The ninth level beneath the Ministry of Magic was always dimly lit. Roughly polished black stones covered the surroundings; compared with the black basalt of Courtroom Ten, these stones appeared far more fragile, though they were still not something ordinary wizards could easily destroy.
Torches burned in iron brackets, casting swaying shadows onto the walls and stretching them into twisted shapes.
The air here always carried a faint, indescribable magical aura. Following its source, one would discover that it all came from the Department of Mysteries.
The temporary holding cells lay at the end of the ninth-floor corridor, only three corners away from the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.
They were several narrow, windowless stone rooms, their heavy iron doors fitted with only a barred observation slit.
Under normal circumstances, only suspects awaiting preliminary hearings were held here, and never for more than three days.
But today, the temporary holding cells received an unusual guest.
Vincent walked in the middle of the group, the shackles around his wrists swaying lightly with each step. The dense Magical Runes looked particularly eerie beneath the torchlight.
His posture remained calm, even overly careful.
When climbing the stairs, he lowered his head slightly to watch his footing. When turning corners, he shifted sideways to keep the shackles from striking the walls.
The way he carefully protected those shackles made him look nothing like a prisoner. Instead, he resembled an expert escorting a museum artifact.
Arthur, his expression grave, walked beside Vincent. Deep in his eyes lay complex emotions that only those familiar with him could recognize.
If he had guessed correctly, those shackles had already lost their ability to suppress magic, leaving behind only a seemingly sturdy shell.
Though he had no idea how Vincent had done it, if the shackles were intact,