The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 589, 598: When Darkness Comes (9)

The eerie blue light on the altar slowly rotated before him, and within that light, something vaguely visible was an ancient scroll covered in densely packed text. Inscribed on the edge of the altar was a line of words more striking than any previous warning: "Those who step onto this platform must offer their full strength. Those who possess power are not qualified to face destiny."

Voldemort stared at the words and fell silent.

Give it your all.

Not a part, not the majority, but the whole.

He reached out and touched the pale blue light.

Light danced at his fingertips, and a stream of information surged into his mind. He "saw" countless intruders ascending the platform; some were powerful wizards, some ancient warriors, and some unknown explorers. They all reached into the light, offering their power.

Then, without exception, they left in a miserable state. Some staggered, some were helped by their companions, and some collapsed to the ground and never got up again.

"Damn it! How could there be such a rule!"

Voldemort withdrew his hand and stood there, motionless for a long time.

He could offer his power. He believed that with his abilities, even if he lost all his magic, he could recover it in a short time.

But the question is—is this really part of the trial?

Or is this site yet another trap?

He closed his eyes, extending his senses outwards. That senses pierced the high platform, pierced the altar, pierced the pale blue light—he felt it. Deep within the light, behind the scroll, was a door. A very small door…

A door almost imperceptible. Behind that door lies what he has been searching for.

But that door will only open after he has given his strength.

Voldemort opened his eyes, his three scarlet eyes flashing with a complex light.

He hesitated.

At the highest point above his head, in that shadow beyond the reach of even perception, a tiny raven was quietly crouching.

Ian looked at Voldemort's hesitant expression and a slight smile appeared on his lips.

"Damn it! But I have divine protection, and even if I lose my current power, I will recover quickly." Voldemort stood before the stone platform, his three scarlet eyes fixed on the dark red light. Within the light, the black scroll slowly rotated, emanating an indescribable, ancient, and dangerous aura.

His hand hovered in mid-air, his fingertips only an inch away from the light.

To give one's strength means to give one's destiny.

The words on the stone platform were etched into his mind like a branding iron.

It's not magic, not blood, but destiny. It's his connection to deep space, his transcendence of the mundane, the foundation upon which he exists today.

Voldemort closed his eyes.

In the darkness, he heard his own heartbeat. It was slow and deep, like the drumbeats in deep water. He heard the sound of blood flowing in his veins, the sound of magic surging through his meridians, and the whispers from the depths of his soul.

The whisper was saying: No.

He opened his eyes.

In those three scarlet eyes, hesitation, struggle, and fear vanished. In their place was a cold, cruel resolve, as exemplified by Xi Jinping's resolute determination.

"I'm not afraid of anything!"

He pressed his hand into the ball of light.

In that instant, he felt something being drawn out of his body.

It wasn't just magic, nor blood, nor fragments of the soul. It was something more essential, something more hidden. It was his connection to this world, the anchor point of his existence in this timeline, the core of why he became "Voldemort" and not anyone else.

The feeling was as if a thread had been pulled from the depths of his bones, leaving his entire spine feeling weak. His knees buckled slightly, and he almost collapsed to the ground.

But he gritted his teeth and held on.

The light grew brighter and more intense, engulfing the entire underground space in its dark red glow. Ancient murals began to appear on the rough stone walls—not Titan runes, but more primitive patterns depicting some ancient ritual.

In the design, a dark figure stands before an altar, offering his heart in exchange for some indescribable power.

The stone platform began to tremble. Countless tiny cracks appeared on its smooth, mirror-like surface, from which a black, tar-like liquid seeped out. The liquid flowed and gathered on the surface, eventually coalescing into a fist-sized, constantly writhing sphere.

The sphere cracked.

A hand reached out from the crack.

The hand had no skin, only dark red muscle and pale bones, with long, sharp nails, on which hung strands of rotting flesh.

It grabbed the edge of the stone platform and pulled hard—a figure climbed out of the platform.

It was once a person, or rather, it once had the shape of a person. Its body was twice the height of a normal person, and its skin had completely rotted away, revealing dark red muscles and white bones underneath.

It could be called a monster. Its head had two curved, ram-like horns, and its eye sockets had no eyeballs, only two eerie green lights that looked like will-o'-the-wisps.

Moreover, the monster's mouth was wide open, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth, and it let out a low, beast-like roar.

It stood in front of Voldemort, a full three meters tall.

Voldemort stared at it, a flicker of surprise crossing his three eyes. This thing—he recognized it. Not that he'd seen it with his own eyes, but that he'd read about it in ancient texts.

Those are the legendary "Guardians," creations of the ancient Titans used to protect important relics. They have no life, no soul, only a fighting instinct etched into their bones. They do not tire, do not fear, and are not affected by any mental magic.

They are pure, killing machines.

But these things should have gone extinct long ago.

Voldemort had no time to think.

The guard had already pounced on him!

Its speed was astonishing, completely unlike what one would expect from something made of rotting flesh and bone. Its two sharp claws flashed through the air, aiming straight for Voldemort's head!

"Ha, you think you can rival me?"

Voldemort dodged to the side, his claws grazing Voldemort's shoulder and tearing five deep furrows into the stone wall behind him. Debris flew everywhere, and dust billowed.

"Go to hell!"

Voldemort's magic did indeed regenerate after it was lost.

Things in deep space have bet on him.

and so.

After dodging for a while, Voldemort regained his spellcasting ability.

He raised his hand and unleashed a burst of fierce fire. The black flames struck the guard's chest, blasting open a crater the size of a washbasin. But there was no blood, no internal organs; only a black, tar-like liquid slowly flowed from the crater. The guard looked down at the hole in his chest.

Then he raised his head and lunged at Voldemort again!

