Having traversed countless realms, can you possibly be as clever as me?

Therefore, the power he possesses comes from everyone's fantasies and fears about Jack the Ripper. His Noble Phantasm is just that—a killer existing in fantasy, possessing only fantastical concepts!

As for what the Noble Phantasm is, Harley doesn't know and doesn't want to know.

All she needed to know was that now, she could get her revenge!

Black mist spread out from beneath Harley's feet, like a living thing, crawling in all directions along the cracks in the floor tiles.

The first person to notice something was wrong was Dali.

He had just kicked Chris away and was about to curse that bastard for daring to treat his cousin like that—although he did it sometimes, it was his privilege, and outsiders couldn't—when he saw the shadow on the ground.

It's not just one person's shadow, but the shadows of countless people.

The shadows crawled past his feet like black snakes, like flowing ink. They climbed the walls, the pillars, and the ceiling, gradually swallowing up the light source of the entire auditorium.

"W-what the hell..." Dali's voice was stuck in his throat.

The lights went out, and a living darkness emerged. It surged in from all around, rose from beneath our feet, and grew from the shadows of everyone.

Screams rose and fell.

"What's going on?!"

"Who turned off the lights?!"

"Don't push me! You jerk!"

But soon, the screams stopped, and everyone saw light in the darkness—no, no.

420

It is light, it is fog.

Jet black, viscous, like a fog of deep blood.

It wafted from the center of the hall, carrying the pungent, metallic scent of rust, the damp, musty smell of a 19th-century slum in London's East End, and the chill of every dark alleyway Jack the Ripper had walked.

In the center of the blood mist, Harry Potter, hanging there, was still that small, thin girl, wearing a faded floral dress, glasses wrapped in tape, and messy black hair studded with sequins from Easter eggs. But she was also completely different.

Black mist swirled around her, condensing behind her into countless twisted human figures. These figures had no faces, no features, only outlines—but each outline exuded a chilling killing intent.

Harley looked up, and behind her glasses, her golden-brown eyes were now burning with a dark red light.

She smiled, a smile completely different from the embarrassment she felt when mocked, completely different from the timidity she usually displayed when hiding in a corner. It was the smile of an assassin, a smile of someone who had returned from hell, carrying countless souls of the dead for revenge.

She gives off a completely different vibe now, or rather, the one controlling this body is probably no longer just one person.

The shadows cut the ropes binding her, freeing her. She took off her glasses and crushed them.

"None of you are getting away today!" she hissed, looking at the group.

"It's Potter! It's that madman!"

"What did she do?!"

"Run! Run!"

Some people rushed toward the auditorium doors. The doors were open, and they could see the corridor outside and the lights at the end of it—but no matter how fast they ran, the doors remained the same distance away.

They remained stationary, while the murderers in the black mist moved.

They emerged from behind Harley, like melting wax figures, like phantoms from a nightmare. Each one was different—some were tall, thin men wearing top hats; some were hunched old women wrapped in tattered shawls; some were children with pale faces bearing eerie smiles.

But they have one thing in common: they all have knives in their hands.

Not a magic wand from the wizarding world, not any extraordinary weapon. Just an ordinary knife—a butcher's knife, a surgeon's scalpel, a street thug's switchblade. In the dark alleys of 19th-century East London, those blades had slit countless throats.

Then, the killing began.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Even on the path to godhood, there will be endless killing! :292. The Gathering of Serial Killers

Dudley recounted what he had seen in a trembling voice, while Snape beside him showed signs of annoyance several times.

"This Muggle kid is talking complete nonsense!!!"

Seeing Snape's ferocious expression, Dudley shrank back, on the verge of tears.

"Calm down, Severus, calm down. I'm afraid the boy isn't lying."

"Dumbledore said gently," Snape instinctively wanted to retort, but stopped speaking when he saw Dumbledore's deep eyes.

Because the headmaster in front of him was the most powerful Legilimency Master in the UK and even the world.

Snape was confident that his Occlumency technique could even fool Voldemort, but he dared not say that he could hide his thoughts from Dumbledore.

Of course, Dumbledore wasn't one to pry into other people's thoughts. Severus Snape was the exception, after all, he was a spy who had betrayed his country twice.

Dumbledore is a restrained man. He possesses immense power and ability, and has an unfathomable network of connections in the wizarding world. Let alone the Minister of Magic, he could even become the emperor of the wizarding world if he wanted to.

But he was indeed restraining himself, spending most of his time locked up at Hogwarts, just as Grindelwald was imprisoned in Nurmengard.

Now, his use of Legilimency on a Muggle child undoubtedly breaks his own principles, but it also shows that he is indeed very concerned about Harley's safety.

"Child, calm down. The latest chapter of '《》' has been updated. Come to the book club forum to catch up! We need you to continue telling us what you know."

Dumbledore patted Dudley's shoulder sympathetically, then said softly...

"But I think we need to know more details. Relax, get some sleep and you'll be fine."

