The eerie blue light on the altar slowly rotated before him, and within that light, something was vaguely visible—an ancient scroll covered in densely packed text. Inscribed on the edge of the altar was a line of words, more striking than any of the previous warnings:
"Those who step onto this platform must offer their full strength. Those who possess power are not qualified to face Destiny."
Voldemort stared at the words and fell silent.
Give it your all.
Not a part, not the majority, but the whole.
He reached out and touched the pale blue light.
Light danced at his fingertips, and a surge of information flooded his mind—he "saw" countless intruders ascend the platform. Some were powerful Wizard, some ancient warriors, and some unknown explorers. They all reached into the light, offering their strength, and then, without exception, they left tragically. Some staggered, some were helped by their companions, and some collapsed to the ground, never to rise again. "Damn it! How could there be such a rule!"
Voldemort withdrew his hand and stood there, motionless for a long time.
He was willing to sacrifice his power. He believed that with his abilities, even if he lost all his Magic Power, he could recover it in a short time. But the question was—was this truly part of the trial?
Or is this ruin yet another trap?
He closed his eyes and extended his senses in all directions. His senses penetrated the high platform, the altar, and the pale blue light—he felt it. In the deepest part of the light, behind the scroll, there was a door. A very small door, almost imperceptible. Behind that door was what he had been searching for.
But that door will only open after he has given his strength.
Voldemort opened his eyes, his three scarlet eyes flashing with a complex light.
He hesitated.
High above him, in the shadows beyond even perception's reach, a tiny Raven crouched quietly. Ian watched Voldemort's indecisive expression, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"Damn it! But I have divine protection, and even if I lose my current power, I will recover quickly." Voldemort stood before the stone platform, his three scarlet eyes fixed on the dark red light. Within the light, the black scroll slowly rotated, emanating an indescribable, ancient, and dangerous aura.
His hand hovered in mid-air, his fingertips only an inch from the light.
To give one's strength means to give one's Destiny.
The words on the stone platform were etched into his mind like a branding iron.
It's not Magic Power, not blood, but Destiny. It's his connection to Deep Space, his capital that transcends the mundane, and the foundation upon which he exists today.
Voldemort closed his eyes.
In the darkness, he heard his own heartbeat. It was slow and deep, like the drumbeat of deep water. He heard the sound of blood flowing in his veins, the sound of Magic Power surging through his meridians, and the whispers from the Deep Space of his soul.
The whisper was saying: No.
He opened his eyes.
In those three scarlet eyes, hesitation vanished, struggle vanished, and fear vanished. In their place was a cold, almost cruel resolve.
I'm not afraid of anything!
He pressed his hand into the ball of light.
In that instant, he felt something being drawn out of his body.
It's not just Magic Power, nor blood, nor fragments of the soul. It's something more essential, something more hidden. It's his connection to this world, the anchor point of his existence in this Timeline, the core of why he became " Voldemort " and not anyone else.
The feeling was as if a thread had been pulled from the depths of his bones, leaving his entire spine feeling weak. His knees bent slightly, and he almost collapsed to the ground. But he gritted his teeth and held on.
The light grew brighter and more intense, engulfing the entire underground space in its dark red glow. Ancient murals began to appear on the rough stone walls—not Titan runes, but more primitive patterns depicting some ancient ritual.
In the design, a dark figure stands before an altar, offering its heart in exchange for some indescribable power.
The stone platform began to tremble. Countless tiny cracks appeared on its smooth, mirror-like surface, from which a black, tar-like liquid seeped out. The liquid flowed and gathered on the surface, eventually coalescing into a fist-sized, constantly writhing sphere.
The sphere cracked.
A hand reached out from the crack.
The hand had no skin, only dark red muscle and pale bones, with long, sharp nails, some with bits of rotting flesh clinging to them. It gripped the edge of the stone platform and pulled sharply—a figure crawled out from within it.
It was once a person, or rather, it once had the shape of a person. Its body was twice the height of a normal person, and its skin had completely rotted away, revealing the dark red muscles and white bones underneath.
It could be called a monster; its head had two curved, ram-like horns, and its eye sockets contained no eyeballs, only two eerie green orbs of light like will-o'-the-wisps.
Moreover, the monster's mouth was wide open, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth, and it let out a low, beast-like roar. It stood three meters tall in front of Voldemort.
Voldemort looked at it, a hint of surprise flashing in his three eyes. He recognized this thing. Not that he had seen it with his own eyes, but that he had read about it in ancient books.
Those are the legendary " Guardian," creations of the ancient Titan used to protect important ruins. They have no life, no soul, only a fighting instinct etched into their bones. They do not tire, do not fear, and are not affected by any mental magic.
They are pure, killing machines.
But these things should have gone extinct long ago.
Voldemort had no time to think.
The Guardian lunged at him!
Its speed was astonishing, completely unlike what one would expect from something made of rotting flesh and bone. Its claws drew two streaks of cold light in the air, aiming straight for Voldemort's head!
"Ha, you think you can rival me?"
Voldemort dodged to the side, his claws grazing Voldemort's shoulder and tearing five deep furrows into the stone wall behind him. Debris flew, dust billowed, and he yelled, "Die!"
Voldemort's Magic Power did indeed regenerate after it was lost.
Things in Deep Space have bet on him.
so.
After dodging for a while, Voldemort regained his Casting Ability.
He raised his hand and unleashed a burst of Fiendfyre. The Black Flames struck the Guardian's chest, blasting open a crater the size of a washbasin—but there was no blood, no internal organs; only a black, tar-like liquid slowly flowed from the crater. The Guardian looked down at the hole in his chest.
Then he raised his head and lunged at Voldemort again!
"Not a normal living being?"
