The Revival of the Old Days 8

"Don't come any closer!" The last two prisoners had been injured by the aftermath of the battle and lay in a corner, having witnessed their companions being slaughtered as easily as chopping vegetables.

They watched as the black-robed figure, like the incarnation of Death, approached step by step. They no longer even had the courage to raise their wands.

They couldn't escape—there truly was no escape.

The black-robed man raised his wand and aimed it at the two trembling survivors, whose eyes held nothing but dead ashes. His task was not yet complete.

Saruman's command still rang in his ears—"Not a single one is to be let go."

Green light flashed.

Even the ones missing arms and legs were dead.

In truth, the black-robed man's mind had already been influenced to some extent.

Extremism was the most typical early symptom.

"Criminals will always be criminals!"

"Once a criminal, always a criminal! Even when you're unconscious, you still want to harm this world!" The black-robed man stood in the center of the junction hall, where corpses lay strewn everywhere.

Like the silhouette cast by Death.

The tip of the plain wand in his hand still lingered with a trace of green light from the Killing Curse. His gaze—those vertical, inhuman pupils—slowly swept across the hall before finally settling on the shadows of a side corridor deeper within, half of which had collapsed during the fierce battle earlier.

People were still hiding there.

Intense fear, despair, and a frenzied malice born of being driven into a corner spread from those shadows like tangible filth, more pungent than the aura emanating from the dead bodies on the ground.

"Are you coming out yourselves, or do I make a move?" The black-robed man did not act immediately. He merely "watched" the shadows silently. Invisible