With that, he tapped Dudley's head with his wand, and Dudley immediately fell asleep. Then he brought the wand to Dudley's temple and slowly pulled out a thin, shiny silver thread.

Dumbledore carefully placed it into a glass bottle, then snapped his fingers, and the burning phoenix Fawkes appeared with a cry.

"I'll be right back."

Dumbledore said this while grasping Fawkes's hands, then disappeared in a flash of fire, and soon returned.

He brought back a wide, flat, hollow stone basin, its rim carved with runes and symbols. Undoubtedly, this was Dumbledore's prized alchemical artifact, the Pensieve, which he kept in the Headmaster's office.

Its function is to place the extracted memories into it, so that onlookers can see all of the memories as if they were there.

Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape were all preparing to enter when an uninvited guest arrived.

"Dumbledore!" Minister for Magic Fudge walked over, wiping his sweat. He looked at the misty Surrey, then at Dudley lying unconscious beside Dumbledore, and his eyes lit up.

"Have you rescued the Muggles inside? What exactly happened in there?!"

"If you don't mind, Minister, you can come and watch with us."

After a moment of contemplation, Dumbledore made a surprising decision: he invited Fudge to watch Dudley's memories together.

After a moment's hesitation, Fudge stepped forward. After all, as Minister of Magic, he needed to produce a satisfactory answer when faced with such a situation. He could choose not to answer, but he couldn't choose not to write anything.

Snape had no idea what Dumbledore was up to, but he was powerless to stop him and could only step aside with a sour face.

He genuinely believed that the child, who looked remarkably like Lily except for her eyes, was incapable of doing such a cruel thing.

They moved closer to the Pensieve, and soon, a powerful suction pulled their consciousness downwards. The instant they entered the memory, they heard a scream.

"No...no! Don't come any closer!"

Chris West retreated to the corner, his handsome face contorted into a mask of terror. His languid smile vanished, replaced by a grotesque mess of snot and tears.

"Harley! Harley, I'm so sorry! I was just joking! It was Emily! Emily made me do it! She said she'd give me my virginity if I lied to you! Please! Please forgive me!"

"I haven't done anything wrong other than that, please forgive me!"

However, standing before Chris was a petite girl with a small scar on the corner of her mouth, a pure smile, pale hair, and a sharp dagger in her hand.

"You're lying." The child's voice was clear and sweet, but the words it uttered sent chills down your spine.

“You’ve said the same things to so many girls. You say ‘I like you,’ you say ‘you’re special,’ and then you trick them into laughing at them and giving them your body.”

"I didn't! I didn't!"

“You have it.” The child’s smile widened. “I see it. In your memory. In your sins, after all…”

“We never saw you when we came out of our mother’s body.”

Chris, not knowing what he had seen, let out a sharp scream, as if the cute thing before him was some kind of indescribable monster.

A flash of light.

Chris let out a bloodcurdling scream. It wasn't his throat that was slit—that was far more gruesome. The knife had sliced ​​open his lower body, spreading from his abdomen downwards in a deep gash, the flesh torn open.

"An irresponsible man should not become a father again."

421

"It's necessary." the girl said with a smile.

Chris clutched his bleeding groin, curled up on the ground, howling like a crushed worm. And he would die, here, slowly dying in the most painful way and process a man could endure.

Meanwhile, Emily White tried to run. Wearing ten-centimeter heels and a long silver dress, she stumbled backstage. But after only three steps, she bumped into a serial killer.

The tall, thin man wore a top hat and a black tailcoat, with a silk handkerchief covering his face, revealing only a pair of dark eyes without any whites.

“Beautiful lady.” The man bowed gracefully, speaking in the tone of 19th-century London high society. “I’ve noticed you’re the center of attention at the ball tonight.”

Emily lay on the ground, her lips trembling, "Please...please...I have money! My dad has money! You can have as much as you want!"

"Money?" The man tilted his head. "I don't need money. I just want to dance with you."

He held out his hand. The hand was wearing a white glove, but the glove was covered in dark red stains—dried blood.

"What did you do to that poor girl tonight?" the man said casually. "You cruelly dragged her out into the public eye to mock and humiliate her, to laugh at her dress, to laugh at her for not having parents. You made everyone look at her like she was a monkey. You were happy, weren't you?"

"I was wrong! I was really wrong! I'll never do it again!"

"Later?" The man laughed, a muffled laugh coming from behind the silk handkerchief, sending chills down one's spine.

Do you think someone like you will have a 'future'?

"The mistakes you made, the deep sins that haunt me. You are not a direct murderer, but an indirect killer; thirteen lives were lost because of you."

He grasped Emily's hand, that white-gloved hand, and gently squeezed it—

Click.

The sound of bones breaking is crisp and pleasant.

Emily clutched her severed hand, crying until her makeup was ruined. Her shimmering silver dress was covered in dust, and her hair was disheveled, making her look like a patient who had escaped from an asylum.

But the punishment didn't stop there. This seemingly gentlemanly killer slowly picked up a cane and pointed it at her lower body.

“You who are deeply sinful, bear the guilt of those you have hurt.”