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Everyone stared blankly at the 'blank' ghost floating before them. Though it was only a hypothesis, the implications were disturbing enough to send chills down their spines. No one present was a fool—if that theory just now was correct, then the so-called "Machine Crisis" might no longer be science fiction, but a terrifying reality.
Still, speculation alone wasn't enough to prove anything. Although this ghost bore all the characteristics of an artificial spirit—most notably, its inability to communicate through language—sometimes, silence doesn't mean there is no information to be found.
Magic, at least in their world, was a power rooted in will. As long as one had the intent and paid the cost in magical energy, magic could manifest that intent into reality. The extent of the cost paid often determined the strength of the magical effect.
The archwizards exchanged glances. Then, Dumbledore drew his revolver. With the sharp click of the trigger, a burst of golden-red phoenix flame exploded in the air. As one of the most powerful elemental magical beings, phoenixes possessed a unique and formidable command of spatial magic. Dumbledore, currently in the third stage of his Animagus transformation, was perfectly fused with Fawkes. In this state, he could wield Fawkes' power even more effectively than the phoenix itself.
Across thousands of miles, the ancient Pensieve sitting in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts was summoned through space. The golden-red flames engulfing Dumbledore dimmed significantly—his magical energy had been greatly depleted, causing him to pant in exhaustion.
"I leave it to you, Gellert," he said, nodding toward Grindelwald.
Both now appearing in their early twenties, the two elderly wizards exchanged a glance. The chemistry between them was striking, though not the romantic kind—after all, no one ever said best friends had to be lovers.
"Hm," Grindelwald replied with a soft nod. He raised his hand and grasped the floating soul, positioning it over the Pensieve, which was etched with countless magical runes.
"The Pensieve passed down at Hogwarts is the finest memory vessel in the entire European wizarding world," he explained briefly. "Unlike other devices, it can reproduce memories with remarkable clarity. Even if a soul can't communicate, what it sees becomes etched into it as memory."
With that, Grindelwald lifted his wand and pressed the tip firmly against the ghost's chest. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger. A long silver thread shot from the soul's body, spiraling through the air before sinking into the rippling surface of the Pensieve below.
The once-still waters began to spin rapidly, forming a massive vortex. Grindelwald, clearly experienced with this process, casually brushed the spent soul aside. He then tapped the Pensieve lightly, sending out a wave of gray-black ripples that began to weave together images in black and white—like an old reel of silent film.
But it wasn't long before vibrant colors began to emerge from the monochrome, quickly overtaking everyone's vision.
At that moment, an intense sense of discomfort gripped everyone in the room.
They found themselves suspended in midair within a massive chamber. Beneath their feet yawned a bottomless abyss, its depth unfathomable. Within that chasm, red lights flickered endlessly. Behind the crimson glow, a haunting fluorescent mix of green and yellow shimmered. Countless egg-like pods were arranged in perfect order, stretching from the depths below to a distant ceiling lost in darkness above.
Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Perhaps even millions—so densely packed, they defied counting.
Throughout the abyss, mechanical arms moved deftly along fixed rails. Whenever a green light on a pod turned red, a burst of white gas would eject the pod from its slot. The nearest mechanical arm would immediately clamp onto it and transport it elsewhere.
Suddenly, a loud hissing noise came from the nearest pod as its green light turned red. A mechanical arm latched onto it without delay. The group's viewpoint followed the arm's movement, speeding through changing scenery. Within thirty seconds, they had arrived at a vast chamber illuminated by ghostly blue light.
This room resembled a bustling surgical theater—only, there were no doctors in white coats. Instead, mechanical arms operated with precise coordination above the surgical beds.
The pod was placed onto an empty operating table. As a cool white mist enveloped the area, a man emerged from within the transparent liquid inside the pod. The fluid was thick and viscous, but quickly evaporated once exposed to the air. The man, eyes wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling, was transferred onto the surgical bed.
He showed faint signs of instinctive response—coughing and spitting out viscous fluid, while his mouth issued strange, incomprehensible sounds.
They were not meaningless babbles like those of a newborn, yet neither were they coherent speech.
As the mechanical arms secured him to the operating table, the man attempted weak resistance. But his struggle lacked strength—his body seemed incapable of exerting force.
Once a fine needle pierced his veins, all resistance ceased. He lay motionless on the surgical bed.
