"What… what is Theodore doing?"
"He can't possibly be planning to play these wizard's chess champions all at once—and even give them the first move, can he?"
Outside the dark chessboard, Hermione, Harry, and Ron watched the changes within it with faces full of worry.
In their eyes, Theodore was almost omnipotent.
But this was the legendary dark match. If he lost even a single game, the price could very well be death.
Even Theodore made them tense with anxiety.
Hidden in the shadows, Voldemort's eyes revealed sudden understanding, as if he had finally pieced together what was happening.
"Theodore Ashbourne's attainments in soul magic should have been enough to let him leave the dark chessboard safely."
"But he insisted on rescuing Ron Weasley first, wasting his chance to preserve himself."
"So now he has no choice but to face the dark chessboard directly."
"And the already harsh rules have become even more severe. Now he must defeat ten wizard's chess champions at the same time before he can leave."
Quirrell, meanwhile, let out a long breath.
"So that's it."
"So although we still underestimated Theodore Ashbourne's magical strength—we never expected him to have studied soul magic as well, which caused a few complications earlier—"
"the trap still worked in the end."
"As long as the final result is good, that's all that matters."
"This time, he's definitely dead."
Quirrell hastily took another sip of champagne to calm himself.
At that same moment, dim script began to ripple across Theodore's System screen.
[You draw your sword and charge into the Banner of Ten Thousand Souls. Your pure sword intent tears open a gap, and you rescue Lei Zhenzi—yet in doing so, you yourself fall into the Soul-Slaying Formation.]
[Stirred by your pure sword intent, these ten souls—who in life were likewise devoted to the sword—also erupt with sword intent. Ten strands of sword intent rise across the sky.]
[In life, they were wholly sincere toward the sword. In death, casting away all else, what they now unleash is the most brilliant sword intent of their entire lives—their strongest move.]
[Sword-souls gather at the fingertips. They draw breath. Then—]
[An empty world spreads. Sword intent disperses between heaven and earth. The wails of ghosts and spirits abruptly fade, and only the low hum of sword-souls remains—]
[All things under heaven are swords. Gods, ghosts, demons, and evil things are swords. Through countless tribulations, all the cosmos and the vault of heaven become swords. This is—Myriad Divine Tribulation!]
[Sword energy howls forth, transforming into a world of swords that covers sun and moon alike and encloses you within it!]
Theodore's gaze fell upon the ten boards.
White pieces flashed.
The souls of the ten wizard's chess champions had already made their opening moves. The lines of play most familiar and most beloved to them in life had long since been carved into their very souls.
If a sword could have sword intent, then what was now reflected upon these boards was—
chess-soul.
Theodore's expression grew solemn.
His fingers moved.
Black pieces responded one by one, meeting the lines of play of the ten souls seated opposite him.
[Faced with the souls of sword cultivators within the Banner of Ten Thousand Souls, the host's heroism remains undiminished.]
[You are indeed seniors of the sword, your sword intent pure and profound. But my own sword did not bow before a Saint, nor retreat before the Heavenly Dao—what, then, have I to fear?]
[If the sword has an ultimate peak, then I believe my sword shall be that peak. In this battle, let me ascend to perfection!]
For a time, black and white interwove across the boards, and it was as though something invisible had nailed everyone's eyes in place.
Hermione and the others quickly became dizzy watching.
They all knew how to play wizard's chess, but only as a pastime. None of them could truly understand such profound lines.
Hermione and Harry kept turning to Ron, asking in anxious whispers how things were going.
Ron said nothing.
Cold sweat had begun to gather on his forehead, and his hands were slowly clenching tighter and tighter.
At the same time, Voldemort was questioning Quirrell in much the same way.
He had never had the slightest interest in things like wizard's chess. His level was probably even worse than Harry's or Hermione's.
Quirrell, however, had come from Ravenclaw. He might have been useless at Quidditch, but he at least had some ability in wizard's chess.
When he saw Theodore's line of play, delight immediately appeared on Quirrell's face.
"Good!"
"This isn't one of the common professional openings in wizard's chess at all. It's some kind of crude wild line."
"If he plays like that, Theodore Ashbourne is already at a disadvantage from the opening!"
Hearing this, the last of Voldemort's unease finally relaxed.
It seemed that no matter how much of a genius Theodore Ashbourne was in magic, he still could not possibly contend with true champion-level players in wizard's chess.
So this was steady now, wasn't it?
But remembering the lessons of the last several failures against Theodore, Voldemort did not let himself drift off or relax entirely. He kept staring fixedly at the boards.
He wanted to see Theodore die inside the dark match with his own eyes before allowing himself to feel truly at ease.
As for Quirrell, the more he watched Theodore's subsequent moves, the more he shook his head, his smile growing brighter and brighter.
"Does Theodore even know how to play wizard's chess?"
"Blunders. Blunders everywhere!"
A dozen or so moves later, Quirrell's once-tense body had visibly relaxed. He sipped at his champagne in small, pleased swallows.
"By now Theodore is already at a critical life-or-death stage."
