The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 534, Section 543: Believers in Deep Space 8

The gloomy environment seemed particularly terrifying.

The atmosphere was somewhat stagnant.

After a long while.

"What you're saying is too bizarre... Alright." The tall Death Eater finally nodded, shaking off Raoul's hand, and gestured to a silent, shadowy figure in black robes beside him, "Take him to see Mr. Axley. Let Axley decide whether to report to the master immediately." Axley was one of Voldemort's most trusted right-hand men, usually responsible for handling urgent intelligence and meeting directly with Voldemort.

"That's right! Yes! That's it!" Luo Er felt as if he had been granted a pardon and hurriedly followed the shadowy figure in black robes toward an area deeper into the stronghold and with even more stringent defenses.

They passed through several darker, more heavily guarded passages, finally arriving before a massive, heavy black iron door engraved with protective runes. The black-robed man who had led the way knocked on the door in a peculiar rhythm, chanting a command in a low voice.

"Crack~"

The iron gate slid open silently, revealing a darker light and an aura mixed with the stench of blood, painful groans, and powerful fluctuations of dark magic.

Inside the door was a more spacious, but also more uncomfortable, hall.

It simply lacks any sense of nobility.

This place is more like a makeshift interrogation room and magic laboratory. Strange magical instruments hang on the walls, some of which are still dripping with unknown liquids.

On the ground in the center, a complex magic circle was drawn with a dark red substance. The light had dimmed, but the residual energy still caused the air to distort slightly.

It is evident that it is extremely powerful when in operation.

Beside the magic circle lay two figures, motionless, their fate unknown. Judging from their clothing, they appeared to be Muggles, but their bodies were contorted, clearly indicating that they had suffered inhuman torture.

At the far end of the hall, on a high stone throne, sat Voldemort.

His current appearance is quite different from the handsome Tom Riddle of his early years, and is much closer to the snake-faced look that people will later recognize.

His pale skin clung to his bones, his nose was barely visible, just two thin slits, and his red pupils glowed like burning embers in the dim light. "What happened?" Voldemort, dressed in a simple black robe, toyed with his yew wand in his hand. His posture seemed languid, but the cold, violent, and oppressive magical power emanating from him made the temperature in the entire hall seem to drop several degrees.

He had just finished an "interrogation" or rather, an "extraction".

The two Muggles on the ground were actually descendants of Squirts captured by his men from a remote village. It was said that there had been members in their family who possessed vague precognitive abilities.

Voldemort craved a clear prophecy about his future and about the "boy born at the end of July," leaving no stone unturned. The magical ritual he had just performed was an attempt to forcibly extract valuable fragments of information from the souls of these two Muggle individuals who might possess a diluted lineage of prophecy. Of course.

The result was... not ideal; all he got were some chaotic screams of pain and meaningless images, which made his already gloomy mood even worse.

Voldemort looked at his followers. Beneath his stone throne stood several core Death Eaters, including Lucius Malfoy and Barty Crouch Jr.

And Yaxley, whom we just mentioned. They all lowered their heads, not daring to look Voldemort in the eye, and a suffocating silence filled the air. "I don't know, it's very noisy outside." Just then, the black iron door was knocked on again, and the black-robed man who had led the way earlier brought in a terrified Rol.

"Master, Lord Axley."

The guide knelt down and reported, "Luo Er has an emergency and insists on seeing his master immediately."

As Voldemort spoke, his crimson pupils shifted slightly, landing on Rol, who was trembling and almost unsteady on his feet. His gaze was as cold as a viper's.

It made Luo Er feel like his blood was freezing.

"Rol... my follower." Voldemort's voice was hoarse and soft, yet carried a terrifying penetrating power. "I remember, your task was to deal with that Ministry of Magic employee who discovered a little secret. Did you bring him back? Or... did you bring his body back?" He certainly knew the other party's mission.

"Master, Master, don't blame me, this time there really was an accident." Rol knelt down with a "thud," his forehead pressed tightly against the cold, damp ground, his voice trembling with sobs: "M-Master... your subordinate is incompetent! The mission... the mission failed! Jokins... he was rescued!" Fear.

Worry.

The Death Eater's facial expression was very complex.

"Oh?"

