The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 570-579: The Prelude to the Deep Space Descent 8

Chapter 570-579: The Prelude to the Deep Space Descent 8

Ascending to legendary status is a leap in one's level of life.

Isn't that a complete transformation?

He still looked like Dumbledore—silver hair, deep blue eyes, and an aged face. But upon closer inspection, subtle changes could be observed. His skin had become more radiant, as if he had become decades younger. His eyes were deeper, as if they contained a starry sky.

His aura was completely different too.

It was an indescribable, transcendent aura. Not oppression, not threat, but pure, absolute—a sense of presence.

He stood there, motionless, without any magical fluctuations, yet his presence was impossible to ignore. It was as if he himself was a part of this world.

It was as if he were the rules themselves.

Immediately afterwards, Grindelwald's hard shell also shattered.

He emerged from the shards, completely renewed. His heterochromatic eyes were now brighter and deeper, as if they could pierce through all the mists of time. His white hair was still disheveled, but it exuded an indescribable...

The majesty of a king. A slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, carrying a hint of satisfaction.

The two exchanged a glance.

There was no speech, no movement.

But they both sensed the changes in each other.

The magical fluctuations that once required conscious effort to detect are now completely contained. In their place is a more fundamental sense of existence, resonating with the entire world.

"This is—legend," Dumbledore said softly, a hint of emotion in his voice.

Grindelwald nodded, a complex light flickering in his heterochromatic eyes: "Five hundred years—the magical world has finally witnessed a new legend."

He paused, looked at Dumbledore, and his smile deepened: "And two at a time."

Dumbledore smiled too. In that smile, there was relief, relief, and a complex emotion that only the two of them could understand.

Just then, a strange fragrance wafted over.

The two turned their heads at the same time, following the scent, and then their expressions froze.

Not far away, Ian was squatting in the middle of an open space. In front of him was a huge pot—something he'd gotten from who-knows-where—and something was simmering inside, steaming gently. The strange aroma was wafting from the pot.

Beside him were several large bowls. The bowls were filled with various seasonings—chili peppers, Sichuan peppercorns, ginger, garlic, and a bunch of spices they couldn't name.

He was holding a huge ladle and stirring it in the pot. And the broth in that pot—

It's golden.

It's the color of dragon's blood.

Dumbledore's lips twitched.

Grindelwald's eyebrows furrowed.

Ian looked up, saw the two of them, and flashed a bright smile: "Oh, you're out? Perfect timing! Come and try some! Fresh dragon blood spicy hot pot!"

Dumbledore:

Grindelwald:

'

'

"You—" Grindelwald began with difficulty, his voice hoarse, "You're using dragon's blood—to cook spicy blood curd?"

Ian blinked, his innocent expression making you want to punch him: "What else? So much dragon blood, no need to waste it. I deliberately kept some for you guys, specifically for cooking. You don't know, the blood of ancient dragons is the best ingredient—a million times better than duck blood or pig blood!"

He scooped up a golden-red piece that looked like solidified dragon's blood with a spoon and showed it to the two of them: "Look, the texture, the elasticity, the color are absolutely amazing! Plus my special spicy broth, I guarantee you'll want more after you try it!"

Dumbledore closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt the excitement of his recent ascension to Legendary status being completely overwhelmed by this pot of spicy Sichuan-style stew.

Grindelwald's expression became even more interesting. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found himself completely at a loss for words.

Seeing their expressions, Ian laughed even harder: "Don't just stand there! Come and sit down! I just found some mushrooms and wild vegetables in the forest, and I put them in too. Don't worry, they're not poisonous—I tested them with magic."

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He pointed to a few makeshift seats made of stones nearby and enthusiastically invited, "Come, come, try my cooking! I guarantee it's even better than what the house-elves at Hogwarts make!"

Dumbledore and Grindelwald exchanged a glance, both seeing the same helplessness in each other's eyes.

And there was also a hint of—an irrepressible curiosity.

After all, that's Mao Xue Wang made with the blood of an ancient dragon.

A few seconds later, the two silently walked to the pot and sat down on the stone.

