With every eye in the side hall fixed on him, Lucien placed the seemingly unassuming crystal phial onto the long table before the judges.
The bottle was transparent, save for a subtle, mist-like texture swirling at the very base.
Lucien drew his wand. With a light tap of the tip, a concentrated, gentle beam of light struck the mouth of the Micro-Climate Phial.
Instantly, intricate, orderly rows of runes ignited across the surface of the transparent glass, glowing from the inside out and pulsing rhythmically, like breathing.
The space inside the phial began to shift.
First, a pale mist welled up from the bottom, spiraling slowly upward to simulate a damp, heavy fog. Immediately following that, a ring of warm, golden light bloomed from the center of the mist. The temperature inside rose quietly, mimicking the brightness of a sunny day.
As the runes continued to cycle and swim across the glass, the scenery inside the bottle underwent even more sophisticated evolutions.
The professors at the judges' table leaned in, beginning their meticulous inspection of the early submission.
The core challenge of the Micro-Climate Phial lay in the alchemist's precise control and combination of elemental forces. Every simulated climate was a clever application of elemental balance.
Therefore, the judging criteria were quite intuitive: one only had to see how many distinct, stable "climates" the finished product could simulate to gauge its quality and the skill of its creator.
Madame Maxime nodded slightly, her eyes holding a look of undisguised appreciation.
Professor Shafiq looked completely at ease, clearly not worried about the result in the slightest. Her mind had likely already drifted to how she would arrange that precious extra vacation time after the tournament.
Professor Laurent, however, examined it with intense scrutiny. He watched every subtle elemental shift and runic response inside the bottle, marveling at the craftsmanship.
The more he looked, the more he felt that the level of alchemy displayed here far exceeded the scope of a mere student.
The professors exchanged a few hushed comments but didn't announce Lucien's specific score right then and there.
All scores would be released together after the full five-hour time limit was up, alongside the other competitors' results. This was standard procedure to avoid affecting the mentality of the students still working and to maintain a fair competitive environment.
However, the fact that Lucien had finished—and nearly two hours early, at that—inevitably messed with the heads of the other competitors.
Ryman and Fleur, who were more familiar with Lucien, were fine. They had witnessed his alchemical prowess before.
Ryman just glanced up once, then put his head back down to focus on the bottle taking shape in front of him. He didn't have any pressure to win the championship anyway; he just needed to perform at his normal level.
Fleur stared for a brief moment, her lips curbing into a barely perceptible smile, before collecting her thoughts and continuing to guide the stream of silver-and-red magic intertwining inside her flask.
But for the other three competitors, the impact was much more severe.
One of the Durmstrang boys became visibly agitated when he saw the professors begin their evaluation.
In his haste to speed up his progress, his magical output wavered slightly while infusing magic into a semi-formed component.
Crack.
It was a soft sound, but in the quiet hall, it rang out with startling clarity.
Spiderweb fractures instantly spread across the surface of the component in front of him. The cold energy accumulated inside escaped, condensing into a patch of white frost on his alchemy workbench.
At the judges' table, the stern-faced Durmstrang professor frowned, his expression darkening.
He only relaxed slightly when he saw the student take a deep breath after a moment of panic, decisively vanish the ruined component with his wand, and quickly grab a second set of materials to start over.
Fortunately, the damaged piece wasn't the core, nor was it the most time-consuming part to make. If he hurried, there was still time to salvage the attempt.
The Durmstrang professor's gaze couldn't help but drift back to the Micro-Climate Phial quietly shifting through seasons on the judges' table, and then back to the pile of raw materials on his student's desk. He sighed inwardly at the obvious gap in skill.
With the competition only three hours in, Lucien—at Madame Maxime's gesture—found an empty seat in the audience section among the Beauxbatons students.
Switching from competitor to spectator in the middle of the match drew the attention of the surrounding students. Gazes filled with curiosity, scrutiny, and admiration fell constantly upon the young genius from Hogwarts.