Now, he finally witnessed the truth of this piece of history with his own eyes, seeing the scene before him, which might be when the Raven drove away the God of Death and then occupied this place.
Lady Ravenclaw's words were not wrong. Ian didn't know the reason why the God of Death forged the Three Sacred Artifacts of Death, but he felt that the God of Death's dignity seemed to have diminished somewhat. The dignified God of Death, sneaking back to its former territory to secretly forge the Deathly Hallows like a thief?
"No wonder I felt such a strong sense of stealth from the God of Death just now." He murmured to himself, "Turns out it snuck back here while the Raven was away to use this place to forge the Three Sacred Artifacts of Death."
He recalled the three Hallows floating in the magma.
A sense of absurdity welled up in his heart.
The God of Death was initially the master of this place, perhaps this was its Alchemy Workshop, yet somehow it lost control over this place at some point.
And now, it could only secretly sneak back, risking being discovered, to reforge these sources of power. How could this not slightly diminish his awe of the God of Death?
"The God of Death is quite a sly one."
Ian couldn't help but shake his head and comment.
He continued to watch the Raven's actions.
However, the Raven spoke no further to him, it simply focused intently on its work, as if it no longer saw him—or perhaps it was ignoring his presence. Each material it cast seemed to have its own specific significance, its eyes glistening with an almost devout concentration.
It was clear.
The things being forged were very important to the Raven, the volcano was becoming more and more tumultuous, the black magma rolling and roaring as if responding to some kind of summoning.
Ian stood aside, observing everything that was happening, continually pondering.
Why here?
Why were both the God of Death and the Raven forging things here?
What was so special about this volcano?
This was definitely a question worth serious reflection, after all, the fact that both the Raven and the God of Death chose to perform Alchemy and forging here naturally indicated that this Doomsday Volcano was not ordinary.
Its lava.
Or perhaps some of its properties.
Could it be essential for some specific kind of Alchemy? Ian wondered if the Raven was now forging something to rival the Three Sacred Artifacts of Death, as he curiously wanted to take a look inside.
Ian carefully observed the changes in the magma, attempting to find some clue.
However.
He couldn't see anything rising up.
Many materials were fusing inside. Ian even noticed the skeletons of a Saint, shining with golden light. Just then, a low, mournful sound suddenly echoed through the air.
An abrupt change occurred!
The sky in the distance suddenly contorted, a chilling aura swept in. That sound seemed to come from the deepest parts of Hell, carrying with it countless souls' wailing and agony.
Ian swiftly turned his head.
He saw a torrent of black surging from the horizon afar. It was a swarm of Wizard souls devoured by Dark Arts, their souls sold to the God of Death, disheveled, faces twisted, eyes blazing with madness and despair. Countless Wizard souls devoured by Dark Arts and whose souls were sold to the God of Death, surged towards the volcano like a tide.
They came.
Their target, was this volcano.
Or rather, it was the Raven utilizing the volcano to forge something. They screamed, wailed, but were powerless against some unseen control, beginning their assault on the Raven.
"Is the God of Death trying to stop the Raven?"
Ian speculated.
The once silent black and white world was ripped apart by the dark energy brought by the Dark Wizard souls, twisted magic beams split the air, like thunders from Hell. Those souls collected by the God of Death, long since fallen, descended from the sky, hair disheveled, with twisted faces, eyes burning with madness and resentment.
They weren't here to fight.
They came here to destroy.
Above the volcano's crater, black mist roiled.
The Raven stood silently at the edge of the magma.
Red eyes lowered, gazing intently at the boiling fluid.
Its beak held a crystal, slowly dropping it into the depths of the magma. The moment the crystal dissolved, the entire volcano emitted a muffled roar, and web-like patterns appeared on the surface of the magma.
It did not lift its head.
Without flapping its wings, not even a single extra tremor, as if the entire world was irrelevant to it. Even when the first beam of the Killing Curse pierced the sky, its wings did not tremble a bit.
