On the fourth day, he began to feel despair.
His body had reached its limit. Blisters on the soles of his feet burst and grew back, burst and grew back; his lips were cracked and bleeding, and his throat was so sore that he could hardly swallow; his eyes were swollen and red from the scorching sun, and his vision was beginning to blur. He didn't know how much longer he had to walk, how much longer he could hold on, or whether this damned desert had no end at all.
But he didn't stop.
He can't stop.
On the fifth day, the pyramid finally grew larger.
On the sixth day, he reached the foot of the pyramids.
The entrance to the pyramid was a gigantic, gaping maw, devoid of teeth, containing only a dark, bottomless passage. Voldemort stood at the entrance, panting heavily, his body drenched in sweat, his legs trembling slightly.
He stepped into the passageway.
The passage was short, only a dozen steps. At the end of the passage was a small stone chamber. In the center of the chamber was a stone platform. On the platform was a Mirror.
The Mirror was small, only about the size of a washbasin. The frame was made of some kind of golden, shiny metal, covered with fine runes. The mirror surface was not glass, but some kind of flowing, mercury-like liquid that slowly rotated in the darkness.
Voldemort walked to the stone platform and looked down at the Mirror.
The reflection in the mirror was himself—not that twisted, inhuman monster, but Tom Riddle from decades ago. Young, handsome, with dark hair, delicate features, and a faint, proud smile on his lips. That was how he used to look, the way he missed most, and the way he hated most.
He reached out and grasped the Mirror.
This time, there was no resistance, no traps, no Guardian. The Mirror lay quietly in his palm, cold and smooth, like a sleeping baby. He raised the Mirror to face the only light source in the stone chamber—the faint golden glow from the entrance.
On the mirror, words began to appear. These were not Titan runes, nor ancient spells, but rather a script he was familiar with, the script used by modern Wizard:
" Mirror of Banishment. Guided by the Destiny of its holder, it can strip the target's existence from reality and cast them into eternal nothingness. How to use: Reflect the target in the mirror and recite their true name. After three recitations, the target will be exiled, never to return."
Voldemort looked at the line of text, and a slow smile crept onto his lips.
He smiled.
The laughter echoed in the cramped stone chamber, hoarse and wild, filled with smugness and satisfaction.
"Finally..." he murmured, "Finally..."
He carefully tucked the Mirror into his robes and turned to walk out of the passage. His steps were quick, filled with an impatient eagerness. All the weariness, the pain, the despair—the moment he held the Mirror, were left behind.
He only wants to do one thing right now.
Leave here.
Return to his world.
Then, banish that damned Raven.
He didn't notice that on the stone wall above his head, a small Raven was quietly crouching in the shadows. Ian watched Voldemort's retreating figure, his impatient steps, and a slight smile appeared on his lips.
"Fourth hurdle, passed," he said to himself. "Smoother than expected."
He gently flapped his wings, took flight from the stone wall, and silently followed behind Voldemort.
The desert began to vanish, the pyramids began to collapse, and three suns fell simultaneously. The golden world dissipated into countless points of light behind Voldemort, slowly fading away and revealing once more the ancient, rune-covered ruins.
Voldemort did not turn around.
He passed through the narrow door, through the circular stone chamber, through the living passage, and through the bronze door he had torn apart. The runes in the ruins flickered as he passed, as if bidding him farewell.
When he finally emerged from the ice cliff and stood once again on the Arctic ice sheet, the aurora borealis swirled overhead, and the icy wind howled in his ears. He opened his arms and took a deep breath of the cold, snow-laden air.
Then, he transformed into a black streak of light and flew south.
Behind him, the ancient ruins were once again swallowed by the ice and disappeared beneath the permafrost.
Only the Raven stood silently atop the highest point of the ice cliff, watching the black streak of light disappear into the horizon, its dark eyes gleaming with complex light.
"Next, I have one more scene to film," Ian murmured, muttering to himself. "Then it's up to Headmaster Dumbledore." Beneath the Arctic ice cliffs, the ancient ruins fell silent again after Voldemort's departure. The runes dimmed, the mechanisms ceased functioning, and the blasted walls, torn doors, and collapsed stone bridges slowly healed under the influence of some ancient restorative magic.
