Chapter 68: Magic Alchemy
The first morning in the new villa also marked the first day of May.
George woke up feeling unusually relaxed. Whether it was because of acquiring the Arabian Peninsula or simply the end of a long chain of dealings, for once, he didn't feel the urge to leap out of bed. He lay there a while, still, letting the silence speak.
Since April of the previous year, George hadn't touched the Chaos Pearl. Thirteen months. No extractions, no experiments.
His consciousness drifted inward.
Inside the Pearl, the space had grown vast, more expansive than ever, though still inert beyond its storage functions. He focused, navigating the swirling mass of stars within. One "world" glowed slightly brighter—that was the one.
He directed the collected energy into it. A bright orb emerged, dense with stored information.
George crushed it between his palms.
The download hit immediately—knowledge, memories, language, technique, history—all from a man named Nicolas Flamel.
It took hours.
Fred knocked twice. That brought him back. George blinked, still seated, the spell flow slowing in his mind.
He went downstairs for a light lunch. Afterward, he returned to his study and sat again, reviewing what he'd just acquired.
Nicolas Flamel's knowledge base covered several disciplines: Charms, Divination, Potion-making, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and, most prominently, Alchemy. The Philosopher's Stone had been his crowning achievement—an object that could transmute metal and grant immortality. It had flaws: the elixir had to be consumed regularly, and it didn't preserve youth. But it worked. Flamel and his wife had lived for six centuries before choosing to die.
Another thread ran deeper: Runes.
Runes, Flamel had believed, were the backbone of magic. They predated wands, predated potions. All true magic, from enchantments to prophecy, flowed from their logic.
George sifted through the mythology. Odin, hanging on Yggdrasil, wounded and fasting, glimpses the runes at the edge of death. He remembered the lines:
I hung on the windswept tree for nine nights, wounded by a spear, offered to myself. No bread, no water. I looked down, seized the runes, Screaming as I fell.
George closed the book. Runes weren't just words—they were keys. He thought of Mjolnir. The hammer bore them. Odin had existed. That much, the Marvel world made clear.
The logic was sound: if runes powered Mjolnir, then runes had power. And if Flamel mastered them, so could he.
The spells came first. Apparition for teleportation. Alohomora for unlocking. The simpler ones were intuitive.
More advanced work—Divination, Potion-making—would need tools and ingredients he didn't yet possess. But local flora might work as substitutes. A magical lab was becoming necessary.
He tried a few nonverbal spells in the room. They worked.
Then he considered a Portkey.
He entered the study, shut the door, and summoned Fred.
"Sir?"
"Fred," George said, "your family's served the Swinton line for generations. Will you keep serving it—me, without question?"
Fred didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir. Without question."
"From now on, no one enters this room unless I call for them."
"Understood."
As Fred spoke, George silently cast Legilimency.
He saw no deceit. Only loyalty, passed down like blood. George gave a slight nod.
"You may go."
Fred left. George moved to the bookshelf, the concealed entry.
From his space, he retrieved 200 grams of white silver, ground it to fine dust, and carved a small runic array into the wood. Silver filled the etchings. Light flashed, then settled.
He shaped a slab of silver into a card. One side held the address, the other, the runic signature. Then he cast the Portkey spell.
Done. Now, with a touch and a bit of power, he could return to this room from anywhere.
He noticed something else: the same energy he used for cultivation—once called Chakra in the Qi Sea—now fueled spells. That blurred the categories. He didn't fully understand its nature. But it worked.
He picked up the phone.
He called Hopping & Cohen, his U.S.-based design firm.
They had been designing Reich Island—150 hectares he'd purchased from the Vanderbilts. Six million U.S. dollars. But the existing proposals no longer fit. Not after magic.
He told them to pause construction. The island's blueprint would need massive changes. Runic defenses. Magic labs. Reinforced boundaries. A full fortress, not just an estate.
He hung up and went to the basement garage.
Empty.
Eventually, he'd fill it with European cars. For now, it served a better purpose.
He sealed the entrance.
It would become his testing ground for magic.
Private. Silent. Safe.
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