Inside the magnificent underground palace, countless gold bricks were piled up. It might once have been the tomb of a king or a relic left behind by an ancient wizard.
At the end of the ruins, dozens of magnificent crystals shimmered beneath the lights, their intoxicating brilliance and beautiful, refracted halos captivating anyone who saw them. Luminous pearls, resembling stars surrounding the moon, adorned the ruins, their lights complementing one another.
However, these exquisite ornaments suddenly exploded, as though bombs hidden inside them had been detonated.
The fragments did not fly in every direction. Instead, they fell like sand and mud as a collapsing building crumbled.
A man dressed in black robes stood before the treasures.
His facial features were grotesque. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose had almost completely disappeared, leaving behind only two narrow slits, and his skull was so prominent that the contours of the bones could be clearly seen.
He was none other than the Dark Lord.
Voldemort vented his fury in a violent outburst.
It seemed that someone was always able to predict his actions and get ahead of him—or perhaps it was something he desperately wanted but could never obtain.
The underground palace he currently stood in was the twelfth ancient wizarding relic he had explored.
Muggle wealth and ordinary magical objects held no appeal for him.
He had wasted nearly half a year on this endeavour.
He had even travelled to the only school with a definite connection to the legends surrounding his ancestors: Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
But he had returned empty-handed.
The snakewood had refused to acknowledge him. When he attempted to forcibly pull it out, it had withered almost immediately.
There were many other incidents, but there was no need to go into detail.
At that moment, Voldemort casually waved the wand in his hand.
Several flames rose before him, burning far brighter and more dazzlingly than the jewels. They engulfed the carefully constructed coffin, reducing it to ashes.
The meticulously painted cloud and star patterns beside the coffin seemed to flow as though they were alive, only to be severed and consumed by the flames.
Those in power had never imagined that the numerous measures they had taken to ensure peace after death would still fail to grant them a peaceful rest.
"All right."
Frustrated, Voldemort made a decision.
He would allow those troublesome Hogwarts pests to live a little longer.
He had originally planned to settle his accounts first before slowly continuing his exploration.
After all, one person's strength was limited.
Searching would likely become easier once he had gained control of all the resources within the wizarding world.
As soon as this thought crossed his mind, his mood improved considerably.
He made his decision in the blink of an eye, and his figure vanished into the tomb as though he had never been there.
A powerful sense of oppression suddenly crept into Malfoy's heart.
He was lying in a reclining chair with a desk in front of him. Unconsciously, he flipped through a Muggle dictionary, mechanically reading the words as a way to ease the discomfort caused by something he could not explain.
When his eyes fell upon the term Batudigua Spider, a sudden feeling of unease gripped him.
He abruptly slammed the dictionary shut.
That person has finally returned.
It had happened so suddenly, without the slightest warning.
Of course, those in power did not need to explain their actions to their subordinates. Nor did they need to rehearse beforehand.
In the spacious reception room, the Dark Lord sat upon an elaborately crafted throne, its entire body reflecting a faint, cold light.
He surveyed the room.
The flames in the marble fireplace had long since been extinguished, leaving it cold and dark. The crystal chandelier hanging in the centre of the hall was dim and lifeless.
The only useful sources of light were several silver candlesticks suspended from chains, their candles emitting a faint glow.
The house, which had once been brightly illuminated, had suddenly become gloomy.
Nevertheless, it remained clean and well maintained. It had not been neglected during Voldemort's long absence.
Every so often, a house-elf came to clean the manor.
The Malfoy household now enjoyed a rather "luxurious" arrangement.
The old house had Kreacher, while this estate had Dobby.
Barty Crouch's wife, whose sense of self had completely disappeared, had also been brought here.
Although her sharp intelligence had faded because of excessive self-blame and emotional trauma, she was still capable of performing simple, repetitive tasks.
Suddenly, Lord Voldemort frowned.
The commotion outside in the courtyard irritated him.
Those roars and howls were truly annoying.
With a sudden movement, the door was pushed open by an invisible force, leaving a narrow gap through which natural light entered.
A faint green light pierced the opening and passed between two Werewolves that were tearing into each other.
"While I was away, it seems you forgot the rules."
Lord Voldemort's voice was chilling.
For Werewolves, death might have been a common occurrence.
Or rather, within their bloodthirsty minds, they possessed neither the definition nor the understanding necessary to contemplate the profound philosophical question of death.
Even so, the prospect still awakened their fear.
In an instant, depending on their distance from Lord Voldemort, all the Death Eaters bearing the Dark Mark on their arms felt a burning sensation of varying intensity.
One after another, the Death Eaters hurried over.
The long table before the Dark Lord was soon filled with various wizards.
Voldemort glanced around.
"If I hadn't returned, you would probably all be dead by now, having slaughtered one another in a ridiculous internal conflict."
"Draco, I've reviewed your intelligence. It's excellent."
He cast an approving glance at the person beside him.
"Where is Severus? Hmm… He should be on his way."
Thin sheets of paper floated upright before Voldemort.
He narrowed his eyes. Each time he finished reading a sheet, it automatically burned away in a pale-blue flame.
Malfoy lowered his head, calmly accepting the Dark Lord's scrutiny. At the same time, his eyes secretly swept across the area beneath the throne.
Nagini isn't here.
"You don't look well."
Lord Voldemort noticed the change immediately.
However, his concern was much like the way capitalists "care" about their workers' physical condition—not because they genuinely cared, but because they wanted to know whether those workers could continue creating value for them.
The same was true of Lord Voldemort.
"I'm fine, Master."
Malfoy bowed slightly, accepting the Dark Lord's concern with composure.
Lord Voldemort then gently tapped the table with his long, pale fingers.
Blood began to seep from the surface of the table in front of the Werewolves.
"Stop thirsting after the blood of your own kind."
"There will be endless opportunities in the future."
"The only advantage Muggles possess is their large population. Inferior creatures always hope to find some inexplicable sense of comfort by relying on numbers."
These words were not a hint.
They were an explicit declaration.
The Dark Lord would soon wage war, and it would spread from the wizarding world into Muggle society.
Lord Voldemort surveyed his grovelling subordinates, none of whom dared to meet his eyes.
"I don't want to see my subordinates slaughtering one another so foolishly again."
"Vampires, the escaped wizards from South America… I hope you can all make some changes."
Lord Voldemort stroked the wand in his hand.
Beneath the steps, a wizard completely concealed beneath his cloak and a man wearing an impeccably tailored uniform—whose face was even paler than the Dark Lord's—shuddered involuntarily.
"I also hope that, as servants, you will possess the self-awareness expected of servants."
"Furthermore, as guests of this manor, you should behave like guests. I hope you understand."
"At the very least, don't make a mess of someone else's home. Isn't that right, Draco?"
Malfoy could only nod slightly, neither appearing overly concerned nor completely indifferent.
The Dark Lord's actions were clearly intended to establish his authority.
"In the future, I will provide you with fresh and delicious food."
Lord Voldemort tapped the table.
Images of fresh, bloody meat and wine-filled glasses appeared across its surface.
A frenzied, shrill cheer erupted from the long table.
The Werewolves raised their sharp claws and raked them across their own chests, leaving several bloody marks.
They possessed powerful self-healing abilities. The wounds quickly scabbed over before the scabs fell away.
Yet the Werewolves continued roaring, venting their desires.