Erwin examined his updated status panel and nodded in satisfaction. Cheating really did pave the way to the top—nothing beat throwing money at a problem. Now his display gleamed with potential; he wasn't just holding his own as a fifth-year, he could match some run-of-the-mill Aurors. Sure, his spellbook was still thin, but the wizarding world had its share of one-trick wonders. Take Harry Potter, who'd scrapped his way through life with little more than the Sword of Gryffindor. Or Voldemort, forever scheming from the shadows and striking without mercy.
He shook his head—best not lump those two together. That was an insult to the Dark Lord.
With the panel dismissed, Erwin pondered his next move: convincing Snape to brew Felix Felicis. But after mulling it over, he dismissed the idea as foolhardy. How could he explain handing over that bizarre automated brewing setup, which resembled a rustic clay pot more than a proper cauldron? Snape's temper was legendary; anyone foisting a peculiar gadget on him for potion work would learn the true meaning of "cruelty" firsthand. The mere thought sent a shiver down Erwin's spine.
Brewing it himself? His talent had improved, but he was no match for Snape's mastery. Potions varied wildly by brewer and method—Snape's reputation as the Potions Master stemmed from his brews' unmatched potency and purity, endorsed by the entire market. Worse, Erwin lacked ingredients. The Forbidden Forest didn't stock everything, and many rarities weren't even sold openly. Only master potioneers dealt in them, sourcing from daring adventurers who braved perils for a fair price and solid reputation.
Erwin had neither the connections nor the trust. Would some nameless wanderer, risking life and limb with no backup, really approach him with precious materials? Strictly speaking, Erwin was an outsider—no ancient lineage to lean on. And the Felix Felicis recipe demanded extravagantly rare components: Ashwinder eggs, Squill bulbs, Murtlap antennae, thyme tincture, rue powder, and Occamy eggshells. Demand outstripped supply, driving prices sky-high.
If Snape could produce even one batch, sales would handle themselves. Erwin would just supply the materials, letting the automated line hum along. The more he dwelled on it, the more Galleons danced in his mind's eye. No shop carried Felix Felicis openly; those that did treated it like buried treasure. Refining it was a nightmare, and the ingredients? Near impossible to procure.
But the real game-changer was the production line's speed: one bottle every three hours, regardless of complexity. Wolfsbane Potion took a full month by hand—here, just three hours. Mass-producing Felix Felicis wasn't a pipe dream anymore. In Erwin's eyes, this purple-tier reward rivaled any golden one.
Lost in visions of wealth, he drifted into a deep sleep.
In his dream, Erwin found himself in a dank dungeon. Torches flickered along the stone corridor in twin rows, their flames casting long shadows that stretched into the gloom. He couldn't control his body; some unseen force tugged him forward, deeper into the labyrinth.
At last, they reached the heart of the prison. Erwin pressed himself into the shadows, peering out cautiously. Iron cages lined the walls, most yawning empty. But three adjacent cells held huddled figures, their forms obscured in darkness. Bloodstains marred their ragged clothes—clear signs of relentless torment.
At the cellblock's entrance stood a cluster of black-robed figures. One broke the silence. "Still no extraction?"
Another shook his head. "Not yet. This is uncharted territory—no guarantees it'll work."
"There's no time left! That boy—he's already at Hogwarts. Word is he's exceptional, outshining even his parents. Among his peers, no one comes close. Not even them. They feel the threat. The extraction has to succeed before we make our move on him!"
"Understood. These subjects won't last much longer. I need fresh ones—round up more."
"Consider it done. Just deliver results. I want success."
Erwin crouched in the shadows, heart pounding. A conspiracy, ripe with dark ritual. That boy... His breath caught. Was it him?
Wizards were a superstitious lot, and for good reason. Divination might be dodgy, but dreams like this often carried weight—prophecies or portents of peril ahead. How could he not suspect he was the target?
Someone was watching him. But why? What set him apart? The murder of his parents? What foul scheme brewed here?
A faint scuffle echoed behind him. Erwin whipped around, pulse racing, and bolted. Glancing back, he froze. The black-robed men had drawn long staves, crystal orbs gleaming at their tips. Lightning crackled across the surfaces.
In an instant, a jagged bolt lanced toward him. No escape. He could only watch it hurtle closer, dread coiling in his gut.
...
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