initially, he had harbored reservations about such a binding contract. Now, having witnessed the fate of those who had broken similar agreements, his reluctance had only intensified.

"Sorcerer Strange," the middle-aged man said, noticing Strange's hesitation, "you know, we only use the contract to keep secrets. It does not involve anything else." His voice took on a persuasive tone, like a serpent offering forbidden knowledge.

Which sorcerer wouldn't be wary of signing a mystical contract? Yet these fallen practitioners had their methods. A contract presented as pure confidentiality could easily disarm even the most cautious minds.

Their strategy was clear: once Strange obtained the secret method, he would inevitably need additional resources they controlled. As long as demand existed, transactions would follow. And with each transaction, wouldn't Strange become increasingly entangled in their web, manipulated step by step from minor involvement to full immersion?

Strange remained hesitant. His previous dealings with this clandestine group had been relatively innocuous, never involving the exchange of crucial information. Whenever they had requested access to vital knowledge, he had firmly declined.

Consequently, while he had managed to acquire some insights into chaos magic from these fallen sorcerers, his gains had been modest—one or two spells at most, nothing that could compromise his standing with the Masters of the Mystic Arts.

However, it was evident that to obtain this pivotal technique—one that could shield him from divine observation—he would need to sign this contract, thereby deepening his connection to their shadowy order.

To claim that Strange didn't desire this secret method would be patently false. The ability to operate beyond the notice of cosmic entities offered possibilities that set his mind ablaze with potential. Yet his reluctance to sign the contract was equally genuine. Such a binding agreement would inevitably complicate his future endeavors.

Suddenly, Strange's expression shifted subtly, as if he'd made a decision.

"Okay, okay," he said after a moment of contemplation, nodding in agreement. "However, I need to read the contract carefully." His eyes narrowed with determination. "There must also be added information about the authenticity and integrity of the secret method, as well as the training resources you need to provide me."

Strange wasn't naive. What if the method they provided was incomplete or deliberately flawed in critical aspects? Despite his reputation as a prodigy who had mastered in a single year what took others decades to learn, if they truly intended to deceive him, they might succeed.

Therefore, the method had to be genuine and complete, without omissions or deceptions. Furthermore, if specialized resources were required for its implementation, they must provide those as well. Otherwise, what difference would there be between an incomplete method and one that couldn't be executed?

Facing Strange's stipulations, the middle-aged fallen sorcerer frowned, creases forming on his forehead like cracks in a mask.

There was nothing unusual about ensuring a magical technique was authentic, effective, and complete—virtually every sorcerer would make similar demands. But Strange's request for resources presented a problem. If they provided everything he needed, how would they maintain leverage for future collaborations?

"Master Strange," the fallen sorcerer said, his voice taking on an edge, "don't worry, the secret method is absolutely complete. This can be clearly stated in the contract." He leaned forward slightly. "However, we waste resources and even take huge risks to collect them. You sign a contract, and then you open your mouth and expect to get everything." His eyes glinted with displeasure. "Don't you think your requirements are a little too high?"

Strange met his gaze evenly. "It's not that I'm being demanding, but the risks for your cooperation are also very high." His voice lowered to barely above a whisper. "No one knows what you're planning now. The London Sanctum will investigate everyone one by one." A pause, heavy with implication. "Many people who believed in you must have died."

The middle-aged sorcerer's face transformed instantly, coldness spreading across his features like frost on glass. Strange had clearly struck a sensitive point, piercing through the carefully maintained veneer of control.

Recognizing this, Strange quickly adjusted his approach. "Actually," he said, his tone softening, "I mainly want to quickly learn the secret technique and get rid of the shackles of the gods." He made a placating gesture with his hand. "I know, maybe what I want is a bit too much for you."

"It's good that you know," the sorcerer replied with a cold snort.

"But you also have to know that the risks I take are also huge," Strange continued. "Every sorcerer is trying to protect themselves now. Is there any sorcerer who is willing to continue to provide you with valuable information like I am?"

After hearing this, the fallen sorcerer's expression relaxed slightly, though a remnant of irritation still lingered in his eyes. "That is still not a reason for you to ask for so many important resources."

"Okay, okay, I understand," Strange conceded with a sigh. "In that case, at least give me one resource that I can practice with. I need to verify the authenticity of the secret method. If it is effective and I can practice it—" He spread his hands in a gesture of reasonableness. "That would be acceptable."

