Jerry stood at the entrance of the Pantheon, head tilted back as he looked at the door before him.
The height of the door exceeded three hundred meters, and its width was enough to allow five carriages to pass through side-by-side.
The doorframe was carved from pure white marble, its surface depicting the entire history of the Olympian Pantheon, from their birth out of Chaos to Zeus's ascension to the throne. Every figure was three times larger than life-size, the lines of their muscles and the folds of their robes so exquisitely detailed that one could see every single fiber.
The doors themselves were cast from bronze, their surfaces covered in a layer of dark green patina formed over thousands of years of oxidation. The patterns in the patina looked like the strokes of some ancient script, gleaming with a ghostly green light in the residual glow of golden divine power.
The doors were open.
The two massive bronze doors stood wide open inward. The hinges let out a continuous, low-pitched humming sound under the immense weight—a frequency so deep it resonated in the chest.
Jerry took a step and walked inside.
His sneaker stepped onto the Pantheon floor, letting out an incredibly faint tap.
That sound was magnified dozens of times in the cavernous hall, ricocheting back and forth between the dome and the walls, transforming into a series of echoing taps that lasted for nearly five seconds before fading away.
The space of the hall was so colossal it created an optical illusion.
The height of the dome visually exceeded five hundred meters. At the very apex was a circular skylight roughly two hundred meters in diameter. The dark red sky of Black Feather Castle's pocket world shone down through the skylight, casting a massive circular patch of light dead center on the hall's floor. The edges of the light patch were shifting slowly—a result of the Pantheon not yet being completely anchored in this pocket world, causing the entire palace to sway at an imperceptibly slow speed.
The floor was paved with white marble. The area of each slab exceeded ten square meters. The seams between the slabs were sealed with a golden filler that shimmered with a dark gold luster beneath the dark red skylight. The walls were also white marble, their surfaces covered in cascading bas-reliefs depicting the various deeds of the Olympian gods. The height of every relief exceeded five meters, and the figures were two to three times larger than a real person.
Pillars stretched from the floor to the dome, each with a diameter exceeding five meters. Golden vine reliefs spiraled up the shafts, the leaves carved in three dimensions with every vein clearly visible. There were twelve pillars in total, arranged in two rows, dividing the hall into three sections.
Standing in this space, Jerry felt like an ant standing in a giant's palace.
His height barely reached a thirtieth of the base of one of those pillars. Standing on the floor, the distance to the dome high above gave him the illusion that "even if I jumped straight up from here, I would probably never reach the ceiling."
Hera walked in from behind him. The sound of her high heels clicking against the marble floor echoed through the hall, every step triggering a cascade of echoes. She walked up to Jerry, stopped, and looked up at the dome alongside him.
Even Hera looked tiny in this space. She was more than twice Jerry's height, but standing beneath these three-hundred-meter-tall doors and the five-hundred-meter-high dome, her silhouette was compressed into an insignificant speck.
"Is there some special significance to you guys building this palace so huge?"
Jerry's voice echoed through the hall, amplified into a series of reverberations. He didn't turn to look at Hera; his grey eyes remained fixed on the edge of the circular skylight at the apex of the dome.
"Like making everyone who walks in feel their own insignificance?"
The corner of Hera's mouth curved.
"When it was built back then, that was indeed one of the considerations."
She stepped forward, the sound of her high heels tapping out a clack-clack-clack rhythm on the floor. She walked past Jerry, heading deeper into the hall, her voice drifting back from ahead.
"But in reality, the most fundamental reason was that during the forging of this temple, the vast majority of the deities had no way to fully control the power they obtained from the power of faith."
She walked up to the first pillar, extending her right hand to press her palm against the leaves of the golden vine relief on its surface. Her fingers lightly traced the edges of a leaf, her fingertips rolling over the raised veins.
"Which meant their bodies were unimaginably colossal. When Poseidon first acquired the godhood of the Sea God, his height exceeded one hundred and fifty meters; every step he took would stomp a deep crater into the ground. When Ares first manifested his true form during the Titanomachy, he was nearly eighty meters tall, and the war spear in his hand was over a hundred meters long; when he swung it, he could split the clouds in half."
Her hand left the pillar and she continued walking forward. After three steps, her right hand reached behind her neck, her fingers hooking the zipper pull at the back collar of her dress.
"Therefore, the palace had to be built this massive. After all, if it were built too small, they might not even have the chance to come inside to hold meetings or amuse themselves."
The zipper was pulled down. With a zzzip, it slid all the way from the back of her neck down to her waist. With the zipper undone, the back of the dress automatically parted to the sides, exposing the entire line of fair skin down the center of her back, from her seventh cervical vertebra all the way down to the dimples of Venus. Her shoulder blades undulated slightly with her walking motion, the muscle lines on either side of her spine gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat under the dark red light.
