"Ready?" Nathael asked, his voice low but firm—like the edge of a well-honed blade.
From the windowsill, where she'd been elegantly licking a paw, Celestia nodded and tapped her storage ring—distinct from the one she'd given Hermione. This one was older, carved from silver with the Grauheim tree embossed in relief. With a smooth motion, she adjusted her combat vest, securing the straps that held small pouches of protective herbs, dissolving powders, and early-warning amulets. This time, she wore no cloak. Not for a mission like this. Cloaks were elegant, yes—but enemies of stealth and speed. And if there was one thing Celestia knew, it was that in missions like these, slowness was synonymous with death.
Nathael, meanwhile, finished buttoning the cuff of his classic white linen shirt. He wore durable, tear-resistant brown trousers, rune-warded leather boots, fingerless combat gloves for spell precision, a lightweight vest woven with acromantula silk, and—above all—a dark green cloak that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Every piece of his attire was etched with runes: minor curse protection, evasion speed, concealment. He wasn't dressed for ceremony. He was dressed for battle.
It was the morning after their farewell. The sun had barely crested the rooftops of Hogsmeade, casting pale light over the snow. The air smelled of pine and freshly cut wood.
"Did you write to your mother?" Celestia asked, leaping to the floor with feline grace.
"Yes," Nathael said, adjusting his cloak. "Last night. I told her the essentials—that Dumbledore's matter has escalated beyond what we anticipated. That Bjorn Andersen wasn't just any druid… that his brother fought something not of this world."
Celestia nodded thoughtfully.
"Sabine deserves to know. The Grauheim family doesn't act in shadow when balance is at stake."
"Exactly," Nathael said, glancing down at his wrists, covered by his shirt sleeves. There, hidden yet ever-present, rested his two armlets.
On his right wrist: the partially sealed silver bracelet—one of the three found in the Chinese sanctuary in Yunnan. The one Anneliese and Lysander had left behind. The one capable of crossing worlds—if its seal were ever fully broken. He guarded it with his life.
On his left wrist: the obsidian-black armlet, coiled with a silver Beithir—a gift from Salazar Slytherin after the First Trial of the Ancient Blood Tournament. The one that multiplied his power… at a great cost.
"I hope I won't have to use it," Nathael murmured.
Celestia purred, her feline smile knowing.
"Unless we face someone at Dumbledore's level… you wouldn't. We're strong, Nathael. We don't need artifacts that consume us."
Nathael smiled. He extended his arms and lifted Celestia, cradling her against his chest. She purred, eyes closing for a moment.
"You're right."
He set her down gently.
"Shall we go?"
Celestia nodded—then hesitated.
"Shouldn't we say goodbye to the others? Just in case…"
Nathael shook his head.
"We did that yesterday. Doing it again would only sadden them. And they don't need more sadness. They need to train. To believe. To wait."
Celestia studied him a moment longer. Then, with firm resolve, she nodded.
"Then let's go."
Nathael raised his wand, took Celestia in his other arm, and cast:
"Apparition!"
The world dissolved into a swirling vortex.
They reappeared in an open field, far from any civilization. The sky was gray; the grass tall and damp. In the distance stood a small but sturdy stone cottage, guarded by two senior Aurors. Both wore dark robes bearing the emblem of the British Ministry, their faces weathered by years of vigilance and suspicion.
Nathael walked toward them calmly, Celestia at his side, tail held high.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said politely. "I requested permission a few days ago to use the Portkey for travel to China. My name is Nathael Grauheim."
The lead Auror—a man with a grizzled beard and eyes hard as granite—eyed him skeptically. Without a word, he picked up a file from a nearby table and began flipping through it.
"Grauheim… Grauheim…" he muttered.
One minute passed. Then two. Finally, he shook his head.
"No confirmation. Nothing. Paperwork might arrive in a few days."
Nathael didn't lose composure. He only sighed, as if weighed down by an invisible burden.
"Listen," he said, lowering his voice with a hint of urgency bordering on anguish, "it's a family emergency. My uncle in Beijing… he's very ill. He could die at any moment. I need to get there as soon as possible."
The Auror remained impassive.
"Sorry. No authorization, no access."
Nathael bowed his head, as if in prayer. Then, with casual ease, he pulled a small package from his pocket and set it on the table. A heavy, unmistakable clink echoed as it landed.
