The damp, chill-laden air of the dungeons was left behind.
In Snape's obsidian-black eyes, the last remnants of complex emotion flickered like ghostly flames on the verge of extinction in the darkness.
Threat.
Trial.
Investment.
And that warped, pathological expectation he himself despised.
All of it was catalogued within Eric's Mind Palace.
Every detail of the deal with Snape—every variable, every possible consequence—was dismantled by Perfect Logic into tens of thousands of causal chains, all converging on a single, unmistakable conclusion.
High risk.
Extremely high reward.
He walked through Hogwarts' corridors in the dead of night, his footsteps completely swallowed by the ancient stone floor. Moonlight streamed in through tall windows, casting a long, twisted shadow ahead of him.
All was silent.
Only the figures in the wall-mounted portraits murmured faint snores in their sleep.
On the surface, Eric remained calm and composed.
Yet deep within his consciousness, inside the system space, the silver treasure chest gleamed with a cold, razor-sharp light.
This was the return on Snape's investment.
The first advance dividend of a dangerous gamble.
Passing through arch after arch, climbing staircases that subtly shifted under magic, Eric finally reached the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower.
A door without a handle barred his way. At its center was a bronze eagle knocker.
As Eric approached, the knocker spoke in a clear, metallic voice:
"What is it that you need when you throw it away, but no longer need when you retrieve it?"
A classic logic riddle.
The moment the question finished, no ripple of thought even formed in Eric's mind.
Perfect Logic had already produced the only answer.
"An anchor,"
he said softly.
"Correct."
The knocker's voice carried a note of approval as the heavy door slid open soundlessly, revealing the Ravenclaw common room.
A tranquil world of blue and bronze.
Beyond the tall arched windows lay the deep night sky, strewn with brilliant stars. The domed ceiling above was magically painted with the same celestial expanse, as though seamlessly connected to the heavens beyond.
The air carried the distinctive scent of old parchment and dying embers from the fireplace.
It was empty.
Eric crossed this serene sanctuary of scholars and found his dormitory.
He closed the door behind him, sealing out the outside world.
Now, it was time to take stock of the spoils.
His consciousness sank into the system space.
A pure-white, infinitely extending dimension, where three treasure chests floated quietly at the center—each radiating a different glow.
One platinum.
One silver.
And one… supreme.
His gaze fell first upon the most elegant of them all—the platinum chest. Moonlight-like radiance flowed across its surface, carved with intricate, ancient runes.
This was the reward from the battered Sorting Hat—an inheritance from a thousand years of Hogwarts' wisdom.
"Open the platinum chest."
His will became command.
The chest opened without spectacle. No explosive radiance—only a gentle white glow spreading outward like dawn.
[Congratulations, Host. Talent acquired — Magic Perception Eye!]
[Congratulations, Host. Divine Skill acquired — Soul Grafting!]
Two torrents of information surged into his mind.
In the next instant, Eric snapped his eyes open in the real world.
The world had changed.
Everything in the dormitory was overlaid with a faint, invisible shimmer. The air itself was filled with dust-like motes of magic. His desk, his holly wand, even his own body radiated magical light of varying intensity.
Deeper still, he could vaguely see thread-like, illusory strands connecting different objects.
Causality lines.
This was Magic Perception Eye—a brand-new sense beyond the five. Though still blurry, it allowed him, for the first time, to glimpse the underlying rules of the magical world.
The second skill—Soul Grafting—made his heart beat just a little faster.
Temporarily grafting his soul's aura onto an inanimate object, allowing him to evade most forms of divination, tracking, and targeting.
A stealth divine skill, tailor-made for him.
Dumbledore's probing?
Voldemort's pursuit?
With this, he possessed a perfect cloak—one capable of deceiving even the soul.
Suppressing the stir in his emotions, Eric turned to the second chest.
The silver chest from Snape.
Cold and angular, it radiated a distant, rejecting chill—just like its owner.
"Open the silver chest."
The chest responded instantly. A beam of silver light shot straight into his forehead.
[Congratulations, Host. Skill acquired — Mastery of Potion Brewing!]
An overwhelming flood of knowledge and experience burst forth, inundating his mind.
How to process dried unicorn horn powder to preserve its activity to the greatest extent.
The true principle behind brewing Polyjuice Potion—why lacewing flies must be stewed for exactly twenty-one days.
The precise 0.3-second golden window when moonstone is mixed with African tree snake skin.
Secrets that countless potion masters had spent their entire lives uncovering.
Hidden techniques passed down through generations of the Prince family.
All of them were branded into his soul in a single instant.
Not as memories.
But as instinct.
Eric's fingers curled unconsciously, forming the exact, precise motion of stirring a cauldron.
A cold smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Snape.
That gloomy old bat would never imagine—
That the first chip he placed on his gamble over "Prince talent" had already paid out, in the very way he most desperately hoped for, the moment the deal was struck.
He had invested in an illusory bloodline.
And activated a genuine genius.
Finally—
Eric's entire focus locked onto the treasure chest floating at the very center of the space.
It defied description.
It was light itself, radiating supreme authority. Its brilliance was so overwhelming that the entire system space trembled beneath its glow.
An S+ level shock and vigilance.
From Albus Dumbledore.
From the greatest white wizard of the age—the pillar of the magical world.
Eric's chest rose and fell. Each breath felt heavy. He could feel his heartbeat—once, twice—like a war drum.
"Open… the supreme treasure chest!"
The command nearly drained him of strength.
Buzz—!
The chest opened slowly.
No explosion.
No thunder.
Only infinite light—pure, primordial light, as though it formed the very bedrock of reality—pouring forth from the opening!
[Congratulations, Host. Ancient Magic acquired — Words Become Law!]
Eric's heart stopped for an instant.
His pupils contracted to pinpoints.
Ancient magic!
A lost art spoken of only in legend!
[Skill Description: Words Become Law. One of the supreme branches of ancient magic, allowing the host's spoken words to directly carry magic and interfere with reality.]
[Current State: Incomplete. At present, the host may only perform enhancement, misdirection, suggestion, and low-intensity physical interference.]
Each line burned itself into his vision like a brand.
Under the high-speed operation of Perfect Logic, Eric instantly grasped the terrifying implications of even this "incomplete" divine art.
Enhancement.
Misdirection.
Suggestion.
This was no longer mere psychological manipulation.
This was true… magic.
From this moment on, his linguistic traps would evolve into genuine magical traps.
A casual misdirection could alter Hermione's spellcasting trajectory.
A well-placed enhancement could amplify Snape's twisted protective instincts.
And at a critical moment, a seemingly offhand remark could plant an undetectable suggestion in Dumbledore's mind.
This was the ultimate weapon—custom-built for a logic-based causality investor like him.
Eric slowly clenched his fist, his knuckles turning white.
He could feel the power surging within him.
Innate magical affinity.
All-seeing Perfect Logic.
Essence-piercing Magic Perception Eye.
Evasive Soul Grafting.
Instant mastery through Potion Brewing Mastery.
And now—
The ancient magic capable of warping reality itself: Words Become Law.
At last, he possessed it.
The true trump card.
In this perilous magical game dominated by Dumbledore and Voldemort—two peerless titans—
He finally had the means to flip the board itself and stand on equal footing with them.