The battle had begun.
The souls of the Dark Wizards surged like tides, floating over the ashen land, with chain-like curses entwined around their translucent bodies. Some had broken necks, others had open chests—these were the fervent followers who, during their lives, had completely sold their souls to the God of Death, now returning with decayed malice.
"For the God of Death—"
The leading Dark Wizard soul raised its incomplete arm, and three hundred Dark Arts erupted simultaneously. The Fiery Fire turned into a python, its pitch-black body tracing a sinister path in the gray-white world, heading straight for the magma; the light of the Killing Curse poured down like a torrential storm, intertwining in the air into a deadly web; the corrosive fog of Dark Arts churned.
The places they passed became honeycombed with holes even in the ashes. Their target wasn't the raven, but the volcano—they aimed to disrupt this forging.
The raven still did not raise its head.
But the Dementors moved. Rotten gray shadows rose from the crevices of the rocks, swooping down from the sky, emerging from the depths of the magma. They made no sound, no roar or howl.
Just silently proceeded with their actions.
Like killing machines with preset commands.
"Kill! Kill that raven! Destroy this furnace!" A sharp voice echoed in the air, as if roaring from countless throats simultaneously.
Then, Dark Arts surged like tides. Purple, black, dark red spells interwove into a lethal net, smashing towards the volcano's crater and the raven standing atop it. Flames, poison fog, soul chains, curse blades... all kinds of Dark Arts erupted together, as if to tear the entire space apart.
The raven did not move.
It still quietly stood above the volcano, its wings spread, feathers as black as ink, standing out in the black and white world. Its gaze was deep as an abyss.
As if it didn't see the overwhelming attacks coming.
It just continued its forging.
Perhaps it was unable to move.
So it could only rely on the Dementors to defend.
The God of Death evidently seized the opportunity.
The front line of Dementors opened their hollow abdomens, meeting the Fierce Fire Python. Flames burned through their cloaks, igniting their decayed bodies, but they still clung to the python's throat, until the flames were completely devoured. Their bodies melted in the fire, dripping like candles, yet bought time for their comrades behind them.
The second batch of Dementors faced the poison fog. They allowed the corrosive liquid to burn through their bodies, but their skeletal claws accurately tore at the Dark Wizards' spirit bodies. A Dark Wizard's soul had just raised his hand to cast a second curse when three Dementors simultaneously pierced his chest, their rotten fingers like hooks, ripping his spirit body to shreds.
This was the strength known to the wizards.
Not mere magic.
Indeed, it could inflict harm on the Dementors.
"Get away! You filthy watchdogs!"
The soul of an ancient Dark Wizard roared, a chain in his hand sweeping, smashing the heads of two Dementors. But the next moment, bony claws suddenly protruded from the ground, clamping onto his legs. More Dementors climbed along the chain, overwhelming him like a swarm of ants. His screams were soon torn apart, dissolving into a wisp of black smoke.
The battle was fierce but silent.
This was a world without color, no blood spraying, no fiery red of flames, no brilliance of spells. Only the interweaving of black and white, the collision of ashes and shadows.
The bodies of the Dementors shattered in the battle, falling into the magma like rotten fruit, emitting silent hissing noises. The souls of the Dark Wizards were similarly diminishing.
Every spirit body that dissipated weakened their line.
The fiercest conflict occurred on the north side of the volcano.
Seven souls skilled in ancient Dark Arts were forming magic with their understanding, their spells intertwining in the air into a Thorn Crown, turning even ashes into toxic dust as it passed.
Thirty Dementors pounced simultaneously, yet upon contact with the crown, they turned to dust in an instant. The Thorn Crown pressed on, now just ten meters from the magma.
The Wizards were about to succeed.
And at that moment.
The raven raised its head.
"Why not try to strike across time and space?"
It was speaking to Ian.