Death God's Third Stage

Deep within the headquarters of the Death God Sect, the soul fire gradually subsided.

Yan Feng's aura had completely vanished, leaving only the lingering deathly aura within the sealing formation. The guardians stood in their respective positions before the stone steps, and the air was filled with a calm that came after the harvest was complete.

Croaker knelt on one knee.

"Your Excellency, I have fulfilled my mission."

His voice was low but resonant, echoing clearly in the Chamber of Secrets: "The two traitors, Anubi and Yan Feng, have both fallen. Ankh and the Soul-Summoning Banner have been taken into our possession."

After a brief silence, a low and calm response came from the deepest part of the darkness.

Well done.

The voice didn't seem to come directly from any one person, but rather flowed from the shadows themselves.

The cult leader, who was always cloaked and masked, and was also the president of the Necromancer Underground Guild — Abaddon —slowly spoke.

Croaker lowered his head, showing no excessive excitement, and simply replied in a deep voice, "Glory to Death."

Olihua, standing to the side, let out a low chuckle, the three-colored cursed colors on his face twitching slightly, as if he were alive.

"To be able to infiltrate under the Ministry of Magic's nose for so long and even manage to steal a legendary artifact," he said with a hint of sarcasm, "You truly are worthy of the title, Croaker. It would be a waste for a beast Anubi Ankh have something like that."

Naro stood quietly, his long black hair falling over his shoulders, but his gaze was fixed on the stone platform.

There, three objects were placed quietly.

The Holy Grail of the Knights Templar, the Ankh, a ritual implement of the Egypt tomb keepers, and the Soul-Summoning Banner that still echoes with the whispers of ghosts.

Amilo's gaze lingered on the three items for a long time before he finally couldn't hold back any longer and whispered, "Now that the three key items have been gathered... can we begin the second phase of the plan?"

The moment those words were uttered, the soul fire within the Chamber of Secrets seemed to flicker slightly.

Olihua and Naro both looked at Abaddon.

Amilo continued, "The Book of Day and Night is ready. Once the forbidden spell 'Eternal Night' is activated, the world will lose its light. The power of the undead and dark creatures will increase several times over—"

(Note: The Book of Day and Night and the Eternal Night originated from Gryffindor's illusions. They were originally possessed by Vampire, the Vladimir, and later fell into the hands of the Death God Sect.)

Eternal Night, as the name suggests, is a forbidden spell that permanently replaces day with night. From then on, the power of all dark creatures and necromancers in the world will experience astonishing growth.

"By then," he licked his lips, "The situation will have completely turned in our favor."

Abaddon did not respond immediately.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, his tone calm and resolute.

"No."

A single, simple word brought all discussion to an abrupt halt.

Amilo was taken aback. "The leader?"

Abaddon's voice sounded deep and resonant beneath his cloak:

"The second phase is not now."

"The path of the Death God Sect is never one to act hastily."

He raised his hand, and the soul fire condensed in the air into a blurry picture—a land engulfed in war, cities piled high with corpses, yet it still seemed... insufficient.

"Not enough," Abaddon said calmly.

"The core of the first phase is creating the dead. But now, the war has only just begun."

Naro narrowed his eyes slightly. "The Ministry of Magic has acknowledged the return of the Mysterious Man; the world is in turmoil."

"Turbulence is not death," Abaddon retorted coldly. "The truly ideal stage is when fear is out of control, order collapses, and killing becomes the norm."

He said slowly, "Activating 'Eternal Night' now will only alert all parties prematurely, forcing them to band together for self-preservation."

Olihua scoffed. "So, you're planning to keep waiting?"

"It's not about waiting," Abaddon corrected, "It's about leveraging resources."

His gaze seemed to pierce through the stone wall, landing on the distant battlefield.

"Walpurgis."

When the name was uttered, the soul fire visibly dimmed for a moment.

"They are more impatient and more eager for war than we are."

"Let them commit murder, let them ignite hatred."

Abaddon's tone remained calm, yet it carried a chilling patience. "Every conflict, every purge, every corpse becomes our nourishment. Until the number of the dead reaches the threshold recorded in the Book of Day and Night— "

He paused briefly. "The second stage is where it becomes meaningful."