The fallen sorcerer fell silent, his eyes distant as if calculating Strange's value to their cause, or perhaps communing with some unseen entity. The ambient sounds of the library—pages turning, keyboards clicking, hushed conversations—filled the void between them.

Finally, he spoke. "Okay, I can give you the first batch of training resources for free." His tone was measured, each word carefully chosen. "After successful training, the rest can only be obtained through further transactions." He reached into his jacket and produced a small roll of parchment, placing it on the table between them. "The contract is here. Take a look at it. If it's okay, just sign it."

His tone had hardened, carrying a hint of resentment as if he felt coerced into this concession. However, given the current precarious situation their order faced, they genuinely needed a talent of Strange's caliber.

Strange carefully unrolled the parchment and studied the arcane script that danced across its surface. The words seemed to shimmer and shift, magical binding encoded in each curve and line.

"Okay, alright," he said finally.

Strange's spiritual power surged forth, a manifestation of his will and essence, flowing onto the parchment as he signed the contract with more than just a mark—he signed it with a fragment of his soul.

The fallen sorcerer opposite him seemed to sense the binding taking hold, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face. The contract was signed, and everything would proceed as he had foreseen.

However, in his moment of triumph, he failed to notice that as Strange completed his signature, a subtle, colorful, dreamy light briefly shimmered around the hand.

It was unmistakable to those who knew what to look for—the power of dreams, weaving into the very fabric of the contract, altering its nature in ways imperceptible to the fallen sorcerer.

Chapter 614

"Master Strange, the secret method has been given to you," the fallen sorcerer said, sliding a small, ornate scroll across the polished mahogany table. "You can study it first." His fingers lingered briefly on the parchment before withdrawing, as though reluctant to part with such valuable knowledge. "I will also send people here to deliver the follow-up resources."

"Okay," Strange nodded, his expression carefully neutral as he accepted the scroll. "I will contact you if I obtain valuable information later."

After this brief exchange, Strange watched the middle-aged fallen sorcerer rise from his chair and depart, his black suit almost disappearing among the shadows cast by the towering bookshelves of the British Library.

When the figure of the fallen sorcerer had completely vanished from sight...

Buzz!

Colorful lights flashed around Strange, and the space surrounding him seemed to distort and ripple like the surface of a disturbed pond. The chair he was sitting on dissolved into iridescent bubbles that popped silently before disappearing entirely. In its place appeared a short, ugly house elf with large bat-like ears and bulging eyes.

Simultaneously, not far from Strange's desk, three familiar figures materialized as though stepping through an invisible doorway.

Two were seated, and one stood with the distinctive straight-backed posture of a man accustomed to command.

The seated figures were none other than Gilderoy Lockhart and Master Arnold from Kamar-Taj.

And standing there, watching the scene unfold with keen interest, was Stephen Strange himself.

The real Stephen Strange.

At this moment, Strange was staring at his original position with surprise in his eyes, watching as the illusion he had participated in creating came to its conclusion.

Yes, although he had some contact with the fallen sorcerers and was genuinely interested in their secret method of severing connections with the gods, he had never intended to sacrifice his integrity for such knowledge.

His reluctance wasn't born from fear of discovery or disdain for the fallen sorcerers and their teachings. It was simply a matter of principle and value. They were attempting to use these forbidden techniques to seduce him into betraying Kamar-Taj. Who did they think they were dealing with?

To put it plainly, as a natural prodigy, in less than a year he had become comparable to battle sorcerers who had trained for decades. His meteoric rise through the ranks at Kamar-Taj was unprecedented.

He harbored absolute confidence that he would become one of the most powerful sorcerers in existence, given time.

And now these renegades expected him to betray Kamar-Taj for a secret method that might not even be authentic? The proposition was laughable.

It wasn't worth it.

Although those secret methods appeared promising, Strange knew it wasn't impossible for him to discover or develop similar techniques in the future through legitimate means. After all, he had only been studying the mystic arts for less than a year.

He was exceptionally confident and justifiably proud of his abilities.

So when these traitors had approached him, he hadn't immediately rejected their advances. Instead, he had conceived a plan—if he could trick them into surrendering their coveted secret method without compromising himself, that would be an optimal outcome.