Voldemort's voice rose slightly at the end, revealing neither joy nor anger, but the surrounding air seemed to grow colder. "By whom? A few Aurors? Or our 'dear' members of the Order of the Phoenix?"

He started to speculate.

You couldn't tell if he was happy or angry.

"...No, Master!" Rol raised his head, his face a mixture of fear and near-collapsed excitement. "It's...a wizard I've never seen before! Young, black-haired, looks ordinary! But...but he's terrifyingly strong! He's incredibly powerful..." Perhaps recalling his own experiences, Rol's expression was one of extreme terror. He repeated those unbelievable descriptions incoherently: easily deflecting attacks, the gaze imprisonment, the soul imprint, and the threatening "paying homage." As he spoke, the atmosphere in the hall grew increasingly tense. The other Death Eaters, including Lucius and Yaxley, wore expressions of doubt and uncertainty. They knew Rol. While he wasn't a top-tier fighter, he was certainly not a coward easily intimidated.

Such a bizarre description… Voldemort listened quietly, his red pupils narrowing slightly, his fingers unconsciously sliding along his wand. When he heard “soul imprint” and “pay homage to the master,” a sharp, almost tangible glint flashed in his eyes.

Then.

When Rol finally finished speaking, Voldemort fell silent for a moment. That silence weighed on everyone's hearts like a boulder.

"An...unknown powerful being." Voldemort spoke slowly, his voice still gentle, yet it made Rol tremble even more violently. "In Muggle London, he interfered in my affairs and left...a mark."

He raised his hand and gently tapped his yew wand.

Ralph immediately felt the cold raven mark deep within his soul tremble violently, as if touched and probed by an invisible force. He screamed in agony, collapsing to the ground, his body convulsing.

"what?"

Voldemort's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

He did indeed sense the foreign, unfamiliar mark within Rol's soul. The mark's composition was extremely peculiar, unlike any black magic or protective magic he knew, carrying a cold sense of order and a certain… indescribable aura of "high status." This aroused a rare sense of vigilance and… interest within him.

"An interesting mark," Voldemort murmured, retracting his wand, his gaze once again becoming deep and unfathomable. "You said he was 'young'? What exactly did he look like?" Rol endured the stinging pain in his soul, trying hard to recall the physical characteristics of Ian, but apart from "black hair," "young," "calm face," and "deep eyes," he could only recall...

He couldn't provide any further details.

He was too terrified to look closely.

"A mystery."

Voldemort concluded, looking at Yaxley, "Charge. Use all available resources to find this suddenly appearing 'strongman.' I need to know who he is, where he came from, and why he is against me."

His tone was calm.

However, the murderous intent and possessiveness, the desire to possess unknown power, are clearly discernible.

"Yes, Master!" Yaxley's voice was firm and resolute, his deeply bowed body seemingly drawn by invisible threads, his posture respectful to the point of humility.

He could feel the weight of the cold gaze from the throne, and the complex meaning behind the words—a mixture of wariness and greed towards the unknown power. Therefore, finding that mysterious wizard would be one of the Death Eaters' top secret missions in London and even throughout Britain for the foreseeable future. Yaxley was already rapidly calculating the available undercover agents in his mind.

Those "spies" lurking in the Ministry of Magic or other institutions, as well as certain fringe figures who have studied dark magic or strange powers and may provide clues.

"No one can defy me."

Voldemort's crimson pupils slowly rotated, like two embers burning faintly in a dark room, before returning to Rol, who lay limp on the ground like a lump of mud. There was no warmth in his gaze, only a scrutiny as if examining a failed experiment, and a hint of instinctive disgust for something "contaminated."

"As for you..." Voldemort's voice was as soft as a snake's hiss, yet it made Rol's body, already convulsing from the excruciating pain, suddenly stiffen, as if frozen. "You are... a loser, and you brought back uncertain threats. Your soul has been tainted by that foreign mark..." He paused slightly.

Long, pale fingers slid unconsciously across the smooth surface of the yew wand, as if weighing the remaining value and potential risks of this "polluted" chess piece.

The hall was deathly silent, save for the occasional crackling of the fire in the fireplace and Rol's heavy, terrified breathing. The other Death Eaters—Lucius Malfoy—had their eyelids lowered.

