The Wizard: Ascending Beyond Marvel

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In Wes's mind, the words "Pirates of the Caribbean" swept in like a wave, instantly conjuring a vivid image—

A pirate with a raised finger, smoky kohl-lined eyes, and an attire more fitting for a rock singer than a seafarer. He was an enigma of contradictions—graceful yet unsteady, cunning yet foolish, cowardly yet fearless. The legendary Captain Jack Sparrow, a name that belonged to the ever-unpredictable trickster of the seas, stood before his imagination like a specter from the past.

Jack Sparrow had spent his life dancing on the edge of death, embracing adventure with an almost reckless disregard for his own mortality. He drifted across the violent tides, navigated treacherous waters, and outwitted enemies at every turn. His story was one of mischief and survival, and now, Wes couldn't help but wonder—

"Is there a way in this world to resolve the suffering of the souls trapped within the Philosopher's Stone?"

This wasn't the first time Wes had found himself thrown into an unfamiliar world. The strange, silent entity that had guided him thus far never provided direct instructions or tangible rewards. But every shift, every transition, always contained something—some crucial piece of the puzzle he needed to solve his own dilemma.

Rashness was not an option. The school year at Hogwarts was still ongoing, and time was unpredictable. The time dilation between worlds was unknown to him. If he left now, who knew when—or if—he would return? He decided to wait until summer.

And before that, he had preparations to make.

Wes knew next to nothing about sailing. That had to change.

The dim candlelight of the Hogwarts library flickered as Wes ran his fingers across the spines of aged tomes, each one whispering secrets of the sea through yellowed pages and brittle parchment. He traced the nautical maps with his fingertips, absorbing the contours of unknown shores. He studied ship anatomy, memorized sailing knots, and delved into ancient maritime laws and pirate codes.

Because of his preemptive intervention in the Chamber of Secrets, Hogwarts had been wrapped in an eerie peace. The basilisk was gone. The darkness that had slithered through the school's corridors had been extinguished. For once, life felt normal.

But Gilderoy Lockhart, ever desperate to hold onto his illusion of grandeur, refused to fade into irrelevance. He tried stirring drama where there was none, spinning tales that barely held together. And yet, instead of boosting his fame, his attempts merely peeled back the layers of his deception, revealing him for what he truly was—an ornament without substance, a mask without a face.

As the last students left the castle, the weight of summer settled in. The lazy warmth of the season blanketed the school, signaling that it was finally time.

Wes was ready.

The moment he arrived, the first thing he noticed was the darkness—

A deep, all-consuming night stretched across the horizon, swallowing the world in its ink-stained embrace. The wind carried the sharp, briny scent of the sea, cool and ever-present. The distant crash of waves against the shore played like a melancholic ballad, whispering tales of forgotten wrecks and buried treasures.

Above him, the moon hung low in the sky, a brilliant silver medallion casting its ethereal glow upon the restless ocean. The water shimmered under its light, rippling like liquid mercury, endless and vast.

Wes exhaled softly, his breath forming a ghostly mist in the cool night air.

"An island...?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Excitement and apprehension twisted together in his chest. Islands in a world like this could be anything—a paradise or a death trap. The unknown loomed before him, its possibilities both thrilling and terrifying.

"I should confirm where I am first. Hopefully, it's not an uninhabited island."

Muttering to himself, he flicked his wand and whispered the incantation. The air around him shimmered as he cast a Floating Charm, his body lifting effortlessly into the night sky. He rose above the trees like a silent wraith, his sharp gaze sweeping across the landscape.

In the northern part of the island, a distant glow flickered in the darkness—a warm, golden beacon amidst the abyss.

A town.

Wes lowered himself gently onto the ground, his boots pressing into damp soil. The path ahead twisted and turned, flanked by crooked houses that leaned against each other like drunken sailors. The air reeked of salt, sweat, and something far fouler.

Then, he saw them.

Bodies.

Slumped in the alleys, discarded like refuse. Their lifeless forms lay still, their existence already forgotten by the town that continued on without them. The pungent stench of decay clung to the air, thick and inescapable.

[This place is dangerous.]

Wes narrowed his eyes. His fingers instinctively tightened around his wand. He had stepped into a place where life was as fickle as the tide.

Ahead, the glow he had seen earlier pulsed with life—shouts, cheers, and the clinking of glasses spilled into the night air, a crude symphony of debauchery.

As he drew closer, the wooden sign above the entrance swayed gently in the breeze, its letters worn but still legible:

The Captain's Hook.

A pirate den.

Wes smirked. "Perfect."

If there was one place where information flowed freely, it was among drunken men with loose tongues. Pirates, in particular, were masters of rumor and gossip, their knowledge carried across the vast oceans. He had no doubt that, somewhere within this dingy tavern, there was someone who could help him.

Pushing the creaky door open, Wes deliberately let it groan under his touch, drawing attention to himself.

The noise in the room dulled for a moment.

Dozens of eyes turned toward him. Some filled with curiosity, others with open hostility. The scent of stale ale and sweat mixed in the air, and the flickering lanterns cast long, distorted shadows on the walls.

A burly, one-eyed man near the bar sneered. "Look at that coat—fancy as hell. Worth a pretty coin, I'd wager."

"That one's got the skin of a noble's son," another muttered, his gaze gleaming with ill intent.

A low murmur spread through the room as more pirates appraised him, weighing their chances, calculating their gain.

But the older, seasoned ones remained silent.

One of them, an old pirate with sunken cheeks and sharp, calculating eyes, whispered to his companion. "That one came from the sea. Yet he's clean. No grime, no salt. Either he's a ghost... or he's something far worse."

Another pirate nodded knowingly. "Anyone who walks onto an island like this unscathed is either mad or powerful."

Wes ignored the stares and strode toward the bar with quiet confidence. He didn't flinch at the grime-covered counter, nor did he react to the suspicious glare of the bartender—a mountain of a man with a deep scar carved across his cheek.

"I'm looking for someone," Wes said, his voice smooth, unfazed.

The bartender said nothing. He simply continued polishing a mug, his movements slow and deliberate.

Wes chuckled. "Ah, I nearly forgot the rules."

With a flick of his fingers, a glimmer of gold appeared between them. The golden coin spun in the air, catching the dim light before landing squarely in the bartender's palm.

Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. The tension in the room grew thick, heavy.

Greedy eyes fixated on the gold, their hunger almost palpable.

Wes merely smiled, unfazed by the wolves surrounding him.

"Now then… let's talk."