https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-493-Deciduous-Tree-and-Evergreen-Tree/13685576/
Chapter 494: Daydream Quill
A golden flash of light, and Wade felt the familiar tug of a Portkey. Blinking, he found himself standing in a living room so densely packed with books and peculiar artifacts that it seemed to strain against its own boundaries—yet somehow, everything remained in a strange, harmonious balance. He didn’t dare move. One wrong gesture, he feared, could trigger a chain reaction like dominoes falling.
“Oh, you’re here,” came a voice from behind a towering stack of books. “Sorry—I must’ve lost track of time. I was… oh, good heavens!”
A sharp cry echoed through the room. Wade tilted his head curiously, spotting a silhouette flailing amidst the shelves. After carefully finding a foothold, he stepped forward and saw the sight that made his breath catch: an elderly man with silver-white hair and skin as pale as a ghost was wrestling a silver, intricately carved teapot.
The teapot was furious—leaping wildly on the floor, its lid flying off and slamming into the old man’s nose. Nicolas Flamel caught it with a flick of his wand, then ducked as the lid spun back like a discus, striking his finger with a sharp crack. Wade heard it clearly.
Frozen in place, Wade snapped back to life. Without hesitation, he raised his wand. “Freeze!”
The teapot halted mid-leap. The flying lid dropped with a clatter and landed at Flamel’s feet. With a grunt, the old wizard scooped it up, along with the teapot, and shoved both into a wooden box.
“Finally,” Flamel sighed, clutching his injured finger. He straightened with visible effort, and Wade instinctively reached out to steady him. But the man’s arm felt brittle—like a dried corn stick. One wrong tug, and it might snap.
“Thank you, child,” Flamel rasped, voice low. “Welcome to my home. Though most of the things here have their own tempers. You’ll need to… well, be careful.”
He rubbed his injured finger with his good hand, and Wade watched in quiet amazement as the bruised digit slowly reshaped itself, regaining its normal form—no blood, no swelling, no sign of damage. The skin looked unharmed, as if nothing had happened.
Wade raised an eyebrow. That finger had looked broken, bones shattered—but not a single drop of blood had spilled. No internal bleeding, no visible trauma.
Nicolas Flamel was now 664 years old. He was still alive, yes—but his body, worn thin by time, had become as fragile as dry kindling. His immortality, far from a blessing, seemed more like a curse.
Wade didn’t let his thoughts show. He helped the old wizard settle into a chair, then asked, “That teapot… it’s your creation, isn’t it? And yet it attacked you?”
“Anything with thought develops its own spirit,” Flamel sighed. “It’s impossible for something to love its creator unconditionally, forever. No matter how much care is given.”
He paused, rubbing his finger again. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I locked it away too long. When I moved homes, I put it in the box… and then, well… I forgot. Forgot for about two hundred years.”
Wade stared. He couldn’t help it. Even a teapot, after two centuries of imprisonment, would be furious. That it had only broken a finger—rather than, say, turned Flamel into a teacup—was surprisingly considerate.
“Please, sit,” Flamel said, waving his wand. The room erupted in motion: books, trinkets, and artifacts slid and piled against the walls, clearing a small space in the center. A heavy leather chair, buried under a mountain of books, was yanked free and flung aside with a thud. Flamel hopped up, bouncing toward Wade’s back.
Wade was jostled into the chair and sat down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gift.
“Mr. Flamel,” he said, “this is a little something I made for our meeting. I hope you’ll like it.”
“Oh?” Flamel’s eyes lit up as he took the wooden box. He lifted the lid gently, revealing a black velvet lining. Resting atop it was a slender, elegant feather quill.
“A feather quill?” he murmured.
“I’ve been learning the craft from Professor Mor,” Wade explained with a smile. “This is one of my early attempts. It’s nothing special—just a simple little toy.”
He leaned closer. “I used a feather from the crown of a winged demon, teeth from a shadow bat, powdered moonstone, spores from devil’s net, and juice from mandrake root. Most importantly, though, I infused it with the Daydream Charm.”
“Simply write a brief description on parchment—something like ‘a palace filled with endless feasts’—and the writer will step into a vivid daydream. It lasts up to thirty minutes.”
“To wake up, just say, ‘This isn’t real.’ The dream dissolves instantly.”
The Daydream Charm wasn’t new—Wade hadn’t invented it. Reciting the spell alone could plunge someone into a hyper-realistic daydream. But the content was unpredictable. One might dream of romance with a beautiful woman—only to have her suddenly morph into a skull decoration, then a giant pink Power Ranger, before the dreamer fled in terror from a fire crab.
The subconscious couldn’t be controlled. So dreams, when left to chance, were chaotic.
Wade’s quill, however, made that chaos intentional. It gave the dreamer greater control—more precision, more freedom to explore their imagination.
“Hmm… intriguing idea,” Flamel chuckled. “Perfect for zoning out during dull classes.”
“As I said,” Wade smiled, “it’s just a toy. But if used for study, you could review books in your dream, or absorb vast amounts of information in a short time.”
“May I try it?” Flamel asked, holding the quill.
“Of course.”
Wade gestured. Flamel plucked a sheet of parchment, gripped the quill with trembling fingers, and began to write. Wade turned his head, giving him full privacy—no peeking.
The quill didn’t need ink. It was already filled to the brim with a special, invisible liquid. When the ink ran out, the quill would be useless.
But this particular one had been enchanted with an Invisible Expansion Charm. The reservoir inside could hold enough liquid to fill a pint glass—plenty for years of use.
When Flamel finished, he tapped the period. The words on the parchment glowed faintly, then rose from the page like a swarm of fireflies. They spiraled upward, swirling around his head before dissolving into tiny sparks of light.
Leaning back into his armchair, Flamel lowered his head. His eyes half-closed, his breathing slowed. He appeared to be zoning out—but in truth, he had already slipped into the dream he’d crafted.
Minutes passed.
Then, softly, he whispered, “This isn’t real.”
A shiver ran through him. His eyes snapped open.
He was back.
(End of Chapter)
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