Without a doubt.
Voldemort was undergoing an unprecedented transformation.
That vast, chaotic, terrifying magical power had finally spiraled completely out of control.
Voldemort knelt upon the black reef, both hands buried deep in the rock, his knuckles white from the force—no, his skin had already begun to change, shifting from pale to a sickly gray-black with a faint ghostly sheen. His body trembled violently, not from pain.
Or rather, not from pain alone.
At this moment, what Voldemort felt was more an indescribable shudder rising from the depths of his soul.
His consciousness was being torn apart.
This was, of course, no ordinary tearing. Countless incomprehensible fragments of consciousness from the depths of the universe were crashing into him, seeping into him, assimilating him all at once. And so—
Naturally, he "saw" it.
In that instant, his mind was violently wrenched upward, leaving his body, leaving the island, leaving the planet, even leaving this dimension.
Voldemort felt as though he had ascended.
"Where is this place?"
"This is the Hall of Gods!"
He "floated" within a void beyond description. Endless darkness surrounded him, yet that darkness was not empty; it was filled with the tangible weight of some kind of "existence."
Heavy, cold, unimaginably ancient.
Those "existences" were watching him.
Not one or two, but countless.
They had no forms—or rather, their forms surpassed the limits of human comprehension. At times, he could "see" vague outlines—enormous writhing shadows like mountain ranges; eye-covered chaos rotating like nebulae; fissures as deep as abysses, constantly spewing forth indescribable things.
But more often, he could only "feel" their presence, like a drowning man feeling the pressure of the deep sea, like a moth feeling the scorching heat of flame.
Gods could not be looked upon directly.
At this moment, it became tangible.
And among