The castle's stone walls were cold, but Eric's blood was surging.
A burning impulse throbbed in his pulse, urging him on—commanding him.
He had to verify it immediately.
His plan—the vast causal net woven jointly by Soul Grafting and the Causality Warehouse, aimed at the very laws of the wizarding world—had already been spread.
Now it lacked only one final, crucial fulcrum.
A perfect investment target—one capable of prying destiny itself off course.
Eric's gaze pierced through the library's ancient stained glass, ignored the cloudless blue sky, and locked precisely onto the direction of the castle's main keep.
His sight seemed to take on substance, boring through thick stone walls and layers of protective magic.
At last, it settled on the forbidden corridor on the fourth floor—sealed personally by Dumbledore.
The Philosopher's Stone.
The miracle of immortality forged by Nicolas Flamel through the highest secrets of alchemy, now lying there in silence, awaiting its appointed fate.
And another coveter lurked in the shadows as well.
It was time.
Eric closed the book.
Time to pay a visit to that "pitiful" professor—Quirinus Quirrell, the man possessed by Voldemort.
He knew very well that the stuttering Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, forever reeking of garlic, was nothing more than a walking vessel.
A tragic container bearing the Dark Lord's shattered soul.
Dumbledore's anxiety—his seemingly casual arrangements, even his willingness to place a first-year student like Eric onto the board—served only one ultimate purpose:
To draw out the soul hidden behind Quirrell—Tom Riddle.
A play with a script written long ago.
But Eric refused to be anyone's chess piece.
He would flip the board—and become the only dealer at the table.
That afternoon, in the underground classroom for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
The air was thick with a suffocating stench of garlic, so strong it seemed to have substance—clinging to the stone walls and burrowing into every student's nostrils.
Professor Quirrell claimed it was to ward off a vampire he had encountered on his travels.
A clumsy lie.
He wore that ridiculous purple turban, wrapping the back of his head tightly, his trembling fingers flipping through the textbook as he read—stuttering—about countermeasures against "mountain trolls."
"T-T-Trolls… are a v-very… d-dangerous… creature…"
The performance was flawless. Every pause, every darting glance perfectly sculpted the image of a timid, cowardly man.
Snickers rippled through the classroom.
The students had long since grown bored of this monotonous recitation. Some doodled on parchment; others secretly practiced trivial spells.
Everyone was deceived by his harmless façade.
Everyone—
Except Eric.
He sat upright, posture impeccable, eyes calm as they rested on Quirrell at the lectern.
Then he activated Magic Sight.
Buzz.
The world instantly drained of color, transforming into a grayscale realm woven of magical luminescence.
Desks, walls, even the students around him faded into vague gray outlines.
Only beings with magic radiated distinct light.
On the platform, Professor Quirrell's body glimmered with a normal—indeed, weak—wizard's aura, dull as a candle guttering in the wind.
The magical response of a mediocre wizard.
But—
Eric's pupils contracted sharply.
His gaze snapped to the back of Quirrell's head, wrapped beneath that purple turban.
There, a completely different energy coiled.
Not light—but pure darkness.
A mass of black magic so dense it writhed like sludge, a parasitic tumor, a vicious vortex greedily siphoning what little life force Quirrell possessed.
Malice.
Resentment.
Brutality.
Madness.
A soul screaming in silence. Power roaring in despair.
Eric could even "see" a vague, distorted face within—twisted by unbearable pain and hatred.
"Tom Riddle," Eric murmured inwardly, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.
Found you.
His first S+–rank investment project.
He composed himself and patiently endured the rest of the mind-numbing lesson.
Ding—ling—ling!
The bell rang like a pardon.
The students bolted, stuffing their things away and fleeing the classroom as if for their lives, desperate to escape the garlic stench.
In moments, the room was empty.
All but Eric.
He lingered, unhurried, packing his quill and ink with deliberate elegance—slow, almost languid.
He scraped chairs lightly, inch by inch, drifting toward the lectern without drawing attention.
Quirrell stood with his back to him, hunched, gathering scattered lecture notes.
Only the rustle of parchment remained, along with Eric's carefully measured footsteps.
One step.
Two.
He stopped less than three feet away.
The perfect distance.
"Professor?" Eric spoke, his voice clear, tinged with just the right measure of curiosity—perfectly fitting a knowledge-hungry Ravenclaw.
"W-Wh-What is it, P-Prince, Mr. Prince?" Quirrell stiffened, then turned slowly, wearing his usual panicked expression.
Eric didn't answer at once.
He stepped closer.
Now.
He activated Words Become Law.
An imperceptible thread of magic climbed his throat, coiling around his vocal cords.
He spoke in the plainest tone—delivering words that would shatter stone.
His voice dropped low, light, as though sharing a secret meant for only two people.
Almost a murmur to himself.
"Professor… your garlic smell…"
He paused, catching the flicker of confusion in Quirrell's eyes.
"…doesn't seem enough to hide that powerful aura you carry."
The instant the words fell—
Time seemed to freeze.
Quirrell's hand, mid-gather, locked rigid in midair.
The cowardly, stuttering mask on his face went blank—utterly blank—for a full second.
The mask cracked.
Eric acted as though he noticed nothing.
A look of Ravenclaw curiosity—fascination with unknown knowledge and great power—lit his face.
With a smile of pure innocence, he delivered the decisive second half of his "investment declaration":
"I find it… utterly fascinating."
"!!!"
Quirrell's body convulsed violently.
A horrifying surge of magic erupted from beneath the purple turban—not weak pretense, but a volcanic explosion of pure darkness and rage.
He whipped around.
No—not Quirrell.
The being within him seized control.
Those eyes—
The timid blue vanished, swallowed in an instant by ancient, glacial brutality—burning like red gemstones.
Vertical pupils.
A ruler's majesty.
Voldemort.
Through Quirrell's eyes, the Dark Lord stared straight at the Ravenclaw first-year.
A storm exploded in his mind.
This child…
He noticed?!
How was that possible?! Even Dumbledore could only guess and probe!
No—
Something was wrong.
Voldemort's savage will caught the crucial detail.
In the boy's eyes there was no fear. No shock. Not even a trace of hostility.
There was…
Fascination?
This wet-behind-the-ears student was fascinated by the dark power that made even demigods tremble?!
Under that soul-freezing gaze, Eric maintained his innocent, eager smile.
Like a fanatic meeting his idol.
Like a seeker glimpsing ultimate truth.
His eyes were pure, burning with reverent admiration for higher power.
Perfect.
Everything was under control.
[System Notification: S+–rank destiny deviation detected! Target: Quirrell / Voldemort.]
[Emotional Anchor: Shock, brutality, and… a trace of confusion?]
[Congratulations, Host. S+–rank causal investment completed! Triggered special sign-in: Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.]
[Reward granted: Platinum-tier feedback! Platinum Chest ×1!]