“It’s merely a little technique for strengthening the body with magic.
It doesn’t really count as a spell.” “If it uses magic, then it’s magic.” Witt turned his head away in a huff.
He genuinely hadn’t expected Gryffindor to cheat him.
“I didn’t use any magic.” Gryffindor sounded completely serious.
“Hm?” Witt turned back.
Surely Gryffindor wouldn’t still be lying to him now.
But if he hadn’t used magic, how could a person possibly outrun a horse?
And keep it up for half the night, no less.
What was this, some sort of martial-arts film?
Seeing Witt’s disbelief, Gryffindor reached out and punched a nearby tree.
The trunk was as thick as a large bowl.
It snapped in half.
“Think of it like magical creatures.
Their bodies are strengthened by magic, but once that strength becomes part of the body, they retain it even when they aren’t actively using magic.” “Whoa.” Witt’s eyes widened.
“I want to learn it!
Professor, teach me this!” “Gladly.” Gryffindor rose with obvious delight.
His method required not only sufficient talent but also an extraordinary tolerance for hardship.
The very first stage had eliminated everyone at Hogwarts.
Which meant there had been almost no point even discussing the second.
Although Gryffindor had left a book describing the method in the Hogwarts library, he had no idea whether anyone in the future had ever read it, much less attempted to learn from it.
Compared with straightforward, convenient spells, his method was exhausting and troublesome.
And even when mastered, it still couldn’t withstand truly powerful magic.
At best, the reinforced body could resist weaker spells.
In truth, it was rather impractical.
Gryffindor doubted most witches and wizards would have any interest in learning it.
Now that he had finally caught a living Gryffindor student from the future, naturally he wanted someone to carry the technique on.
Besides…
Gryffindor’s gaze gradually became dangerous as he looked at Witt.
This miserable brat was desperately lacking in discipline.
He ought to educate him properly.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ One day later.
Witt gritted his teeth.
He was beginning to suspect that he’d fallen straight into Gryffindor’s trap.
“Are you absolutely sure this is how I’m supposed to train?” “What’s wrong with weighted training?” Gryffindor asked leisurely from horseback.
“If you can’t endure this much hardship, what exactly do you expect to accomplish?” “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one suffering.” Witt clenched his teeth and trudged onward.
Every step left a deep pit beneath his feet.
At the same time, he continuously stimulated the magic within his body, adjusting the rhythm of his breathing and gradually integrating that magic into his flesh.
“I can’t do it anymore.
I need a rest.
I’m exhausted.” Witt reached up, preparing to throw off the enormous weight on his back.
“You don’t rest until you’re completely spent.
Keep going.
We’ll stop when we reach the village ahead.” “Don’t you want to complete your Quest?” The moment Gryffindor mentioned the Quest, Witt stopped complaining.
He forced himself onward, staggering one painful step at a time.
Along the twisting mountain road, Gryffindor sat atop the horse, drinking wine as comfortably as could be.
The horse, meanwhile, was being carried by Witt.
It happily chewed fresh leaves as they passed and occasionally kicked him for good measure.
This bloody horse.
Fire practically burned in Witt’s eyes.
One of these days, he was going to stew the damned thing and eat it.
He couldn’t beat Gryffindor.
Surely he could at least beat the horse.
Stupid bloody technique.
Witt seriously suspected that Gryffindor was using this entire training exercise as revenge.
From midday until sunset, Witt continued struggling onward.
In the end, he still failed to reach the next village.
His legs finally gave out.
He collapsed flat onto the ground, completely unable to move.
The instant Witt fell, Gryffindor drew his wand and gave it a light flick.
The horse froze in mid-air before it could land on Witt and finish him off.
“Laxare.” ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ [Translator’s notes] Laxare is a fan-made, non-canon spell derived from the Latin laxāre, meaning “to loosen, relax, or relieve.” In this translation, it functions as a Tension Release Charm that eases muscle stiffness, cramps, and physical strain caused by exhaustion or intense training, but it does not heal actual injuries; those still require a healing spell such as Episkey.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ “Episkey.” Gryffindor cast the two spells in rapid succession.