Voldemort frowned slightly. He no longer used Fiendfyre —it was ineffective against the Guardian.
He switched to physical attacks, his claws piercing directly into the Guardian's chest, tearing it open with a fierce rip! A large chunk of the rotting flesh was ripped away, revealing the pale bones beneath.
The monster's bones were covered with intricate runes, which shimmered with an eerie green light, echoing the will-o'-the-wisps in the Guardian's eye sockets. It must be said...
Voldemort's body was also very powerful after being modified, which is why he dared to gamble.
"What kind of Ancient Runes?" Voldemort's pupils contracted slightly. These runes—they were exactly the same as the patterns on the liquid spheres on the stone platform.
This means that the source of the Guardian's power is the stone platform itself.
He looked up at the stone platform. The dark red light was still swirling, and the black scroll was still slowly turning. But the cracks on the platform's surface were healing at a visible speed. If the platform were completely healed, the Guardian's power would be restored, and it might even become stronger. "I can't let that happen!" Voldemort no longer hesitated. He leaped up, dodging another attack from the Guardian, and charged directly at the platform! The Guardian let out an angry roar, its six arms stretching out simultaneously, trying to grab Voldemort.
But Voldemort was faster; his figure transformed into a black streak of light in the air, passing through the Guardian's arms and landing steadily on the stone platform with a "Boom!"
The stone platform trembled beneath his feet, and black liquid gushed from the cracks, attempting to engulf him. Voldemort raised his foot and stomped down, unleashing a shockwave that dispersed the black liquid.
Taking advantage of the moment, he reached out and grasped the dark red light. The light trembled violently in his palm, and the black scroll emitted a piercing shriek, as if resisting his touch.
Damn it!
Voldemort gritted his teeth and channeled the power he had regained into his palms—the chaotic properties of Deep Space collided violently with that ancient power, unleashing a deafening roar!
"No!"
The Guardian let out an even more shrill roar, and its body began to disintegrate. Pieces of rotting flesh peeled away, revealing the pale bones beneath. The runes on the bones flickered wildly, then went out one by one. The eerie green light dissipated from the Guardian's eye sockets.
Its body collapsed with a crash, turning into a pile of scattered skeletons.
The stone platform stopped trembling. The dark red light slowly receded, eventually transforming into a small, fist-sized sphere of light, hovering in Voldemort's palm. Within the sphere, the black scroll no longer rotated, but lay quietly, like a token waiting to be opened.
Voldemort clutched the orb of light, panting heavily. His body trembled slightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion.
The series of actions—sacrificing his Destiny, fighting, and seizing—had consumed far more of his strength than he had anticipated.
But he succeeded.
"I absolutely will not allow failure to happen!" He looked down at the ball of light in his palm, a ferocious, satisfied smile slowly spreading across his face.
The orb of light slowly dissipated in Voldemort's palm, and the black scroll fell into his hand.
The scroll felt cold and smooth to the touch, like the skin of some living thing. Its surface was devoid of any writing or runes, only a deep, all-consuming blackness. Voldemort tried to open it, but found that both ends were sealed by some invisible force, making it impossible to unfurl. He closed his eyes and probed the scroll's interior with his senses.
It was a void. A boundless, eternal void, devoid of light, sound, time, and space. Within that void, a voice echoed—not language, not music, but a pure, primal will, directly imprinted upon his consciousness:
"To open me, you need a key. The key lies at the end of the trial."
Voldemort opened his eyes, a flash of anger crossing his three crimson pupils. He had gone to such great lengths, sacrificed his Destiny, and defeated the Guardian, only to receive an unopenable scroll in return?
He put the scroll into his pocket and turned to look at the wall behind the stone platform.
A door had appeared on the wall sometime during the night. The door was small, only wide enough for one person to pass through, and the frame was made of some kind of black stone with a metallic sheen. Behind the door was darkness, and in the darkness, something could be vaguely seen shimmering—it was light, a golden, warm light, completely different from all the other lights in this ruin.
Voldemort strode toward the door.
His steps were slow, each one cautious. He didn't know what lay behind the door, whether it was a trial or a trap, or what the so-called "key" actually was. But he had no way back. He had already given his Destiny; he had come this far, and he couldn't leave empty-handed. He passed through the door.
The world behind the door was completely different from what he had imagined.
It wasn't a room, nor a hall, but an endless golden desert. Three suns hung in the sky, baking the entire land to a scorching heat. On the distant horizon, a massive, black pyramid could be vaguely seen, its apex piercing the clouds.
Voldemort stood in the desert, the sand beneath his feet scorching hot. He looked down and saw that his black robes were gone, replaced by a simple set of rough linen clothes. His inhuman claws had vanished, replaced by ordinary human hands and feet. His tentacles, his three eyes, and his torn mouth had all disappeared.
He became a person. An ordinary human being without any Magic Power.
Voldemort's pupils contracted sharply. He tried to summon the Magic Power within him—nothing. He tried to sense the power of Deep Space —nothing. He tried to cast even the simplest spell—nothing.
He became a mortal.
Fear, like a cold snake, instantly coiled around his heart. He hadn't felt this helplessness for many years—this feeling of having no power, no support, and only being able to rely on his own fragile body. The last time he felt this way was in the Orphanage, when he was being bullied by the older children, before he discovered that he was different from them.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.
This is a trial. An illusion. Everything is fake.
He looked up at the black pyramid in the distance and started walking towards it.
The desert was vast and scorching; every step felt like walking on burning coals. Sand seeped into his shoes, chafing his soles raw. The blazing sun made him dizzy, his lips cracked, and his throat felt like it was on fire. He walked for a day, two days, three days—the pyramid remained in the distance, seemingly forever out of reach.