Contending for the Philosopher's Stone

Next, Caesar reached out. He didn't touch the mirror's surface directly, but pressed his fingers against several specific runes along the frame in sequence.

His movements were slow, his fingertips infused with magical power. With each press, the corresponding rune briefly flared with a pale white light.

Then it dimmed again, as if forcibly awakened for a moment before quickly sinking back into a deeper slumber.

A faint groan, as if from deep beneath the earth, echoed through the stone chamber. The air temperature seemed to drop another few degrees.

Quirrell held his breath, watching Caesar perform this series of operations he completely failed to understand.

All he could sense was that the surrounding magical field had become abnormally turbulent. The light mist on the mirror's surface churned violently, like a calm lake struck by a massive boulder.

Finally, Caesar's index finger hovered over an inconspicuous rune at the top of the mirror frame, shaped like an ouroboros.

He paused for about three seconds, then pressed down lightly.

No burst of light. No earth-shattering sound.

The churning light mist inside the mirror suddenly calmed, becoming as clear as the purest obsidian.

Then, at the center of the mirror's surface, a red light slowly spread like a drop of blood dispersing in water, gradually coalescing and taking shape.

A gem the size of a pebble, burning deep red like living flame, "floated" out from the depths of the mirror.

As if passing through an invisible layer of water, it hung silently in the air a foot in front of the mirror.

Inside it, liquid fire seemed to flow slowly, radiating an ancient, vast, and soul-shaking ripple of magical power.

The Philosopher's Stone.

Quirrell's breath suddenly grew ragged. His eyes bulged as if they might pop from their sockets, his face a mix of ecstasy and disbelief.

He instinctively stepped forward, extending a trembling hand.

But another hand was faster.

Caesar simply reached out casually and snatched the floating gem, brimming with unimaginable power, into his palm.

The ruby's light seeped through the gaps between his fingers, casting his skin translucent like red jade. The eerie blue cracks on his hand looked even more sinister under the red glow.

He didn't examine it immediately, didn't even give it a second glance. He just weighed it casually in his hand, feeling the heavy, soul-scorching texture of its magical essence.

There was no excitement or greed on his face for obtaining the object of his dreams.

Only an almost indifferent calm, as if what he held wasn't the Philosopher's Stone, but an ordinary stone that was slightly warm.

It's just a simulation, he really didn't care much.

The real target was elsewhere.

Quirrell's hand froze mid-air. The ecstasy on his face instantly solidified, shifting to shock, then to rising fury and a hint of humiliated shame at being toyed with.

He jerked his head around, his neck emitting an unnatural crack. The flat face on the back of his skull fully emerged, twisted.

The nostrils were two black holes sucking in air, his gaze locked onto the red gem in Caesar's hand.

"Give... give it to me!" Quirrell's voice warped, mixed with Voldemort's signature, serpent-like hissing breath. "Hand it over... to the Master!"

Caesar finally lifted his gaze from his own fist clutching the stone, slowly raising his head.

He first looked at Quirrell, whose face was twitching, his eyes gradually being fully seized by another will.

Then, his gaze shifted, as if piercing through Quirrell's skull to directly meet the evil soul parasitizing the back of his head.

He raised an eyebrow slightly, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint, almost amused curve.

It wasn't the anger or panic of someone betrayed by an ally.

It was more like a "just as I expected" anticipation, even carrying a hint of playful appreciation for the other party finally showing their true colors.

Quirrell—or rather, Voldemort in control of Quirrell—was clearly provoked by this reaction.

Or perhaps the temptation of the Philosopher's Stone so close at hand had completely shattered the last shred of their hypocritical alliance.

"Caesar Habs..." The hoarse voice came from both Quirrell's throat and the back of his head simultaneously, overlapping in a chilling manner. "Your task is complete.

Now... hand it over. For opening the path for me, I might consider letting you die quickly."

The atmosphere in the stone chamber plummeted to freezing point. Killing intent surged from Quirrell like a tangible tide.

Caesar let out a soft "Heh," the sound carrying no discernible emotion.

His right hand, holding the Philosopher's Stone, dropped to his side naturally. But his left hand had already risen, a wisp of mist—darker than the deepest darkness—coiling around his fingertips.

"Really now," he shook his head, his tone as flat as if commenting on the weather. "How opportunistic, Tom."

In his eyes, beneath the usual deep calm, something cold, sharp, and of the same origin as the eerie blue cracks on his body finally surfaced without reservation.

It wasn't righteous fury or tragic despair.

It was a darkness even more profound, more unfathomable, as if from the end of time or the depths of the abyss... pure "black."

"How arrogant,"

Caesar's voice remained steady, but carried a metallic, grating quality. "Relying on just a possessed servant to deal with me? You should at least come yourself."

Quirrell—or rather, the tangible, pitch-black dark magic that Voldemort released through Quirrell's body—was the first to break the stalemate.

Without an incantation, without even a clear gesture, dozens of pitch-black tentacles formed from pure negative energy abruptly congealed in the air.

Like leeches catching the scent of blood, they shot toward Caesar silently and swiftly. Wherever they passed, the stone walls left behind scorched, corroded marks, and even the light itself seemed to be devoured.

Caesar didn't even take half a step back.

His right hand, holding the Philosopher's Stone, still hung at his side, as if that heavy temptation or burden had nothing to do with him anymore.

But the five fingers of his raised left hand lightly swept before him, as if plucking invisible strings.

No dazzling glow of a spell, no thunderous explosion.

From the gaps between the ancient bricks on the floor, walls, and even the ceiling of the stone chamber, countless fine, silver-blue rays of light burst forth.

These rays were not straight; they twisted and coiled like living things, or like instantly sprouting, cold and sharp vines of thorns.

They precisely wove together before Caesar, forming a net that was dense yet left no gaps.

The dark tentacles crashed into the light net. Instead of the expected violent clash and annihilation, a series of teeth-grinding "sizzling" sounds erupted, like a hot knife cutting through solidified grease.

The tentacles were easily sliced, broken down, and absorbed by those silver-blue rays, dissipating into wisps of black smoke.

The light net itself brightened slightly, its hue deepening, as if it had feasted.

"This is..." Voldemort's suspicious, rasping voice rolled out of Quirrell's throat, "An ancient guardian spell? No... that's not right!"

"Good eyesight, but unfortunately, too late." Caesar's voice remained steady, even carrying a hint of patient instruction, "This isn't guarding. It's 'absorption'."

The five fingers of his left hand suddenly clenched!

The great net formed by silver-blue rays instantly contracted, no longer defensive, but transforming into dozens of agile light serpents that lunged back at Quirrell.

The speed of the light serpents was unimaginably fast, and their trajectories were cunning and bizarre, as if they could predict the gaps in Quirrell's magical flow.

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