Research has always demanded patience. But this… this was different. The squibs I brought into my care were fragile in more ways than one—their bodies not naturally attuned to magic, their minds untrained, their very existence a puzzle. And yet, I had an objective: to ignite the spark of true magic within them.
The process was… excruciating. I had to understand every nuance of magical biology, every subtle nerve pathway that allowed wizards to channel energy, every gland and organ that contributed to magical potential. Squibs were resistant—physically, magically, even psychologically—but through precise experimentation, painstakingly observed under enchantments that recorded every heartbeat, every neuron firing, I began to map the path to magic.
It required sacrifices. Many squibs endured agonizing procedures: organs temporarily replaced with magical constructs to study function, brains probed and enchanted, pathways restructured and tested, living subjects held on the brink of death and revival. Pain, despair, and suffering were instruments, cruel but necessary. Each failure taught me something new; each breakthrough brought me closer to my goal.
After countless sleepless nights, a breakthrough emerged: a potion, a single vial capable of catalyzing magical potential in squibs. The formula was intricate, combining alchemical compounds with ancient incantations, and required my full mastery of magic to craft. When administered, it reshaped the squib's magical pathways, awakening latent potential and giving them the ability to cast spells—basic at first, but sufficient.
Once perfected, I began mass deployment. My subordinates rounded up squibs, placing them in training and recruitment camps. I oversaw their education personally, ensuring they learned foundational spells, basic dueling techniques, and rudimentary dark magic. These squibs were not equals—they were cannon fodder. Their purpose was clear: shield, serve, and fight in the lowest ranks of my military until proven.
Yet I did not deceive myself. Among them, potential would emerge. Squibs who adapted quickly, who showed intelligence, aptitude, or a spark of innate cunning, would be promoted. They would rise through the ranks, empowered by the very magic I gave them, becoming assets that even seasoned wizards would envy. For now, though, they were expendable. Tools. Pawns. But even pawns can become kings with the right guidance—and my guidance was absolute.
The camps thrived under my supervision. Their numbers grew, their spells improved, their obedience solidified. By the end, I had created not just soldiers, but a living network of controlled magical potential—a foundation that would form the lowest, most loyal tier of my army. Every pawn, every cannon, every novice squib was a building block in my unstoppable force.
I stood before them, watching as they practiced, their magical sparks flickering like fragile stars. Each one a testament to pain, sacrifice, and my unmatched skill. They were small now, but under my guidance, they would grow. And when the war came… they would burn with the magic I had given them, loyal to me alone.
I allowed myself a small smile. The war would come, and when it did, every layer of my army—Inferi, fused bloodlines, squibs, vampires, werewolves, goblins—would be ready. Every spell I taught, every potion I perfected, every life I sacrificed for knowledge was a step closer to absolute control.
And the spark of magic in a squib's hand? That was only the beginning.