Chapter 376: The Ambition of Immortality
"What's wrong, Kariel?" Wade asked, noticing his pale face and strange expression.
"Nothing... really..." Kariel’s body trembled slightly. Wade frowned and reached out to touch his forehead.
It was icy cold—far below normal body temperature.
The chill was a quiet warning: They were no longer the same kind of being.
Kariel froze for a moment at the touch, then slowly lifted his head. He gripped Wade’s arm tightly.
Wade: "...?"
Kariel forced a weak smile, then released him. "It’s getting chilly. Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer."
Wade couldn’t refuse—he’d been heading there anyway.
The small inn was thick with rising smoke, warm and cozy. The rich scent of ale and food filled the air, wrapping around the guests like a blanket, instantly warming them.
The pub was packed with Hogwarts students. Michael and the others sat together at a corner table, laughing and chatting. Wade and Kariel wove through the crowd toward them, greeted with easy smiles and welcomes.
In the far corner, by the horned fireplace, sat a man in gray wizard robes. He watched the children quietly, his expression slowly softening into a satisfied smile.
On the table before him lay a sheet of parchment and a feather quill.
Suddenly, the quill leapt into the air and began writing on its own, inscribing words in neat, flowing script:
"Successfully integrated... getting along well... the plan is proceeding perfectly..."
"...Everything is going smoothly," Mr. Johnson said, closing his Book of Friends with a calm voice.
"Good," Mrs. Johnson said, clasping her hands over her chest. "Kariel’s been stubborn since he was a child. I was worried he’d deliberately sabotage the mission—thankfully, he didn’t."
"Your method clearly worked," Mr. Johnson said, turning to her. "For someone like him, ideals and beliefs mean nothing. Wealth and beauty hold no appeal. Only family can truly bind him."
She smirked. "All that time I spent perfecting my cooking—worth it. I mean, how can anyone not love British food? It’s terrible! Yet look at him—on the verge of tears!"
Her face, usually soft and kind, twisted into something grotesque with the smile.
The woman beside her couldn’t bear it any longer. She turned to ask, "Majer, what’s so special about Kariel? He’s still in training, isn’t he?"
"He’s Wade Gray’s childhood friend—and he’s your assistant," Mr. Johnson—Majer Byerd—replied. "But he only knows about his fellow students here. He has no idea about your identity. No risk of exposure. No danger."
The third person in the room was Professor Serah Abigail, Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Even so, Abigail’s expression remained sour.
"I told you—no extra hands needed! And I’m about to get the magic puppet Wade himself crafted—a large-scale magical automaton, built from a real magical creature as its prototype! Do you understand what that means?"
"I understand," Byerd said patiently. "But the mission parameters have changed. The puppet isn’t the priority anymore. The real target is Wade Gray."
"What?!" Abigail frowned. "There are thousands of alchemists in the world. Why him? He’s under Dumbledore’s nose, and both Aslan Magical Workshop and Terence Mor are dangerous opponents!"
"I’m fully aware of the risks," Byerd said, voice edged with weariness. "I’m one of the operatives. Dumbledore might be less than a kilometer away right now."
"But the alchemists we’ve recruited—every single one of them—agreed: the puppet looks like a giant wizard’s chess set, but the craftsmanship is unprecedented. The creator’s alchemical skill is extraordinary—beyond imagination."
"If they want to replicate the full version, mass-produce it—then they’d need the complete design. Can you get the design from Gray?"
Abigail shook her head, face grim.
"Exactly," Byerd said. "Alchemists have fierce intellectual property instincts. They guard their inventions fiercely."
"More importantly, Wade Gray is a young, exceptionally gifted alchemist."
"His creations are so advanced that even other alchemists can’t replicate them. So if others can’t do it… could he be the one to achieve what no one else has?"
Abigail’s eyes flickered. "You mean…"
"The Philosopher’s Stone—the key to true immortality!" Byerd’s voice rose slightly, charged with restrained excitement. "For over a thousand years, only Nicolas Flamel has succeeded. Everyone else failed."
"But even Flamel only created a half-finished version—his stone granted eternal life, but not eternal youth."
"Do you understand now? Compared to those rigid-minded scholars stuck in books, Wade Gray is a miracle. He might be the one to create the true Philosopher’s Stone!"
"Even if he only makes a half-finished version like Flamel’s… it could extend a human lifespan to six or seven hundred years."
"With that much time, and with our support, the true Elixir of Life isn’t just possible—it’s within reach!"
Abigail went utterly still. She understood.
She now sensed it—deep down, the organization’s true goal wasn’t raw magical power. Their ultimate aim has always been the same: a healthier, longer, younger life—ideally, one without end.
Werewolves. Vampires. Wizards. Magical creatures—each was a sacrifice along the way.
But all those paths had limits. The transformations were dangerous, painful, and often offered little benefit afterward.
In contrast, the path of the Philosopher’s Stone—transmutation of metals, immortality—was intoxicating.
For ordinary people, the greatest dream was within reach: a single stone, satisfying every longing.
In truth, the leader had originally wanted Nicolas Flamel. But then they learned the old man had destroyed the only Philosopher’s Stone in existence—so Voldemort couldn’t claim it—and died soon after.
So they had no choice but to turn their attention elsewhere.
Yet crafting the Philosopher’s Stone? It required colossal resources. Failure was the norm. Success was a rare miracle—born of wisdom, skill, willpower, and luck all in one.
Countless failures. Mountains of money poured in like water—gone, wasted. No results. Anyone would break under such pressure.
Yet the leader couldn’t blame the failed alchemists. After all, only one had ever succeeded in a thousand years.
Failure was expected.
And worse—how could they tell if it was truly impossible… or if the alchemist had chosen not to succeed?
(End of Chapter)
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