Who am I?
Where am I?
What am I doing?
As face and fist became intimately acquainted, Voldemort gradually entered the highest state of Zen Dao.
What we commonly called "Spirit-Body Separation."
Oh, right. I was the Dark Ruler.
But why would someone as great and extraordinary as me get beaten into such a sorry state?
In a daze, the Dark Lord couldn't help but begin questioning his own soul.
"Have you learned your lesson? Have you learned your lesson? Have you learned your lesson?"
In the real world, Klein's fist was moving so fast that it left afterimages.
Peter cowered behind them, trembling, his face twitching harder and harder.
And what terrified him even more was that the "Hogwarts Little Devil" was using only one hand—the other was holding his wand.
"It's over."
Fat Rat sank into utter despair.
He thought he wasn't getting away today.
"This..."
Watching Klein savagely pummel Voldemort, Dumbledore was a little dumbfounded too.
This wasn't right. The script wasn't supposed to go like this.
Wasn't I, the old man, supposed to pretend to fight Voldemort for three hundred rounds, then reveal my trump card and destroy the Horcruxes, securing a complete victory in one fell swoop?
So what was happening now? How had I, Deng, somehow become the "cheer squad"?
Still...
Hey, you know what? Klein's punches were actually pretty impressive, radiating all the youthful energy and vitality of Hogwarts.
"Thud!" "Thud!" "Thud!"
Punch after punch crashed into flesh, beating Voldemort until his bones felt like they'd come apart.
Fortunately, the Dark Lord's vitality was just as ridiculously powerful. In the blink of an eye, his wounds healed.
But taking a one-sided beating like this wasn't a solution.
After who knew how many punches, the Dark Lord finally came out of that mysterious state