HP: Azkaban's Outstanding Graduate

"No cost required?"

The grey-robed Sagrais shook his head. "You will lose some of your memories, but don't worry, because..."

"boom--!"

The words of the grey-robed "Sagres" remained forever stuck in his throat.

He looked down in disbelief at the "wound" that had exploded on his chest, then looked up sharply at Sagres, whose figure began to slowly dissipate.

Sagres lowered the gun, his face revealing undisguised disgust for the first time, and he even couldn't help but laugh.

"You're pretty funny, you bastard."

He stared at the fading gray-robed figure, his tone filled with disdain, "To describe 'body possession' in such a refined and elegant way, I've never seen anything like it before, let alone a lineage..."

He glanced around at the remaining silent "Sagres" and sneered, "You all have so many tricks up your sleeves. Hard tactics, soft tactics, deception, pretense... In the end, aren't you all eyeing this chair under my butt?"

As he spoke, under everyone's gaze, he did something unexpected—he casually slipped the menacing Colt 1911 back into the inside pocket of his white shirt.

The pocket seemed to hold everything; the gun disappeared instantly once it was inside.

This action caused the remaining "Sagres" to breathe a sigh of relief, and their tense shoulders showed signs of relaxing.

However, before he could fully exhale, a new change occurred.

Without any warning, the distance between the position where Sagres stood and the round table and all the "Sagres" around it suddenly began to increase dramatically.

It wasn't that he was retreating, nor that the round table was moving away; rather, it was that the space itself was being stretched by some invisible force.

The round table and those familiar faces, which were once so close, suddenly shrank, as if separated by an infinitely long, pale corridor.

This bizarre sight caused the "Sagres" around the round table to widen their eyes again, their initial sense of relief instantly replaced by even greater astonishment and suspicion.

Isolated on the distant "other side," Sagres's figure appears somewhat small against the pure white background.

He didn't even look at the rapidly receding "selves," but simply lowered his head and once again reached for the side pocket of his pants.

What he pulled out this time caused all the "Sagres" to shrink in shock!

That was a single-soldier rocket launcher.

Dark green fiber launch tubes, brass-colored over-caliber high-explosive warheads.

It appeared abruptly in this pure white space of consciousness, and its "threat" was greater than that of the hammer and pistol combined.

Sagres held the rocket launcher up to his eyes and examined it carefully.

Then he raised his head, his gaze piercing through the infinitely stretched pale space, looking towards the "himself" around the round table, who were already terrified out of their wits.

A cold smile curled at the corner of his lips.

"laugh--!"

The sharp hiss of the ignition gunpowder exploding suddenly rang out, and the bright white tail flame behind the launch tube erupted like a volcano.

A long rocket, trailing a dazzling contrail, detached from the launch tube and began a death flight that would arrive in an instant within the realm of consciousness.

The "Sagres" around the round table were unable to move or even make a sound; they could only curl back in vain, closing their eyes in terror...

boom!

The instant the bullet struck the surface of the round table, a burst of intense flames erupted.

A gaping hole was torn in the pale space, and a blinding light engulfed the round table, swallowing up all the figures of "Sagres" around it.

The round table itself shattered inch by inch in the center of the intense light, disintegrating into meaningless pale specks of light, like a sandcastle collapsing and merging into the vortex of destruction.

As the intense light gradually dimmed and eventually vanished into nothingness, the space where the round table had once stood was left only as emptiness and silence.

Sagres slowly lowered the rocket launcher tube, which was still emitting a faint heat, from his shoulder and quietly looked at the empty "original site," his face devoid of any joy.

In the space of consciousness, only he, the "Sagres," remained standing.

He casually tossed the heavy RPG aside, and like the previous weapons, it turned into specks of light and vanished before even touching the "ground".

He patted non-existent dust off his white shirt, as if he had just completed a very tedious task.

"That shouldn't be the case. Shouldn't I be outside by now?"

What happened in Chapter 458?

Sagres stood in the empty, pure white void, his brows slightly furrowed.

The incessant "noise" deep within consciousness has been eliminated through physical destruction, but the anticipated "return" has not occurred immediately.

The space remained closed off, its silence unsettling.

"This shouldn't be happening..."

He muttered to himself, "After clearing the area, there should be a 'clearance reward' pop-up or at least an 'exit button,' right? Am I wrong?"

As if in response to his question, the pure white background in front of him tore apart without warning the moment he finished speaking.

It wasn't like gently opening a door, but rather like being brutally torn open by a pair of invisible giant hands, leaving two narrow slits.

