HP: Azkaban's Outstanding Graduate

They wrap around each piece of bone fragment, carefully secreting a substance to bind them together, forming a skeletal-like support structure.

At the same time, they also penetrate the broken muscle fibers, differentiating into tiny granulation tissues, like the most skillful weavers, re-bridging and weaving the broken muscle.

The other horrific wounds on his torso were also covered and filled with swarming threads, which solidified into a slightly rough, dark red skin layer.

A faint trace of color gradually returned to Sagres' ashen face, and his breathing became much more even.

Although he was still unconscious, his legs looked much "complete," and he was no longer bleeding and had a general outline.

Hummingbird slumped to the ground, her wand slipping limply from her hand. She stared blankly at the glaring dark red marks on Sagres's body, her eyes vacant.

Nightingale slowly stood up, her gaze shifting between the glaring dark red marks on Sagres's legs and the blood membrane on his head, her brows furrowed.

……

There is no pain in the world of consciousness, only a void of pure white, and an ancient round table suspended in it.

Sagres found himself sitting at a round table, wearing the slightly worn white shirt he had worn before his time travel, with a few imagined stains on the cuffs.

The round table was surrounded by "himself".

A "Sagres" dressed in Hogwarts professor's robes tapped his fingers on the table, his face indifferent: "Have we discussed enough? The body outside is on the verge of collapse, the perfect time for us to take over. Erasure this weak, superficial consciousness, and the entire body will be under our control."

"Take over? That sounds nice, but who's in charge?"

Sagles, dressed in a sharp three-piece suit, chuckled and slowly wiped the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses. "Should we go by 'first come, first served' or 'contribution of ability'? I think we should vote... although we are essentially one vote."

A "Sagres" wrapped in an old trench coat propped his feet up on the edge of the table and chimed in, "If you ask me, let's drain the magic from those wizards outside first. This body is too weak; it needs energy, lots of energy! Once we've drained them dry, what can't we do?"

"absurd!"

Another "Sagres," dressed in a lab coat and with disheveled hair, immediately slammed his fist on the table and stood up. "Wizards are precious observational samples and experimental subjects! To drain them all dry? You're killing the goose that lays the golden eggs! I object! We need to establish a strict management system to sustainably utilize every wizard..."

“Once the body is completely cold, it will be useless!” A “Sagres” with a scarred face said coldly. “The most urgent task is to arm ourselves to the teeth and survive by the most extreme means! I suggest starting all forbidden research, even if it means turning the body into a weapon!”

"I second that, but the direction is wrong. We should focus on concealment and escape..."

"No, we should take the initiative and unify the entire wizarding world as quickly as possible!"

"You're being too violent. I believe psychological manipulation and infiltration are the better strategies..."

"Shut up, all of you! Let's resolve the issue of taking the lead first!"

The round table erupted into a heated debate, with all sorts of outrageous or extreme suggestions emerging one after another.

Their speech varied in pace and tone, from calm to impassioned, and their views were diametrically opposed, yet they strangely shared the same logic of thought—a cold rationality stripped of some of the usual moral constraints.

As for Sagres himself, whose fate they were discussing, he seemed to have become an insignificant decoration, and no one even glanced at him.

Until Sagres in the white shirt asked in a clear voice:

Who are you?

The argument stopped abruptly.

All the "Sagres" turned their heads at the same time, their eyes fixed on him.

There was no surprise in that gaze, only naked scrutiny and indifference.

The "Sagres" in the black wizard's robes pushed up his non-existent glasses and spoke first, his voice filled with undisguised disappointment:

"Who are we? We are you, the embodiment of the 'possibilities' and 'survival instincts' that have settled down as you struggle to survive in different timelines. And you..."

He looked Sagres up and down in his white shirt and uttered a cold assessment:

"...It is that 'subject' that we still know nothing about, the useless thing that drags down the efficiency of all of us."

Chapter 455 The Hammer King Arrives

Sagres, in his white shirt, frowned slightly.

The trench coat-wearing "Sagres" tilted his head and replied, "Especially last time, we clearly left you a 'backup plan,' but why didn't you use it?"

His eyes were like hooks: "In the most dangerous moment, by calling upon 'our' power, or by directly transferring your consciousness, you could have survived, even become stronger. But what did you do? You took a missile in your face like a complete idiot?"

A few soft hums of agreement rang out from around the round table.

Faced with these accusations from "himself," the white-shirted Sagres showed no anger, but instead wore a strange expression.

He looked around, his gaze sweeping over every familiar yet unfamiliar face, and slowly said:

"If I had actually used that 'backup plan,' I probably wouldn't be sitting here now; I'd be lying on the table."

He paused, his voice very soft:

"By then, I will have completely become one of you, or some 'hybrid' that you compromised after your arguments. That would mean that 'Sagres,' as 'me,' as an independent and continuous consciousness, will have completely lost its 'qualification.' Right?"

A brief silence fell around the round table.