"However, as they later grew more proficient at mastering the power they obtained from faith, the problem of not being able to fit inside no longer existed."
She walked to the second pillar. Reaching her hands around from behind to her front, she grabbed the two front edges of her dress and pulled them apart. The dress slipped from her shoulders, sliding down her arms. It paused for a moment at her elbows, then continued its descent, finally slipping off her wrists and falling to the floor.
The sound of the dress hitting the floor echoed through the hall with a soft flop, followed by a string of echoes.
She was now left wearing only a black lace bra and a matching pair of black lace thong panties. The bra was a demi-cup style, covering only the lower half of her breasts, the curves of the upper halves spilling over the lace edge, undulating slightly with every breath. The panties were a thong design, with only two thin straps on either side of her hips, completely exposing her two plump butt cheeks to the air. On her legs, she wore black stockings held up by garters at the tops of her thighs, the metal clasps of the garters making a soft clink sound as she walked.
"But the Pantheon was already built. Smashing it to rebuild it was obviously impossible."
She continued walking forward, the clack of her high heels against the marble floor growing sharper. She passed the third pillar, the fourth pillar, and stopped beside the fifth. Her hands reached behind her back, her fingers undoing the clasp at the back of her bra.
"Besides, some of the guys always liked entering this place in their true forms. Their true forms are incredibly massive, standing tall like giants supporting the sky."
The clasp came undone with a soft snap. The elastic band of the bra lost its tension, loosening from her chest and sliding forward. She caught the falling bra with her right hand and casually tossed it onto the floor. Freed from their restraint, her two plump breasts swayed twice before settling back into their original shape.
Deep pink, gleaming with a moist luster under the dark red skylight.
"Therefore, trying to shrink this place down a bit became completely impossible."
Jerry followed behind her, maintaining a distance of about five meters. His grey eyes stared at her back, looking at the two shallow dimples at her waist, looking at the faint indentations the thin straps of the garter belt left on the sides of her hips, looking at the thin string of the thong passing through her gluteal cleft, perfectly dividing her two plump butt cheeks into symmetrical halves.
"So that's how it is."
His voice was flat, as if commenting on the weather.
Hera walked to the dead center of the hall, the area covered by the circular patch of light cast down from the skylight. She stopped and turned around to face Jerry. The dark red sky projected from behind her, outlining her silhouette in a backlit profile. Her hands rested on the thin straps on either side of her thong; her thumbs hooked the straps and pulled down.
The panties slid down from her hip bones, sliding down her thighs. They paused at her knees, then continued sliding down, finally slipping off her ankles and falling to the floor.
She was now left with only her stockings and high heels.
Standing in the center of the light patch, her naked body gleamed with a warm-toned luster under the dark red sky. Her legs were slightly parted, her stance relaxed, her hands hanging naturally by her sides without any attempt to cover herself. Her private parts were completely exposed to Jerry's sight: two plump lips gleaming with a deep pink luster in the shadow at the root of her thighs, the slit between the lips slightly parted, revealing an even deeper color hidden within.
"To enter the temple."
Her voice echoed through the hall, magnified into a series of reverberations. She turned around, putting her back to Jerry, and continued walking deeper into the hall. Her hips swayed left and right with her walking motion, the curve of her butt cheeks undergoing minute deformations with every step, the metal clasps of her garter belt clinking clink, clink at the tops of her thighs.
Jerry followed.
Deeper into the hall, the lighting grew dimmer. The light patch cast by the skylight could only cover the front half of the hall; the back half was shrouded in the massive shadows cast by the pillars. Only the residual golden divine power on the surfaces of the wall reliefs glowed faintly, dyeing the entire space in an eerie hue somewhere between dark red and dark gold.
The bases of statue after statue stood on the floor of the hall.
The height of the bases exceeded three meters, the surface of each carved with the name and domain of the corresponding deity. The tops of the bases, where the statues of the gods should have stood, were now mostly empty. Only a few bases still held fragments of statues; those fragments were scattered on the floor around the bases, some already crushed into smaller granules.
Jerry walked up to the first base. Carved on the base was "Ares, God of War." The top of the base was empty; only four metal mortises used to secure the statue's feet remained embedded in the surface. The tops of the mortises were snapped off, the metal edges of the breaks jagged and uneven, as if they had been forcefully ripped apart by some immense power.
The second base, the third base, the fourth base—all were empty.
The fifth base still held a statue.
The statue was the figure of a woman, about five meters tall, completely naked, using only husks of grain and ears of wheat to cover her breasts and private parts. Her posture was standing, holding a basket full of grain in her hands, a gentle smile on her face. The material of the statue was white marble, its surface covered in a layer of pale golden divine luster, but that luster had grown incredibly faint, like an oil lamp about to burn out.
The surface of the statue was covered in cracks.
