Voldemort had never been this furious before.
He had just been attacked.
It was not as though he had never experienced anything similar before, but never once had Voldemort felt such rage.
He had come within a hair's breadth of seeing all his plans reduced to nothing beneath Avada Kedavra.
Without question, it had been a carefully planned ambush. Voldemort suspected that the Death Eaters finding that location had been bait deliberately laid to lure him in.
As for who was behind it?
Voldemort immediately thought of Albert Anderson. Only that despicable, shameless, scheming Mudblood could have ambushed him with such precision.
However, that thought changed after Voldemort returned to headquarters.
His headquarters had already become a raging sea of fire. Devil's Fire ravaged the land, swallowing everything and reducing it to ash.
"Albert Anderson!" Voldemort roared through gritted teeth.
Just as rage was about to cloud his mind, he suddenly remembered something.
Would that Mudblood really do something like this?
From what Voldemort knew of Albert Anderson, he did not believe the man feared him. Had he even personally led the group in that deadly attack just now?
If he truly wanted to kill him, he would not have failed to lead the assault himself and instead merely arranged an attack.
Besides, given Albert's usual methods, burning this place down served no purpose except to enrage him.
Then why had he done it? Why burn this place down?
What was the point of provoking him?
Honestly, Voldemort hardly dared to lose his temper carelessly now. He feared that, once anger clouded his mind, he would step straight into that Mudblood's trap.
He had suffered enough losses of that sort to learn his lesson.
As he watched the rolling black waves of flame before him, Voldemort's thoughts churned just as