At the judges' table, Madame Maxime listened to the whispers between her own Alchemy Professor and the lead Professor from Hogwarts, a faint smile playing on her lips as she refrained from interjecting.
She naturally knew from whom Lucien had inherited his Alchemy, but it was inconvenient to say it outright.
Those who had dealings with Nicolas Flamel in recent years could vaguely sense that the legend, who had lived for over six centuries, seemed to be becoming increasingly detached. He was unwilling to involve himself too much in worldly affairs and had instead poured all his heart and soul into certain research.
Since Nicolas had not publicly announced Lucien's identity as his final student with great fanfare, Maxime guessed that this was a form of protection. After all, Lucien was still young. Perhaps Nicolas was simply waiting for the right moment.
Maxime even had a subtle feeling that Lucien's appearance might have been an accident even for Nicolas.
This young man seemed to have injected a different, fresh vitality into the Alchemist's life, one that had not been there before.
Reading between the lines of their recent correspondence, Maxime actually felt that Nicolas's mindset seemed to have become a few years younger.
Thinking of this, she couldn't help recalling the truly startling letter she had received a few days ago. It had been an exquisitely crafted envelope that looked like a formal funeral invitation.
Upon opening it, she had found a photograph of Nicolas himself posing with his own corpse, while the accompanying letter explained that he was hesitating over whether to hold a world-renowned funeral for himself to completely sever certain covetous eyes and prying gazes.
In the past, Maxime really could not have imagined a figure like Nicolas engaging in such a nearly playful act.
Soon, Madame Maxime's thoughts were pulled back by movement on the field.
Lucien, holding a rather simple-looking crystal bottle, had already left his Alchemy station and was walking steadily toward the judges' table.
Madame Maxime's slender eyebrows arched slightly.
Finished so soon?
But as soon as the thought arose, it was replaced by another, more logical one.
Right, he was Nicolas's student.
This was only normal.
With Lucien's movement, the attention of the entire side hall was instantly drawn over.
The judging Professors stopped whispering, the murmurs from the audience suddenly grew louder, and the other contestants still hard at work couldn't help looking up, casting complex gazes at the steady-paced youth.
Surprise, incomprehension, realisation, scrutiny, doubt...
All sorts of emotions flashed across different faces.
Madame Maxime sat elegantly above them, taking in everyone's reactions below.
When her gaze swept over her favourite student, Fleur, those azure eyes that always seemed overly calm and proud seemed to flash with a strange light, like ripples caused by a stone thrown into a pond.
A hint of a smile couldn't help flashing in Maxime's eyes.
Over the past few days, she had certainly noticed the natural interaction between Fleur and Lucien.
She was more than happy to see it happen.
Young people communicating more was a good thing.
If this could make a talent like Lucien develop a favourable impression of Beauxbatons, or even consider transferring directly, that would be even better.
In Maxime's view, Lucien's value went far beyond his identity as Nicolas Flamel's student.
The potential and ability he himself displayed were already extraordinary.
One had to know that the most critical reason Hogwarts enjoyed such a lofty status in the global Magical World was because Albus Dumbledore was there.
The greatest wizard of the century was himself a school's most dazzling calling card and its most solid foundation.
Madame Maxime had a clear intuition in her heart: as long as the young man walking toward them grew up smoothly, he would very likely stand at the pinnacle of the Magical World in the future.
Perhaps he would be the Dumbledore of the next century.
The key was that Lucien was still so young, not one of those upper-year students who had already spent six or seven years at Hogwarts.
If they could attract him to Beauxbatons now and cultivate him carefully, it would be easier to build a sense of belonging to the school.
Moreover, if Lucien transferred of his own volition, then Dumbledore would not be able to say much.
In her correspondence with Nicolas a few days ago, Maxime had even vaguely read that the Alchemist seemed somewhat uneasy about Lucien staying at Hogwarts for his studies.
That discovery had stirred her heart at the time, and she soon understood.
For some reason, accidents had been frequent at Hogwarts in recent years: the Chamber of Secrets attacks, the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor having issues every year...
It really was not a place where one could study in peace.
All sorts of thoughts flashed through Madame Maxime's mind, but her face remained fixed in an elegant and peaceful smile.
She watched as Lucien approached and gently with the seemingly ordinary crystal bottle.
"Everyone," she said, turning to the Alchemy Professors beside her, her voice gentle yet clearly carrying, "it seems we have a contestant who has completed their work early. According to the procedure, let the judging begin."
Under the focused gazes of everyone in the side hall, Lucien gently placed the seemingly ordinary crystal bottle on the long table before the judges' bench.
The bottle was completely transparent, with only extremely subtle mist-like textures at the bottom.
Lucien drew his wand and tapped it lightly. A condensed, gentle beam of light fell upon the mouth of the micro-climate bottle.
On the surface of the transparent bottle, rows of complex and orderly runes lit up from the inside out, flickering like breaths.
The space inside the bottle began to change. First, a very faint white mist emerged from the bottom, slowly spiralling upward to simulate damp fog.
Immediately afterwards, a circle of warm golden light rippled out from the centre of the white mist, the temperature quietly rising to present the brightness of sunlight.
As the runes continued to move, the scene inside the bottle underwent an even more exquisite evolution.
Several Professors at the judges' bench immediately leaned forward and began to carefully examine this work submitted ahead of time.
The core of refining a micro-climate bottle lay in the refiner's delicate control and combination of elements. The simulation of each climate was a clever use of elemental balance.
Therefore, the judging criteria were also very intuitive. One only needed to see how many distinct climates the finished product could stably simulate to roughly judge its quality and the level of the refiner.
Madame Maxime nodded slightly, her eyes filled with undisguised admiration.
Professor Shafiq wore a relaxed expression, clearly not worried about the result at all. Her thoughts had likely already drifted to how she would arrange that precious extra holiday after the competition.
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