Those cracks started from the top of the statue's head, running down her face, neck, chest, abdomen, and thighs, all the way to the soles of her feet, slicing the entire statue into dozens of irregular fragments. The gaps between the fragments were incredibly thin, only a few millimeters wide, but those gaps stood out strikingly against the reflection of the pale golden divine luster, like a spiderweb draped over the surface of the statue.
Jerry stood beneath the base, looking up at the crack-covered statue.
"What happened to them?"
Hera walked up beside him. Her naked body gleamed with a warm-toned luster under the dark red sky, the black of her stockings forming a sharp contrast with the whiteness of her skin. She raised her right hand, her finger pointing at the statue.
"Obviously, they have strayed too far from the source world that provides them with faith, and have become somewhat disconnected."
Her finger moved away from the statue, pointing deeper into the hall at those empty bases.
"Therefore, they have entered a state of absolute weakness. Furthermore, before Zeus fled into the subspace, he attempted to blow up the Pantheon—the only remaining thing capable of providing them with a source of faith power."
Her hand lowered, hanging naturally by her side once more.
"Consequently, they are now forced into a deep slumber. Only when enough faith repairs the statues that represent them will they be able to reawaken."
Jerry's grey eyes shifted from the statue to Hera.
"Faith, faith, faith. I've heard you say this word many times."
His tone carried an obvious impatience.
"I'm sorry, I really cannot comprehend why faith can serve as a source of power. When others believe in you, and believe in you enough, you can become stronger?"
Hera turned to face Jerry. She bent down, resting her hands on her knees, bringing her face right up to Jerry's. Her breasts hung down with this motion, the weight of the two soft mounds pulling out an even plumper curve under the force of gravity. Her face was very close to Jerry's, the tip of her nose almost touching his, her exhaled breath brushing across his lips.
"Mmh."
Her lips curved into a smile, an arc that carried the satisfaction of "You finally asked the right question."
"In fact, it is exactly like that. All the deities within the Pantheon are entirely incarnations of belief. They were born from the imagination, the fantasies, or rather—the concepts—of countless believers."
She straightened her waist, turned around to put her back to Jerry, and continued walking deeper into the hall. Her hips swayed left and right with her walking motion; with every step, the thin strap of her garter belt running down the middle of her gluteal cleft sank deeper, then popped out on the next step.
"For example, if you are hungry, you hope for a deity to provide you with food. But the believers providing the faith cannot just conjure up a deity out of thin air to magically produce food."
She walked to the sixth base, stopped, and turned to face Jerry. She raised her right hand, pointing her finger at the empty space at the top of the base.
"Therefore, in the most primitive times, the one related to hunger was the God of Cooking. If you desire wealth, you hope for a deity who can provide you with an endless stream of wealth. Then he must govern wealth; that is the origin of the God of Wealth."
Her finger moved away from the base, pointing to a base on the other side of the hall. Carved on that base was "Hades, God of the Underworld." The top of the base was also empty, with only four snapped metal mortises remaining embedded in the surface.
"The one who governs death is called the God of Death. But the God of Death must have a place to bind souls; therefore, the God of Death is also called the Lord of the Underworld. The King of the Underworld. It is precisely because he governs the Underworld that he can become the God of Death who controls death."
Her hand lowered, overlapping her hands in front of her lower abdomen. In this posture, her private parts were completely exposed to Jerry's sight; the two lips parted slightly in the shadow at the root of her thighs, and within the slit between the lips, a trace of transparent liquid could faintly be seen slowly seeping out.
"Deities, when all is said and done, are nothing more than the beautiful wishes of countless believers."
She tilted her head; her pale golden hair slid off her shoulder, exposing the entire line of fair skin on the side of her neck.
"Do you understand now?"
Jerry stood before her, his grey eyes looking at her face, then tracking downward, past her neck, past her breasts, past her lower abdomen, and locking onto that slightly parted slit at the root of her thighs.
"I understand."
His voice was flat, as if stating "I know one plus one equals two."
"So you standing here naked right now, is that also the beautiful wish of believers?"
Hera's smile deepened.
"This is my own wish."
She turned around and continued walking deeper into the hall. Her hips swayed left and right with her walking motion, every step generating a microscopic jiggle in her butt cheeks—a jiggle that transmitted all the way from the top of her hips down to the roots of her thighs, before dissipating at the edge of her stockings.
"I just killed twelve of my own siblings. I'm in a very good mood, and I want to celebrate."
She walked to the deepest part of the hall, where a massive throne sat. The throne was cast from pure gold, its surface carved with motifs of lightning and eagles. The ends of the armrests were two eagle heads with beaks wide open, revealing sharp tongues inside. The height of the throne exceeded ten meters, and the seat was wide enough for three grown men to sit side-by-side.
The throne was empty.