They tried to maintain a semblance of calm.

But his slightly pale knuckles betrayed his inner tension.

"Failure is absolutely unacceptable!" Barty Crouch Jr.'s eyes widened slightly, his fanatical gaze darting between Voldemort and Roll, seemingly morbidly interested in how his master would deal with this loser who brought "interesting" information; Yaxley remained bowed, listening intently. "No, no, no, no! It's not my fault!"

Rol felt as if he had been stripped naked and thrown into a freezing snowfield, or as if he had been thrown into a boiling oil pan. The cold raven mark deep in his soul seemed to tremble slightly the moment Voldemort mentioned it, bringing a chill that penetrated to his very bones, intertwining with the lingering burning pain of the Crucifixion Curse, almost driving him to a mental breakdown.

Upon hearing the words "soul contamination," boundless terror completely overwhelmed him. In the Death Eaters' code, failure might offer a chance, but a soul "contaminated" by an unknown force often meant utter ruin, even becoming material for dark magic experiments or "entertainment" to please its master. "Master! Spare me! Give me another chance! I... I can find him! I recognize him! I..." Rol cried, tears streaming down his face, ignoring the pain, struggling to press his forehead against the cold, damp ground with a dull thud, pleading incoherently. His voice was distorted by extreme fear.

"Oh?" Voldemort listened silently to the humble pleas for mercy, his face expressionless, as if he were merely listening to the whistling of the wind through the ruins. His narrow, red pupils narrowed slightly, seemingly examining through Rol's trembling body the strange mark deep within his soul. That mark... cold, orderly, possessing an almost "absolute" quality completely different from dark magic, like a brand that did not belong to the rules of this world.

It aroused his intense curiosity and possessiveness—such power, if it could be analyzed, controlled, or even devoured… In the end, the corner of the mouth on that cold snake face turned down almost imperceptibly.

A ruling has been made.

"I'll keep you for now." Voldemort's voice was still gentle, but it made Rol's pleas stop abruptly, turning him into an incredulous, stunned silence, as if he had just survived a catastrophe.

"This mark might still be useful."

He needed to study the mark, perhaps he could deduce from it the mysterious wizard's magical qualities, origins, and even weaknesses. Rol became a living specimen. Then, the gentle tone abruptly turned sharp, like an ice pick piercing bone: "But your failure will come at a price." Voldemort didn't even raise his wand; the fingers holding it twitched extremely slightly.

"Crucio" (meaning "to pierce the heart and cut through the bones").

"No way!!! Ah!!!"

A pain sharper and more persistent than before, as if tearing his soul from every cell, descended again without warning! Rol's body arched violently, like a shrimp thrown into boiling water, his eyes bulging, a shrill, inhuman scream erupting from his throat, like that of a dying beast. The scream, so high-pitched and desperate, instantly shattered the heavy silence of the hall, echoing relentlessly against the cold stone walls. He rolled and convulsed wildly on the ground, his limbs twisted at bizarre angles, his fingernails scratching the floor with a piercing sound, leaving streaks of blood. "Aaaaaah! Master! Please!"

This time, the Cruciatus Curse.

It's clear that they put in more "effort" than before.

It will be even longer.

It's actually a way of putting others in their place.

Intimidation was Voldemort's forte.

"Am I not merciful enough for not killing you? You should be grateful I guessed right, dear Rol." Voldemort seemed to be meticulously controlling the degree of pain, ensuring Rol wouldn't immediately faint or have his soul shatter, while still allowing him to experience the most extreme, will-crushing torture. This guy was somewhat mentally unstable; his crimson pupils coldly observed the scene, like an artist examining his own tormented work. Lucius Malfoy's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then quickly regained its composure, but his gaze lowered even further. Barty Crouch Jr.'s breathing quickened slightly, a hint of excited flush even appearing on his face. Yaxley remained hunched over, oblivious to the screams behind him. The piercing howls and agonizing writhing added yet another cruel and chilling footnote to this dark, blood-soaked, and darkly magical night in the Death Eater's lair.

It reminded everyone present of the cost of failure and cowardice, and of the ruthless heart and manipulative power of the master they served.