Ian nodded in satisfaction and served each of them a large bowl. The golden-red dragon blood cubes tumbled in the red oil broth, emitting an enticing aroma that whetted their appetites.

Dumbledore took the bowl, picked up a piece of dragon's blood with his fork, hesitated for a second, and then put it in his mouth.

In that instant, his eyes lit up.

The texture—smooth, tender, and melts in your mouth. The flavor—a rich meaty aroma, mixed with the stimulating spiciness, and an indescribable, unique flavor that seems to contain ancient power.

"How is it?" Ian asked expectantly.

Dumbledore paused for a second, then nodded: "Delicious."

Grindelwald also took a bite, a hint of surprise flashing in his heterochromatic eyes. He didn't say anything, but silently picked up another piece with his fork.

Ian smiled. The smile on his young face was exceptionally bright and full of satisfaction.

"I knew it," he said smugly, "Ancient dragons are treasures from head to toe. Their scales can be used to make shields, their bones to make wands, their hearts to brew potions, and their blood—"

He tapped the edge of the pot with his spoon: "This makes the best Maoxuewang (Sichuan spicy blood curd)."

Dumbledore shook his head, but a slight smile played on his lips.

Grindelwald snorted and continued eating. Ten thousand years ago, in a primeval forest, three legendary beings were enjoying a pot of dragon blood spicy hot pot.

In the distance, the dragon corpse, drained of its blood, lay silently on the ground, as if making a silent accusation.

But nobody paid any attention to it.

After all, its blood created two legends.

The remaining value has been transformed into a delicious pot of spicy blood curd.

He died a worthy death.

"There's only a little dragon meat, not enough ingredients." After Ian finished speaking, Grindelwald stood up and walked deeper into the forest.

"Gellert?" Dumbledore called to him. "Where are you going?"

Grindelwald didn't even turn his head, simply raising his hand and waving: "Hunting. We've come all this way ten thousand years ago, how can we not try some of the local game?"

Dumbledore frowned, looking at Ian with a hint of worry in his azure eyes: "Wouldn't this cause too much distortion of history? We came here, killed dragons, and now we're hunting other creatures—would the accumulation of these actions affect the future?"

Ian, engrossed in his spicy Sichuan-style stew, looked up at the sound of the voice, a smear of golden-red broth still clinging to his lips. He casually wiped it with his sleeve, revealing a confident smile far beyond his years: "Headmaster Dumbledore, rest assured. I can't speak for everything else, but when it comes to deceiving history—I'm an expert."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed even more: "An expert?"

Ian nodded, put down the bowl, and took out the exquisite pocket watch-like instrument from his pocket, tapping it. A complex, ever-changing image appeared on the surface of the instrument—like some kind of geological monitoring map.

"Look at this." He handed the instrument to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore took it and examined it closely. The image showed a cross-section of a mountain range, deep within which a huge, crimson energy was surging wildly, with the surface values ​​constantly rising.

"This is—" His pupils contracted slightly.

"That volcano," Ian pointed to the towering mountain range in the distance, "I didn't choose this time randomly. It will erupt in three hours."

Grindelwald had returned at some point, clearly drawn by the topic. He leaned closer to glance at the instruments, a hint of surprise flashing in his heterochromatic eyes: "Ejection scale?"

"It's huge," Ian said, a cold expression on his youthful face that seemed completely out of place with his age. "It's big enough to wipe everything within a radius of hundreds of kilometers. Forests, animals, and even the land beneath our feet will be reduced to nothing in lava and volcanic ash."

He paused, looked at the two of them, and a serious glint appeared in his deep eyes: "That's why I said there's no need to worry about affecting history. Because in three hours, all traces of our presence, the food we ate, the dragons we killed, and any creatures we hunted will be completely erased in this apocalypse. As if they never existed."

Dumbledore paused for a few seconds, then slowly spoke: "You mean—we're in an apocalypse?"

Ian nodded. "Yes. A true apocalypse, capable of destroying everything. The magma will be hot enough to melt even keel bones, and the volcanic ash will be thick enough to completely bury an entire forest. Any trace we leave behind, any destiny we alter, will vanish in this apocalypse."