However, as a precaution against unforeseen complications, he had contacted Lockhart and, through Lockhart's extensive connections, he had subsequently reached out to Master Arnold of Kamar-Taj.

After all, Lockhart had briefly served as his instructor before their paths diverged.

Through this indirect communication channel, Strange believed Master Arnold would maintain discretion even if he became aware of the situation. Lockhart's reputation and influence throughout Kamar-Taj remained considerable, despite his unconventional methods.

If Strange had approached Master Arnold directly, there was no telling what complications might have arisen. While he wouldn't have been immediately classified as a traitor, he would most likely have been subjected to various restrictions and perhaps even assigned special tasks under close supervision.

He wanted none of that—he cherished his freedom and his life too much to submit to such constraints.

The binding magical contract that the fallen sorcerer had attempted to make him sign was precisely the type of restriction he adamantly refused to accept.

Fortunately, Lockhart had intervened with his characteristic flair and exempted Strange from the contract's binding power through clever magical substitution.

Otherwise, after signing such a contract, Strange would have been plagued by constant worry about its hidden clauses and unforeseen consequences.

"Strange," Lockhart spoke, his voice carrying the smooth, practiced cadence of a man accustomed to public speaking, "although I used my illusion to have the house elf sign the contract in your stead and thus circumvented their binding restrictions, there remains a chance of discovery if you come into close proximity with the owner of the contract."

As he spoke, Lockhart waved his hand in an elegant gesture. In an instant, a black shadow flashed across the space between them, and the house elf appeared at Lockhart's side, standing at attention with its large eyes fixed unblinkingly on its master.

Lockhart drew his ornate wand from within his immaculately tailored robes. With practiced precision, he tapped the elf's wrinkled head gently, then withdrew the wand with a smooth pulling motion. As he did so, a gossamer-thin gray thread slowly emerged from the elf's temple, clinging to the wand's tip.

With a simple flourish in the air, the gray thread twisted and transformed, reshaping itself into a perfect circle—a gray ring that pulsed with subtle magical energy.

The ring descended gracefully through the air, coming to rest in Strange's outstretched palm.

"Keep this ring with you," Lockhart instructed. "It contains the aura of the binding contract. It should be sufficient to maintain your deception, making it appear genuine to anyone who might check."

"That's excellent. Thank you, Mr. Lockhart," Strange replied quickly, his eyes reflecting genuine gratitude.

It had been a masterstroke to involve Lockhart, allowing him to obtain the fallen sorcerer's secrets and resources without cost or commitment. Now he needn't worry about being constrained by the contract, nor being branded a traitor to the sanctum.

Arnold, seated to the side with a rigid posture that betrayed his military background, observed Strange's expression of relief. His eyes narrowed slightly as he reminded Strange in a deep, authoritative voice: "Strange, don't forget your mission." He leaned forward, his gaze intensifying. "We need you to infiltrate the fallen sorcerers and provide us with sufficient intelligence on their activities."

Then, Arnold hesitated briefly, his jaw tightening before he continued: "As for the secret techniques of the fallen sorcerers... they must eventually be surrendered to Kamar-Taj." His tone softened marginally as he added, "If you wish to practice these techniques, you must report your intentions in advance and receive proper authorization."

There was no denying the allure of the fallen sorcerers' pursuit of unrestricted magical freedom—otherwise, there wouldn't be so many defectors from Kamar-Taj's ranks. Arnold harbored no illusions that Strange was wholly devoted to Kamar-Taj's principles; otherwise, the young sorcerer wouldn't have volunteered to venture into the dimensional gap so readily upon his arrival at the London Sanctum.

"Of course, Master Arnold," Strange assured him with confident conviction. "I will report any significant developments in real-time."

Privately, Strange reflected on his good fortune in having secured Lockhart's assistance. Had he reported directly to Arnold without this intermediary, it might have proven exceedingly difficult to gain access to these secret techniques without severe restrictions or consequences.

Cough!

"Arnold," Lockhart interjected with a slight, theatrical clearing of his throat, "I have other matters requiring my attention here. You two can discuss the next steps without me." He straightened his vibrant turquoise robes, a stark contrast to the muted tones of the library. "If you require my assistance with anything further, you know where to find me."

Seeing both men acknowledge his words with respective nods, Lockhart turned on his heel and departed, his stride purposeful and confident.