The remaining mucus on his body was quickly cleansed. A slender tube was inserted into his mouth, draining thick fluids seemingly lodged in his lungs, while simultaneously serving as an oxygen supply line.
After securing the man's head, a fine beam of light was emitted from the tip of a mechanical arm. His scalp was sliced open, his skull removed, and a precise neurosurgery commenced. In less than ten minutes, a complex mechanical device was perfectly implanted—or rather, seamlessly fused—into his brain. The removed part of the skull was replaced with a metallic plate. Under the effects of a strange healing mist, the junction between metal and flesh began to "heal," the steel and tissue seemingly merging into one. The process looked nothing like ordinary science.
Once the brain surgery was complete, his chest cavity was opened. Unlike human anatomy on Earth, this extraterrestrial being had two symmetrical hearts. Between the hearts and lungs, there was a walnut-sized, semi-transparent organ glowing faintly with a bluish hue.
Harry's pupils slightly contracted. He spoke in a low voice, "That seems to be some kind of magical organ. I can see a glow that resembles magic, though it's much fainter than ours."
The others exchanged looks—they couldn't see the magical glow Harry was referring to.
"Awakened ones can perceive the flow and color of magic directly," Li Jiannan whispered beside them. "Harry is the closest to an awakened being among the unawakened. The intensity of a magic's color indicates its quality. For unawakened magical beings, the higher the quality of magic, the deeper the shade of blue. Conversely, the lower the quality, the paler it becomes."
"If an average wizard's magic concentration is 1, this guy's is only about 0.1—very, very faint," Harry added.
"If magical ability is tied to magic quality, then their spellcasting might be weaker than goblins or pixies."
"So, what you're saying is, these extraterrestrials are magical beings, but not magic users?"
Grindelwald asked with mild curiosity, directing the question at Harry.
"The magic in them is about the same as in owls," Harry said. "And owls are ordinary creatures with weak magical traces that can't actually cast spells."
"They might exhibit minor supernatural traits granted by magic—like how owls can deliver letters perfectly by name alone. It's not powerful, but it defies normal explanation."
While the group continued discussing, a mechanical arm inserted a small device into the magical organ. Several cables were drawn from it and routed through various parts of the man's body, connecting his limbs, head, chest, and back.
Only after all the surgeries were complete did the mechanical arms begin closing the wounds. A fine mist was sprayed to accelerate healing. The speed of recovery was surprisingly fast—comparable even to their magical potions.
At that moment, the man regained consciousness. His previously unfocused eyes sharpened, but any trace of resistance or instinctive reaction had vanished. He was transferred to another bed, his limbs restrained, and wheeled out of the operating room.
He was taken to a colossal facility filled with rows upon rows of 'people'—a massive human-processing factory.
There, he was fitted with a tight, form-fitting bodysuit. The surgical "ports" were connected to the interface plugs of an exoskeletal armor. On the assembly line, he was swiftly transformed into a steel-clad, cybernetic soldier—one of many, emotionless and awaiting orders, indistinguishable from the others processed in that factory.
But just as the memory playback reached this point, it abruptly paused. Everyone blinked in surprise—above them, the gaping wound in the sky had finally sealed. The awakened wizards had arrived overhead, and it was none other than Senior Seti who had interrupted the memory.
"There's a tear in their soul," Seti said. "What you just saw was only this soul's memory. But I believe it's the severed portion that holds the real truth of that world."
Seti, once elderly and near the brink of death, now looked decades younger. With the world's will having lifted the restrictions on awakened ones, the greatest shackle of all—lifespan—seemed to have been broken. The will of the world could no longer produce awakened wizards, making the few that still remained their world's rarest and most formidable trump cards.
"Have any of you heard this phrase before?"
Seti and the awakened wizards descended beside them, standing next to Harry and Li Jiannan.
"Flesh suffers; machine ascends."
With a flick of his finger, Seti sliced open the soul that Grindelwald had set aside. He reached in, grabbed hold, and with a violent tug—ripped out a tangle of silvery threads. The soul immediately disintegrated.
Seti narrowed his eyes slightly, a faint smile curling his lips.
"Looks like I was right."
He casually tossed the broken silver threads into the Pensieve—and with that, a new set of memories began to unfold.
(End of Chapter)