"Please," Nathael said, eyes glistening. "He's my only relative in Asia. If I can't go… I'll never forgive myself."
The Auror coughed, deliberately avoiding the package. After a theatrical sigh, he nodded.
"Well… given the circumstances… we can make an exception. But don't let it happen again."
"Thank you," Nathael said, smiling—but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. "Have a pleasant day."
He entered the cottage, Celestia close behind.
The moment the door closed, Celestia let out a muffled, purring laugh.
"Your acting's improved. The 'dying relative' was a masterstroke."
Nathael shrugged modestly.
"Just improvisation. Sometimes bureaucracy bends better to Galleons than to reason."
Inside, the cottage was empty except for a hand-sized key floating in the center of the room, bathed in soft golden light. It was the Portkey—one of the few authorized for high-level international travel.
"Faster than a plane," Celestia said,
"And less exhausting than chained Apparition."
"And fewer complications than explaining to the Ministry why a cat in a tactical vest just landed at Beijing International," Nathael added.
They approached in unison, reached out, and touched the key.
The world turned white.
Minutes later, they landed on a dry plain in southwestern China. The air was thinner, drier—saturated with the scent of ancient earth and centuries-old dust. In the distance, the first peaks of the Kunlun Mountains rose like slumbering giants.
Only one wizard awaited them. He wore simple, unadorned robes, his face serene—but his eyes, dark and deep, scrutinized Nathael and Celestia with an intensity that betrayed immense power.
"Purpose of your visit?" he asked in Mandarin.
Nathael replied in flawless, accentless Mandarin:
"Tourism."
The wizard nodded—as if he knew it was a lie, but didn't care. With a wave of his hand, he turned and walked away without another word.
"You can feel it, can't you?" Celestia whispered as they walked. "His magic is denser than an average European Auror's."
"Far denser," Nathael said. "They wield magic differently—and little is known of how."
They passed through Lijiang, with its crystal-clear canals, intricately carved wooden houses, and cobbled streets. It was beautiful—but Nathael and Celestia weren't here for sightseeing.
They left the city behind, walking dusty trails between rocks and thorny shrubs.
"How much do we actually know about Mount Kunlun?" Nathael asked.
Celestia sighed, thoughtful.
"I read some texts before we left. First, there's the Kunlun Range—it stretches across western China, thousands of kilometers long, with peaks that pierce the clouds. But that… isn't what we're after."
She paused.
"What we seek is Mount Kunlun—the true one. The mythical one. Muggles call it the 'Axis Mundi.' They say it's the point where heaven, earth, and the spirit world converge. That Xi Wangmu, the Queen Mother of the West, dwells there in a jade palace."
Nathael arched an eyebrow.
"Axis of the world?"
"Yes," Celestia confirmed. "And the most fascinating part isn't what Muggles say—but what China's oldest wizards claim. That this place exists. That it was home to an immensely powerful sect millennia ago. That there, gods and immortals descended to the human world… and worthy mortals could ascend to 'heaven.'"
Nathael fell silent for a long moment. Then, almost unconsciously, he touched the silver armlet on his wrist.
"A few months ago, I would've laughed," he said softly, a faint smile on his lips. "But now… I find it more than likely."
And dangerous.
Celestia purred but shook her head.
"They're just stories. I don't believe in gods or immortals. But I do believe that mountain exists. And that it's… special."
They stopped on a barren hill overlooking the vast expanse of Chinese terrain—and beyond it, the first snow-capped summits.
Nathael smiled.
"Well then. Let's discover it."
They looked at each other. Nodded.
And in unison, murmuring in German:
"Himmelsturm, trag uns empor!"
From the ground, a spiral of white fire enveloped them. Their bodies rose—slowly at first, then with astonishing speed—like comets launched into the sky. Wind howled around them, but they flew with precision, with grace, with the power of those who have defied the heavens since time immemorial.
Celestia let out an exhilarated purr.
"I'd forgotten how fun this spell is!"
Nathael laughed, wind tousling his hair.
"We rarely use it. Draws too much attention. Two people—or rather, one person and a cat—shooting across the sky like meteors? Muggles would call their newspapers. The Ministry would call their cells."
"True," Celestia said, annoyed. "But at least in this region… there's no one around."