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During the days of waiting, Sagres spent most of his ti consulting Ravenclaw about the mysteries of ti magic.
It was a profound and extrely dangerous branch—completely different from the destructive magic he had previously developed.
anwhile, in the nearby wilderness, Salazar Slytherin was dissecting a monster Sagres had created using Flesh Forging.
His makeshift studio was bathed in a dark green, eerie glow.
Snake-shaped candelabras embedded in the stone walls exhaled cold flas, casting his shadow into a grotesque figure across the wilderness.
On the simple workbench, a series of silver scalpels glead coldly, each hilt inlaid with organs from different creatures—the vertical pupils of a harpy, the amber irises of a centaur, the lacrimal gland crystals of a unicorn…
All of them remained as fresh and moist as when they were removed.
"Sample seven, begin recording." Slytherin's voice was low, cold, and devoid of emotion.
The hovering quill imdiately marked the parchnt with ink.
The silver knife precisely opened the monster's chest cavity, and a cluster of eyeballs inside twitched violently, but Slytherin didn't so much as blink.
The parchnt automatically recorded:
"There is a magical circuit at the junction of the wing bone and the pectoral muscle, shaped like a biological eyeball, presud to act as a biological conductor for flight magic…"
…
…
Sagres's learning speed was astonishing.
Before Godric and Helga returned, he had already mastered all the basic principles of ti magic.
Of course, it was unclear whether Ravenclaw had withheld any key spells. After all, she was an exceptionally intelligent witch, with extensive research in ti, fate, and mory.
In his spare ti, Sagres would also observe Slytherin's magical experints.
The future founder's research thods were surprisingly rigorous: every step was accompanied by detailed experintal notes, and every conclusion was repeatedly verified.
It was worth noting that even in the 20th century, few—if any—wizards in the magical world could have done better.
Although they had lost in today's magical duel, Sagres had no doubt about their future achievents in magic.
Interestingly, this observation was mutual.
While he observed the two founders, they were also quietly analyzing Sagres.
His unconventional casting thods and magical theories—shaped by modern logic—were silently influencing the minds of the two geniuses.
Unfortunately, after more than a thousand years of developnt, the magical world's progress had been disappointingly limited. Compared to the rapidly advancing technology of the Muggle world, wizards seed to be standing still.
Sagres silently watched Slytherin's experint.
He wouldn't tell them these things—every era had its own mission, and the mission of the Four Founders was to establish Hogwarts, not to lead a revolution spanning a millennium.
That was his concern.
As dusk deepened, an unusual black speck suddenly appeared in the sky.
At first, Sagres paid it no mind—until the shadow expanded at an alarming rate and tore through the clouds to reveal its true form: a Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon, at least sixty-five feet long.
This behemoth, nearly extinct by the 20th century, was now diving straight toward them.
Its silver-grey tallic scales reflected a cold glint in the setting sun, and each flap of its wings stirred up hurricane-like turbulence.
Sagres's pupils constricted, and his wand traced a sharp crimson arc through the air.
As the ground trembled, the flesh-forged monster rose with a roar, and dozens of tentacles—like living pythons—coiled around the dragon's scaled neck.
"What the hell is that?!"
An angry roar ca from the dragon's back.
A flash of silver light, and the thick tentacles snapped.
The unbalanced dragon swayed violently in midair, and the seven or eight figures on its back scattered, finally caught by a Levitation Charm.
A cold smile played on Sagres's lips.
The monster's fractured back suddenly split open, and a pair of massive wings made of shattered bones and fascia instantly unfolded, allowing it to close the distance with the falling dragon at an unnatural speed.
Giant suction-cupped claws gripped the dragon's neck, and a grating, corrosive sound echoed where scales t flesh.
"Stop!" Ravenclaw's shout erupted at the sa ti as the dragon's flas.
In the torrent of scorching white flas, the monster's body not only failed to carbonize—it absorbed the flas like a sponge, every muscle fiber expanding and trembling from the energy infusion.
Sagres raised his left hand at the precise mont, and the monster, just as it was about to complete its devouring, instantly froze into a bloody sculpture.
The dragon's agonized roar shook loose stones from the ground, but its head—still trapped in the monster's claws—had begun to eerily rge with the writhing flesh. Its silver scales were gradually transforming into dark red tissue.
With a crisp snap, Sagres snapped his fingers.
The flesh monster imdiately loosened its claws, and the Ukrainian Ironbelly let out a painful shriek, stumbled back several steps, then flapped its wings violently and took off into the sky.
"Who is this guy?!" A booming voice rang out as a burly, bearded man stepped forward from the group.
He wore a pointed wizard's hat, and reddish-brown curls stubbornly poked out from under the brim. The jewel-encrusted longsword in his hand was still dripping with blood.
"I finally caught that thing! I only got to ride it once!"
"Calm down, Godric," Slytherin said, stepping forward quickly. His pale fingers pressed against the man's shoulder as he leaned in to whisper a few words.
Gryffindor's expression shifted—from anger to astonishnt.
"It's him?"
After hearing this, the man looked at Sagres in surprise. Then Ravenclaw stepped forward to introduce him.
"This is Sagres, a… traveler..."
Then she turned to Sagres and introduced, "This is Godric Gryffindor."
After introducing the bearded man, she pointed to a curvaceous, beautiful woman. "This is Helga Hufflepuff—"
Madam Hufflepuff had long, light golden hair, with a few purple wildflowers woven into it, and a spring-like smile on her rounded face.
Sagres also noticed that her linen dress was stained with fresh herb juice.
"These are children rescued from the Church..."
Sagres's gaze passed over the adults, falling on the trembling children behind them.
These young wizards, rescued from the clutches of the Church, were wrapped in rags, their exposed ankles covered in bruises.
Their frightened eyes reminded Sagres of young beasts confined in cages.
He didn't know why Gryffindor and the others hadn't dressed them more properly, but—Heh.
"Rejoice."
His wand lifted lightly, and golden, dust-like magical light sprinkled over the children's heads. With a few smooth Transfiguration spells, their rags transford into neat black robes.
The smallest girl shyly touched her new clothes, then suddenly broke into her first smile of the day.
Gryffindor stood with his arms crossed, his gaze casually sweeping across Sagres's face.
"It seems we have a lot to talk about," he said, casting a aningful glance at the massive flesh monster.
"But first—" he suddenly broke into a brilliant grin, "we need a good al, and then a few drinks!"
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