"Deathly Hallows?" Barty Crouch Jr.'s brows knitted together, his gaze sweeping over Carcas. "You're saying Carcas was injured by the 'Deathly Hallows'? How is that possible?"
The term "Deathly Hallows," just like "Misty Illusory Realm," was unfamiliar to Voldemort.
Hearing Barty Crouch Jr. take the initiative to ask, his slightly raised brows settled back down.
The advantage of having a loyal servant revealed itself at times like this: when faced with something unexpected, he could better maintain his composure and display his authority.
Carcas struggled on the ground, letting out agonized groans, yet not a single person moved to help him.
The veins that had covered his face had already faded, but blood was still streaming from the corners of his eyes, and as he struggled, he smeared it all over his face.
"How is it possible?" Herpo gave a scornful laugh. "Then in your eyes, what are the 'Deathly Hallows'? Have you ever seen them?"
Barty Crouch Jr. folded his arms across his chest, narrowed his eyes, and said with obvious disdain, "Nothing more than a few stupid objects from a stupid children's story!"
"Though it does seem there really was such a group of people... They called themselves the 'Saints,' and what they pursued all their lives were the so-called three 'Deathly Hallows.'"
"According to those so-called 'Saints,' as long as one could gather all three 'Deathly Hallows,' one could become something like... the master of Death?"
"If you ask me..." He deliberately drew out the end of his sentence, lifting his brows even higher. "It's simply a joke!"
Voldemort pressed his lips together. At least in his memory, he truly had never heard of any so-called "children's story" related to this.
What he was more interested in was actually the last thing Barty Crouch Jr. had mentioned—gather