He truly did have pressing business elsewhere, and it was no trivial matter.

Vientiane World London

When preparing to mobilize most of the wizarding world's forces to London, Lockhart had taken the practical step of acquiring a new headquarters for his expanding network of allies and students.

To be precise, he had purchased a castle in the suburbs of London—a sprawling, ancient structure with stone walls that had witnessed centuries of British history.

Britain still boasted numerous castles scattered across its verdant countryside, but many stood abandoned, their grandeur fading in the remote reaches of the nation.

In recent decades, numerous noble families had found themselves financially strained by the demands of modern economics and unable to afford the exorbitant costs of maintaining and repairing their ancestral homes.

Many such families had reluctantly chosen to sell these historic properties, often at prices well below their historical value.

Lockhart, with his characteristic opportunism, had seized the moment and purchased an ancient castle with exceptionally spacious grounds to serve as a new residence and training facility for his growing number of students and allies.

At this moment, several young wizards and witches were seated on the castle's lush lawn, their attention rapt as they stared in undisguised awe at the powerful and handsome blond Asgardian wearing a flowing red cape who stood before them.

Yes, the familiar golden locks belonged to none other than Thor, the God of Thunder himself.

"I once fought with a fierce dragon in the Green Forest of Vanaheim," Thor proclaimed, his deep voice carrying easily across the castle grounds. He gestured dramatically with his hands, illustrating the tremendous size of the beast.

"That giant dragon was incredibly ferocious. Many Vanaheim warriors joined forces to kill it, but in the end, they were swallowed whole." His blue eyes sparkled with the memory of battle. "When I encountered it, I struck it directly on the head with Mjölnir." He mimicked the powerful swing of his hammer. "I hit it with such force that it didn't even react—its brain was addled by the blow!"

"Then I called for thunder..." Thor continued, electricity practically crackling in the air around him as his enthusiasm mounted.

The God of Thunder was now regaling these young wizards with tales of his past exploits, clearly relishing their rapt attention.

The young wizards, for their part, were well-aware of the relationship between the prince of Asgard and their mentor, Lockhart. They also recognized that Thor was a being of tremendous power, worthy of respect and admiration.

Therefore, they listened with genuine interest to the stories and experiences he shared, hanging on every word of his adventures across the Nine Realms.

Observing these young wizards with envy and admiration shining in their eyes, Thor became increasingly animated, his gestures growing more expansive and his descriptions more vivid.

At this moment, suddenly, his expression froze mid-sentence.

His eyes widened slightly as they fixed on a point behind the assembled students.

He had spotted a familiar figure standing at the edge of the gathering, watching the impromptu storytelling session with an amused smile.

None other than Gilderoy Lockhart himself.

Chapter 615

"Thor, what brings you to London?" Lockhart asked, settling into a plush leather chair behind his ornate desk in the study. The room was lined with ancient tomes and magical artifacts, the walls adorned with moving portraits of notable wizards who pretended not to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Lockhart poured a fragrant cup of Earl Grey tea for the Asgardian prince seated across from him, the delicate tea cup looking almost comically small in Thor's massive hands.

Thor picked up the teacup with surprising delicacy, took a cautious sip, then immediately tilted his head back and gulped the entire contents in one swift motion. His expression suggested he found the taste merely adequate—certainly not comparable to the mead of Asgard.

Watching Thor drink fine tea as though it were water from a mountain stream, Lockhart couldn't help but wince slightly, his eye twitching at the cultural dissonance.

Is this how you drink tea? he thought incredulously. You're supposed to savor it! Appreciate the subtle notes and aromas!

But Lockhart also understood the temperament of Asgardians well enough by now. In their eyes, wine and mead were the only beverages worthy of deliberate appreciation. Everything else was merely sustenance.

"As I told you during our last meeting," Thor began, setting the empty cup down with a soft clink, "my father sent me to Earth with two objectives. In addition to investigating the Vientiane World, he tasked me with something else of great importance."

Thor spoke with casual openness, as if he had designated Lockhart as a trusted ally, making this information not worth concealing. His candor suggested a level of trust that Lockhart found both flattering and strategically valuable.

"Lockhart, perhaps you are unaware of Midgard's true history," Thor continued, leaning forward slightly.