Hera walked to the base of the throne's steps, lifted her right foot, and stepped onto the first stair. The heel of her high heel struck a clack against the surface of the step. She continued upward—one step, two steps, three steps—until she reached the seat of the throne. She turned around, putting her back to the throne, and faced out toward the hall.
She sat down.
The moment her buttocks landed on the seat of the throne, it let out a muffled thud. Her legs parted; her left foot stepped onto the left armrest, her right foot stepped onto the right armrest. She sat in a completely spread-eagle posture in the very spot Zeus had once occupied. In this posture, her private parts were completely exposed to the air; transparent liquid continuously seeped from the entrance, trailing down the edges of her lips, dripping onto the seat of the throne with a drip, drop sound.
"Come."
She raised her right hand, hooking her finger toward Jerry.
"Let me teach you what faith is."
"Who originally built this place?"
"Obviously, it was Zeus."
Jerry stood beside an empty base in the hall.
This base was located on the left side of the hall, near the seventh pillar. The height of the base, like all the others, was three meters.
The surface of the base was smooth white marble, devoid of any carvings, like a blank canvas waiting to be filled.
He raised his right hand; the black ring on his index finger glinted. A beam of greyish-black light shot from the ring's face and struck the top of the base. The light spread across the surface of the base, covering the entire top like a layer of liquid mercury. Then, the light began to coalesce upwards, growing from the top of the base, building a humanoid silhouette inch by inch.
The silhouette began from the feet, moving up to the ankles, calves, knees, thighs, waist, chest, shoulders, neck, and head. The entire process lasted about ten seconds. When the light dissipated, a statue stood atop the base.
The statue was an image of Jerry himself.
The height was about one and a half meters, completely identical to his actual height. The statue wore a loose hoodie, the hood slung over the back of the head, sweatpants on the lower half, and sneakers on its feet. The statue's posture was standing, hands shoved into the hoodie pockets, head tilted slightly to the left, lips bearing a minuscule, almost imperceptible curve. The expression was that kind of nonchalant "I know what you're thinking but I can't be bothered to say it."
The material of the statue was greyish-black stone, its surface bearing an incredibly faint, almost transparent luster—a protective film Jerry had plated over the statue using his own magic.
Hera stood up from the throne.
Her naked body gleamed with a warm-toned luster under the dark red sky; her stockings and high heels went clack-clack as she walked down the steps. She walked up beside Jerry's statue, looked up at the one-and-a-half-meter-tall little statue, and the corners of her mouth curled up.
She raised her right hand and snapped her fingers.
Snap.
The crisp sound of the snap echoed in the hall. The hoodie and sweatpants on Jerry's statue vanished the instant the snap rang out, as if blown away by an invisible wind. The statue was now completely naked—a flat chest, a few barely visible muscle lines on the abdomen, and two legs standing straight upon the base.
Then came that thing between the crotch.
The length of that thing was almost identical to the length of the statue's thigh; its girth exceeded the circumference of the statue's wrist. The veins on the shaft were carved with excruciating detail, the path of every single blood vessel clearly visible. The coronal sulcus was carved into a prominent ridge, and the position of the meatus was a tiny indentation. The entire thing extended outward from the statue's crotch at a slightly upward-curving angle, casting a thick, massive shadow under the dark red sky.
Standing beneath the base, Jerry looked up at his own statue and blinked his grey eyes twice.
"It took me a long time to sculpt this statue."
His tone carried a distinct exasperation.
Hera's smile deepened. She circled the base, inspecting the statue from different angles, the heel of her shoe clicking a clack against the floor with every step.
"All deities put their greatest strengths into their statues."
She stopped directly in front of the base, raised her right hand, and pointed her finger at the thing between the statue's crotch.
"What is your objective in making yourself so short?"
Jerry sighed.
The sigh leaked from his nose—very light, very brief—but in the cavernous hall, it was magnified into a string of echoes.
He didn't answer Hera's question; he merely pulled his hands from his hoodie pockets, crossed his arms over his chest, and continued looking up at his own statue.
Hera couldn't be bothered to press the issue any further. She clapped her hands, the sound of her palms colliding echoing through the hall, and then she turned around, pointing a finger toward a fireplace on the right side of the hall's entrance.
"The Floo Network has already been connected."
The fireplace was built from white marble; the opening was over three meters high and wide enough for two grown men to pass through side-by-side. The interior walls were black, their surfaces coated in a thick layer of soot, yet the soot glowed with a faint green phosphorescence—the residual trace left after the Floo Network had been activated.
"You can come here anytime, from anywhere."
Jerry's gaze shifted from his own statue to Hera.
"What about you?"
Hera shook her head. She lowered her right hand from the air, resting it against her lower abdomen. Her lower abdomen protruded slightly; the curve of that bulge was exceptionally pronounced on her naked body, looking like a tiny sand dune piled upon a flat beach. Her palm lay flat against the swollen skin, her finger pressing lightly into it; the skin indented slightly under the pressure, then sprang back out.
