Chapter 485: Tiny Flaws

After dinner, Harry and the others smiled warmly and saw Princess Shara off with great friendliness. Yet, no sooner had the princess left than Ivy immediately rolled her eyes in contempt.

“What’s that look for?” Harry frowned at her; he’d spent the entire afternoon discussing major matters with the princess’s advisors and had no idea how the children had gotten along.

“All I can say is, this meeting harmed both them and the princess,” Zhang Qiu remarked fairly. “Clearly, the princess wasn’t particularly eager to interact with… non-human beings.”

Harry felt a faint pang of guilt, since he’d enjoyed his discussions with the princess’s advisors on university matters.

“And we weren’t thrilled listening to her prattle about Muggle pretend play,” Ivy rolled her eyes. “It’s hard to imagine anyone spending so long training horses—let alone turning it into a competition.”

“She even liked using a beater’s bat to hit the Golden Snitch. Muggles really are,” Ron’s face twisted in distaste, “sometimes you think they’re amazing, and other times you think they’re boring.”

“It’s normal—amazing Muggles and boring Muggles aren’t the same people,” Ivy scoffed. “If she’d been willing to learn more about the magical world—even if she’d just read The Chronicles of Narnia—it might’ve helped. But in any case, our conclusion is: Princess Salad is a dull, unimaginative person.”

Zhang Qiu burst out laughing, placing a hand on Ron’s shoulder with a cheerful grin. “That reminds me of an ancient Chinese idiom story: there was a wizard who was fascinated by everything Muggle—his job was reviewing Muggle artifacts, he drove Muggle cars daily, listened to Muggle radios before bed, and his house was piled high with Muggle books.”

“Then one day he met a real Muggle—and he impatiently said, ‘What a boring person.’”

Ron muttered a few complaints, but had no real rebuttal.

After a brief pause, Harry broke the silence again: “Oh, by the way, I think Ivy just gave us a great idea.”

“We’ve never had a good medium—or standard—for determining how Muggles should interact with or learn about the magical world, or which Muggles we should even speak to,” Harry said. “But now I’ve thought of it: The Chronicles of Narnia—it’s a classic fantasy novel—”

“And in a way, I think its plot closely mirrors your own life,” Ivy added.

Harry raised a finger and continued: “Sort of. But the point is, we can use it as a probe and a filter. For example, if a Muggle claims to be a devoted reader of The Chronicles of Narnia—or loves The Lord of the Rings—such a fantasy reader, imaginative and open to the supernatural, will more easily understand and accept the magical world.”

“But if someone has heard of fantasy novels yet shows no interest, it means they prefer to focus on their own reality. For abilities like magic—something Muggles can’t learn or master—they’ll keep their distance. We have no reason to reveal the truth to them,” Harry concluded. “And the princess is clearly one such person.”

“No, actually, the princess belongs to a third category: she believes her life is perfect, and anything beyond normal reason would only ruin it,” Ivy said, dissatisfied. “To her, magic is heresy. She dismissed The Chronicles of Narnia as boring nonsense—perhaps in her mind, wizards are just annoying weirdos.”

Harry stared, stunned. “That can’t be right.”

“I could feel her rejection in her eyes and tiny gestures,” Ivy sighed. “We’ve all been trying to play the good person.”

Zhang Qiu gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders and said softly, “She’ll regret missing out on a white hat.”

Harry glanced between them, then said nothing, changing the subject: “It’s fine—it’s just one failed attempt. In the future, as the Statute of Secrecy crumbles, the magical and Muggle worlds will have many more such encounters. At least we’ve gained a great idea: The Chronicles of Narnia is the perfect topic.”

“Narnia? What’s that?” Ron immediately went off track. “You’re all talking about it, but I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a fantasy novel—one of the extra books Harry and I read as kids…”

“Like The Lord of the Rings,” Harry interrupted Ivy’s explanation. “Ron has read The Lord of the Rings.”

“Oh, right—and you were the one who first gave it to Binns, and then I borrowed it from him,” Ron sounded like he was blaming his best friend for not sharing good stuff sooner. “By the way, I’ve just started reading a new book—Game of Thrones. Donald sent it to me. He mentioned it long ago—Lannisters always pay their debts, and Jaime charging the dragon—”

“Wait!” Zhang Qiu suddenly cut him off. “You mean A Song of Ice and Fire? In the early books, there are no dragons—and when Daenerys returns to Westeros, Jaime should be in the Riverlands. He couldn’t possibly face a dragon then.”

