Deep within the palace of Alan's mind, the grand architectural cluster representing his Foundational Rune Command Library was caught in the middle of an unprecedented storm.
Countless waterfalls of luminous data surged out from the transcribed "gibberish" symbols, crashing violently against every logical construct Alan had built.
Collapse.
Reconstruction.
And then — collapse again.
He tried using the Tree Parsing Method derived from Ancient Elvish linguistics, only to watch his logical chains disintegrate entirely.
He switched to the Sequence Substitution Algorithm found in the Goblin minting system — the result was still meaningless chaos.
For two full days and nights, the core processor of his mental palace had been pushed to its limits.
Those symbols were like living entities, ancient and mocking, rampaging freely across his mental realm. They refused classification, refused decryption — their very existence was a blatant provocation to Alan's proud belief in absolute reason.
All the ancient linguistic knowledge he'd mastered — clear syntax, rigorous rules — felt fragile and futile before these "symbols," as if lines drawn by hand on sand, instantly erased by the first incoming wave.
This was something of an entirely different dimension.
Older. Deeper. And perhaps… closer to the essence of magic itself.
Alan slowly withdrew from meditation.
He didn't open his eyes right away. His still body contrasted sharply with the chaos inside his mind. Two sleepless days and nights of high-intensity computation left his temples throbbing with needlelike pain.
He had to admit the truth.
For the first time since his transmigration into this world, he had encountered a true knowledge barrier — one that couldn't be brute-forced through logic, computation, or sheer reasoning.
"Specialization…"
The conclusion crystallized in his mental palace — sharp and cold.
These symbols didn't belong to any field he had already mastered.
They formed an entirely new, more specialized pyramid of knowledge — one whose base he hadn't even reached yet.
He needed a guide.
A true expert.
Alan opened his eyes. Blood vessels laced across the whites like fine cracks in glass, yet his gaze was calm, as clear and focused as ever.
He stood up, carefully rolled the piece of parchment bearing the "symbols," and without hesitation, strode straight toward the door.
He needed to see someone.
A soft knock echoed on the office door of Professor Flitwick.
"Come in! Come in!" came the professor's bright, squeaky voice.
Alan entered. The diminutive dueling champion stood atop a precarious pile of books taller than himself, stretching for a thick tome on the top shelf. Upon seeing who it was, he cheerfully waved and hopped down with surprising agility, landing neatly on the floor.
"Alan! What brings you here today? Trouble with your nonverbal spell practice?"
Flitwick's face carried its usual warm smile — but that expression froze the instant his gaze drifted down to the parchment Alan handed over.
The twisted, cryptic symbols seemed to drain the air from the room.
The professor's lighthearted expression solidified, then shattered entirely — replaced by something Alan had never seen on him before.
It wasn't vigilance like when facing Dark Magic.
It was something heavier — a look that mixed awe, dread, and deep-seated apprehension.
As if what lay before him wasn't a piece of parchment…
but a door — a door to some forbidden abyss slowly creaking open.
"This…"
Flitwick's voice was nearly a whisper, the usual high pitch now dry and taut.
He didn't take the parchment. Instead, with surprising speed, he darted to the door and flicked his wand.
An invisible barrier sealed the room.
Even the faint crackling of the fireplace vanished instantly into utter silence.
Absolute quiet.
"Where… did you get this?"
The professor turned, his gaze fixed sharply on Alan — so intense it nearly pierced him through.
"From an old diary," Alan replied, offering a carefully filtered version of the truth.
Flitwick's throat bobbed as he swallowed. He didn't ask whose diary — a wise decision. Even he knew some things were best left unspoken.
He looked at Alan with a gaze full of conflicting emotion — astonishment, concern, and something else… an unshakable, smoldering fear.
"Child," he said slowly, each word weighted with gravity,
"you may have stumbled upon knowledge far older — and far more dangerous — than Dark Magic itself."
Finally, he extended his hand — but his fingers hovered above the parchment, not daring to touch it directly.
"This is not what you would call 'encryption.'"
He pointed to one of the spiraling symbols.
"In the highest halls of ancient magical theory, this is called a conceptual chain.
"Look: each individual symbol isn't a letter or a word. It represents an enormous, complete concept. For example, this one represents 'eternity,' the one next to it might mean 'transmutation,' and the next, 'containment.'
"When these symbols link together, they don't form a sentence — they form a logical puzzle, a kind of lock. Only by truly understanding the essence of the previous concept on a philosophical level can you gain the 'key' to unlock the next concept.
"It has never tested your computational ability, Alan," Flitwick's voice carried a profound sense of helplessness. "It tests the depth of your understanding of the world itself."
He looked at Alan with a mix of awe and gravity.
"To decipher it, a person would need profound mastery across magical history, alchemy, ancient runes, even non-human fae magic. Frankly, Alan, this far exceeds my capabilities. I… cannot even recognize half of these symbols."
Alan's pupils contracted slightly. A flicker of disappointment rose in him.
Even Professor Flitwick was powerless?
"But—"
Just as Alan's heart sank, Flitwick's tone shifted. His gaze became solemn, even tinged with a fervent reverence.
"Although I am powerless, I do know someone who is not."
"One… perhaps the only person in all of Europe today who might be able to solve this puzzle.
"He is a living legend, a true master. The world's foremost expert in magical symbology. And, Alan, you are very, very lucky. He has recently accepted Dumbledore's invitation and is here at Hogwarts, undertaking a brief, secret academic visit."
Flitwick's chest rose and fell rapidly. He took a deep, deliberate breath and spoke with a tone almost like a pilgrim revealing a sacred truth — one that would stun anyone who heard it.
"His name is Nicolas Flamel."
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