Ian kept walking.
Kept exploring.
He had no idea how long he'd been walking.
The scenery around him hadn't changed in the slightest.
It was as if the entire world had become this desolate landscape. Not just the sky and the clouds—there was no wind here, no sound, even Ian felt as if he were about to solidify in this gray‑white cage. He started to suspect this might be one of Lady Tainclair's pranks, but his intuition told him he hadn't suffered any Psyshock.
This was a primordial place far more ancient than the Misty Illusion Realm.
Of course.
Ian didn't see any souls, but he still sensed traces of where souls had once existed: a toppled stone stele with blurry lettering carved upon it; a winding little path, long since eroded by time, yet still showing signs of human footsteps; and that fragment of metal half‑buried in the rock strata.
Like the remains of some kind of weapon.
Ian inexplicably felt a faint sense of familiarity.
"I've been here before?"
He muttered to himself, his tone full of confusion.
Just as Ian was racking his brains and still couldn't make sense of it, a hazy outline appeared in the distance. It was a mountain—no, a volcano. A pitch‑black conical mass that jutted abruptly from the gray‑white horizon. Pale plumes of smoke continuously spewed from the summit, yet there wasn't the slightest hint of firelight.
"Doomsday Volcano!"
Ian finally knew what that inexplicable sense of familiarity was. When he had once brought Ravenclaw's daughter into the Misty Illusion Realm, he had appeared near this very volcano. In the end it was Lady Ravenclaw who showed up, allowing Ian to return that Lady Ghost to Lady Ravenclaw.
The reason Ian hadn't recognized it at first was honestly because the difference between now and the future was simply too great. Not just the color palette—everything around here, all the scenes, were vastly different as well.
Anyone who has studied history knows.
Five hundred years is enough to turn seas into mulberry fields.
Let alone the unknown span of years still needed before the Misty Illusion Realm Ian knew would be born. That alone was enough that no one coming here could possibly tell that two seemingly completely different places had any similarities—if not for this volcano being so unique, hardly changed even after countless years.
Only that allowed Ian to recognize where he was, and also made him once again certain that he was indeed in the Misty Illusion Realm, and not in some other unusual place.
"Doomsday Volcano, Death God's Furnace."
Ian murmured under his breath.
The massive black volcano stood silently, no eruption, no tremors, only lava slowly flowing out from the fissures, now also an apparently immutable black.
It didn't look like a naturally formed mountain.
More like a man‑made furnace.
Combining this with the story Lady Ravenclaw had told him before, Ian felt it made perfect sense to identify this volcano as the God of Death's furnace; the Three Sacred Artifacts of Death were indeed suspected to have been forged here.
"The Raven later seized this place."
Ian didn't know what was hidden inside this volcano, but he knew that some part of the past had to be buried here—that stretch of history that could not be changed and could not be escaped.
If he really was the Raven.
There was no way he'd seize this place for no reason.
And now he.
Appearing here was even less likely to be a coincidence.
"I have to go take a look."
Ian stepped onto the familiar path leading up to the crater. The stones beneath his feet shifted loose and tumbled into bottomless crevices, yet no echo returned.
When he finally reached the edge of the crater, the sight before him made him stop in his tracks.
In the glow of the firelight, a tall figure was bent over a furnace, both hands gripping a weapon that had yet to be completed. Sparks flew, the hammer blows were low and rhythmic, as if beating upon the pulse of the world. The figure didn't lift its head, didn't seem to notice Ian's presence. It only focused on forging, expression solemn, movements precise.
Ian held his breath and crept a few steps closer, wanting to see what exactly the figure was doing. However, the moment he took his next step, the plume of smoke from the crater churned violently.
The tall figure turned its head.
It was a figure wrapped in a tattered Cloak; beneath the Cloak there was no body, only endless darkness and occasional flashes of scarlet light, as if they were the only splashes of color in this entire world.
"God of Death."
Ian's throat tightened.
He saw that figure forging a Scythe.
The God of Death's Scythe.
Now.
The figure had turned its head.
It felt like its gaze was about to pierce straight through him.
"Raven~"
The God of Death spoke softly.
The tone held no emotional fluctuation whatsoever.
In this utterly dead silent world, it was especially clear.
...
While Ian was being tormented by silence and this sudden encounter in the Misty Illusion Realm.
At the same time.
Inside the stone house in the real world, there was a roar and chaos.
"Pa‑pa‑pa‑pa~ pa‑pa‑pa‑pa~"
Claire sat cross‑legged on a gigantic beanbag bed, her fingers flying over the handheld console's screen. With each of her inputs, the entire island rumbled thunderously.
The Earth Tremors, mountains rose, rivers changed course.
She was still focused on reshaping her island.
"Hmm… this forest is way too monotonous." She tilted her head, gave the screen a light swipe with her fingertip, and in an instant, countless glowing trees burst from the ground, starlike radiance flowing through their leaves.
"Let's add some new Pocket Monsters and Digimon." She grinned, casually pinching a few rabbits with butterfly wings into existence; they hopped away and vanished into the depths of the jungle.
"This has got to be my original creation."
Claire looked rather smug.
A cluster of creatures never before seen slowly took shape.
They had the bodies of deer, but with serpentine tails and eagles' wings,
and there was even a giant turtle, completely translucent, star‑light flowing within its body, lumbering slowly toward the shoreline. These new species did not arise from natural evolution, but were molded personally by Claire's hand.
She wasn't building an ecosystem; she was just freestyling. On the island's eastern side, the originally calm sea suddenly churned as a brand‑new volcano rose from the seabed. Before the lava had even cooled, Claire was already cheerfully planting a gigantic Flame Tree at its crater, its crown burning with golden fire that would never go out.
Nothing in this layout.
Was even remotely scientific.
It completely violated evolution theory and any other biological development doctrines.
But it was very much Magic.
As she tirelessly tweaked the island, the air outside thickened with the scent of soil, seawater, and metal, along with a faint tang of Magic embers.
"Perfect." The corners of her mouth curled into a satisfied smile. However, just as she was about to continue remodeling the island's western side, she suddenly froze. The focused look in her eyes flashed with a trace of shock, followed by deep gravity; her eyes were glowing, clearly indicating that the Prophet's ability had been triggered.
"This time, it really is a Time Traveler."
Her voice was soft, yet carried a rare seriousness.
She looked out the window; in the depths of her pupils, what was reflected was not just the island before her, but far more distant scenes—that was a view of Earth.
More specifically.
It should be a view from one of the islands she had created on Earth. Within the massive storm encircling that island, a deep‑blue‑robed old man was piercing through it.
In fact.
This figure had indeed already passed through the storm and reached the utterly calm core of the tempest.
Claire put down the console, the corners of her lips curling slightly.
"Interesting."
She stood up, and the stone house's door swung open on its own. The outside world continued changing under her will. Volcanoes erupted, forests sprawled, new creatures were being born in her imagination.
But her attention at this moment.
Was already wholly captured by the uninvited guest.
The Female Titan gazed toward Earth.
Her eyes easily pierced all obstacles and saw the scene unfolding there.
On the vast sea.
The old man who had pierced the storm seemed to feel that gaze upon him. He lifted his head in great confusion, found nothing amiss, then hovered in midair and turned his eyes toward the island.
"Ian has been here."
The old man spoke in a low voice.
His tone was resolute.
He was the one who should have been trapped inside the Bronze Gate's trial—Albus Dumbledore.