Ethan grinned at the diary, which had suddenly gone silent.
Then, without a shred of pity, he tossed it into the wardrobe's pocket dimension.
Little Tom, this tiny box will be your forever home (said gently).
Tom was already numb to it all.
In just a few short months, he'd gone through more "vibrant" experiences than in his entire fifteen years of life.
"Vibrant" in the most literal, physical sense.
Even with his external senses shut off, those swirling, kaleidoscopic colors flooded his mind with crystal clarity.
Tom—
Tom finally stopped thinking altogether.
Ka-chink, ka-chink.
Golden blades sliced through the air, carving the massive Basilisk hide into five equal sections.
He rolled up four of them and stashed them in his leather satchel.
The last one—the piece he'd marked with a single stroke—he fixed firmly to the wall.
Once he was done, beads of sweat dotted Ethan's forehead.
"Phew."
He exhaled deeply, as if he'd just completed some monumental feat.
Hands on his hips, he tilted his head back and used his magical senses to "inspect" the veiled Basilisk skin canvas.
It stretched dozens of meters tall, looming over him like a giant.
Shrouded in swirling mist, it gave off a faint, phosphorescent white glow.
It was even bigger than the murals in the Ancient City of Sen.
One look was all it took to realize just how much colossal effort it would demand to fill it completely!
An ordinary person would throw in the towel at the mere sight.
But Ethan? He felt an uncontrollable rush of excitement instead.
Thump! Thump!
His heart hammered wildly, pounding against his ribcage!
He wanted to paint—he craved to splash color across that blank expanse!
It was as instinctive as a newborn's first cry, or a wild beast tearing into its prey to sate its hunger.
Ethan's urge to create art flowed straight from his soul.
Only by chasing ever-higher pinnacles of craftsmanship could he satisfy it.
Ethan had no intention of sleeping.
With one hand, he gently caressed the Basilisk's body, tracing its armor-like scales.
With the other, he wielded his brush, sketching relentlessly across the vast canvas.
Even without his sight, it didn't hinder him in the least.
Drawing from his experience with the Ancient City of Sen murals, Ethan effortlessly maneuvered the scaffolding, which extended and retracted at his whim.
He moved with the speed of someone gliding in a wheelchair.
Stroke by stroke—
Dipping into the pigments Tom had so graciously provided.
Layering them onto the sleek, supple Basilisk skin canvas.
Ethan decided to start from the middle of the Basilisk's body.
Linking the front and back, it formed the core of the five sections.
In his mind, the plan was clear: Tonight, he'd rough out the general outline, and tomorrow, he'd weave in the spells and detail the scales—
But plans are always perfect in theory, while reality loves to throw curveballs.
In an instant.
Ethan's vision went pitch black with a heavy thud.
Then, like a robot running out of battery, he toppled off the scaffolding.
He hit the ground with a dull thump.
He'd passed out.
[Hiss hiss?]
The Basilisk watched with concern, its orange-yellow slit pupils locked on its suddenly still little master.
It nudged him cautiously, sensing his steady breathing and warm body temperature.
Only then did it ease up.
Sure, this little master had a habit of poking and prodding it at random, but it had grown quite fond of him.
[Hiss hiss…]
The little master couldn't see its eyes—
Flicking its tongue, the Basilisk slithered back into the depths of the Chamber of Secrets and coiled up once more.
—If it was this little master, then it was willing to share the treasure its father had left behind.
The next morning.
"Ugh—"
Ethan stirred awake, roused by his internal clock.
Frowning, he felt the cold stone pressing against his cheek as his awareness trickled back.
—Ah, right. He'd fainted from sheer exhaustion while painting.
Ethan pushed himself up from the floor with effort, his head throbbing like it was splitting open.
On top of that, sleeping on hard rock all night had left his entire body sore and aching.
Sensing the Basilisk deep in the cavern, Ethan yanked off his blindfold.
He pulled out two vials of Invigoration Draught and chugged them down!
Ethan sighed long and deep, finally feeling human again.
He turned to gaze at the massive, ink-black outline that wasn't even a tenth complete, and muttered to himself:
"Just the outline is this tough. At this pace, how long will the whole thing take—
Not to mention.
If I keep this up, I'll end up in the hospital wing before long.
Last year, I became a VIP at the hospital wing because of that Hellhound painting.
If I repeat the same blunder this year...
Madam Pomfrey would probably strap me to a bed herself to stop me from painting.
Am I supposed to paint while hooked up to Invigoration Draughts from now on?
If it worked, it wouldn't be the worst idea.
But what little sanity I have left tells me it's a bad one.
"...If I overthink this, my brain's going to melt. Let's just take it slow for now."
Ethan rubbed his temples, grumbling.
He flicked his wand; it was a bit past eight—not too late.
