Katarin Vol's whisper was like a venomous snake's tongue brushing past his ear—"Sometimes, shadows develop a will of their own."
A chill ran down Ares's spine.
It was not fear, but a dangerous resonance. Because when he looked at Tom—at those eyes growing ever more unfathomable under the stain of Dark magic knowledge, at the increasingly uncontrolled possessiveness beneath that elegant facade—he had to admit that Katarin was right.
More dangerously, beneath her gaze, which purely assessed power and regarded him as an independent individual, Ares felt a trace of... damn it, being understood.
Tom almost instantly caught that wavering.
The tension in Charms was thick enough to choke someone.
Professor Flitwick had just assigned an advanced topic on "the superposition of Magic Resonance fields" when Katarin raised her hand. As she stood, her dark blue Durmstrang uniform made her silver hair look like cold flames.
"Professor, I have a different approach." Her voice was clear, carrying the distinctive chill of the North. "If we abandon the master-servant resonance model and use bidirectional parallel resonance instead, we may be able to break through the current theoretical threshold of magical output."
She turned and used her wand to sketch intricate rune patterns through the air. Those patterns—Merlin's beard—were seventy percent similar to the concept Ares had unconsciously scribbled in the margins of his diary last night.
Almost instinctively, Ares gave a slight nod.
That one movement.
Snap.
The quill in Tom's hand broke.
Ink splattered across the parchment like spilled blood.
"It seems Miss Vol's insights are very much to your liking?"
After class, at the corner of an empty corridor, Tom blocked Ares's path. His voice was quiet, yet cold as the ice at the bottom of a cellar, every word dripping with poison.
Ares halted. Here it came.
"She merely proposed another possibility." He tried to keep his voice steady.
"Possibility?" Tom stepped forward, forcing Ares against the cold stone wall. His shadow completely engulfed him. A storm raged in those black eyes, one Ares had never seen before—not merely anger, but something deeper and darker, like a dragon whose reverse scale had been touched. "A Durmstrang exchange student casually throws out 'another possibility' for a core problem we've studied for three months?"
His fingers rose. They did not touch Ares, yet hovered beside his neck, his suppressed magic making the air crackle. "Ares, look at me."
Ares raised his mismatched eyes.
"Tell me," Tom said, lowering his voice further, the words almost ground out between his teeth, "who is your only accomplice? Who deserves to share all your secrets, all your darkness, all your... future?"
He was afraid.
The realization struck Ares like lightning. Tom Riddle, the future Dark Lord who was always calm and always in control, had a trace of panic hidden deep in his eyes at this moment—afraid of being replaced, afraid of being abandoned, afraid that his only light would turn toward someone else.
Just then, a cheerful voice, wildly inappropriate for the moment, exploded in Ares's mind with a ding:
[Beep-beep—! Detected an extreme concentration of citric energy off the charts! (°□°;) Host, host! The target's jealousy jar has exploded! Sourness rating: Hell's Special Blend!]
Ares: "..." This damn system.
[Emergency emotional stabilization mission triggered! (??へ ?? ╮ )] [Mission Name: Leash Your Crazy Little Wolf Pup] [Mission Requirement: Within one hour, prove through your actions that—you belong to him, from head to toe, from magic to soul. Anyone else who so much as looks at you deserves to die!] [Mission Reward: "Soul Resonance Cookies" x1 box (Effect: For three hours after consumption, mutual magic perception +30%, with minor telepathic connection). Failure Penalty: Target's darkening value +10%, and may trigger the hidden "imprisonment play" storyline~(￣▽￣*)]
Ares's mouth twitched. What the hell was imprisonment play?
But the system had exposed the truth: Tom was a powder keg ready to explode at the slightest spark, and Ares himself was the fuse.
He could not back down anymore.
Ares suddenly moved. Rather than avoiding Tom's oppressive presence, he stepped forward, his mismatched eyes crashing directly into those turbulent black ones.
"Tom," he said. His voice was not loud, but it struck the silence like a hammer. "Listen carefully—"
He grabbed Tom's hand hanging by his neck, not to push it away, but forcefully and unquestioningly pressed it against his own left cheek. He let Tom's cold fingertips directly touch the faintly burning Golden Blood Pact Markings.
"This," Ares said, each word deliberate, every syllable like a brand, "is connected to you. From the moment it appeared on me, it has recognized only you."
He felt Tom's fingers tremble sharply.
"Katarin Vol?" Ares tugged at the corner of his mouth. The smile held no warmth, but carried a cruel honesty. "At most, she's a reasonably sharp blade. If she's useful, keep her; if she's in the way, break her." He leaned closer, his breath nearly brushing Tom's lips. "But the only person who has ever been able to wield this blade—who decides where its edge points—has always been you, Tom Riddle."
[Sourness dropping sharply! Emotional storm calming! (??????)?? Host, great job! Keep the sweet talk coming! Don't stop!]
Tom stared at him. The storm deep in his black eyes slowly receded, replaced by a deeper, thicker possessiveness. His thumb rubbed the marking beneath Ares's cheek, with a little too much force, as though confirming the mark of ownership.
"...Remember what you said today, Ares." After a long while, he spoke in a low voice, still carrying traces of lingering chill. "I do not have much patience. Especially for people who covet what belongs to me."
"I know." Ares released his hand, and the marking faintly burned beneath Tom's fingertips.
The crisis had temporarily passed. But the crack had already appeared, like an undercurrent beneath the ice.
A few days later, when Professor Slughorn waved a gilded invitation and rushed into the common room like a fat squirrel that had found a truffle, Ares knew an even bigger problem had arrived.
"My darlings! Wonderful news!" Slughorn's eyes gleamed as he lowered his voice. "Nicolas Flamel—yes, the legend who created the Philosopher's Stone—his most valued disciple, Mr. Isidore Lefevre, will be visiting Hogwarts next week! I, your dear Head of House, have secured invitations to a private tea gathering!"
Tom was instantly set ablaze. Nicolas Flamel! The Philosopher's Stone! The secret of immortality! The hunger in his eyes was nearly tangible, a thirst for ultimate knowledge and power.
However, Slughorn's next sentence made Ares's heart sink to the bottom.
"Mr. Lefevre has extraordinary expertise in 'ancient contract magic and anomalous bloodline inheritance.' He specifically mentioned that he is... very interested in you, Mr. Phoenix. He wishes to meet this 'young man with such unique magical traits' in person."
The air suddenly froze.
The wild joy on Tom's face stiffened, then slowly twisted into an exceedingly complicated expression—on one side was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to reach the pinnacle of alchemy, and on the other was the immense risk that Ares's core secret, one concerning the blood pact and his transmigration, could be exposed before another ancient monster.
The poisonous fangs of jealousy had barely been pressed down when an even deadlier crisis arrived at their gates.
Ares watched the struggling dark fire in Tom's eyes and touched his pocket—inside lay a box of Soul Resonance Cookies that the system had just issued.
The cookies might allow them to better understand each other's emotional ripples in a single thought.
But what the approaching disciple of an alchemy master, with eyes capable of seeing through the essence of magic, wanted to see was every truth buried within Ares's soul.
What would Tom choose? Would he seize the chance to touch immortality, even if the price might be exposing Ares? Or would he...
Ares lowered his eyes.
The storm was truly coming.
Before you continue