Chapter 103: Reward of the Vishanti
Back in the familiar, sparse quiet of 35 Carnaby Street, Elian allowed himself a moment of stillness. The frantic energy of the fight and the grim council at Grimmauld Place faded, replaced by the soft hum of his own magic. He closed his eyes, focusing inward, where the interface of the Supreme Mage System glowed with a patient, steady light.
He willed it to evaluate his progress.
Bonus Mission: 'Cull the Pack' – Status Update.
Objective: Engage and neutralize Death Eater forces during the holiday period.
Current Tally: Eliminated – 17. Captured (Alpha Threat) – 1.
Mission Performance Tier: Exceptional.
Reward Calculation: Complete.
Issuing Reward…
A new line of script, burning with a deep, golden fire, inscribed itself in his mind's eye.
Reward Granted: The Sacred Sword of the Vishanti.
Elian's eyes snapped open, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. The Sacred Sword of the Vishanti? The System was not being frugal. This was a weapon of legend within the Kamar-Taj disciplines, a blade forged not of metal but of pure, focused mystical energy, capable of cutting through spells, enchantments, and things far more substantial.
This mission had been different. Not a simple 'complete/fail' objective, but a stacking challenge. The more enemies he removed from the board, the greater the reward. A part of him wondered, with a thrill that was not entirely comfortable, what he might have earned if he had hunted more aggressively. Could he have stacked rewards towards the Mirror Dimension, or the Bolts of Balthakk? The temptation was there—the greedy thought of a power hoarder.
But he dismissed it. Voldemort was many things, but a fool was not one of them. Two devastating ambushes had turned Elian from an anomaly into a priority. The next encounter would not be with disposable werewolves; it would be calculated, brutal, and led by someone far more dangerous. The werewolves had been a test, a probing strike. Their loss was a sting, not a crippling blow, but it would make the enemy cautious.
'I'll take the sure reward,' Elian decided. He focused, accepting the completion of the mission.
The mission log vanished from his System interface. In its place, a torrent of knowledge flowed into him—not just the image of a golden, crescent-bladed sword, but the feel of its weightless hilt in his hand, the specific incantation to summon it from the fabric of reality, the way its edge could parry a Killing Curse or sever a magical tether. It was a melee weapon of unparalleled finesse, answering a need he hadn't fully articulated. The Rings of Raggador were powerful, but they were shields and projectile weapons. The Sword of the Vishanti was an extension of his will, a duelist's tool.
The rest of the holiday passed in a cocoon of focused study. He practised the summoning of the sword until it appeared in a flash of golden sparks at his thought. He delved deeper into the foundational principles of the mystic arts, cross-referencing the intuitive knowledge the System gave him with the logical structure of spellcraft he saw in his Standard Book of Spells. Hermione and Luna wrote; Hermione's letters were full of sheltered worry and updates on the Burrow, Luna's were dreamy descriptions of helping her father prepare a new home, "somewhere the Wrackspurts are less congested." The wizarding world seemed to hold its breath. The Order was vigilant, the Death Eaters were quiet—a storm gathering in the silence.
Elian knew this peace was an illusion. They were all planning something.
He also began a new, private project. The System gave him power, but true mastery, the kind befitting a 'Supreme Mage', surely involved more than personal strength. It involved legacy, understanding, and teaching. Could the mystic arts be taught to a witch like Hermione, with her brilliant, logical mind? Or to Luna, who perceived the world through such a uniquely uncluttered lens? He spent hours deconstructing the feeling of drawing energy from the multiverse, of shaping it with intent, trying to formulate it into principles, exercises, warnings. It was fiendishly difficult. His own mastery was instinctive, a gift. Translating instinct into pedagogy was the work of a true master.
The ambition took root. He would not be a lone power. He would be a cornerstone.
All too soon, the holiday ended. Standing on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express belching steam, Elian felt an unexpected surge of warmth. This chaotic, magical world had become his home.
"Elian! Over here!"
He turned. Ron Weasley was barrelling through the crowd, a wide grin on his face, with Harry Potter at his heels. Hermione followed, pushing her trunk, a relieved smile breaking over her face when she saw him.
"Blimey, not a single letter all holiday!" Ron crowed, thumping Elian on the arm. "What, found a secret girlfriend or something?"
Harry chuckled, but his green eyes were serious, taking in Elian as if checking for changes.
"I heard you were rather busy with a certain Lavender Brown," Elian replied dryly. "Seems you had all the correspondence you could handle."
Ron's ears turned pink as he spluttered a denial. Elian's gaze met Hermione's over Ron's shoulder.
"You could have written, you know," she said, but her tone was soft, the accusation hollow.
"It was a… quiet holiday," he said, the lie and the truth woven together. "For the most part."
After finding an empty compartment was deemed hopeless, they began to push their way down the train, looking for familiar faces, likely heading towards where the D.A. might have gathered. The corridor was packed with laughing, shouting students, the air thick with the smell of chocolate frogs and excitement.
As they neared the last carriages, however, the noise changed. The laughter died, replaced by the sharp, angry tones of a confrontation.
A familiar, drawling voice cut through the babble. "—contraband, obviously. It's my duty as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad to confiscate it. Unless you'd like to explain to Professor Umbridge why you're spreading this… filth?"
Elian saw them. Draco Malfoy stood, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, blocking the corridor. Facing them, their backs to Elian and his friends, were Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley. Ginny had her hands on her hips, Neville stood protectively in front of her, his face pale but determined. In Malfoy's hand, he waved a crumpled copy of The Quibbler.
"That's not contraband, it's the truth!" Ginny snapped.
"Truth?" Malfoy sneered. "It's a rag full of lies printed by a lunatic. And I think you two have been reading it a little too closely. Probably got ideas. Incitement. That's a serious charge."
Crabbe cracked his knuckles. Goyle smirked.
"Just take them, Draco," a simpering voice said from behind Malfoy. Pansy Parkinson peered over his shoulder. "Don't waste time talking. The Professor will reward us."
Malfoy's grey eyes glinted with malicious pleasure. "You heard her. Grab them."
(End of Chapter)
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