“But Donald says Jaime was in King’s Landing when it fell,” Ron stepped back, eyeing Zhang Qiu with deep suspicion. “But how could you know that? The first volume of this series was just published this year—Donald knows because he knows the author!”

“Knows the author?” Zhang Qiu countered. “The author probably died long ago—I read all fourteen volumes in Tianchao, written by a missionary who came to Tianchao during the Qianyao era. That was nearly two hundred years ago!”

Harry vaguely sensed that this ordinary fantasy novel might conceal something strange.

“That’s easily explained,” Ivy interrupted before Harry could think further. “The missionary got the idea, wrote the opening, then traveled to Tianchao and completed the rest. As for the writer Donald knows, he clearly stumbled upon the opening, got inspired, and wrote a sequel.”

Zhang Qiu shook her head gravely, sitting down earnestly. “That doesn’t make sense. If a writer merely borrowed inspiration from an earlier manuscript—even if Donald’s writer plagiarized the Tianchao novel—he’d definitely change the character names. To copy everything so directly is far too unusual.”

“Then why?” Harry also sensed the oddity. “If it’s just a novel, no matter where the writers got their inspiration, there’s no reason to strictly preserve the exact names. Even if the plots were similar, that’d be understandable—but the names are identical, and only the plots differ slightly. That’s hard to explain.”

“What if the missionary wrote a lot—and wrote it well?” Ivy continued speculating. “Maybe Donald’s writer wanted to honor the original work while still writing his own continuation, so he kept all the names?”

“How much would he have had to write?” Zhang Qiu countered. “If both you and Ron know Daenerys returned to Westeros and that King’s Landing fell, he must’ve written at least up to the sixth or seventh volume.”

“Maybe he guessed,” Ivy shrugged. “If the opening already introduced the Dragon Mother, anyone would assume the author wouldn’t introduce such a character without purpose.”

“Honestly, I can’t imagine what King’s Landing’s fall would look like,” Ron shook his head. “Ned is one of my favorite characters—I really don’t want him fighting Daenerys. In fact, I think most readers wouldn’t want to see that scene.”

“He was murdered by Cersei,” Zhang Qiu said bluntly. “If Cersei ruled King’s Landing, wouldn’t you find Daenerys’s conquest satisfying?”

Ron’s eyes widened—Donald hadn’t told him any of this. After a long pause, he snapped, “Hey, how could you spoil it like that?”

“He dies in the first volume—you’ll see soon enough,” Zhang Qiu shrugged.

Ivy picked up: “Then maybe the missionary had just finished the first volume.”

“I think it’s more complicated than that,” Harry, who’d been listening, offered his opinion. “If Donald’s writer got inspiration from the missionary’s manuscript, he wouldn’t have missed the fact that the missionary went to Tianchao. He should’ve easily found the full novel there.”

“Do you think ordinary people had easy access to Tianchao?” Ivy countered. “They hadn’t interacted with the outside world for centuries.”

“For the writer who knows Donald, it was easy—because Donald is close to Xuan Jun,” Harry shook his head gently. “If Donald heard about dragons and ‘Lannisters always pay their debts’ as early as our second year—that’s five years ago—he must’ve noticed by now that Tianchao had a complete set of these novels. Especially since this book must’ve sold well there—you finished reading it.”

Zhang Qiu seemed slightly shaken. “Actually, sales were poor. I only read it because I’m somewhat familiar with medieval history. Most people think the stories are too distant and the intrigues too crude—used only as evidence to prove Tianchao’s superiority.”

Ivy spread her hands naturally. “So that’s it—perhaps the writer mourned the missionary’s talent being ignored by Tianchao, so he translated and republished it.”

“No, no, no—I need to find a chance to ask Xuan Jun directly,” Harry said seriously. “Whenever something involves both Xuan Jun and Donald, I immediately suspect it’s tied to the lost civilization. This case is especially strange—or, what era was this missionary from? Could it have been during Xuan Jun’s youth?”

“It might have been…” Zhang Qiu answered hesitantly.

What truly gripped Harry was the overwhelming pressure the old man had once imposed on him—he desperately needed something to help him guard against Ge Xuan. If he wanted to find Xuan Jun’s weaknesses and flaws, he had to start with his youth—and this book might be an irreplaceable opportunity.