Ever since discussing the method for inventing spells with Snape, Skyl had been trying to make himself dream. He'd tried all sorts of methods, but none of them worked. It wasn't that he'd lost the ability to dream—in fact, when he slept in the Tower of Tomes, Skyl would occasionally dream—but the moment he travelled to other worlds, he could no longer touch the realm of dreams.
Perhaps it was due to the nature of the Harry Potter world and the Elder Scrolls world themselves, or perhaps it was some inherent defect unique to Skyl as an outsider.
Being unable to dream meant Skyl couldn't create spells of his own, and without self-created spells, he couldn't reach the root of magic.
His Ultimate Transfiguration had already reached the point where it obeyed his every whim, possessing the power to create life, change matter, and rob history itself. But Skyl was not satisfied with that. To create spells was to grasp the might where "speech becomes law." Skyl possessed that ability in the Tower of Tomes, so naturally, he wanted to try doing the same in other worlds.
Unfortunately, the other worlds were not interested in playing along.
(Worlds I and II: Where did this stinking outsider god come from, wandering over here to beg for scraps?)
In occultism, dreams are of great significance, often seen as tied to omens or portents. In some worlds, dreams represent the other side of the universe—or the true essence lying beneath its surface.
Skyl's inability to dream led him to guess that his status as an outsider was being rejected by the dream world. If dreams were a sort of radio broadcast, then Skyl, this imported radio receiver, simply couldn't pick up the local station's frequencies.
He had to admit it was a rather regrettable situation.
For now, he had no solution. His exploration of the roots of magic would have to be set aside temporarily.
Skyl was in no hurry. He possessed an endless lifespan, and the root of magic called to him at every moment. Even if he drifted drowsily through the mortal world for another hundred years, he would eventually—little by little—touch the true marrow of magic.
The portal to World III had already opened. Skyl had taken a moment to step through and immediately recognised that world as Elden Ring, because the portal's exit point was none other than the Chapel of Anticipation where the game begins.
Skyl: "We've reached the world's highest chapel, the glorious Chapel of Anticipation! Such a beautiful chapel—ah, and isn't that the Grafted Scion over there? Let's all just admire distant Limgrave from here instead, folks."
He didn't stay there long, because as soon as he stepped in, he realised something was off about this world.
In the Elden Ring world, the underlying physical laws were drastically different from those of the other worlds he'd visited, causing most of his nature-based magic to fail. If he wanted to cast such spells properly, he would have to recalculate the physical constants, then adjust his spell structures accordingly and localise them.
His a priori magic fared even worse; whether incantations or Transfiguration, none of it worked at all, as if under severe restriction from some fundamental source-level law.
Under these conditions, his combat power dropped sharply. To break through these limits would require a fair bit of tinkering.
Skyl planned to explore the Elden Ring world more thoroughly when he had time. For the moment, he was more concerned with the Elder Scrolls world, because the World-Eater Alduin had already made his entrance.
Ever since Skyl had elevated Brelyna and the other two into his chosen retainers, their time had synchronised with the Tower of Tomes, and the passage of time in the Tower was itself controlled by Skyl. To give Brelyna and the others time to grow, Skyl then synchronised the Tower's flow of time with his own. In this way, the Harry Potter world and the Elder Scrolls world now progressed at the same rate.
He had been in this world for a full month. The College of Winterhold was now approaching the end of Last Seed (August). The mountains were sealed under heavy snow, the cold was bitter, and it was the perfect season for rest and recuperation. Yet the fortified town of Helgen, in the south of Skyrim, had just suffered a sudden dragon disaster. The entire stronghold town had been destroyed by the shout of a jet-black ancient dragon named Alduin; the garrison was wiped out, and civilians were killed and injured in droves.
News of the dragons' return spread across Skyrim like smoke rising from a bonfire, carried by the howling wind.
At that time, Onmund happened to be visiting the headquarters of the Companions in Whiterun, not far from Helgen.
Whether he'd awakened some barbarian bloodline or simply had a screw loose was unclear, but he had decided to become a glorious close-combat mage. So he'd come to the Companions to study fighting techniques. When he heard that a prisoner who had escaped the dragon attack had come to see Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun with news that Helgen had been destroyed by a dragon, he rushed to report to Brelyna.
