Chapter 22: Talent and a Gift

Ian felt as if his body had become a vessel—bloated, overfilled, straining against the weight of something that did not belong to him.

Something foreign.

Something overwhelming.

"I'm tainted..."

A torrent of killing intent surged through him, crashing against his mind like an unrelenting storm. It was suffocating, violent, and all-consuming. His rational thoughts were barely holding on, drowning under the weight of something primal, something that demanded release.

The feeling was unnatural. This wasn't his hatred. This wasn't his own thirst for blood. It was Mara's—poured into him like a poison, clouding his judgment, twisting his instincts.

And yet, it worked.

His fingers twitched, curling around the wand in his grasp. His lips parted before he could even think.

Perhaps it was her guidance.

Perhaps it was instinct.

But the words left his mouth with startling ease.

"Avada Kedavra!"

It was not a whisper, nor a simple recitation. It was a roar.

A command.

A declaration.

Power surged through him, raw and unfiltered. It coursed through his veins, coiling around his nerves, setting his blood alight. It funneled into his wand, pushing outward with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

And then—

Green light exploded.

It illuminated the castle in a sickly, eerie glow, stretching shadows across the ancient stone walls. The brilliance was blinding, fierce, and unyielding—like a falling star crashing through the heavens.

It was terrifying.

It was magnificent.

It was lethal.

Ian barely had time to react. His wand was pointed at an old, weathered wall—no living target stood before him. And yet, as the emerald light collided with stone, it did something unnatural.

The curse did not break the wall.

It did not scorch the surface.

But the light—it lingered. It spread across the stone like a pulsating web, etching itself into the surface as though defying its own nature. It flickered violently, stubbornly refusing to fade, as if it wanted to find something to devour.

Only after several long, agonizing seconds did it finally dissipate.

And in its absence, Ian could breathe again.

As the killing intent bled from his mind, clarity rushed back in.

His hands trembled.

His heart pounded against his ribs.

His lungs burned as if he had been drowning.

Beside him, Mara watched.

Her expression was unreadable. But then—

A slow, satisfied smile curled at her lips.

"It seems your dullness is only in certain areas," she murmured. "When it comes to magic, you have more talent than most."

Ian could only stare.

His eyes remained locked on the wall, as if expecting the green light to reappear.

"My God..."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a prayer.

It was pure, unfiltered disbelief.

I did that.

Me.

An eleven-year-old wizard.

A child who hasn't even set foot in Hogwarts yet.

How?

How had he done something so… so monstrous?

The Killing Curse.

The Killing Curse.

The most feared of the three Unforgivable Curses. A spell spoken of in hushed whispers, a name that sent shivers down the spines of even the most hardened wizards.

And he had just cast it.

Easily.

Effortlessly.

As though it was as simple as breathing.

Ian's throat tightened. His mouth went dry.

There were those who were born into noble bloodlines, destined for power and prestige.

But this…

This felt like something else entirely.

Were some people simply born for Azkaban?

His gaze flickered to Mara, seeking an answer in her piercing, knowing eyes.

But the witch only watched, waiting, as though expecting him to come to his own conclusion.

He swallowed hard.

He already knew the answer.

---

Name: Ian Prince

Class: Bloodline Sorcerer

Magic Level: 4

[Skills]

Lumos (Lv. 1) – 76/100

Wingardium Leviosa (Lv. 1) – 11/100

Avada Kedavra (Lv. 1) – 7/100

---

Numbers didn't lie.

One casting.

Just one.

And the curse was already engraved in his skill set.

Worse—it had leveled up.

Most wizards struggled for years to even understand the Killing Curse, let alone cast it. And yet, after a single attempt—assisted or not—he had already gained seven proficiency points.

That was absurd.

That was impossible.

And yet, here he was.

"...Unforgivable Curses. Professor Mara, you called this a simple spell?"

His voice was hoarse, strained.

Mara didn't even blink.

"In my time, we had no such classifications," she replied.

She strode forward, her movements as effortless as the wind. Reaching out, she placed her hand against the wall.

The remnants of green energy—the last traces of Ian's spell—vanished beneath her touch.

"A wizard who does not know how to kill is nothing more than prey," she said simply.

Ian shuddered.

There was something chilling about her words.

Not because they were cruel.

But because…

They made sense.

Mara was ancient. At least several centuries old, likely from an era where the world had been far more brutal.

Where stepping outside without a Killing Curse was as foolish as walking unarmed onto a battlefield.

And yet…

That logic was still terrifying.

"Remember this feeling," she instructed, turning back to him.

"This spell requires true killing intent. While I have no doubt you will grow into a rather unpleasant individual, true malice is difficult to cultivate at your age."

A smirk.

A slow, deliberate smirk.

"I suggest you start small. Animals, perhaps. It will help you develop the right mindset."

Ian stiffened.

"But, of course," she continued, voice lilting, "nothing builds intent quite like taking a human life."

"If you ever do kill someone with your own hands… you will understand the spell completely."

She said it so casually.

As if discussing the weather.

Ian exhaled sharply. His fingers clenched.

"...Fine," he muttered. "I'll settle for butchering animals."

Not that he had any intention of actually doing so.

Because the truth was—

He had already learned the spell.

The first step had already been taken. He didn't need to "cultivate" anything.

But he kept that to himself.

Not for strategy.

Not for secrecy.

But because…

Mara already had a low opinion of him.

If she learned that he had mastered the Killing Curse in a single attempt…

She might just start calling him the next Dark Lord.

"...Professor Mara," Ian said after a long pause, "could you teach me another spell? Something less murderous this time?"

A slow, deliberate glance.

"Greedy."

Her voice was cold.

But then—

She laughed.

"Still," she mused, "greed for knowledge is not a vice. In fact… I rather admire it."

For the first time, she looked genuinely amused.

But—

Just as Ian felt a flicker of excitement, she smiled.

"Are you sure you have time for another lesson?"

And then—

Everything blurred.

"What—?"

His body felt weightless. Distant.

The world was fading.

Before everything disappeared, he saw her move—

Tearing a piece of her dress.

Inscribing something into the fabric.

And placing it into his hand.

"Consider this your homework."

A whisper.

A promise.

"Don't disappoint me, my dear apprentice."

And then—

Reality returned.

Ian woke.

The world was still.

The room was quiet.

And in his hand—

Rested a scrap of silver-threaded fabric, shimmering under the moonlight.