The first released the terrible tension locked throughout Witt’s exhausted body, while the second healed the injuries he’d accumulated during the day’s training.
Gryffindor dismounted, picked Witt up, and studied him for several moments.
He muttered to himself, “That spell is still affecting me.
The longer I look at this brat, the more I inexplicably want to punch him.” For the past two days, Gryffindor had been testing the strange magic surrounding Witt.
Whenever he focused his attention on Witt, an inexplicable sense of disgust arose inside him.
Distance made no difference.
The moment Gryffindor stopped looking at Witt and shifted his attention elsewhere, the feeling disappeared.
Making Witt wear a mask didn’t help either.
And apparently, Gryffindor was the only one affected.
Other Muggles and wizards could look at Witt without experiencing anything similar.
That left Gryffindor unsure whether he had been cursed or Witt had.
If his willpower weren’t so strong, another wizard would probably have beaten Witt to death by now.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ “Water…” Witt woke in the middle of the night.
Every muscle in his body ached, and his throat was so dry that he desperately wanted something to drink.
Gryffindor, who had remained beside him, promptly handed him a waterskin.
Glug, glug, glug.
Witt drained the entire thing.
At last, he felt vaguely alive again.
“Mr Gryffindor, once I master this, you’ll really give me the sword?” “Of course.” Gryffindor smiled pleasantly.
“Your Quest only requires you to hand the sword over to Ragnuk, correct?
If I take it back after you’ve completed your Quest, that shouldn’t violate these so-called principles of yours, should it?” “No, no!
Not at all!” Witt nodded repeatedly.
As long as he handed the sword to Ragnuk, his Quest would be complete.
Whether Ragnuk could actually keep the Sword of Gryffindor afterward— that had absolutely nothing to do with Witt.
If Gryffindor beat the goblin king to death while taking it back, Witt would probably applaud.
He had spent the past several days getting his head punched so many times that he was practically developing the bumps of a Buddha statue, all just to persuade Gryffindor to temporarily hand over the sword so he could complete the Quest.
Gryffindor himself clearly adored the weapon.
If Witt had been trying to convince him to surrender it to Ragnuk permanently, he could have talked until his tongue fell off and still gotten nowhere.
Originally, when Witt heard about Gryffindor’s ridiculous training method, he hadn’t wanted anything to do with it.
Unfortunately, Gryffindor had tempted him with the sword.
Witt was an honest person.
He couldn’t withstand even the slightest temptation.
Still— Gryffindor rides the horse, and the horse rides me.
What kind of bloody training method was that?
If he needed weighted training, couldn’t he carry literally anything else?
On this point, Witt had actually misunderstood Gryffindor.
The primary purpose of this particular training method genuinely wasn’t to entertain himself or get revenge on Witt.
That was only the secondary purpose.
By sitting above Witt, Gryffindor could continuously adjust the direction of the weight, ensuring the best possible training effect.
And while sitting on the horse, he didn’t have to look directly at Witt.
That meant he wouldn’t constantly feel the urge to punch him.
Better for both of them.
Willpower, after all, did not always survive prolonged temptation.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ The next day, Gryffindor brought Witt to a farmhouse.
He kicked the front door open.
“So you’re the bastards who ate the owl I was using to deliver letters.” “Who are you people?” The farmer grabbed a shovel and stared nervously at Gryffindor.
“The man who’s about to beat you.” Gryffindor charged in without the slightest courtesy.
Within moments, he’d beaten the entire family so badly that they were fleeing around the house with their hands over their heads.
“Now then.” Gryffindor sat with one leg crossed over the other, his eyes gleaming dangerously.
“Tell me why you ate a messenger owl.” Owls were companions to witches and wizards, and most magical folk were rather fond of them.
In all his life, Gryffindor had never encountered a family quite this outrageous.