Brelyna had already received special instructions from Skyl beforehand, telling her to pay attention to any news of dragons appearing and to call him immediately if she discovered anything.
At that moment, Skyl happened to be eating lunch at Hogwarts. His phone buzzed in his pocket; he nonchalantly pulled it out and answered.
"Skyl, a dragon attacked Helgen. A prisoner escaped from there."
"What race is this prisoner? Male or female?"
"A textbook Nord man," Brelyna replied. As soon as she finished, she heard a faint sigh of regret from the other end of the line and hurriedly asked, "What's wrong? Is it very bad?"
"No, not at all. Quite the opposite—this might be very good news. A standard Nord tough guy… there's a good chance Skyrim's ultimate menace has just appeared. At this rate, the dragons might not be the only ones in trouble." Skyl tilted his head back and pondered for a moment. "I need to go to Riverwood and move anyone willing to leave up to Winterhold."
"Does that mean the Winterhold Reconstruction Plan is officially starting?"
"That's right. Pass the word to Mage Aren, and ask him to negotiate with the Jarl of Winterhold first. If that jarl's attitude is too hard-line, then we'll simply replace him with one who's more agreeable."
"That would be the same as declaring open war on the Stormcloaks. Some members of the College might not be pleased."
Skyl's tone remained calm. "Tell those mages the College will not side with either faction in the civil war—but Winterhold must belong to us. If Ulfric refuses to accept my judgement, I don't mind helping him die with dignity."
Brelyna let out a cheerful laugh. "Mage Skyl, you only need to take Ulfric on a little tour of the ruins at Saarthal. After that, he'll agree to any terms you name."
"Not a bad idea. Let's leave it at that for now. All the best." Skyl hung up.
The moment he set the phone down, the people around him all leaned over curiously.
"What's that? I've never seen that magical item before."
"A mobile phone," Skyl said. "It's what my club members use to keep in touch. With this, there's no need to rely on owls."
Percy looked thoughtful. "Muggles have phones too. My dad works at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, he's talked about them before."
"They are similar, yes. But theirs need signal towers to relay the connection. Mine doesn't."
"De Lin, if joining your club means getting one of these 'phones,' that means I'd be able to contact you with it, right?" A sixth-year witch batted her eyes at him—on the long lashes she had conjured with magic perched two little white sprite-fleas, and every time she blinked, the fleas turned into an arc of crackling electricity. That really was a literal electric gaze.
Skyl shrugged, unimpressed. "That's right. Although I still haven't managed to hand out a single phone at Hogwarts."
"Who were you just talking to? Someone from your homeland?"
"That's not the kind of thing I can explain in a single sentence…"
A little further down the long table, Ron was wolfing down his food while telling Harry about something strange that had happened during his detention.
"I was polishing the Quidditch trophies when a line of text suddenly appeared. I think it might be a clue to some kind of treasure."
Hermione pricked up her ears. "What did the text say?"
"I only remember roughly. Something about 'the Legend of the Lamp Spirit' pointing the way, and then something about the 'Tower of Tomes' or whatever. What does 'Legend of the Lamp Spirit' mean?"
"I know," said Harry, of all people. "I've heard that story."
"A story? Like something out of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?" Ron asked.
Hermione nodded. "More or less, except the Legend of the Lamp Spirit is from the Muggle book One Thousand and One Nights. The story goes that there's a magic oil lamp with a genie living inside. As long as you summon it, it can grant your wishes."
"That's amazing. Then I'm definitely going to find that magic lamp." Ron's eyes shone as he waved the chicken bone in his hand like a sword. "Harry, want to help me? We can make our wishes together."
"Yeah." Harry turned to Hermione. "Let's all go together."
"I still have books to read."
"Please?" Harry blinked at her as well. He didn't know any spells for electrifying eye contact, but his sincerity was its own finishing move.
Hermione shrugged. "All right." She then launched straight into a rapid-fire analysis of all the hidden information in the clue. Ron did his best to listen for a while, but soon felt as if three ounces of seawater had been poured into his skull. He and Harry, who was equally overwhelmed, exchanged a look and shared the bitter smile of youngsters suffering the consequences of their own choices.
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