Temple of Valhalla

The air seemed to freeze at that moment.

Only the faint crackling of the green flames in the fireplace and the heavy, almost crushing silence between the four people remained in the hall.

Abaddon stood in the deepest shadow, a meaningful smile slowly creeping onto his lips, but he did not answer immediately.

He simply raised his hand slightly, his fingertips tracing lines in the air, as if caressing some ancient power that was neither existent nor utterly real.

"Gentlemen," his voice was low and drawn-out, like an echo from the depths of the earth, "Some secrets, once revealed, can never be undone."

He paused, two eerie glints of light flashing in his crimson eyes in the darkness. "However, now that you've seen it... let's bring this game to its climax sooner rather than later."

He recited a very strange incantation that did not belong to any known language.

The three treasures simultaneously erupted with a dazzling gray-white light.

The light intertwined and merged, coalescing above the altar into two enormous, phantom temples.

Above the temple on the left, a plaque formed from gray-white mist floats, inscribed with the three large characters "Valhalla" in ancient Cyrillic script.

The entire hall seemed to be pieced together from the afterimages and fragments of countless heroic spirits, with a translucent silver-gray tone throughout. Broken stars floated on the ceiling, and countless afterimages of heroic spirits were wrapped around the pillars. They held weapons, their eyes empty yet filled with murderous intent. Below the temple on the right, the words "Hall of the Dead" were engraved in ancient Egypt hieroglyphs on the wide black staircase.

The entire building was constructed from layers of countless dead souls, its surface pitch black, yet tiny specks of grayish-white light constantly danced across its surface, like countless ghosts breathing within the walls. Skeletons, Ghost, and Zombie continuously crawled out of the walls and then re-entered, like a living tomb. At the entrance, a colossal skeletal dragon phantom hovered, its Dragon Head bowed, its empty eye sockets burning with eerie green flames.

The two temples, one on the left and one on the right, instantly suppressed the entire altar.

The air seemed to have been sucked out.

In an instant, the combined pressure released by the four was forcefully suppressed.

A heavy cloud hung over Herpo's face; he had never been so cautious, not even when he had to face Skylar and Dumbledore at the same time in the Department of Mysteries.

Barbarossa's maniacal laughter froze on his lips, and the arrogance in his eyes was replaced by surprise and uncertainty. He subconsciously took a half step back, his knuckles white as he gripped his wand, and a low curse escaped his throat, but his previous arrogance was gone.

Voldemort stood at the forefront, his crimson pupils fixed on the two temples. His intuition was screaming warnings, like countless cold needles piercing the depths of his soul. The sense of threat was so clear and so intense that even this Dark Lord, who was almost fearless of anything, felt, for the first time, the instinctive urge to "retreat."

"What is this thing...?" His voice was so low it was almost swallowed by the wind and snow, yet it carried an unprecedented hoarseness and solemnity.

Two phantom temples hovered above the altar. The silver-gray stars of the Valhalla Heroes slowly rotated, while the ghostly green flames of the Hall of the Dead danced in the bone dragon's eye sockets. They did not launch any attacks, but their sheer presence firmly intimidated the four quasi-magic masters, keeping them rooted to the spot.

Not to mention the other three, whose expressions at this moment could only be described as one of surprise and uncertainty, and some were even considering retreating.

"What is this thing?" Voldemort's intuition was screaming warnings, telling him that the two halls before him posed a great threat.

Abaddon then slowly lowered his raised right hand.

The Valhalla and the Hall of the Dead did not disappear, but remained steadily suspended in the air, like a judgment that could be delivered at any moment.

"Now can we have a proper talk?" Abaddon remained standing in place, his eyes beneath his hood as calm as a deep pool, without the slightest ripple.

"The matter of Yan Feng is indeed our responsibility," Abaddon's voice rang out again, devoid of any emotion in its calm tone. "Therefore, I am willing to make amends."

He paused, his gaze first falling on Voldemort: "The Elder Wand."

Voldemort's crimson pupils contracted sharply, and the hem of his black robe fluttered without wind, as if gripped tightly by an invisible giant hand.

Abaddon continued, his voice as calm as a weather report, "You've been searching for it, but you've never found the way in. Qi was already under Skylar Malfoy's protection, so your leads have been dead for a long time."

Voldemort's breath hitched slightly, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the wind and snow. "The Elder Wand... who has it?"