Everything is back to normal, as if no one had ever been there.
Only in the deepest part of the altar hall did a faint, dark red light still flicker.
Ian stood before the stone platform, holding a Crystal Ball the size of a fist. The Crystal Ball was completely transparent, but within it, a dark red mist slowly rotated, occasionally flashing with a tiny, lightning-like glint. That was the power Voldemort had offered—the power of Deep Space corruption. The ruins had intercepted this power when Voldemort offered his Destiny, gathering, compressing, and sealing it through the runes embedded in the stone walls. This was Ian's proudest design element—everyone who stepped onto the altar, whether they passed the trial or not, would leave something behind. Power, memories, Destiny —one of them would suit them.
"This stuff is really poisonous."
Ian held the Crystal Ball up to his eyes, observing the dark red mist through its transparent walls. It was slowly rotating, growing thinner with each turn, as if being devoured from within. The edges were beginning to turn transparent, as if it might dissipate completely at any moment. "Dissipating again," Ian frowned, muttering to himself. He closed his eyes, probing his senses into the Crystal Ball. The power trembled slightly at his touch, like a startled snake, struggling and dissipating more violently. He tried to bind it with Magic Power, but it was too unstable.
Every touch Ian made accelerated its loss, as if it didn't belong to any container in this world.
"Having lost its host, is it returning to Deep Space?"
Ian opened his eyes, looking at the dark red mist that had shrunk by a fraction, a hint of disappointment flashing in them. This wasn't the first time he'd tried to intercept this power.
Since Voldemort left, he has used three different containers—a Crystal Ball, an obsidian bottle, and even an ancient sealed box he found in Grindelwald's vault.
Every time, the result is the same.
The power began to dissipate within hours of being intercepted; it could not be retained, preserved, or bound by any known magical vessel. "We still lack sufficient methods."
He sighed, placed the Crystal Ball on the stone platform, and watched the mist continue to dissipate. The dark red light grew weaker, the rotation slowed, and the transparent area at the edges grew larger. At this rate, in less than an hour, the power would completely vanish, turning into nothingness.
"Let my super brain come up with a solution."
Ian stared at the dissipating mist, his fingers unconsciously tapping along the edge of the stone platform. Countless thoughts raced through his mind—why couldn't it be saved?
Is it because this power is so deeply bound to Voldemort's soul that it will automatically perish once separated from his body? Or is it because it inherently possesses a certain "exclusivity"?
Refusing to be contained by any container? He reached out again, this time not through a container, but directly probing his fingertips into the mist. The dark red mist instantly coiled around his fingers, like countless tiny, cold tentacles. They tried to burrow into his skin, to merge with his Magic Power, to resonate with the Authority of the Old Ones within him. Ian did not resist, but allowed the tentacles to penetrate, feeling the essence of that power. Cold. Chaotic. And an indescribable, abyss-like emptiness. It was a power from Deep Space, a unique existence formed by the fusion of Voldemort's own dark Magic Power. It was similar to the Fire of the Old Ones that Ian had taken from the Cthulhu Dream, yet completely different. The Fire of the Old Ones was a pure, ancient, chaotic power carrying the aura of Sleeping God; while this power was more chaotic, more unstable. Like a flood forcibly poured into a container, it could burst at any moment.
Ian's Authority of the Old Ones trembled slightly.
In that instant, he felt that the dissipating power was being "attracted" by the Authority of the Old Ones. It wasn't being absorbed or devoured, but rather being "seen" by some higher-level being. Like the abyss gazing into the abyss, like chaos embracing chaos.
The dark red mist trembled violently at his fingertips, its spinning speed suddenly increasing, and then a portion of it merged into his Authority of the Old Ones. Yes.
That power flowed into his body through his fingertips, intertwining and merging with his original Fire of the Old Ones, eventually sinking into the deepest part of his authority, becoming a part of his power.
Ian's pupils contracted slightly.
He looked down at his fingers—the dark red mist had vanished, leaving only faint, almost invisible red marks on his fingertips. He closed his eyes, sensing the Authority of the Old Ones within him. It had indeed changed—not enhanced, not qualitatively altered, but possessed a new kind of "memory." A memory of Voldemort's power, a deeper understanding of the power of Deep Space.