Amilo was silent for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. "I understand."

Croaker then spoke, his tone cautious. "And what about the third stage?"

"Using the Soul-Summoning Banner, Ankh Charms, and the Holy Grail, we will control all the dead and dark creatures, making them work for us. Finally, we will resurrect our first High Priest—our ancestor Peverell —through the Veil of the Department of Mysteries."

For the first time, Abaddon's voice carried a barely perceptible hint of emotion. "That's the end game. No step can be taken before that."

The Chamber of Secrets fell silent once more.

Only the soul fire burned gently.

Abaddon slowly turned around, his cloak leaving a silent trail on the ground.

"Continue to monitor the situation."

"Instigate the war, but don't show yourself."

"Death, there's no rush to reap."

His voice faded into the shadows.

The world... will move in the direction we need to go.

Let's turn our attention back to Harry.

Since that night, he felt as if he had been quietly pulled out of the world.

As the Ministry of Magic's statement was published, the students finally realized that Harry had been telling the truth all along. The whispers in the hallways changed; some apologized, some nodded, and younger students instinctively made way for him.

The entire Hogwarts finally acknowledged--

But this belated recognition failed to stir any emotion in him.

He sat in the Great Hall, hearing people defending him behind him; he walked down the corridor, feeling awe-inspiring gazes upon him—yet it was as if he were watching a play that had nothing to do with him.

Those views were too simplistic.

Too light to bring back Sirius Black's laughter.

So quiet that Lupin's gentle reminder could no longer be heard.

He still got up on time, went to class, and ate meals; everything seemed normal. But those who were really close to him could sense the change—the boy who would laugh heartily at the Quidditch pitch, who would be angry at injustice, and who had stood up to fight back time and time again was gradually becoming hollow.

Harry began to deliberately avoid crowds.

He no longer stayed in the common room, but instead sat alone on the windowsill at the end of the corridor, in the most secluded corner of the library, or in an empty classroom. Most of the time, he did nothing but stare blankly.

In class, he was always a beat slow to react. When Snape called roll, it would take him a few seconds to realize that he was being called; when Professor McGonagall talked about "stability of will," his pen stopped in mid-air, and the ink smeared across the parchment.

At night, he almost never participates in any conversations.

Ron tried several times to get him to play Wizard's Chess or bring up Quidditch, but the response was always just a brief "No."

It wasn't anger, it was more like exhaustion.

Insomnia has become the norm.

One night, Hermione came out to get a book and saw the lights in the common room were still on. Harry was sitting in the shadows with an old textbook on his lap, but he hadn't turned a single page. She asked him in a low voice if he couldn't sleep.

He remained silent for a long time before softly saying, "When I close my eyes, I can hear their voices."

Hermione was speechless. After that day, she never bothered him late at night again.

With the exam approaching, the pressure is mounting day by day.

Harry's homework was done mechanically, but he was making more and more mistakes—not because he didn't know how, but because he was distracted. He would often unconsciously reach into his pocket, as if Sirius Black still had the Two-Way Mirror there, but when he realized there was nothing there, his expression would freeze briefly before quickly returning to calm.

That deliberately maintained calm made one's heart tighten.

On Friday night, Ron finally lowered his voice and said, "This can't go on. He's been like this for a whole week."

Hermione nodded, her brow furrowed. "He's locking himself away."

"Then shouldn't we—" Ron hesitated for a moment.

"I don't know." Hermione hesitated, which was unusual for her. "It's not that he doesn't want to talk, he just... doesn't know how to say it."

They all knew very well that on that night, Harry lost his only remaining family member.

Harry himself was well aware of this.

He simply stopped trying to make anyone understand this.

The world finally believed him, finally stood by his side, but it all came too late, so late that it lost its meaning. Recognition, apology, and awe—these things that should have been his support—were now so light that they couldn't even stir up any emotion.

He felt neither anger nor resentment.

Even the sadness is being gradually worn away.

His heart felt as if it were dead.

Hogwarts remained brightly lit, classes continued as usual, exams were approaching, and everything was moving forward.