The experimental suit "Sagres" stroked its chin thoughtfully: "While your choice was extremely risky and inefficient, it did ensure the continuity of 'you' as the current main consciousness thread. Could this be considered a... passive defense strategy?"

The combat suit "Sagres" scoffed: "The result was near death! Defense? Foolish!"

"But it turned out he didn't die, and he's still sitting here."

The black-robed "Sagres" said coldly, his gaze sweeping over the white-shirted Sagres. His eyes held less contempt and more complex consideration. "Moreover... you've hit the nail on the head."

"I knew it... how could I possibly fool myself? All those little tricks I used were meant to lure him into opening the door so one of us could leave, but I never expected him to turn around and block the keyhole."

The man in the white shirt, Sagres, looked at them, feeling his chaotic thoughts slowly coming together.

"So, what's the situation now?"

He spoke again, his voice much calmer, "You've all gathered here because I'm dying, so you're here to divide my 'inheritance'? Or is it...?"

His gaze swept across the indifferent faces, finally settling on the empty, pure white expanse in the center of the round table:

"You really have no other options. You're just a bunch of prisoners trapped here, sitting around the table, talking big and rambling on and on, putting on airs?"

"Shut up! You stupid brat!"

A "Sagres" dressed in magnificent court attire, with an arrogant expression, slammed his hand on the table, his face full of disgust. "We possess knowledge and experience beyond your imagination, and can easily decide your life or death, so you'd better show us some respect!"

The man in the white shirt, Sagres, stared at him silently for two seconds.

Then he slowly got up, walked straight to the gorgeously dressed "Sagres", bent down and brought his face close to carefully examine the angry expression on the other's face.

After a moment of silence, a slightly mocking smile slowly crept onto his lips.

The other "Sagres" around the round table held their breath and fell silent.

The next second—

"Snapped!"

A resounding slap broke the silence!

The elegantly dressed "Sagres" was struck so hard that his head was turned to one side, and a clear handprint instantly appeared on his face.

He covered his face in astonishment, his eyes wide with disbelief and a hint of bewilderment.

He did not resist, nor did he make any defensive or retaliatory gestures; he simply stood there, frozen in place, like a puppet that had suddenly lost its commands.

The entire round table fell into a deathly silence.

All the "Sagres" stared wide-eyed, including the few who had been arguing most fiercely just moments before.

They looked at the white shirt that had struck the person, then at the elegantly dressed figure covering his face. A hidden, unspoken rule seemed to have been brutally exposed by this slap.

The white-shirted Sagres straightened up, looked at his slightly reddened palms, then glanced around at the various "selves" with different expressions. His smile grew wider and wider, finally turning into a silent sneer.

"So it turns out... you can't do anything to me after all."

He said irritably, his gaze sweeping over every familiar face, "Arguments, temptations, intimidation, putting on an air of omniscience and analyzing things with such authority..."

He paused, then gave another disdainful smile.

“But you can’t truly replace ‘me’ unless I willingly open the door myself, or I completely break down. Right?”

His gaze finally settled on the elaborately dressed "Sagres" who was covering his face, and he said, word by word:

"You are just a group of reflections trapped in a mirror. No matter how lifelike you are, you can't change the world outside the mirror."

He took a step back, sat back in his chair, and appeared relaxed and casual.

"Now, can anyone tell me how to get out of this wretched place?"

There was complete silence around the round table.

The "Sagres" looked at each other, some avoiding his gaze, others remaining silent with gloomy faces; none of them answered his question.

Sagrass waited a few seconds, looking at the "Sagrass" who had been the most talkative just moments before but was now silent, and a strange anger rose in his heart.

A thought belonging to "Muggles" uncontrollably flashed through his mind: "I really want to beat you to death!"

The thought had barely formed in his mind when he suddenly felt a weight on his right hand.

Looking down, he saw a heavy claw hammer with a wooden handle and an iron head in his hand.

The hammerhead still gleamed with a cold metallic sheen, and its texture felt incredibly realistic.

Sagres was startled and instinctively tightened his grip on the hammer handle.

The cold touch and heavy weight made him instantly realize something.

He raised his head, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room before finally settling on the "Sagles" in the suit closest to him.

He raised his hammer, pointing the head at the other man, and said in a calm yet extremely authoritative voice, "You, answer my question. How are you leaving here? Otherwise..."

He shook the hammer.

A flicker of panic crossed the suit-wearing man's face as he forced a smile and adjusted his glasses: "Vulgar...vulgar! Barbaric! We're having a rational discussion, and you've resorted to violence? This is simply..."

"I'm a 'Muggle' now."

Sagrais interrupted him, a cold smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sometimes, Muggles should solve problems the way they do."

After saying that, he suddenly stood up, raised the hammer high, and made a move to smash it!

"Wait! Hold on!"

The man in the suit, "Sagles," turned pale with fright, hurriedly raised his hands to cover his face, and shrank back.