But the power he "absorbed" was only a tiny fraction of the dissipating mist. Most of the power dissipated even faster when he tried to guide it with his authority, as if resisting being "understood."
Ian opened his eyes, staring at the dark red mist on the stone platform that had shrunk to the size of a fist, and fell into deep thought.
"In that case..." he murmured, his eyes flickering, but he didn't continue.
He stood there, staring at the wisp of mist for a long time. So long that the mist completely dissipated, so long that only an empty, cold stone remained on the platform.
Then, he sighed softly.
He tucked the empty Crystal Ball into his pocket and turned to walk deeper into the ruins. His steps were slow, each one carrying the weight of contemplation. The Titan Rune flickered faintly as he passed, as if questioning him, or perhaps merely performing a routine function. He reached the deepest chamber in the ruins—the place where he had "created" the Mirror of Banishment. On the stone platform, the fake Mirror was still there, its surface stripped of all luster, now just an ordinary, dusty piece of glass. Ian stood before the platform, looked down at the Mirror, and stared at it for a long time.
Then, he reached out and picked up the Mirror from the stone platform. The mirror reflected his youthful face, yet it possessed a depth that belied his age. He looked at himself in the mirror, his deep eyes gleaming with complex emotions.
"Not enough," he said softly. "Far from it."
He set the Mirror aside, took out the small device from his pocket, turned it on, and displayed Voldemort's image in the ruins. In the image, Voldemort was standing in front of the altar, his three scarlet eyes flickering with hesitation and struggle. Ian looked at the image, the corners of his mouth slightly raised, revealing a smug smile.
"But at least, the fish took the bait."
He put away the device, turned and walked out of the ruins. One by one, the Titan Rune behind him went out, the mechanisms closed one by one, and the entire ruins fell into slumber once more.
As he stepped out of the ice cliff and stood on the Arctic ice sheet, the aurora borealis swirled overhead and the cold wind howled in his ears.
He looked up at the eternal, magnificent sky, took a deep breath, and then transformed into a streak of silvery-white light, flying south. Behind him, the ruins were completely swallowed by the ice and disappeared beneath the permafrost.
Voldemort returned to his hideout late at night.
The lair nestled beneath the industrial ruins of southeast London remained cold and damp, the air thick with the musty smell of decay and the pungent stench of lingering Dark Magic. Several Death Eater knelt on either side of the corridor, foreheads pressed against the cold ground, trembling, afraid to look up. They could sense—their master had returned, but his aura had changed. Not stronger, not weaker, but more... profound. Like an abyss, like the void, like an incomprehensible existence.
Voldemort remained silent. He walked straight through the corridor and into the deepest, most Chamber of Secrets. The stone door closed behind him, shutting everyone out. Chamber of Secrets, the Mirror he had brought back from the ruins lay silently on the stone table. It emitted a faint, eerie blue light in the darkness, and blurry, unrecognizable images occasionally flashed across its surface. Voldemort walked to the table, looked down at the Mirror, and a complex light flickered in his three scarlet eyes.
He didn't touch it.
He just stared at it, for a long time. So long that the Death Eater kneeling outside began to wonder if something had happened to their master. So long that the Death Eater responsible for delivering the message began to hesitate about whether to knock on the door and ask.
Then, Voldemort spoke.
"Come in."
The Death Eater trembled, quickly pushed open the door, and knelt down.
"Owner."
Voldemort didn't turn around; he remained staring at the Mirror. His voice was soft and calm, yet carried an undeniable authority. "Have you found Raven's location?"
The Death Eater trembled as he replied, "... Master, not yet. We've used all our undercover agents, searching the Wizarding World of the United Kingdom, Europe, and even North America, but we haven't found any trace of the Raven. It's like... like it vanished into thin air."
Voldemort remained silent for a few seconds.
Where is Grindelwald?
"Seven... no. After he escaped from Azkaban that day, someone saw him fall into the North Sea, but our spies searched that area and found nothing. He might... he might already be..."
"Maybe he's already dead?"
Voldemort picked up where he left off, his voice laced with mockery.