"The condition of the Pantheon right now is extremely unstable."
Her voice grew somewhat deeper—not a drop in volume, but a sinking of her pitch, as if sliding from a treble to an alto register.
"I will be falling into a deep slumber as well. Or rather, until I have given birth to enough children, I do not plan on leaving here."
Jerry's brows furrowed.
"How long will that take?"
"It won't take long." Hera moved her palm away from her lower abdomen, letting it hang naturally at her side once more. "Just a year or two. Once they are born, they will grow up very quickly. The growth rate of deities is unlike that of humans; it only takes a few months to go from an infant to adulthood."
"Doesn't that mean I'm going to become the father of a lot of people very soon."
Jerry's tone carried a hint of teasing, but his eyes were serious.
Hera shook her head.
"They won't recognize you."
She turned around, putting her back to Jerry, facing the empty bases deep within the hall.
"Because the ones I give birth to are catalyzed by faith. They will believe themselves to be creations birthed between heaven and earth, pure deities. Blood ties hold no meaning for them; only their godhood and domains are their markers of identity."
She paused for a second.
"However, you will possess an innate suppression over them."
"What do you mean?"
"There is residual divine power of mine within your blood. That divine power will transform into a specific aura within your body, exerting a suppressive effect on every deity born from my womb. When they see you, they will instinctively feel fear, just as lower-tier deities do when encountering a higher-tier deity."
Jerry let out a yawn.
The yawn surged from the depths of his throat; his mouth opened, the joints of his jawbone letting out a faint crack. The yawn lasted for about three seconds, and then he closed his mouth, using the back of his hand to wipe away the physiological tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
"It's getting late."
His voice carried a distinct exhaustion, like a student who had pulled an all-nighter saying "I'm going to sleep" at six in the morning.
"I'm a bit tired. I still have Professor McGonagall's class to attend later."
Hera turned to face Jerry. Her lips curved up into a smile that carried a relaxed "Then I won't keep you" implication.
"Then I won't see you out."
She paused, parting her lips to utter her next sentence.
"Little King of the Pantheon."
Jerry froze for a moment.
His grey eyes blinked twice upon hearing that title, his pupils dilating slightly before constricting back. The corners of his mouth curled upward, the arc more pronounced than at any time prior.
"I like that title."
He turned and began walking toward the fireplace, stopping abruptly after two steps. He turned his head, looking at Hera.
"The club has a gathering coming up in a while."
His tone carried a probing edge, as if asking, "Can I borrow your notes to copy?"
"May I borrow the Pantheon as a venue?"
Hera let out a yawn.
Her yawn was far more exaggerated than Jerry's; her mouth opened to its maximum angle, a deep "Haaaah—" rumbling from the depths of her throat. After the yawn finished, she used the back of her hand to wipe the corner of her mouth, then waved her hand dismissively.
"Use it however you like."
She turned around and began walking toward the throne, her voice drifting back from over her shoulder.
"Don't call for me unless it's an emergency. I'm going to catch up on some beauty sleep."
Jerry stood where he was, watching Hera's naked back disappear into the shadows deep within the hall. He raised his right hand, placing it over his chest as he bowed slightly at the waist, performing a textbook gentleman's bow.
"Good night, Queen of the Pantheon."
His voice echoed through the hall, magnified into a series of reverberations. Then he turned and walked toward the fireplace. The sound of his sneakers stepping on the marble floor was exceptionally clear in the empty space, tap, tap, tap.
He stopped in front of the fireplace, pulling a small pouch of Floo powder from his hoodie pocket. The pouch was made of cloth, palm-sized, the drawstring tied in a loose knot. He undid the knot, grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the pouch, and tossed it into the hearth.
Green flames erupted from the bottom of the fireplace, shooting up to the very top of the opening, dyeing the entire interior of the hearth a vibrant emerald green.
"Hogwarts, Slytherin Common Room."
He stepped into the flames. The green fire swallowed his body, then the flames constricted, returning to a normal burn. The fireplace was empty; only a few green sparks continued to dance at the bottom of the hearth.
When Jerry stepped out of the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, the magical clock above the mantel displayed the time as 2:45 PM.
Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration class began at 2:00 PM; forty-five minutes of the lesson had already passed.
He brushed the Floo powder ash off his hoodie, stood up from the rug in front of the fireplace, and walked briskly toward the exit of the common room. The common room was completely empty; all the students were in class, leaving only the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
He pushed open the door of the common room and walked briskly down the corridor toward the Transfiguration classroom. The corridor was empty as well; only the figures in the portraits on the walls looked up at him as he passed before returning to their own business.
The door to the Transfiguration classroom was ajar.
