The gloomy environment felt particularly terrifying.
The atmosphere was somewhat stagnant.
After a long while.
"What you're describing is too bizarre... Alright." The tall Death Eater finally nodded, shaking off Rowle's hand, and gestured to a silent, shadowy figure in the Black Robed Woman beside him, "Take him to see Mr. Yaxley. Let Yaxley decide whether to report to the master immediately." Yaxley 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 exactly it!" Rowle felt as if he had been granted a pardon and hurriedly followed the shadowy figure in the Black Robed Woman toward an area deeper into the stronghold and with even more stringent defenses.
They passed through several darker, more heavily guarded passages, finally arriving at a massive, heavy black iron door engraved with Protective Runes. The Black Robed Woman 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 aristocracy.
This place is more like a makeshift interrogation room and magic laboratory. Strange magical instruments hang on the walls, some of which are 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.
This demonstrates 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 Muggle, 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 appearance at this moment was far removed from the handsome Tom Riddle of his early years, and much closer to the snake-faced look that people would later become familiar with.
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 Magic 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 Muggle on the ground were actually descendants of Squib 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 who might possess a faint lineage of prophecy. Of course.
The result... was not ideal; all he got were some chaotic screams of pain and meaningless images, which worsened his already gloomy mood.
Voldemort looked at his followers. Beneath his stone throne stood several core Death Eater, including Lucius Malfoy and Barty Crouch Jr. 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 noisy outside." Just then, the black iron door was knocked on again, and the Black Robed Woman had led the way earlier brought in a terrified Rowle.
"Master, Lord Yaxley."
The guide knelt down and reported, " Rowle has an emergency and insists on seeing his master immediately."
As Voldemort's red pupils shifted slightly, they landed on Rowle, who was trembling and almost unsteady on his feet. His gaze was as cold as a viper's.
It made Rowle feel like his blood was freezing.
" Rowle... 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 what the other party's task was.
"Master, Master, don't blame me, this time there really was an accident." Rowle collapsed to his knees with a thud, his forehead pressed tightly against the cold, damp ground, his voice trembling with sobs. "M-Master... this subordinate is incompetent! The mission... the mission failed! Jorkins... he was rescued!" Fear gripped him.
Worried.
The Death Eater's expression was 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 Auror? 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!" Rowle 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, Rowle's expression was one of extreme terror. He repeated those unbelievable descriptions incoherently: easily deflecting attacks, the gaze imprisonment, the soul imprint, and the threat of that "greeting." As he spoke, the atmosphere in the hall grew increasingly tense. The other Death Eater, including Lucius and Yaxley, showed expressions of doubt and uncertainty. They knew Rowle. 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 Rowle 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 Rowle tremble even more violently. "In Muggle London, they interfered in my affairs and left... a mark."
He raised his hand and tapped the Yew Wand lightly.
Rowle immediately felt the cold Raven Mark deep within his soul tremble violently, as if touched and probed by an invisible force. He screamed and collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing.
"Huh?"
Voldemort's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
He did indeed sense the foreign, unfamiliar mark within Rowle's soul. The mark's composition was extremely peculiar, unlike any Dark Magic or Protective Magic he knew of, 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.
"Interesting mark," Voldemort murmured, retracting his wand, his gaze once again becoming deep and unfathomable. "You said he's 'young'? What exactly does he look like?" Rowle endured the stinging pain in his soul, Hard Work to recall descriptions of Ian's appearance, but aside from "dark 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, turning to Yaxley, "Char. Use all available resources to find this suddenly appearing 'strongman.' I need to know who he is, where he came from, and why he's against me."
His tone was calm.
However, the murderous intent and possessiveness within, 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 Eater' top secret missions in London and even the rest of the United Kingdom for some time to come. 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 Rowle, 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 Rowle's body, already convulsing from the lingering pain of Crucio, 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 along 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 Rowle's heavy, terrified breathing. The other Death Eater —Lucius Malfoy— had their eyelids lowered.
Hard Work to maintain a calm facade.
But his slightly pale knuckles betrayed his inner tension.
"Failure is absolutely unacceptable!" Barty Crouch Jr. Crouch Jr.'s eyes widened slightly, his fanatical gaze darting between Voldemort and Rowle, 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!"
Rowle felt as if he had been stripped naked and thrown into the freezing snow, 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 went deep into his bones, intertwining with the burning pain left by the Cruciatus Curse, almost causing him to have a mental breakdown.
Upon hearing the words "soul contamination," boundless fear completely overwhelmed him. In the Death Eater ' 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..." Rowle 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 Transfiguration by extreme fear.
"Oh?" Voldemort listened quietly 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, as if examining the strange mark deep within Rowle's trembling body. 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 brought Rowle's pleas to an abrupt halt, leaving him in a stunned, incredulous state, 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 Magic Power properties, origins, and even weaknesses. Rowle became a living specimen. Then, the gentle tone suddenly turned sharp, like an ice pick piercing the bone. "But your failure will come at a price." Voldemort didn't even raise his wand; the fingers holding it twitched extremely slightly.
"Crucio" ( Crucio ).
"Not the same!!! Ah!!!"
A pain sharper and more persistent than before, as if tearing his soul from every cell, descended again without warning! Rowle'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, crashing against the cold stone walls and echoing endlessly. 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.
Clearly, they put in more "effort" than before.
It will be even longer.
It's actually a way of sending a warning to others.
Intimidation was Voldemort's forte.
"Am I not merciful enough for not killing you? You should be grateful I guessed right, dear Rowle." Voldemort seemed to be meticulously controlling the degree of pain, ensuring that Rowle would neither immediately faint nor have his soul collapse, while also ensuring that he tasted the most extreme torture, enough to destroy his will. This guy was more or less mentally ill; his scarlet pupils coldly appreciated this 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. Crouch.'s breathing quickened slightly, and a hint of excited blush even appeared on his face. Yaxley remained bowed, ignoring the screams behind him. The piercing howls and agonizing writhing added yet another cruel and chilling footnote to this dark, bloody, and Dark Magic night in the Death Eater's lair.
It reminded everyone present of the cost of failure and cowardice, and of the cold-heartedness and manipulative power of the master they served.