Paracelsus stared at Gerald in utter terror.
When a person died, they became a ghost; when a ghost weakened, it became a soul; when a soul perished, it dispersed into nothingness.
Lightning arts wielded the purest, most unyielding yang power in the world. They naturally countered sinister spirits, and the more purely spiritual a being was, the more vulnerable it became before them.
Even someone as powerful as Voldemort could only flee if he encountered Gerald in soul form.
What chance did this remnant soul have after barely clinging to existence for over two hundred years?
"What do you need to know so much for? Your soul's about to turn to ash anyway." Gerald spoke indifferently and extended his finger again.
There was nothing remarkable about the gesture.
His index finger touched the point between the brows of Paracelsus's remnant soul without any apparent flair. The instant his fingertip met that pale gray mist, a faint blue-white web of electricity spread silently from the point of contact, swiftly covering the entire soul.
"Please-"
Paracelsus opened his mouth wide, seemingly trying to say something.
But before he could get the words out, his entire remnant soul shattered into countless pieces like a crushed, dried leaf.
His soul scattered, turning to ash.
As Paracelsus's remnant soul vanished completely, Gerald's divine sense withdrew from the disc.
He opened his eyes and found that the setting sun outside the window had not yet sunk completely below the horizon.
The crow he had frightened away while practicing Parseltongue had flown back. It stood on the windowsill with its head cocked, studying him with one eye.
From the moment his divine sense entered the disc to the moment Paracelsus was reduced to ash-
It had felt like a long time in that mental space, but only