Infinite love.
The most radiant power can erupt, and this has always been an ironclad rule in the Harry Potter World. In Musa, this rule proves it exists beyond Hogwarts.
"Mr. Musa, please take care. I will contact you soon," Ian said.
Musa simply nodded slightly, waved his hand, indicating he was alright.
Ian said no more. He stepped back a few paces, standing on the empty ground in the yard. With a slight thought, the surrounding space began to produce subtle, almost imperceptible ripples. He did not recite lengthy spells, nor did he perform any exaggerated gestures; it was merely the flow of will that established a link with distant spatial coordinates.
In the next second, his figure flickered lightly like a reflection on water, then suddenly blurred, contracted, and finally completely vanished from the spot. There was no explosion, no burst of air, not even the slightest stir of wind. The entire process of departure was quiet, swift, carrying a kind of elegance and absolute control like lifting something lightweight.
In the field, only Musa remained, carrying his farming tools, gazing at the open space and the pot of stew still bubbling softly over the low flame.
After Ian disappeared, the old man's gaze slowly swept over the surroundings of the yard.
In the shadows of the fence, under the eaves, beside those seemingly casually placed clay pots, some extremely hidden runes briefly glowed and then quickly faded away. These were the formations he painstakingly arranged, used for detecting and suppressing fluctuations in space magic.
Any space movement without his permission, even the most skilled "Apparition," would inevitably trigger these alarms and might even face counteraction from space disturbances.
However, until Ian's departure, these arrays seemed dormant, without any signs of being activated.
Rather than feeling offended, a deep sense of shock swept across Musa's eyes, followed by an even fiercer light of hope.
"Is this... the power of Legends?"
He murmured to himself, his voice trembling slightly, not from fear but excitement, "Completely disregarding the shackles of space, coming and going freely, not leaving even a trace of ripples..."
He looked up at the void where Ian disappeared; dusk had descended, the last glimmer of sunset fading away. Yet in the old man's eyes, it was as if a faint but resilient flame had been ignited. The decades of searching through darkness seemed to finally glimpse a possibility of penetrating the fog.
He slowly sat back in his chair, fatigue sweeping over him once more, but this time, amidst that weariness, was a hint of something he hadn't felt in a long time, something called hope.
He closed his eyes, and he seemed to hear the crisp laughter of his wife and the excited calls of his son again, accompanied by the sound of the wind across the distant Arctic Icefield, lingering for a long time.
Meanwhile, Ian's figure had already crossed a thousand mountains and rivers, appearing in a prosperous yet secretive wizard gathering place on the African Continent—a magical street similar to "Diagon Alley," hidden in the crevices of modern cities. The street was bustling with people of various skin colors, wearing robes or local attire. The chatter, the shouting were endless. His sudden appearance did not attract anyone's attention, as if he had always been standing there.
Ian felt the heavy weight of the stack of notes in his bag as he looked into the distance.
The affairs in Africa needed to be settled quickly, and then it would be time to head to the icebound land to unravel a poignant mystery spanning decades and fulfill the promise made to a lonely seeker. The Path of Legends is never just about the ascent of power, but also about bearing the corresponding responsibilities and commitments.
"This journey, perhaps, Female Titan Claire is not just wanting me to collect materials." Ian walked on the bustling and exotic street of the African wizard gathering place.
On both sides were rows of shops, selling various items glimmering with magical brilliance.
Colorful snake bird feathers, strange roots writhing slowly in potions, protective talismans engraved with ancient totems—the sound of bustling, various languages intertwined, Witch Doctors adorned with tribal outfits and bone decorations brushed past Academy-style Wizards clad in simple robes.
Forming a bizarre and colorful tableau. However, all this splendid scenery seemed a bit blurry in Ian's eye. His attention was dominated by a clear sense of emptiness in his stomach. Hunger, a pure physiological need, was persistently reminding him that this legendary body still required energy replenishment.
This feeling was somewhat ironic.
He had just left the home of an Alchemist who had devoted his life to the study of gourmet food, with the enticing aroma of the carefully stewed meat lingering in the air, yet he had an empty stomach. The reason was nothing but Musa's restaurant specialties from the Soviet Union frozen soil fifty years ago.
Although Musa explained the role of the Time Rule, that the food theoretically had endured its due years of aging, just thinking of their origin—an eerie underground project that devoured Eira and Little Cam—made Ian's stomach feel indescribably queasy. He didn't eat much.
The psychological discomfort far surpassed the minuscule risk the food might potentially pose.
"Perhaps it's best to find a place and eat some 'normal' food," Ian thought to himself.
What he needed was food that could genuinely fill his stomach and soothe his spirit, not "antiques" laden with heavy history and unknown mysteries.