The inside of the crack was not completely dark, but rather flowed with blurry and distorted colors and light, with faint noises coming from within—painful groans, rapid chanting, muffled thuds of energy colliding, and the crackling of flames burning.

Sagles did not hesitate.

He took a deep breath, stepped forward, and walked straight toward the two cracks, as if walking into the interior of an abstract painting.

The moment he peered into the crack—

Om-!

It felt as if a high-voltage current was coursing through my entire body, or as if someone had grabbed the back of my neck and violently pulled me out of the water!

A tremendous suction force came, and the pure white void faded and receded in an instant.

Instead, a tsunami of sensory overload surged in:

pain!

It's not a dull pain originating from the level of consciousness, but a real, visibly throbbing pain that persists even after being forcibly "repaired."

cold!

Beneath him was a rough, cold stone floor, and the chill seeped into his bones through his thin, tattered clothes.

noisy!

The air was filled with suppressed gasps, sobs, low chants of incantations, and the viscous sound of the dark red membrane above my head pulsating.

Gloomy!

The surroundings were no longer pure white, but a dark red and gloomy world.

His vision quickly focused from blurry.

The first thing that caught my eye was the kestrel's face, which was very close to mine.

"you're awake!"

The falcon's voice was filled with unbelievable excitement, even a little distorted; she was practically shouting it out.

Sagles's eyes were blank for a moment, but then quickly regained their clarity.

He found himself lying on his back on the ground, covered with a cloak of unknown origin.

His gaze shifted, and he saw a group of faces gathering around him, each one bearing a mixture of sorrow and a faint glimmer of hope.

Further away, there were more Hogwarts guardians, some sitting, some lying down, all covered in wounds, all shrouded in a constantly pulsating dark red sky.

The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood, and he even felt as if he were inside the body of some enormous creature.

This is no longer the deep underground corridor of the Ministry of Magic.

"Where...is this?" His voice was hoarse and dry, as if his throat had been rubbed with sandpaper.

Over the next few minutes, the information was pieced together from fragments by the crowd and poured into his newly rebooted brain.

Voldemort destroyed the Ministry of Magic using Muggle weapons. He himself was caught in the blast and critically injured. Hogwarts faced a full-scale attack. Dumbledore appeared but was defeated and controlled by Voldemort. The Order of the Phoenix and the Bronze Feathers arrived to provide support. Stinfairis deployed a shield to temporarily isolate the attack. Voldemort continued to bombard the shield with dark energy from the outside, attempting to corrupt and destroy it from the inside...

Wait! Dumbledore has been controlled by Voldemort?

Sagres blinked, quickly absorbing the impactful information into his mind.

The surprise lasted less than a second before being replaced by a chilling skepticism.

He suspected Dumbledore was up to something.

He refused the falcon's attempt to help him up, enduring the strange pain in his legs, and supported himself with his arms, swaying as he stood up amidst the astonished gazes of the crowd.

His gaze swept over the wounds on his body covered by dark red new tissue, especially his two legs, whose color and texture were obviously abnormal, and his brows furrowed slightly.

He didn't inquire about the details first, nor did he express his gratitude for surviving the ordeal.

Instead, he did something seemingly insignificant—he stretched out his right hand and gently tapped a dark red patch of skin on his chest with the tip of his wand.

A faint light shone from the tip of the staff, and the dark red skin quickly faded, becoming smooth and returning to its normal color and texture, indistinguishable from the surrounding skin.

Sagres remained expressionless, his wand flashing repeatedly across every wound on his body that had been repaired by the flesh-and-blood monster.

Wherever it passed, the glaring dark red marks faded and disappeared, restoring the normal appearance of the tissue.

Even his two legs had undergone tremendous changes. Although the internal condition was unknown to everyone, at least on the surface they looked no different from ordinary people, at most only showing a faint pallor as if he had just recovered from a long illness.

Having done all this, Sagres raised his head, his gaze passing through the pulsating dark red shield as he looked out at the isolated battlefield.

“Well done, Stinfalis.”

He paused, then pointed with his wand at the blurry figure outside the protective barrier.

"Is it possible to keep them all here?"

"no problem."

……

Outside the protective barrier, Voldemort hovered in mid-air, his Elder Wand continuously unleashing viscous torrents of darkness, relentlessly battering the stubborn crimson sky.

His bloodshot eyes were fixed on the ever-changing vein patterns on the surface of the protective shield, a cold smile playing on his lips.

Bellatrix stood a short distance below him, his manic face a mixture of awe and eagerness.