Jerry stood outside the door, peeking inside through the crack. Professor McGonagall stood at the podium, wand in hand, demonstrating the wand-tip trajectory of some advanced Transfiguration spell. The students in the classroom all had their heads down taking notes, their quills scratching furiously across the parchment.
He pushed the door open.
The hinges let out a soft creak. That sound was magnified several times over in the quiet classroom; every student's head snapped up, all eyes focusing on the doorway.
Professor McGonagall's hand froze in mid-air.
Her green eyes locked onto Jerry standing in the doorway through the lenses of her square spectacles. That gaze bore a complex mixture of anger and exasperation. Her lips pressed into a thin line, the muscles of her jaw taut beneath her skin.
She didn't speak; she merely raised her left hand, pointing her finger toward a seat in the back row by the window. There was an empty seat there, next to Malfoy.
Jerry nodded immediately.
Keeping his head down, he walked briskly down the center aisle of the classroom, reaching the back row and sitting down in the empty seat. The chair let out a soft creak as he sat.
Professor McGonagall withdrew her gaze and resumed her lecture. Her wand traced a complex three-dimensional path in the air, the trail of light left by the tip lingering in the air for several seconds before dissipating.
Sitting in his chair, Jerry pulled his quill and parchment from his bag and laid them out on the desk. Then he turned his head, looking at Malfoy sitting next to him.
Malfoy was looking at him too.
His platinum hair was combed impeccably, his Slytherin green tie knotted perfectly, a distinct indignation in his grey-blue eyes. His lips moved, lowering his voice.
"Where did you go?"
"Had some urgent business to take care of." Jerry's voice was also pitched very low, almost inaudible to anyone but Malfoy. "What happened?"
"It's bad enough that you ran off." Malfoy's tone carried an accusation. "Snape targeted me. He had me go up and brew potions multiple times. My cauldron is practically dented through from him whacking it with a stirring spoon."
Jerry reached out his right hand, patting Malfoy on the shoulder. The pat wasn't heavy, merely a symbolic gesture of comfort.
"You'll get used to it."
The corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched, as if he wanted to retort but couldn't find the right words. He let out a sigh, then leaned forward slightly, leaning closer to Jerry.
"There is good news, though."
His tone suddenly grew excited, his grey-blue eyes brightening a degree.
"I don't know whose proposal it was, but the Quidditch World Cup tournament is starting up again."
Jerry's brows lifted.
"Wasn't it suspended because of the terrorist attack?"
"Probably because they need money for the impending war." Malfoy lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret. "So they want to restart the Quidditch tournament as soon as possible to build up funds, I assume. The Ministry has already released the news; the qualifiers will start next month."
"That is certainly a possibility."
Jerry nodded. His grey eyes narrowed—a squinting motion that carried the contemplation of "I've realized something."
"It's a good thing we stockpiled a massive amount of merchandise specifically for the Quidditch World Cup tournament. I'll talk to Hermione after class and have her restart the promotional campaign."
The corners of Malfoy's mouth curled up.
"I knew you would say that."
He pulled a roll of parchment from his bag and unrolled it onto the desk. The parchment was densely packed with numbers and product names; it was the inventory list they had prepared beforehand for the Quidditch World Cup.
Jerry took the parchment, quickly scanning the numbers on it.
"Inventory is sufficient. Promotion needs to keep up. Hermione should still have the previous promotional plans saved; we just need to pull them out and use them."
"I've already sent her an owl." Malfoy rolled the parchment back up and shoved it back into his bag. "She said she can have a preliminary plan ready by tonight."
Up at the podium, Professor McGonagall's voice suddenly spiked an octave.
"Mr. Rozier, Mr. Malfoy."
Both of their heads snapped up simultaneously. Professor McGonagall stood at the podium, her wand pointing in their direction, her green eyes staring at them through her glasses.
"If you two have no interest in advanced Human Transfiguration, you may take your conversation outside."
A suppressed wave of laughter erupted in the classroom.
Jerry and Malfoy exchanged a glance, then simultaneously lowered their heads, pretending to stare intently at the parchment on their desks.
Professor McGonagall withdrew her gaze and resumed her lecture. However, the corner of her mouth curved into an incredibly tiny arc, one that only those familiar with her would be able to detect.
Professor McGonagall stood in the courtyard of Black Feather Castle, looking up at the Pantheon hovering above the castle.
Her square spectacles reflected a faint luster under the dark red sky; behind the lenses, her green eyes widened slightly, her pupils dilating within the interwoven shadows of gold and dark red. Her lips parted slightly, the muscles of her jaw relaxing beneath her skin—it was the instinctive reaction of astonishment upon witnessing something far beyond expectation.
