Chapter 377: A Divination from the Heterochromatic Seer

Change—a simple word, yet it hides two very different meanings.

To change is to alter form, nature, or state.

To transform, however, suggests a more fundamental, even irreversible evolution—like turning one thing into something entirely new.

The valley had undergone both.

It wasn't just altered. It was transformed—utterly and irrevocably.

After Ino left, Hermione's curiosity kicked in as she began exploring the valley.

The vast land didn't interest her as much as… the new tavern.

Maybe it was something about wizards from non-magical families—there was an undeniable charm to those medieval-style taverns. After all, many of them had their first magical encounters in places like the dingy, wood-smoked pubs tucked away in hidden alleys.

Outside the tavern, Hermione gave the walnut door a solid push. Nothing happened.

She frowned and tried again, this time with a bit more effort. Still no luck—the door didn't budge an inch.

Then, a tiny voice piped up from near her feet.

"You won't be able to open it! Only the King can! But if you're bored, I could keep you company."

Hermione blinked and looked down.

Standing beside her boot was a tiny puppet—no more than nine inches tall.

She had seen these animated puppets in the valley before. The first time, she'd asked Ino about them. He'd said they were a gift from a legendary alchemist named... someone long-forgotten.

But something about this puppet felt different.

It was alive.

Not just enchanted—but truly alive. With flesh, emotion, and a face so detailed it could outshine some humans.

The puppet even had a pea-sized sapphire whistle hanging on its chest like a proud badge. He looked like he'd marched right out of a fairy tale about miniature kingdoms and heroic little people.

"The King?" Hermione asked, amused, crouching down to get a better look.

"Yes! His Majesty, Sovereign Swinburne!" The puppet puffed out its chest with pride.

Hermione couldn't help it. She giggled.

It was adorable.

But as she leaned closer, her suspicions were confirmed—this wasn't just an enchanted doll. It was something more.

"You're laughing? That's not funny!" the puppet huffed indignantly. He raised the whistle to his lips and gave it a sharp blow.

A low, flute-like sound echoed across the valley—mellow, whimsical, and oddly charming.

Moments later, the flowers nearby began rustling.

Then came the troops.

Dozens of similarly sized puppets emerged from the undergrowth, wielding tiny twigs like spears, lining up in tight formation. Their faces were serious—adorably serious—and Hermione nearly burst out laughing again.

But she caught herself. These were living beings, after all. Basic courtesy applied.

"Alright, alright, I apologize," she said, exhaling and smoothing her expression. "No more laughing."

She straightened up and offered a respectful nod.

"Ahem. All hail the King. His Majesty, Sovereign Swinburne."

"That's better!" the whistle-wielding puppet nodded, pleased. He waved his hand, and the twig-wielding soldiers dispersed back into the bushes.

"So… wanna come play? I could show you the Grandfather Oak. He's got strange fruits growing—jewels, coins, even a tiny watermill!"

Of course, none of what happened in the valley could be felt outside it.

Ino, having left Hermione behind, now stood at the edge of the broadleaf forest, eyes fixed on a small, desolate fortress in the distance.

Nurmengard.

There was something poetic in the irony.

Once a grand magical prison built by the notorious dark sorcerer Grindlewald—now it served as his retirement home.

Ino stood before the crumbling gate, its surface flaking like dried bark. Faint traces of its former glory still remained, along with the faded slogan etched above:

"For the Greater Good."

A line once shouted by zealots, now merely a whisper on worn stone.

Ino raised his hand and knocked, though honestly, the door looked like a strong breeze could unhinge it.

And that's exactly what happened. The moment his knuckles left the wood, a soft gust blew the door open.

Whether by coincidence or intention, the message was clear: Enter.

Ino obliged and made his way toward the tower.

The spiral staircase inside the tower was caked in dust.

Still, Ino refrained from using magic to clean the way. When asking someone for a favor, respect should come first—magic second.

Step by step, he climbed.

Eventually, he found the man he was looking for.

An old man with mismatched eyes stood by the window. One burned with an eerie blue glow—like a flickering lantern. The other was a deep, contemplative brown.

"Good day, Mr. Grindlewald," Ino greeted with a polite nod. "Apologies for the intrusion."

"Welcome," the old man replied, turning slowly. His voice was calm, almost grandfatherly. "Visitors are rare these days."

"I came… to ask for a divination," Ino said, cutting straight to the point. "And I'm willing to offer compensation. Anything within reason."

He wasn't one to waste time with flattery or veiled intentions. Grindlewald had once faced down death itself rather than bend the knee. Charm wouldn't work here—only honesty.

And Ino respected that.

After all, unlike some other infamous prisons, Nurmengard never employed soul-sucking monsters to punish its inmates.

Grindlewald arched a brow.

"A divination?" he said mildly. "Alright."

Then he took a step forward, stopping precisely three feet from Ino.

"But I have one condition."

"I'm listening."

"If you accept this… we can begin immediately."

"Of course."

Grindlewald's gaze sharpened slightly.

"From this day on… when you stand at the crossroads of great decisions—follow your true self. Not your fears. Not your burdens. Just… what you know is right."

Thirty minutes later.

"…Nothing?" Ino asked, visibly surprised.

The great Seer had found nothing?

Grindlewald's eyes narrowed at the young man's tone.

"Divination isn't omnipotent," he said evenly. "It's magic. And magic can be… obstructed."

He gave a tired sigh, as if he'd explained this to too many idealistic apprentices.

"If Seers were all-powerful, do you think I'd be here now?"

Fair point.

Ino collected himself. "My apologies. That was rude."

Thinking it through, the result did make a kind of sense. Voldemort—whoever or whatever he was now—had been undone by a prophecy once. It would stand to reason he'd have taken measures against divination.

Still, the disappointment lingered.

Grindlewald noticed.

"If you can find me a proper crystal orb," he said, suddenly, "I might be able to try again. Not just any glass bauble—an old one. One with history. Crafted from beryl, preferably."

Ino blinked, surprised by the sudden change in tone.

The old man hadn't given up.

Despite all he'd lost—his power, his influence—he still cared enough to try and help. Maybe even needed to.

Because whatever vision he'd seen before…

The real obstacle wasn't prophecy.

It was Ino himself.

"A beryl crystal orb… with history…"

Ino's mind raced.

Despite his brief stint as a self-proclaimed 'divination expert,' he honestly didn't know much about the actual tools of the trade.

Then something stirred inside him.

A faint call from deep within—a pull.

"Apologies, Mr. Grindlewald," he said suddenly. "I'll return shortly."

And just like that, Ino vanished from the tower.