No, I know more than you might expect! Lockhart thought silently, but kept his expression attentive and curious, encouraging Thor to continue his explanation.

"The birth of this realm was far more complex than most understand," Thor said, his voice taking on the gravity of an ancient storyteller. "Earth in its primordial state was not as weak and fragile as it appears now."

He gestured broadly with one hand, as if encompassing the entire planet. "A multitude of dimensional gods are intimately connected to Earth, including us Asgardians."

Thor reached for the teapot and refilled his cup without waiting for Lockhart to offer. Again, he drained it in a single gulp, seemingly unaware of the proper tea-drinking etiquette. But he was clearly focused on conveying his message without unnecessary delay.

"Lockhart, you should understand that former Midgard—Earth—has endured several catastrophic wars throughout its existence, which has led to its current diminished state." Thor's blue eyes reflected a solemn knowledge of events spanning millennia. "Despite this degradation, Earth remains a rare and coveted treasure in the eyes of many cosmic entities."

He set his cup down with finality. "Nearly all dimensional powers have some involvement with this realm."

Thor's expression darkened. "And the Celestial began their machinations exceptionally early."

The God of Thunder leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper despite their privacy. "They buried an embryo of their kind deep within Earth's core countless eons ago, preparing to use your entire planet as nourishment to birth the most powerful of their species."

Noticing Lockhart's carefully neutral expression, Thor suddenly realized that his companion might be unfamiliar with the beings he referenced.

"The Celestials are an incredibly powerful cosmic race," he explained quickly. "Though few in number, their might is unparalleled. Even my father, Odin Allfather, regards them with great caution."

Thor's hands traced shapes in the air, as if attempting to illustrate concepts beyond mortal comprehension. "They are masterful creators of all manner of life forms and use entire planets as incubators for their young..."

The Asgardian prince launched into a detailed history of the Celestial, clearly intent on ensuring Lockhart understood the severity of the threat they potentially faced.

It seemed Thor wanted to impress upon Lockhart the true dangers posed by the Celestial Race, hoping to secure his full cooperation in the coming challenges.

However, Lockhart was far from ignorant regarding the Celestials.

The extensive libraries of Kamar-Taj contained numerous ancient texts documenting the cosmic entity's origins and activities throughout the universe. Moreover, in his previous life, Lockhart had witnessed vivid depictions of the Celestials in films that, while perhaps simplistic in their portrayal, had captured the fundamental horror of their reproductive cycle.

The most memorable image had been the cataclysmic emergence of a newborn Celestial from a planet's core—using the world itself as both eggshell and nourishment. These beings were truly god-level entities from the moment of their birth.

The gods referenced here were not the relatively comprehensible "divine beings" like the Asgardians, who despite their power and longevity were ultimately just an advanced alien race. No, the Celestials were true dimensional gods—beings of almost incomprehensible power and purpose.

The Celestial Race was unique and terrible in equal measure. Other beings might strive for millennia to reach power levels that remained forever beyond their grasp, yet such heights were merely the starting point for infant Celestials.

One could scarcely imagine the devastating potential such entities represented.

Yet this cosmic power came at a terrible price—the complete destruction of one high-quality planet after another, consumed like eggs in a cosmic omelet.

Lockhart had pieced together these conclusions from Kamar-Taj's fragmentary records and his own memories from a life that sometimes felt increasingly distant.

"Lockhart," Thor said, his voice pulling the wizard back to the present moment, "I need your assistance." His expression had grown grave. "According to the predictions of our foremost divination sorcerer, there exists a possibility that a Celestial embryo beneath this world may be awakening prematurely."

The God of Thunder gestured toward the window, indicating the sprawling city beyond. "London appears to be key to this mystery. Our seers believe it likely contains some vital component of the Celestial embryo."

Thor's eyes locked with Lockhart's. "We must remain vigilant, and we require the aid of local mystical practitioners such as yourself."

With unexpected formality, Thor extended his hand across the desk. "Lockhart, join our cause. I believe that with your expertise, we will successfully resolve this Celestial threat before catastrophe befalls your world."

Lockhart regarded the outstretched hand for only a moment before reaching out and clasping it firmly in his own. "Of course," he said without hesitation. "Every being who calls Earth home shares responsibility for its safety."

He nodded solemnly. "This is precisely the duty that we Masters of Kamar-Taj have sworn to uphold."