The Pantheon's golden dome cast a colossal reflection against the dark purple sky of Black Feather Castle's pocket world; the edges of the reflection shifted shape slowly, like some kind of living golden liquid. Twelve white marble columns stretched from the base to the dome, the thickness of each column exceeding the stoutest tower of Black Feather Castle's main keep. The defensive array formed by the black pillars of light encircled the Pantheon, fixing the behemoth in the sky like a ringed fence.
"So this is what Hera has been pursuing all along."
Professor McGonagall's voice squeezed out from the depths of her throat, carrying a complex tone that mixed awe and realization. She raised her right hand, pointing her finger at the dome of the Pantheon, her wrist trembling slightly in the air.
"I can feel boundless power radiating from it."
Her finger drew a circle in the air, the trajectory of the circle aimed dead center at the Pantheon's golden dome.
"What would happen if we used it as an oversized battery?"
She turned her head, looking at Jerry standing beside her, her green eyes flashing with a dangerous light behind her square glasses.
"Could we unleash an unlimited number of forbidden curses?"
Jerry let out a yawn.
The yawn surged from the depths of his throat; his mouth opened, the joints of his jawbone letting out a faint crack. The yawn lasted for about three seconds, and then he closed his mouth, using the back of his hand to wipe away the physiological tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
"Even the biggest battery has a day when it runs dry."
His voice carried the raspy texture of having just woken up, his tone as flat as if stating "They put too much sugar in the pumpkin juice today."
"The power of faith within the Pantheon is nothing more than something accumulated over countless years by countless deities. It does not exist infinitely."
Professor McGonagall lowered her hand from the air, letting it hang naturally at her side once more. She nodded; the nodding motion was very small, just a dip of the chin of about two centimeters before raising it back up.
"That is certainly the truth."
Her gaze shifted away from the Pantheon, beginning to scan the environment around the Black Feather Castle courtyard. The Ancient Tree of War stood in the center of the courtyard, its canopy having returned to its normal size, its dark green leaves gleaming with a dull luster beneath the dark red sky. The main keep of the castle stood behind the courtyard, its greyish-black granite outer walls covered in overlapping runic carvings; those runes flashed faintly as her gaze swept over them.
"Where is Hera?"
She turned her head toward Jerry; the frames of her square spectacles slid down her nose slightly during the motion, and she used her right index finger to push them back into place.
Jerry gave a brief rundown of Hera's situation. The Pantheon was unstable; Hera was falling into a deep slumber and wouldn't leave until she had given birth to enough children. It would take a year or two; the growth rate of deities was rapid, taking only a few months to go from infant to adult.
Professor McGonagall rolled her eyes after listening.
"And here I am, waiting on her vote."
Her tone carried a distinct dissatisfaction, like someone who had waited a long time only to discover the other party had flaked at the last minute.
Jerry's brows lifted.
"Does Hera also have voting rights?"
Professor McGonagall nodded. She overlapped her hands in front of her lower abdomen, the hem of her green wizard robes swaying slightly with the motion.
"The treaty Hera signed indicates that she has completely integrated into the wizarding world."
She paused for a second, adjusting her breathing rhythm.
"The wizarding world treats all its allies with equality and impartiality; there is no distinction between 'us' and 'them'. Therefore, Hera naturally possesses voting rights."
She withdrew her right hand from her crossed hands, tapping her finger in the air a few times, as if counting.
"Furthermore, the more subordinate deities she has, the more voting rights she possesses. Those deities who are sufficiently powerful will be granted voting rights by default."
Her finger stopped at the third tap, then withdrew, crossing over her left hand in front of her lower abdomen once more.
"Of course, calculating it according to what you said, Hera possesses absolute dominion over those deities. Which means Hera will become one of the wizard representatives with the most votes in the entire Wizengamot."
The corners of Jerry's mouth curled upward.
The curve began from the left side of his mouth, stretching slowly to the right, finally stopping at the right corner to form an asymmetrical smile that carried a certain "I see" implication.
"I suddenly understand why Hera is so eager to have children."
Professor McGonagall's brows furrowed.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, the muscles of her jaw taut beneath her skin. That expression clearly conveyed a single message: she did not want to dwell on this topic.
"Are you aware?"
Her tone shifted to all business, exactly the same tone she used when announcing exam dates in class.
"The Quidditch tournament has been restarted."
Jerry nodded.
"Malfoy told me."
He paused, his grey eyes looking at Professor McGonagall's face.
"Is it because military funds are running low?"
Professor McGonagall shook her head.
The shaking motion was much larger than her previous nod; her head swung from left to right about forty-five degrees, then back from right to left, her deep brown hair slipping off her shoulders during the motion to expose the entire line of fair skin on the side of her neck.
"Not at all."
She withdrew her right hand from her crossed hands, raising it to chest height, and drew a downward arrow in the air with her finger.
"There is only one purpose for restarting the Quidditch World Cup tournament."
She paused for a second, adjusted her breathing rhythm, and continued.