In the shadow of Abaddon's hood, his eyes seemed to see right through to the soul. "Dumbledore. The wand he's holding right now is the Elder Wand."

Voldemort's pupils dilated suddenly, the crimson light almost overflowing from their sockets. His fingers slowly tightened within his sleeves, his knuckles turning white.

But he didn't speak immediately.

Abaddon continued without pausing, "This semester, Dumbledore will be taking Harry Potter around the world alone, searching for clues about your Horcrux. They will be leaving the heavily guarded Hogwarts, which is a great opportunity for you."

Voldemort's eyes gradually darkened, like a stagnant pool where a stone had been thrown in—calm on the surface, but surging with murderous intent beneath.

Abaddon's voice remained calm, yet it was like a precise knife. "Harry Potter... is a character who can be manipulated."

Voldemort finally spoke, his voice laced with a hoarse, cold laugh, "Using? That boy?"

Abaddon nodded slightly. "Dumbledore has high hopes for him, but that has also put him in danger. If you could set up an ambush while they're searching for the Horcrux... perhaps you could kill two birds with one stone."

Voldemort's lips slowly curled into a cruel smile.

The image of that hidden cave instantly flashed into his mind—the place he had personally fortified with multiple layers of protection, where he hid the Slytherin's Locket. The terrain there was treacherous, and the magic was chaotic, making it the perfect place to set a trap.

(Dumbledore... Harry... The Elder Wand...)

His fingers moved slowly within his robe sleeves, as if caressing a priceless treasure about to be obtained.

(Very well... let them come find me.)

Abaddon's gaze shifted to Herpo: "As for you... there's a little-known secret place near Iceland in Northern Europe."

Herpo gave a soft groan, "You mean the legendary Fire God Secret Realm?"

Abaddon nodded, his voice low and deep, as if unveiling a long-sealed ancient scroll. "It is it. In ancient times, one of the descendants of the Ancient Giant, the fire Giant Surtur, wielded the Gubraithian Fire, which almost no one could control, causing immense destruction in Northern Europe. In the end, the entire Northern Europe Wizarding World paid a heavy price, with many wizards sacrificing their lives, before the ancient wizards and the Northern Europe Gnome joined forces to seal it within. As for the key to the seal, it has been passed down through generations of headmasters at Durmstrang."

Abaddon did not answer, but instead raised his right hand again.

In front of the phantom of Valhalla, seven black coffins with gold trim slowly rose from the ground.

The first coffin slowly opened, and a figure stepped out.

He was clad in a dark gold battle robe, with Durmstrang's double-headed eagle emblem embroidered on his chest. His face was pale yet heroic, but his eyes held a coldness and killing intent born from a thousand years of slumber. His long hair was as black as ink, and an ancient two-handed greatsword hung at his waist, its scabbard engraved with Northern Europe runes.

"Let me introduce you. This is Mr. Harfon Montes, the second principal of Durmstrang."

His appearance made the air freeze instantly.

Abaddon's voice was calm. "Khafang knows how to break the seal."

Barbarossa gasped; Abaddon's sincerity had clearly far exceeded his expectations.

Abaddon continued, "Once Surtur awakens, his destructive power will be such that wizarding authorities worldwide cannot ignore him. The Ministry of Magic of Europe countries, the Magical Congress of the United States, and even clandestine forces in Asia will be forced to mobilize their forces to the sealed land."

His voice was like a cold Prophecy: "At that time, Hogwarts' defenses will be greatly dispersed. The difficulty for you to attack the castle... will be reduced to a minimum."

"As far as I know, the Sleeping Dragon Society has quite a few allies in Northern Europe, Germany, and France," a rare smile appeared in Herpo's deep eyes. "If their allies are in trouble, he will probably be forced to send manpower to support them, thus tying their forces down there."

In Voldemort's crimson eyes, murderous intent and excitement intertwined. With Surtur, this terrifying behemoth, drawing attention, he could now unleash his full power to carry out his horrific activities across England, while also using the Imperius Curse to recruit more followers.

Barbarossa grinned, his voice hoarse and fervent. "Great... fantastic!"

Abaddon's eyes, hidden beneath his hood, remained calm, devoid of any emotional fluctuation.

He simply raised his hand slightly.

Abaddon looked at the four men. "The compensation... ends here. The rest is up to you."

The wind and snow howled.

The greyish-white light on the altar gradually dimmed.

Abaddon's figure merged back into the black ring and disappeared without a trace.

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