"Not a normal living being?"

Voldemort frowned slightly. He no longer used Fiendfire—it was ineffective against the Guardians.

He switched to physical attacks, his claws piercing directly into the guardian's chest and tearing it open! A large piece of rotting flesh was ripped away, revealing the pale bones beneath.

The monster's skeleton was covered with intricate runes that shimmered with an eerie green light, echoing the will-o'-the-wisps in the guardian's eye sockets.

have to say.

Voldemort's body was also very strong after being modified, which is why he dared to gamble.

"What kind of demonic runes?" Voldemort's pupils contracted slightly. These runes—they were exactly the same as the patterns on the liquid spheres on the stone platform.

This means that the source of the guardian's power is the stone platform itself.

He looked up at the stone platform. The dark red light was still swirling, and the black scroll was still turning slowly. But the cracks on the surface of the platform were healing at a visible speed. If the platform were completely healed, the guardian's power would be restored, and it might even become stronger.

"We can't let that happen!" Voldemort no longer hesitated. He leaped into the air, dodging another attack from the guards, and charged straight at the stone platform!

The Guardian let out an angry roar, and all six arms stretched out at once, trying to grab Voldemort.

But Voldemort was faster; his figure transformed into a black streak of light in the air, passing between the guards' arms and landing steadily on the stone platform.

"Boom!"

The stone platform trembled beneath his feet, and black liquid gushed from the cracks, attempting to engulf him. Voldemort raised his foot and stomped down—

Then, a shockwave spread out from beneath his feet, scattering the black liquid!

Taking advantage of the moment, he reached out and grasped the dark red light. The light trembled violently in his palm, and the black scroll emitted a piercing shriek, as if resisting his touch.

"Damn it!"

Voldemort gritted his teeth and channeled the power he had regained into his palm—the chaotic properties of deep space collided violently with that ancient power, unleashing a deafening roar!

"No!"

The guardian let out an even more piercing roar, and its body began to disintegrate. Pieces of rotting flesh peeled away, revealing the pale bones beneath. The runes on the bones flickered wildly, then went out. The eerie green light dissipated from the guardian's eye sockets.

Its body collapsed with a crash, turning into a pile of scattered skeletons.

The stone platform stopped trembling. The dark red light slowly receded, eventually transforming into a small, fist-sized sphere of light, hovering in Voldemort's palm. Within the sphere, the black scroll no longer spun, but lay quietly, like a keepsake awaiting its opening.

Voldemort clutched the orb of light, panting heavily. His body trembled slightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion.

Offering his destiny, fighting, seizing—this series of actions consumed far more of his strength than he had anticipated.

But he succeeded.

"I absolutely will not allow failure to happen!" He looked down at the ball of light in his palm, the corners of his mouth slowly turning up into a ferocious, satisfied smile.

The ball of light slowly dissipated in Voldemort's palm, and the black scroll fell into his hand.

The scroll felt cold and smooth to the touch, like the skin of some living creature. There were no words, no runes, only a deep, all-consuming blackness on its surface. Voldemort tried to open it, but found that both ends of the scroll were sealed by some invisible force, making it impossible to unroll.

He closed his eyes and probed his senses into the inside of the scroll.

It was a void. An endless, eternal void, devoid of light, sound, time, and space. Within that void, a voice echoed—not language, not music, but a pure, primal will, directly imprinted upon his consciousness: "To unlock me, you need a key. The key lies at the end of the trial."

Voldemort opened his eyes, a flash of annoyance in his three scarlet pupils. He had gone to such great lengths, sacrificed his destiny, and defeated the Guardian, only to receive an unopenable scroll in return?

He put the scroll into his pocket and turned to look at the wall behind the stone platform.

A door had appeared in the wall sometime during the night. It wasn't large, only wide enough for one person to pass through, and the doorframe was made of some kind of black material.

It was made of stone with a metallic sheen. Behind the door was darkness, and in the darkness, you could vaguely see something shimmering—light, a golden, warm light, completely different from all the light in this ruin.

Voldemort strode toward the door.

His steps were slow, each one cautious. He didn't know what lay behind the door, whether it was a trial or a trap, or what the so-called "key" truly was. But he had no way back. He had already given his life; he had come this far, and he couldn't leave empty-handed.

He went through the door.

The world behind the door was completely different from what he had imagined.

It wasn't a room, nor a hall, but an endless golden desert. Three suns hung in the sky, baking the entire land to a scorching heat. On the distant horizon, a massive, black pyramid could be vaguely seen, its apex piercing the clouds.

Voldemort stood in the desert, the sand beneath his feet scorching hot. He looked down and found that his black robes were gone, replaced by a simple set of rough linen clothes. His inhuman claws had vanished, replaced by ordinary human hands and feet. His whiskers, his three eyes, his torn mouth—all gone.

He became a person. An ordinary human being without any magic.

Voldemort's pupils contracted sharply. He tried to summon his magic—nothing. He tried to sense the power of deep space—nothing. He tried to cast even the simplest spell—nothing.

He became a mortal.

Fear, like a cold snake, instantly coiled around his heart. He hadn't felt this helplessness—this feeling of being powerless, without support, and forced to rely solely on his own fragile body—for many years. The last time he felt this way was in the orphanage, when he was bullied by the older children, before he discovered he was different.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.

This is a trial. An illusion. Everything is fake.

He looked up at the black pyramid in the distance and started walking towards it.

The desert was vast and scorching; every step felt like walking on burning coals. Sand seeped into his shoes, chafing his soles raw; the blazing sun made him dizzy, his lips cracked, and his throat felt like it was on fire. He walked for a day, two days, three days, and the pyramid was still far away.

It seems like we can never reach it.