Chapter 401: The Materialization of Ancient Runes

Night had fallen, deep and quiet.

This time, no dream came to greet him.

Yet somehow, that didn't seem to bother anyone in the castle. Peace still settled over them like a warm blanket, and sleep came easily, undisturbed.

Once again, Ino returned to the valley after nightfall, this time carrying the magical stone he had obtained earlier that day.

Time in the valley flowed in perfect sync with the outside world.

The moon hung in the sky like a flawless crystal orb, clear and brilliant, casting silvery light across a jeweled galaxy of stars. A cool breeze of early autumn whispered through the grass, filling the air with a sense of openness and quiet freedom. It was the kind of night that made one forget the burdens of the world.

The dolls that usually wandered the valley by day were all asleep now. Even the oak trees and the flowers had shut their eyes. Only one place remained lit: the small tavern nestled at the edge of the glade, still glowing with warm orange light.

Ino stood outside and chuckled. "Is this still a tavern? From the look of it, anyone would think I stumbled into an old witch's hut."

The bar counter, once neat and orderly, was now cluttered with bottles, flasks, and all sorts of strange materials. Even the tables were crowded with steaming cauldrons, each one puffing out colorful smoke.

"Old witch?" came Hermione's voice from inside. She frowned slightly at the term, instinctively bristling.

Then she caught herself and laughed. "You mean fairy tale witch, right? Not the sort you find lurking around Knockturn Alley?"

"Exactly that," Ino replied with a grin.

Hermione smirked. "And yet you walked in anyway, brave young man. Aren't you afraid the witch might eat you?"

"Eat?" Ino blinked, and a very odd expression crossed his face.

Now, in English, "eat" is fairly straightforward. But his past-life memories carried other meanings. Back where he was from, if a girl said she was going to eat a boy, the implications were… let's just say, far from innocent. You could spend two hours breaking down the metaphors alone.

Behind the bar, Hermione glanced up when Ino fell silent. She noticed the look on his face and narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

Girls had different instincts, but some things-like intuition-were universal.

"What are you thinking about?" she huffed, cheeks flushing a soft pink. "Honestly. I've got real work to do tonight. These potions are at a critical stage and you're just... standing there."

She gave him a playful glare, her eyes sparkling.

But to Ino, that one glance was almost spellbinding.

There was something about Hermione tonight. A strange, lovely blend of innocence and maturity, like the very essence of her had shifted. Perhaps it was the light. Perhaps something else. Either way, she looked beautiful.

Some people defined a girl's coming-of-age by age or figure or some cultural milestone. But for Ino, it was more personal.

For him, Hermione had grown up in just one night. As if some fragile cocoon had finally torn open, and from it, a butterfly had emerged.

"You're not saying anything again," Hermione said, giving him a pouty look. "I really do have work tonight, you know."

"Sorry," Ino said quickly, snapping out of it. "Wasn't thinking about that. I was just... distracted."

He looked away, as if to prove his point. Not guilty, not flustered. Just casually indifferent.

Which, ironically, made Hermione pout even more.

"Oh? Bored of me already, is that it?"

She huffed and turned her back, muttering, "Well, you can forget about these potions then."

With that, she marched toward the bar, nose in the air.

Ino grinned and followed without hesitation.

"Oi! Don't you dare!" she squeaked, eyes widening as she spun back and slammed down the bar gate to block him.

But teasing was teasing.

Ino knew exactly how important those potions were. They weren't just random brews. They were a lifeline for werewolves. And more than that, they were Hermione's heart and soul.

He would never mess with that. Not seriously.

After the brief exchange, the tavern slowly settled back into silence.

It was small, no more than a hundred square meters. Six tables had once fit comfortably here, but now each one was taken up by cauldrons and potion kits. Hermione had claimed the entire place in the name of alchemy.

Ino, having nowhere else to work, conjured a single-person desk and chair with a tidy bit of Transfiguration.

He placed a small bronze oil lamp on the table, the kind that glowed with a deep, ancient warmth. And beneath that golden light, he laid the prize he had brought: a crimson gemstone that glittered like it held a fire within.

The Philosopher's Stone.

He had considered planting it in the valley, letting it merge with the soil like a seed of magic. But no matter how whimsical the idea, this was an alchemical treasure of unmatched rarity. It had to be studied first.

To this day, no other Philosopher's Stone had ever been recorded in magical history.

Ino adjusted his magnifying lens and leaned over the table, studying the stone with almost obsessive focus. He looked like a jeweler with thirty years of experience, inspecting a royal gem for flaws invisible to the human eye.

The scene caught Hermione's attention, but she kept quiet. Her potions had reached a critical phase and demanded absolute concentration. Still, her eyes occasionally flicked toward him with curiosity.

Time slipped by in silence.

Eventually, Ino lowered his lens and leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming in the lamplight.

The structure of the stone was clear to him now. And it wasn't what he had expected.

He had imagined elaborate enchantments, layered runic systems, intricate alchemical circuits like the ones used in the Goblet of Fire or the Time Turner.

But no. The truth was much simpler.

So simple, in fact, that it left him speechless.

Inside the stone was a single rune.

Not a formation. Not a sequence.

Just one, lone rune.

And it was one any third-year student in Ancient Runes could recognize by the third lesson.

Thurisaz. The "thorn." A triangular symbol with meanings linked to protection, secrets, piercing, and awakening.

He remembered its description vividly.

In the textbooks, Thurisaz was classified as an early-stage rune. Easy to carve. Simple to inscribe.

A third-year could do it blindfolded.

Yet somehow, this single, uncomplicated rune had granted Nicolas Flamel and his wife nearly seven centuries of life.

If he told anyone that, they'd laugh him out of the magical world. It would be the most ridiculous thing ever recorded in magical history.

But ridiculous or not, Ino believed what he had seen.

Through the lens of the bronze lamp-he might well have become the first wizard in history to see the Philosopher's Stone's true nature.

Not even Nicolas, perhaps, had realized it.

This wasn't a baseless guess. He remembered his visit to Nicolas, remembered their long conversation. Nicolas had mentioned that the stone was incomplete.

And Ino had studied Flamel's hand-written manuscripts too, filled with absurdly complex theories and obscure enchantments. Reading them was like trying to map the stars during a thunderstorm.

Yet after all that effort, the final product had boiled down to just one rune.

Just one.

He exhaled, quietly stunned.

"Almost like... essence."

A thought occurred to him. It was both brilliant and absurd.

What if the Philosopher's Stone was simply the materialization of a rune? Not a combination of runes, not a crafted object. Just the embodiment of a single Ancient Rune brought fully into reality.

That would explain everything.

The uniqueness. The impossibility of reproduction. The reason no one, in seven hundred years, had ever managed to create a second one.

Because there are only twenty-five Ancient Runes in total.

Twenty-four characters and one empty symbol that represents fate.

If Nicolas had turned Thurisaz into a tangible object, then no other "thorn" rune could exist in physical form again. Not unless his stone was destroyed.

Only then could another take its place.

Until then, the Philosopher's Stone would remain the only one of its kind.