"First things first: breakfast, check in with the others, and kick off the Enlightenment Society's inaugural training session."
Ethan wobbled to his feet, deftly opened a portal, and stepped through.
And, as usual, he scared the living daylights out of Michael, who was in the middle of brushing his teeth.
Michael nearly choked on the toothpaste foam.
However.
After breakfast.
The already modest roster of Enlightenment Society members shrank by a few more.
Ethan: "You mean—Harry and the Weasley twins got hauled off by Wood for Quidditch practice?"
"Starting at six in the morning?"
"Uh, yeah! Harry asked me to pass on the message."
Ron nodded, a touch nervously.
Wood, you dare interfere with my members' training? You've chosen the path to your own doom.
Ethan thought darkly.
Luna placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder and said softly, "So, what do we do now, Ethan?"
Ethan gathered his wits and flashed a gentle smile:
"Of course, we're going to track them down."
"Perfect timing—I was hoping for a wide-open space to train anyway."
The group headed out of the castle.
From a distance, they spotted a flash of crimson on the field.
And the dark green facing off against it.
"It's the Slytherin team!"
Ron yelled, then bolted ahead.
Hermione hesitated, glancing at Ethan.
Ethan: "If you want to go, go ahead, Hermione. Don't worry about my face."
He'd just pulled an all-nighter and couldn't muster the energy to sprint.
At his words, Hermione let out a relieved breath.
She shot Ethan a thankful smile and hurried forward too.
Cedric dashed ahead as well.
It seemed he was keen on picking up some Quidditch gossip.
At that moment.
On the Quidditch pitch.
Harry stared at Wood, who was squaring off against the Slytherin captain, utterly baffled. A question bubbled up in his mind:
Why on earth had they gotten up so early?
He clearly wasn't alone in that thought.
George gripped his Beater's bat, muttering, "Merlin's cat tail, I'd rather head back to the Ancient City of Sen and brawl with that Hellhound for three hundred rounds than stand here getting tortured."
Fred nodded blankly: "I feel like I missed out on a billion Galleons."
They watched as the Slytherin team unveiled their new Seeker—or more accurately, their new sponsor—Draco Malfoy.
But after taking a solid hit from Ethan back in first year, Malfoy's gaze was a lot sharper now.
At the moment, he just smirked smugly without saying much.
The Slytherin captain, Marcus Flint, apparently figured that wasn't enough.
"We've got the latest Nimbus brooms—what've you got? Oh, a pile of moldy old sticks nicked from a museum? Hahaha, that's a riot!"
Wood's face flushed red, and just as he opened his mouth to fire back, a crisp voice cut in:
"At least the Gryffindor team didn't buy their way in."
At that.
The Slytherin players' expressions soured instantly.
Malfoy whipped his head around with a scowl, ready to snap back—until he saw who'd spoken: Hermione.
And Ron.
And looming behind them like an unbreakable wall, Cedric.
Malfoy clammed up right away.
He narrowed his eyes, thinking:
If it was just Hermione and Ron, sure... he could call them the Savior's pathetic little tag-alongs.
But Cedric.
He recalled how Hufflepuff had been buzzing that morning about Cedric acing the test and joining Ethan's society.
If that was true...
Malfoy caught on quick.
"I think we'd better not waste time and get to training."
Malfoy drawled, but a note of urgency slipped into his voice.
Something major was brewing.
However.
The troll-brained Flint didn't pick up on it.
Flint loomed over Hermione, who was craning her neck to glare up at him defiantly, and drawled slowly:
"My team's not for you to judge."
"Mudblood—" He didn't get to finish.
The Weasley twins lunged straight at him!
"What did you say?!"
Ron bellowed, snapping his wand up and yelling:
"Tarantallegra!"
It hit true.
A brilliant spell burst from the tip of Ron's new wand, striking Flint dead on.
Forcing him to jitter and dance around in ridiculous, uncontrollable spasms!
The pitch exploded into laughter once more.
Weasley twins: "Hahaha, nice one! Way to go, little bro!"
Harry flashed him a delighted thumbs-up.
A surge of pride Ron had never felt before bubbled up from deep inside. His freckled face turned tomato-red, but his eyes shone bright.
Ron stared at the wand in his hand, realizing for the first time how smoothly spells could flow from it—and that he could be the one in the spotlight.
Even if just for a moment.
And he owed this wand—and the money for it—all to Ethan.
"...Thanks, mate."
Ron sniffled, murmuring his gratitude.
Over on Wood's side.
Flint finally shook off the spell, his face red as a tomato too.
From rage.
He raised his wand viciously and rasped, "You'll pay for that—"
"Oh, really?"
A clear, melodic voice rose from behind him.
"Then what's the price?"
Flint spun around sharply.
And caught a solid punch right to the face!!
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