Inside Louis, the Tiger Talisman—already on the verge of collapse as it struggled to contain the power of the Twelve Talismans—suddenly shattered.
The sealed energy of the Twelve Talismans erupted all at once. The surge of black qi swelled violently, overflowing from Louis's body.
Dark mist shrouded him instantly, his once starlit eyes now veiled by a blood-red iris.
At that moment, the Philosopher's Stone in his hand burst apart, scattering crimson fragments that hovered in the air before being drawn into him with each breath.
The Stone, capable of balancing yin and yang and catalyzing all alchemy, churned a storm within his body.
"This—!"
Veins bulged across Louis's face as searing agony flooded every corner of his body.
The transformation did not stop—in fact, under the Stone's influence, it grew more complete, more perfect.
His skin tore and healed, as scales with a greenish sheen pushed through, linking seamlessly piece by piece.
Bones, nails, muscles, nerves, vessels—every part of his body warped and reshaped.
The pain defied all description.
Louis collapsed, writhing across the floor, body twisting uncontrollably.
...
"Found you!"
Elsewhere in the castle, Voldemort's eyes lit up. His left hand raised Quirrell's wand.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The jet of sickly green light burst forth, grazing past a half-transparent figure.
Quirrell narrowly dodged the Killing Curse, a bead of non-existent sweat dripping down his spectral face.
Just a little closer—and he would have been struck down!
He didn't even know if his current state could be slain by the Killing Curse, but he had no intention of finding out.
"Don't think you can run, Quirrell! The moment you betrayed me, you should have been ready to die!" Voldemort laughed madly, hurling Killing Curses like they were casual hexes, one after another. Yet, whether by accident or intent, every shot missed.
Watching Quirrell's frantic expression as he fled, Voldemort savored the moment. A year of humiliation, capped by Dio Brando's scorn—now all of it was washed away in this sweet chase.
"Tell me, Quirrell—what gave you the courage to betray me? Was it Dumbledore?" Voldemort cackled as he suddenly switched to the Cruciatus Curse.
The bolt struck true. With a shriek, Quirrell's soul crumpled to the floor, rippling like disturbed water.
Voldemort stepped closer, looming over the writhing specter. "And another thing—how did you become a ghost without dying? How did you gain a power even I've never heard of?"
That was Voldemort's greatest confusion. Quirrell had been under his surveillance all along—so how had he suddenly acquired such an ability?
Who taught him? How?
Tormented by agony, Quirrell clamped his mouth shut and even squeezed his eyes closed.
How a soul managed to "shut its eyes" was unclear—but somehow, Quirrell did it.
He knew Voldemort was a master of Legilimency, so he chose to shut himself away.
"Not willing to speak, are you?" Voldemort gave a deranged chuckle. "So, you look down on me as well!"
Voldemort suddenly sprang to his feet, wand raised, and unleashed curses at Quirrell's soul with mad abandon.
"Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!"
One after another, the Cruciatus Curses rained down as though they cost nothing, wracking Quirrell until he curled up again in unbearable pain.
A flush rose on Voldemort's face—the perverse pleasure of torture.
"Let's see how long you can keep that mouth shut!" he laughed hysterically.
"I'll talk—I'll talk!" Quirrell cried. The relentless agony nearly knocked him senseless, but in his soul form there was no escape into unconsciousness—he could only endure the full brunt of the curses stacking one after another.
He couldn't hold out long. Quirrell had never been the type to stand strong; how could he possibly protect someone else's secret with his life?
"Oh? Finally ready to speak?" Voldemort sneered, wand aimed at Quirrell's head. "Go on then. Who ordered you? Who gave you this power? How do you communicate?"
Quirrell's eyes glazed. His mind, shattered by the pain, gave up on resistance. He opened his mouth, ready to spill everything he knew.
In the shadows, Chuan's fingers tightened around the Soul-Stealing Scroll.
She debated whether to act immediately—to cut Quirrell off before Voldemort could hear something that would endanger her master's true body.
At last, she steeled her resolve, ready to rip the scroll open.
Even if it meant exposing herself, she could not allow suspicion to fall upon her master. He might not care for such "small troubles," but as his servant, she had to consider everything on his behalf.
But just as Quirrell was about to utter Louis's name—and just as Chuan prepared to unfurl the scroll—Dumbledore finally came online.
A dazzling spell shot straight into Voldemort's back.
Unfamiliar with the body he occupied, Voldemort failed to dodge in time and was blasted into the wall.
The aged wizard approached step by step, white beard flowing, Elder Wand in hand.
It had only been a Banishing Charm—normally a simple spell used for blocking or shielding. Yet in Dumbledore's hand, it had become something wondrous and devastating, a powerful offensive spell.
Of course, the Elder Wand's might contributed, but so too did his immense magical strength and lifetime of study.
Even so, that strike was not enough to kill Voldemort—especially not one wielding the Demon Lord's Sword.
The castle wall exploded outward. Voldemort emerged, sword in hand, hair disheveled, his face still carrying traces of Quirrell's features.
"Dumbledore?!" Voldemort roared, a flicker of dread in his eyes.
This old wizard had always been one of his greatest fears. Even at his peak, he had no certainty of victory against him—let alone now.
But he had the Demon Lord's Sword! The blade of undying!
Even if he could not defeat Dumbledore, he would not lose.
"Tom, it has been a long time. It seems life hasn't treated you kindly." Dumbledore's tone was still gentle, though his eyes lingered on the blade in Voldemort's hand.
"Dumbledore! Save me!"
The Quirrell who moments before looked ready to perish suddenly darted to Dumbledore's side. "Quick! Kill Voldemort!"
Dumbledore cast him a curious glance, intrigued by the odd state he was in.
"Dumbledore… heh, heh, heh." Voldemort raised his wand. "Indeed, it has been long. And as you say, life has not been kind. But I have returned from hell itself. I am immortal!"
"You cannot kill me now!"
---
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