"Especially the board where he's facing the eight-time champion—the champion is strangling him there with brutal force."
"It won't be long before Theodore loses."
And yet second by second, the game continued. Black and white still flowed and clashed across the boards.
Voldemort let out a puzzled hum.
"Didn't you say he was about to lose?"
"Why is he still playing?"
Quirrell was full of confidence.
"Master, this is still chess. As long as you haven't been checkmated, you can always keep playing. As long as there are pieces left, you keep moving."
"Even a three-year-old child could struggle for a little while."
"In my opinion, it's nothing but the last twitching of a dying man."
Then, suddenly, from within the match itself, a clear voice rang out.
"Checkmate."
Quirrell nearly leapt with joy.
"Master! Checkmate!"
"Theodore, he—"
Quirrell turned toward the board, about to excitedly share the good news with Voldemort.
But the instant he actually saw the board position, the joy froze stiff on his face.
"???"
"Wait—no—how is it Theodore who checkmated the other side?!"
Even Voldemort could not keep himself together any longer.
"Theodore is worse in the opening. Theodore is full of blunders. Theodore is only making a dying struggle."
"And now you're telling me Theodore won?"
"Quirrell, do you even know how to play wizard's chess?!"
At the same moment, new text appeared on Theodore's System screen.
[Within the Banner of Ten Thousand Souls, inside the Soul-Slaying Formation, one sword-soul after another stands across the sky. Their sword intent slowly withdraws and falls quiet.]
[The host raises his sword and his brows in pride. With a single 'thank you for the game,' the sword-souls suddenly shatter. The Banner of Ten Thousand Souls, having lost the support of its principal souls, collapses at once, and the Soul-Slaying Formation perishes alongside it.]
[This is truly—One sword breaks ten thousand arts; after my flower blooms, all other flowers are slain!]
The next moment, Theodore took a single step and emerged from the dark chessboard.
Hermione, Harry, and the others had barely begun to speak when, in the next instant, they were all struck by Stunning Spells and collapsed unconscious.
Everyone else in the hall fell unconscious as well.
Quirrell froze and looked at Voldemort.
"Master?"
"Was that you?"
Voldemort looked equally baffled.
"Of course not. I never use Stunning Spells."
"If it were me, those would have been Killing Curses."
"Then it was Theodore Ashbourne?"
"What is he trying to do?"
Theodore's gaze turned dark as he looked over the sleeping forms of Hermione and the others.
What came next was not something suitable for children to see.
Then a fierce heat rose in Theodore's eyes as his gaze fell upon the ten souls within the dark chessboard, and he gave a sharp command:
"Souls—return!"
"Now!"
In the next instant, the ten souls seemed to be seized by an immense pulling force and surged toward Theodore all at once.
Only Theodore could see the faint outline of the Judge's Brush.
As the ten souls, each filled with pure obsession, poured into it, that outline began to grow clearer and clearer.
Seeing this, Voldemort was so terrified that he nearly lost what remained of his wits. He frantically urged Quirrell on.
"What are you standing there for?"
"Run! Run now!"
Quirrell snapped out of it.
He did not know what Theodore was doing, but from Voldemort's reaction alone, it was obvious it had to be some extremely terrifying form of magic.
He immediately fled backstage with all the speed he could muster, sprinting desperately into the distance. Only after he had run far from the venue did he stop to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead and ask Voldemort,
"Master… what was Theodore Ashbourne doing just now?"
Voldemort gave a cold snort, a strange light flickering in his eyes.
"If it's not something you need to know, then don't ask."
His gaze fixed itself on the direction of the venue.
Yes.
There was no mistake.
The ten souls had all been drawn into Theodore by some kind of magic.
Evil.
Utterly evil.
A form of magic that played with souls.
For Voldemort, a true master of the Dark Arts, there was only one magic he knew that resembled this.
A Horcrux.
Storm waves crashed inside Voldemort's heart.
He had once thought that, back at Hogwarts, he had hidden himself well enough. He had made several Horcruxes without anyone discovering them.
But at that time, although Dumbledore had been watching him, he had not yet become Headmaster.
Now, however, that old man had ruled Hogwarts for so many years that almost nothing in the castle could be hidden from him.
And yet Theodore Ashbourne had still managed to create Horcrux-like soul magic right under Dumbledore's nose?
And not just that—he had done it on a scale involving ten souls at once?
Wicked.
This little wizard was simply too wicked.
Then, in the very next breath, Voldemort ground his teeth in rage.
A little wizard this evil—
and Dumbledore had actually allowed him to be part of the protection around the Philosopher's Stone?
Dumbledore, you fool.
Wasn't this simply inviting a wolf into the house?!
No.
Absolutely not.
The Philosopher's Stone could not be allowed to fall into the hands of such a wicked child.
Voldemort barked at Quirrell:
"Quick!"
Quirrell stared blankly.
"Master, I'm already running at full speed. I can't possibly go any faster."
Voldemort replied in a tone full of contempt for his stupidity,
"I mean hurry back to Hogwarts and fetch Dumbledore!"
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