Chapter 1317 Behind the Curtain
Dumbledore's figure disappeared behind the door, but the atmosphere in the hall did not relax; instead, it became even more tense because of the unknown behind the door.
Vincent chose the most inconspicuous black door.
"Need any help?" Moody walked over, leaning on his cane, his demonic eyes fixed on the closed door in front of him.
“Thank you, Mr. Moody.” Vincent gently pushed open the door. “But it’s just catching mice; I can do it alone. There’s no need to make a fuss.”
Moody's magical eyes turned to him, sizing him up and down. His normal eye held a hint of appreciation. "Kid, well said! Remember, when dealing with rats, be ruthless. Don't give them a chance to breathe."
“I understand.” Vincent stepped behind the door, and the cold aura vanished completely as the door closed.
The interior was very dimly lit, and one could only vaguely make out that the space was large and had a sunken circular structure, like an ancient altar or tomb.
Vincent walked toward the bottom of the central stone pit, his gaze settling on a rough stone archway.
There was no wind, but the tattered black curtains hanging from the stone archway swayed slightly, as if breathing.
Walton McNeill huddled in the shadows of the stone archway's base like a frightened mouse, his wand pointed at the entrance, trembling all over.
Seeing Vincent enter, McNeil's fear intensified, but the desperate situation also ignited his ferocity.
"You filthy little mudblood! Are you the only one?"
His scream echoed: "Dumbledore doesn't want you anymore? He actually sent you here to die!"
Vincent didn't answer, or even look over. He strolled to the edge of the pit and thoughtfully examined the curtain.
His magic attempted to penetrate deeper, but was blocked by some unknown entity; clearly, some secret was hidden behind the veil.
"interesting……"
His muttering further enraged McNeil, "What are you looking at!"
McNeil's hand, gripping his wand, trembled. "I know your tricks! Bella's Manifestation Charm didn't work because it wasn't magical invisibility at all, but some kind of dirty Muggle trick, wasn't it?!"
Vincent then slowly shifted his gaze over, "Dirty Muggle tricks?"
He took a step forward, stepping onto the steps leading to the bottom of the pit. "Walton McNeil, the executioner of the Ministry of Magic, legally ending the lives of dangerous creatures, you think that's clean, don't you? Because it's permitted by the Ministry of Magic."
He walked down the steps one by one, his footsteps unusually clear in the silence. "Just like you follow Voldemort, believing that pure-bloods are the only true magic, and that eliminating Muggles and half-bloods is purifying the world. This is your so-called 'order'."
He stopped at the bottom of the pit, only a few meters away from McNeil and the veil. "But this just exposes your true nature. You fear Muggles, you fear half-breeds, you fear everything that doesn't understand or follow your old order."
A type A sphere appeared out of thin air and hovered silently in front of Vincent. "So, you are afraid of me now not because I am stronger than you, but because you cannot understand where my power comes from. It is not in your magic textbook, it does not follow the logic of spells you are familiar with, it is beyond your cognition, and thus, it has become a 'dirty trick', a 'filth' that must be cleansed."
He calmly looked at the A-shaped sphere in front of him. "The Manifestation Spell is ineffective against it, not because it is hidden by more powerful magic, but because it is right here, only its surface is covered by a magical projection based on the real world."
McNeil understood, but not completely.
Magical projections can indeed be incredibly realistic, but as long as they are powered by magic, they can always be detected, or at least vaguely sense that something is there.
It cannot be seen or perceived unless some means are used to shield perception, such as some materials that have a strong affinity with magic.
McNeil's pupils contracted instantly. He understood. It was mithril. Those invisible spheres were actually using mithril to shield his senses.
However, this truth brought even deeper panic.
Vincent inherited Nicolas Flamel's legacy; the precious mithril was utterly insignificant to him. Just how many of those little balls were there? Were they already aimed at him?
"Nonsense! The devil's trick!"
McNeil hysterically raised his wand: "Avada Kedavra!"
A ghastly green light tore through the darkness, shooting straight into Vincent's chest.
A bizarre scene unfolded: the green light passed straight through his body and landed some distance away.
Vincent was unharmed, as if nothing had happened.
“Look,” he looked down at his chest, “this is your way of solving things, casting the Killing Curse on things you can’t understand. Voldemort did it, you did it, and many more people will probably do it in the future.”
In an instant, more than a dozen Vincents appeared.
They not only look exactly alike, but even the folds in their clothes are identical.
McNeil's wand clattered to the ground.
This bizarre scene is both real and fake.
Since those little balls can use magic to project invisibility, they can also project other things.
Although the Vincents in front of us are fake, the balls are real. If one projection corresponds to one ball, then there are at least a dozen balls here.
Where were they aiming? The arm? The head? The heart?
McNeil collapsed, utterly overwhelmed by fear and cognitive breakdown.
His worldview, the belief in the superiority of magic, shattered completely in the face of harsh reality.
Vincent and the others disappeared, leaving only one.
He no longer looked at the demoralized executioner, his gaze returning to the black curtain.
The killing curse seemed to have activated something; the rhythm of the curtains swaying changed, and a very faint, whispering sound rang in his ears.
"come over……"
"It's very quiet here..."
"No more strife..."
The voice was hollow. Vincent took a few steps toward the curtain and stopped at a very close distance.
He could feel the icy aura emanating from behind the curtain, an aura that didn't belong to this world. He listened carefully to the call, his eyes growing clearer and clearer, even carrying a hint of mockery.
"It is indeed quiet, and there is no more conflict."
His gaze was fixed behind the curtain, as if he were conversing with some unknown entity: "Because if you die, you don't have to think, you don't have to choose, you don't have to face this troublesome world, right?"
The world of the living is full of terrible rules, foolish struggles, and endless trouble, but at least as long as you're alive, there's still a possibility of change.
He paused, then said with unwavering resolve, "And I choose to face the trouble, and then smash those damn rules I think exist."
As soon as the words were spoken, the swaying of the curtains abruptly stopped, as if a pause button had been pressed.
The whispers around me stopped abruptly, and the entire space fell into an even more complete silence than before.
Vincent ignored him, turned around, and used a powerful binding spell to tie the distraught McNeil up like a mummy.
……
……
