[FOR EVERY 100 POWERSTONES = 1 EXTRA CHAPTER]
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The warm, golden aura from Sharon's perfect wand match still hung in the dusty air of the shop, a testament to a successful union. Samuel Ollivander, flushed with professional pride, now turned his attention to the other disciple of Merlin. His silvery eyes, still bright from the previous selection, settled on John.
"And for you, sir? Which is your dominant hand?" Samuel asked, the magical tape measure already stirring in his hand.
"The left," John replied, his voice calm. He was predominantly right-handed for kenjutsu, a habit from his shinobi life, but for precise chakra control—and now, he supposed, magical focus—his left had always been his guide.
Samuel nodded. "Very well."
The tape measure sprang to life, whirring around John with its usual frantic energy. It measured the length of his fingers, the span of his palm, the width of his shoulders. But as it moved to take the more esoteric measurements—the distance between his nostrils, the circumference of his throat—it began to behave erratically. It would stretch to a certain point, then snap back as if repelled by an invisible force. It whirred and buzzed, spinning around John in a confused spiral before finally drooping to the floor, lifeless.
Samuel's confident expression faltered. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple. He picked up the tape, muttering a resetting charm, and tried again. The result was the same. The magical instrument could not get a read on John's magical core.
"I… I apologize, sir," Samuel stammered, his face pale. "Your magical signature… it's… it's too profound. The parameters are beyond my ability to gauge. Please, wait a moment."
With a sharp crack, he Disapparated. Before the echo had faded, two more cracks sounded, and he reappeared with two other men. One was a stern-faced man in his prime, with the same sharp eyes as Samuel—James Ollivander. The other was ancient, his back stooped with age, but his eyes held a piercing, unnerving clarity that spoke of centuries of experience. This was Thomas Ollivander, the patriarch of the family.
Both newcomers immediately bowed deeply to Merlin. "Lord Merlin," Thomas's voice was a dry rasp, like parchment rubbing together. "An honor, as always."
Their attention then turned fully to John. They didn't use a tape measure. Instead, they simply… looked. Their gazes were intense, analytical, as if they were trying to peer past his flesh and into the swirling cosmos of Source Energy within. John stood perfectly still, though he felt a distinct discomfort under their scrutiny, like a rare insect being pinned for examination.
Finally, Thomas bowed again, this time to John. "We apologize for the impertinence, young sire." He drew his own wand, a gnarled piece of elder wood that seemed to drink the light from the room. He waved it in a complex, ancient pattern, muttering an incantation in a language so old the very syllables seemed to warp the air around them. A web of silver light enveloped John, probing, testing.
After a full minute, the silver light shattered into a thousand motes of fading light. Thomas was breathing heavily, his aged face sheened with a profound sweat. He looked at John not with confusion, but with a kind of reverent terror.
"My sire," he whispered, his voice full of awe. "Are you… are you a descendant of the Celestials?"
The question hung in the silent shop. John was utterly bewildered. Celestials? The System's background had mentioned his bloodline was "Celestial Phoenix" and "Elder Dragon," but he had assumed it was just powerful magical lineage. This reaction suggested it was something… more.
"How… how do you know that?" John asked, his own voice barely a whisper.
A faint, knowing smile touched Thomas's wrinkled lips. "There are only three types of beings in this world whose full magical potential is a locked book to an Ollivander. The first are those born with a Divine Destiny, like the great heroes of prophecy. The second are those born with a Divine Rune woven into their soul, like Thor of the Norse or the Great Sage of Nazareth. And the third…" he paused, his gaze intensifying, "…are the most powerful race known: the descendants of Celestial Beasts. Like the Three Dragon Siblings."
At the mention of the "Three Dragon Siblings," a visible change came over Merlin. The usual twinkle of amusement in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by a deep, profound sadness. A flicker of something else—not quite anger, but a raw, self-recriminating pain—crossed his features before he mastered it, his face becoming an unreadable mask.
John's curiosity was piqued. "Who are the Three Dragon Siblings?"
Thomas's eyes darted nervously to Merlin, and he quickly cleared his throat, changing the subject with the subtlety of a bludger to the face. "Ahem! Sorry, sire, we are straying from the topic. For you, a normal wand will be useless. It would be like trying to channel a hurricane through a drinking straw. It would shatter on first use."
He leaned forward, his expression turning deadly serious. "To create a wand compatible with you, we require three specific, immensely powerful magical items. I am near the end of my natural lifespan. If you can find these items and bring them to me within seven full moons, I will craft your wand using my family's most ancient and dangerous method. The ritual consumes the life force of the crafter. A normal wandmaker would die on the spot. But for me, at the end of my days… it is a worthy final masterpiece."
The gravity in the room thickened. John felt a weight settle on his shoulders. This wasn't just about getting a tool; it was about a master craftsman offering to spend his last breath to create something for him.
"What are the three items?" John asked, his voice low.
Thomas listed them, each name dropping like a hammer. "The first is a tail feather from a Celestial Bird. The second is a blood orb from a Celestial Dragon. And the third… the third is a branch of Thunder Fire Wood."
Merlin, who had been silent, finally spoke, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Thomas! A Celestial Bird's feather? A Celestial Dragon's blood orb? Those are legendary, but perhaps not impossible. But Thunder Fire Wood? Are you asking for his death? Do you even know what that wood is?"
Thomas met Merlin's gaze unflinchingly, though a tremor of fear was in his own. "I do, my lord. But to contain the power of a Celestial Beast's tail feather and blood as a core, we need a wood of unimaginable strength. If I were to use a lesser wood, the wand would be flawed, a weakness that could be exploited. The Thunder Fire Wood is the only substance in all the realms that could possibly serve as a perfect vessel. It is the only way."
The four founders and Sharon, all well-read in magical lore, stared in stunned silence. Rowena finally found her voice. "Master Ollivander… what… what is Thunder Fire Wood?"
It was Merlin who answered, his voice heavy with a weary resignation. "Thunder Fire Wood has another name, one you will all know from the oldest texts." He paused, letting the anticipation build. "It is a root of Yggdrasil. The World Tree."
A collective, sharp intake of breath filled the shop. Godric's hand went to the hilt of his sword. Salazar looked as if he'd been petrified. Helga let out a small, helpless whimper. Rowena's brilliant mind was racing, trying to comprehend the sheer scale of the request. Sharon simply stared at John, her face pale. The World Tree was a myth, a cornerstone of cosmic legend, said to have vanished from the mortal realm eons ago, back in the age when Herpo the Mad walked the earth.
Merlin sighed again, a sound of infinite weariness. "We have no choice, then." He looked towards the ceiling, as if he could see through the wood and stone to the sky beyond. "I must meet with her again. She is the only person in any realm who might be able to procure a root of Yggdrasil."
At the word "her," old Thomas Ollivander, a man who had faced down dark lords and crafted wands for centuries, trembled so violently he had to lean on his son for support. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fear.
Merlin saw his terror and offered a small, sad smile. "Do not worry, old friend. She is not the monster the stories make her out to be. Not entirely."
But his reassurance did little to calm the room. The four founders, Sharon, and John were left with a whirlwind of terrifying questions. Who was this "she" that could make a 400-year-old Ollivander tremble and that Merlin spoke of with such complex sadness? How could any being, no matter how powerful, simply "procure" a piece of the World Tree? The quest for John's wand had just transformed from a simple errand into a journey that would touch the very foundations of creation, and at its heart was a mysterious, fearsome "she" whose shadow now loomed over them all.
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