He stood up, walked to a spot with a clear view, and looked out at the primeval forest that was about to be destroyed: "Look at that forest, look at those creatures. They did exist, they did live. But in three hours, the vast majority of them will die in the volcanic eruption. Those we killed only brought forward their time of death by a few hours."

""

He turned to look at Dumbledore, a wisdom beyond his years shining in his deep eyes: "The highest level of deceiving history is not to carefully leave no trace, but to erase the traces along with the natural course of history. When everything returns to nothingness, who will remember that we were ever here?"

Grindelwald's eyes lit up. He looked at Ian, his heterochromatic eyes full of admiration: "Great idea! This way, we can enjoy delicacies from ten thousand years ago without worrying about affecting history—perfect!"

He patted Dumbledore on the shoulder, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Albus, stop pretending. Your student has paved the way for you this far; it would be unreasonable for you not to appreciate it."

Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly. But in that sigh, there was clearly a hint of relief, and also a hint of—a helpless smile.

"You silly boy," he looked at Ian and shook his head, "how do you know everything?"

Ian blinked, his innocent expression making you want to punch him: "I'm the embodiment of destiny. How can I be the embodiment of destiny if I don't know these things?"

Dumbledore smiled helplessly.

Grindelwald turned again and strode into the forest. This time, his steps were lighter and more unrestrained: "Wait! I'm going to get some real good stuff! Wild game from ten thousand years ago, paired with dragon blood soup from ten thousand years ago—that's what a feast should be!"

Ian shouted behind him, "Catch more! Especially the flying ones! Roasted wings are the best!"

Grindelwald waved without turning his head and quickly disappeared into the dense bushes.

Dumbledore sat back down on the rock, picked up the bowl of spicy blood curd that had gone a little cold, and silently began to eat.

Ian looked at him, a slight smile playing on his lips: "What, not worried anymore?"

Dumbledore shook his head, a complex light flashing in his azure eyes: "What are you worried about? You've convinced me."

He paused, looking at the distant volcano that seemed poised to bring about the apocalypse, his voice softening: "An apocalypse—indeed, there is no better cover than this."

Ian nodded and looked up at the volcano.

Two figures, one large and one small, sat side by side in a primeval forest ten thousand years ago, awaiting the end of the world and the grand feast to come.

In the distance, the roar of the volcano grew louder and louder.

Grindelwald's figure disappeared into the depths of the forest.

About half an hour later, Grindelwald returned.

He didn't come back alone.

Behind him floated a whole bunch of prey: one or two giant wolves bigger than horses, a rhinoceros-like creature covered in scales, several colorful, writhing giant snakes, and a giant eagle with a wingspan of over five meters.

Dumbledore's lips twitched slightly: "You've brought half a forest here?"

Grindelwald threw the prey on the ground, clapped his hands, and said smugly, "I just grabbed it while passing by."

These are all varieties I've never seen before; it would be a shame not to try them.

He looked at Ian: "Is there a fire?"

Ian snapped his fingers. A ball of Fiendfire flew from his fingertips, landed on the ground, and instantly ignited a roaring campfire.

Grindelwald stared at the ball of Fiendfire, a complex light flashing in his heterochromatic eyes—it was a flame he was familiar with, a flame he had been immersed in for over half a century. But the purity of that flame, wielded by Ian, was even higher than that of him, a "Fiendfire master."

"You fiery rage—" he murmured.

Ian blinked: "Learned from you. In the future."

Grindelwald paused for a moment, then smiled. His smile held a mixture of relief, pride, and a complex, indescribable emotion.

He said nothing more and began to process the prey.

Dumbledore initially sat to the side, maintaining a "I'm not involved" attitude. But as Grindelwald placed the first piece of roasted meat in front of him, the golden, crispy skin, the sizzling fat, and the irresistible aroma—

His resolve wavered.

"Just one piece," he said to himself.

Then it became a second piece, a third piece, a fourth piece—Ian watched from the side, his smile growing wider. He pulled out the small device.

He aimed at the two of them and quietly pressed the shutter.

This moment was recorded.