Refusing Thor's request was never a genuine possibility, especially considering the already established friendly relationship between the Vientiane World and Asgard. Lockhart had already accumulated several debts of gratitude toward Thor, and with the Asgardian placing such trust in him, declining would have been both foolish and discourteous.

Moreover...

"Thor," Lockhart said, his tone becoming cautious, "I have information that may be relevant to your concerns. Here in London, a faction of fallen sorcerers is currently conducting some manner of extensive ritual working. Their aim appears to be achieving godhood through questionable means."

Lockhart steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "Given this coincidence, coupled with what you've just revealed, I must wonder if there exists some connection between these seemingly separate events."

Indeed, London had become a nexus of extraordinary activity. The London Sanctum had always been positioned there as a mystical anchor point, but now the fallen sorcerers had mobilized their entire organization to converge upon the city. Then Asgard had arrived, followed by Lockhart's own forces from the Vientiane World.

And that wasn't even accounting for clandestine organizations like S.H.I.E.L.D., which had undoubtedly noticed the unusual concentration of power and were monitoring the situation closely.

London—a city of moderate size by global standards—now found itself host to nearly every major supernatural and extraordinary power on Earth. Such a convergence could hardly be coincidental.

"Fallen Sorcerers?" Thor's brow furrowed in confusion, but he didn't dwell on his lack of knowledge for long. With characteristic directness, he declared, "If they're involved, arrest them all and interrogate them thoroughly." He slapped the desk for emphasis. "That's it!"

Lockhart suppressed a smile. Strategic subtlety remained a skill that eluded the God of Thunder.

If apprehending the fallen sorcerers were truly so straightforward, they would have been captured long ago by the combined forces of Kamar-Taj and the various Sanctums.

Noticing Lockhart's diplomatic silence, Thor seemed to recognize the naivety of his suggestion and offered an embarrassed smile. He quickly poured himself yet another cup of tea and drank deeply, using the action to mask his momentary discomfort.

"Lockhart," Thor said after gathering his thoughts, his eyes brightening with a new idea, "do you possess any intelligence regarding these fallen sorcerers, or perhaps items that once belonged to them?"

He leaned forward eagerly. "A highly skilled divination mage accompanied me from Asgard. Perhaps his talents might prove beneficial in locating these renegades."

Lockhart considered the proposal and nodded thoughtfully. "It's worth exploring," he agreed, then tactfully shifted the conversation toward other matters.

If locating the fallen sorcerers through magical divination were truly so simple, the Masters of Kamar-Taj would have apprehended them ages ago. Still, Asgardian methods might offer different approaches that could yield results where Earth's mystical traditions had failed.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Several vibrant orbs of multi-colored energy materialized in the training yard, streaking toward Ian with devastating speed and precision.

Recognizing the imminent danger, Ian brandished his wand with practiced fluidity, casting a Phantom spell to enable his rapid displacement from the area.

However, just as the magical energies began to bend space around him, a subtle distortion rippled through the practice arena. The carefully woven spatial magic that had just begun to take effect abruptly dissipated, leaving Ian momentarily vulnerable.

Slightly stunned by this unexpected counter, Ian immediately shifted to a more conventional defense, stepping backward with purposeful strides.

Tread! Tread! Tread!

The sound of his footfalls echoed across the courtyard, but the noise diminished rapidly as Ian abandoned his grounded retreat and propelled himself skyward, narrowly avoiding the initial barrage of energy projectiles.

Yet the colorful spheres exhibited an unsettling intelligence, altering their trajectories and pursuing Ian into the air with unerring accuracy.

With swift, precise movements, Ian manipulated his wand and cast several Iron Armor spells in rapid succession, creating layers of magical defense around his body.

The chaotic, multi-hued energy orbs hurtled toward the pale golden barriers of his protective enchantments.

Ian channeled additional power into his defenses, causing the Iron Armor spells to emit a dazzling golden radiance as they strained against the incoming assault.

However...

As if composed of some impossible substance that defied the fundamental laws of magic, the colorful chaos orbs passed directly through one defensive layer after another, completely negating his protections.

One sphere came to rest directly against Ian's forehead, hovering there in silent testament to his defeat.

Seeing this, Ian lowered his wand and acknowledged with a rueful smile: "Very well, Wanda. I lose this round."