Hogwarts’ John Wick

166: Time Flash and the Door

Time, frozen.

Sound, silenced.

Space, shrouded in darkness.

A crack appeared in the void ahead, barely wide enough for one person to pass through.

John raised the Sword of Silverwick, now reduced to a third of its original length.

The supercharged magic crystal at the hilt was gone, leaving only the intense purple hue of residual magic.

He stepped forward, expecting that the massive explosion would have left him severely injured—if not dismembered.

But it seemed the magical force hadn't inflicted as much damage as he feared.

The magic crystals on his limited gauntlet had been destroyed. Tentatively, he extended the Sword of Silverwick into the crack.

The moment it entered, the sword vanished.

John stared blankly at his right hand—gone.

No warning, no sign—just as if the Sword of Silverwick had never existed.

The space remained unchanged. If he didn't step through, he would be trapped here forever.

Taking a deep breath, John gripped his wand tightly.

Glancing at his arm, he noticed golden markings glowing faintly beneath the skin of his left hand.

No matter how hard he tried to wipe it away, the black mark remained on his other hand as well.

"Guess I have no choice but to go in..."

John had lingered in the space for what felt like an eternity. He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it.

It had stopped. Time itself was frozen.

Summoning his courage, he stepped toward the crack once more.

Beyond the fissure lay a void.

There was no up or down—just countless shattered mirrors scattered in every direction.

If the shifting labyrinth was minimalist art, then this place was a complex, dazzling masterpiece.

John placed his foot on one of the mirror shards.

Crunch.

The fragment creaked as if it might shatter at any moment, but it held steady beneath his weight.

Standing fully on the surface, John found it surprisingly intact.

With no idea where the exit might be, he could only press forward.

He also realized that his sword was nowhere to be found.

"Did it fall into a different place?"

After some thought, John chose a direction and began walking.

He wasn't sure how long he had been moving when he suddenly came face to face with a mirror.

The moment John touched the mirror, the reflection within began to shift.

He saw a disheveled man frantically adding ingredients into a cauldron. The man's expression was wild, almost deranged.

A woman, presumably his wife, approached and berated him viciously.

In response, the man cut off his own hand and threw it into the cauldron.

The wife fled in terror, but the man didn't care. He continued his alchemy, day after day, year after year, for a decade.

Yet, as death approached, he still hadn't achieved the thing he had been seeking.

John stared at the mirror, thoughtful, then moved on to touch another.

In this one, another alchemist appeared, but he was quite different from the first.

This man was elegant in demeanor, affectionate toward his wife, loving to his son, and kind to his friends.

He seemed like the perfect person—a good husband, a caring father, a loyal friend.

But every night, under the cover of darkness, the man would slip away to a hidden workshop filled with alchemical materials.

His life appeared idyllic at first. However, as time passed, his wife died, his son grew up and left home, and his best friend lost a leg in an adventure.

With each loss, the man's obsession with his goal deepened.

He spent every waking moment submerged in his experiments.

By the age of fifty, he died alone in his secret workshop, his life's purpose unfulfilled.

John moved to yet another mirror, and then another.

Each one told a similar story.

Some alchemists were happy, others sorrowful. Some were wealthy, others destitute.

But without exception, they were all alchemists—travelers on an unending quest for something just out of reach.

Suddenly, in the next mirror, the reflection changed to show a man.

He was looking at John with a faint, enigmatic smile.

"John Wick, I'm pleased you've made it here," the man said.

'!!?' John realized this wasn't a mere reflection—it was a living being.

No, calling him a "living being" didn't seem entirely accurate either.

John stayed vigilant as the man stepped out of the mirror. He wore a robe made of feathers, resembling a large white bird.

The man appeared to be in his twenties, holding a staff carved from oak.

"You know me?" John asked cautiously.

The man chuckled, stepping fully out of the mirror and replying, "Of course, I know you. I know every alchemist. You're the most unique one, having arrived here through time flashes."

"Time flashes?" John echoed, following the man instinctively.

"Yes, random leaps through time. The last person I saw arrive here ended up as nothing but bones. You're the first to survive it in quite a while."

The man's eyes were an unusual pink, as though they could peer straight into John's soul.

Ahead of them appeared a door. It seemed entirely ordinary, yet in this peculiar space, it felt both harmonious and out of place.

The man stopped in front of it, turning to John with a broad smile.

"You're one of the rare few to make it here over the years. You can call me the Zero Alchemist, Alchemist Zero, or Number 0, whatever you like. And this…"

The Zero Alchemist gestured toward the door, his tone imbued with reverence and solemnity as he proclaimed:

"This is the Gate of Matter or the Gate of Things, call it whatever you want. The only thing you need to know is that this gate is the ultimate boundary that only those who have reached the pinnacle of alchemy can cross."