"And that is because recently, even ordinary wizards have become somewhat bellicose and fanatical."
Her finger drew a circle in the air, the trajectory of the circle aimed toward Black Feather Castle.
"That bunch of idiots in the Order of the Phoenix wanted to manipulate populism, but they have no way to control it."
Her tone grew sharper when she said the word "idiots"—not an increase in volume, but a tightening of her pitch, like a taut bowstring.
"The current situation is detrimental to the development of the war. Thus, the Quidditch World Cup tournament was restarted simply to divert the attention of those people."
She lowered her hand from the air, crossing it over her left hand in front of her lower abdomen once more.
Jerry's grey eyes narrowed.
"Populism out of control?"
"Correct." Professor McGonagall's lips curved downward into a tiny arc. "That old coot Dumbledore pushed too hard during his pre-war mobilization. He wanted to rouse the fighting spirit of the wizards, but ended up inciting those ordinary wizards—who normally just grow herbs at home—into fanatics ready to charge the front lines at a moment's notice."
She paused, taking a deep breath.
"Right now, the Ministry of Magic receives hundreds of application letters every day from people volunteering to fight. Among them are seventy-year-old wizards, fresh graduates, and even a few fourteen-year-old children. They all think they can slaughter enemies on the battlefield and win glory for the wizarding world."
Her tone grew even sharper.
"But in reality, they can't even cast a decent Shield Charm. Sending these people to the battlefield will only double the casualty rate on the front lines."
The corners of Jerry's mouth curled up.
"So the Ministry decided to use the Quidditch World Cup to divert their attention."
"Correct." Professor McGonagall nodded. "Make them focus their energy on supporting their favorite teams, rather than fantasizing about becoming heroes on the battlefield."
She withdrew her right hand from her crossed hands, raising it to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger, and closed her eyes. The action lasted for about three seconds; then she released her fingers and opened her eyes again.
"The Order of the Phoenix is very dissatisfied with this decision. They feel it is weakening the wizarding world's fighting spirit."
"But the Ministry doesn't care," Jerry chimed in.
"Correct." Professor McGonagall's lips curved into a tiny arc. "The Ministry currently cares about only one thing: how to make this war last longer, result in fewer deaths, and earn more profit."
She lowered her hand from her face, crossing it over her left hand in front of her lower abdomen once more.
"The Quidditch World Cup brings in massive revenues. Ticket sales, broadcasting rights, merchandise, a cut of the gambling—add it all up, and it will bring the Ministry at least fifty million gold Galleons in revenue. That money is enough to support the front lines' military expenditures for three months."
Jerry's grey eyes brightened a degree.
"Fifty million gold Galleons?"
"Correct." Professor McGonagall nodded. "And that's just a conservative estimate. If the matches are spectacular, the revenue could double."
She paused, her green eyes staring at Jerry's face through the lenses of her square glasses.
"So how are the inventory preparations coming along on your end?"
Jerry's smile deepened.
"Inventory is sufficient. Hermione will have a preliminary version of the promotional plan ready by tonight."
"Excellent." Professor McGonagall's lips curved up as well, the arc carrying the satisfaction of "That's exactly the answer I wanted to hear." "In Osi... The Ministry of Magic will green-light you. The qualification for official souvenir supplier has already been internally designated to you; as long as your product quality is up to standard and your prices are reasonable, the Ministry will not seek out other suppliers."
Jerry's brows lifted.
"Official supplier?"
"Correct." Professor McGonagall nodded. "I fought for this on your behalf. In exchange, you need to hand over fifteen percent of your profits to the Ministry of Magic as a war tax."
Jerry's grey eyes narrowed; the squinting motion lasted for about two seconds before he nodded.
"Acceptable."
Professor McGonagall's smile deepened.
"Then it's settled."
She turned around, facing the direction of Black Feather Castle.
"I need to return to Hogwarts. There's a staff meeting tonight to discuss wartime curriculum adjustments."
She began walking toward the Floo fireplace at the edge of the courtyard, her high heels clicking clack-clack against the black flagstones. After a few steps, she stopped, turning her head to look at Jerry.
"By the way, if Hera wakes up, have her contact me as soon as possible. The Wizengamot has an important vote next month regarding the preliminary plan for post-war resource allocation. Her vote is very important."
Jerry nodded.
"I will relay the message to her."
Professor McGonagall withdrew her gaze, continuing her walk toward the fireplace. Her figure vanished into the green Floo powder flames; after her departure, the flames constricted and returned to a normal burn.
Standing in the courtyard, Jerry looked up at the Pantheon hovering above the castle. The golden dome gleamed with a warm-toned luster beneath the dark red sky, looking like a massive, inextinguishable lantern.
The corners of his mouth curled up.
"Fifty million gold Galleons."
He turned around, walking toward the main entrance of the castle.
"It seems this war truly is good business."