John looked at the door. It appeared simple, unremarkable, giving no hints of anything extraordinary.

Unwilling to accept it at face value, John used Insight, and at this moment, the door in front of him changed, and countless chaotic garbled codes rushed into his brain.

John's face turned pale as he staggered back two steps, gasping for breath. He dared not look again.

"You're even more remarkable than I imagined, being able to perceive the uniqueness of the Gate of Matter," said the Zero Alchemist with an approving expression.

He patted John on the shoulder, his tone kind and encouraging.

"Go ahead. That door holds your reward. Push open the Gate of Matter, and you'll gain everything you desire—be it magic, wealth, or power."

His voice was laden with temptation, but John raised his head to meet the man's gaze. His own eyes were sharp, penetrating, and unyielding as he asked coldly,

"And… what's the price?"

The Zero Alchemist seemed taken aback by the question, momentarily stunned.

John straightened himself, his demeanor calm as he spoke.

"The fundamental law of alchemy—nothing can come from nothing."

"Haha~ You're clever," the Zero Alchemist said, his smile fading into a neutral expression. "Most alchemists who make it here tend to forget that simple truth."

He didn't bother to conceal anything further, explaining openly:

"The price? Any price. It might be your arm, your eyes, your body… or even your soul."

When he uttered the last two words, his smile returned, faint yet laced with an unnerving undertone.

"But you seem to have plenty to spare, don't you? The Gate of Matter is the ultimate reward for any alchemist—its significance surpasses even the Philosopher's Stone. Surely, you wouldn't want to give up such an opportunity."

Having said his piece, the Zero Alchemist fell silent.

John stood quietly, staring at the door.

The Gate of Matter represented the pinnacle of alchemical achievement, capable of realizing any transmutation—even the most forbidden one: the manipulation of souls.

As long as he pushed it open, any wish could be fulfilled.

Correspondingly, he would have to pay the price—this was equivalent exchange.

From the moment he entered this strange space, John had been contemplating how to get back. The Gate of Matter seemed like a viable option.

John walked toward the door.

As he passed the Zero Alchemist, the latter's eyes glimmered with a faint, mocking smile.

Reaching out, just as his fingers were about to touch the door, John paused and turned around.

"The highest reward for an alchemist?"

"Of course," the Zero Alchemist replied without hesitation.

But John smiled, tilting his head slightly as he asked, "Have you ever heard of someone named Nicolas Flamel?"

"Nicolas Flamel?"

The Zero Alchemist froze in confusion.

Seizing that moment, John suddenly lunged forward, accelerating at full speed.

His wand, gripped in reverse, struck like a viper.

Before the Zero Alchemist could react, a sharp tearing sound came from his neck.

The tip of John's wand pierced cleanly through.

"Huh?—Uck!"

As John pulled it out, the Zero Alchemist finally realized what had happened.

His body collapsed to the ground, disbelief plastered across his face.

"You… do you know what you're doing?"

Clutching his neck, his voice rasped, each word escaping through the leaking wound in faint, gasping breaths.

John sneered disdainfully, his cold laugh cutting through the tense atmosphere. "Did you forget we just met outside?"

"Ekrizdis."

A droplet formed at the tip of John's wand—not blood, but something as black as ink.

Before being dragged into this strange space, John had seen that cursed face solidify.

It wasn't unfamiliar to him; after all, the owner of that face had tormented him every time he consumed a dementor's soul using the soul potions.

Ekrizdis—the creator of Dementors.

That young face now appeared in this realm. When John tried casting a spell with his wand, nothing happened.

Well, that's reassuring.

If no one could use magic here, wasn't this essentially John's happy place?

"Nicolas Flamel created the Philosopher's Stone. He is, without question, the greatest alchemist ever."

"You don't even know his name means he never came here. So tell me—how much of what you've said can I believe?"

John's expression was dripping with mockery. Ekrizdis, likely unprepared for the revelation of Nicolas Flamel, had faltered visibly upon hearing the name.

Now that his identity was exposed, Ekrizdis's face darkened ominously.

But then he smiled.

"John Wick," he said, his tone unsettlingly cheerful. "Thanks to you, I was able to come to this place. And because of you, I can awaken once again."

Ekrizdis's arms unraveled like strands of silk, each black thread floating eerily around him. With a mocking smirk, he raised an eyebrow and sneered, "As gratitude, I'll turn you into my newest masterpiece."

"That won't be necessary," John replied coldly, his grip tightening on his wand.

This scheming old snake had actually pretended to be an NPC to trick him into opening the Gate of Matter.

Damn it!

Let's see if I can wipe the floor with you!

__________

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