A voice as soft as spring wind drifted between Viktor Krum and his Durmstrang classmates.
The echo lingered, refusing to fade.
It was as if someone had silently cast a mass Petrificus Totalus.
Every single person froze.
Then, all at once, they whipped around to stare at the stunned Krum.
Krum: "—You… what did you just say?! Cough—cough cough!"
"Oh no! Krum's gone down! He's foaming at the mouth!"
"Someone help! Quick!!!"
Viktor Krum's head lolled sideways. Whether from exhaustion or pure rage-induced blackout was anyone's guess. His face had gone the color of old parchment, as though he'd decided unconsciousness was preferable to ever waking up again.
"Merlin… Krum looks half-dead. There's even a halo flickering above his head."
"Cent! Turn off that bloody holy light, you're making it worse!"
Laughter erupted amid the chaos.
Ethan's laugh rang out the loudest—bright, carefree, and utterly demonic.
To the panicking students and professors, it sounded like torment straight from the pits of hell.
"This boy never runs out of ways to shock people," Rita Skeeter muttered, her acid-green quill scribbling furiously. "Though clearly no one taught him pacing. You don't lead with the Hungarian Horntail of revelations, darling. You build up to it."
She adjusted her jeweled glasses and smirked. "Dropped a black dragon on the first beat. Now nothing will ever top it. The audience will be bored by tomorrow."
A triumphant curl of her crimson lips. "Kids these days."
In that delightfully toxic atmosphere, the first task of the Triwizard Tournament finally, mercifully, ended.
That same night, the hospital wing blazed with light.
A hand-painted sign swung on the door: ETHAN AND DEMENTORS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
The grudge was palpable.
"Tch. Talk about prejudice," Ethan scoffed, shaking his head. "I'm literally radiating righteousness."
He twirled a lock of his dark hair thoughtfully. "Maybe if I dyed it blond and added a permanent Lumos to the scalp… Instant angelic vibe."
A wicked grin. "Could test the look on Malfoy first."
Yawning, he felt the pleasant ache of a body pushed to its limit. Time to sleep.
He climbed onto the window ledge, leapt into the night, and—on wings of shadowy raven feathers created by the Death Bird spell—soared toward the lofty Ravenclaw Tower. A will-o'-the-wisp trailed behind him like a loyal ghost, spooking poor Percy Weasley so badly the prefect landed flat on his arse.
Sleep came quickly.
Breathing steady, Ethan's consciousness slipped past the veil of reality, guided by a faint silver light.
[You have arrived at the "Death Stranding"]
Splash… splash…
He opened his eyes to an endless crimson sea.
The sky was blood-red twilight; no sun, no moon—just suffocating scarlet.
Crystal waves the color of fresh rubies lapped gently at the shore, whispering like a lullaby. It was the sound of a mother patting a child to sleep, and despite everything, Ethan felt his heartbeat slow.
At the edge of the water stood a small figure.
A little girl, gazing silently across the sea.
The dying light bathed her, yet she cast no shadow.
Interesting.
Ethan's lips curved. He stepped forward, crunching over fish skeletons scattered like driftwood, leaving footprints in the damp red sand.
He stopped beside her and tilted his head.
Thin, delicate face. Knuckles white around a filthy plush rabbit. Eyes wide with fear and bone-deep exhaustion—like someone perpetually waiting for the next blow.
And the magic pouring off her…
Ethan's pupils narrowed.
A vast, writhing darkness—coiled, compressed, ready to detonate like a nuclear warhead wrapped in a child's body.
Even restrained, it made his scalp prickle.
Oh, he wanted it. Wanted to dissect it, understand it, own it.
His cobalt eyes began to glow.
"Eep—!"
The girl flinched. Hard to blame her; having a stranger slowly lean in until their face filled your vision, staring like you were the most fascinating creature alive, would unsettle anyone.
She trembled. "P-please stay back… I'll hurt you…"
Ethan smiled pleasantly. "I highly doubt that."
The girl: "…"
She shook harder.
"Kidding," he laughed, straightening up and offering a hand like they were meeting at a garden party. "Ethan Vincent. And you are?"
"I-I'm… Ariana."
Ariana. The name tugged at memory, but he couldn't place it. Whatever. Later.
He glanced around the eerie beach. "So, what is this place? Why are you here? Why am I here? What do you want from me?"
Ariana clutched her rabbit tighter, eyes spinning from the rapid-fire questions. "This… this is the Death Stranding. Where the dead who can't become ghosts linger… where we can't move on…"
She looked toward the blood-red horizon, voice distant. "The fish who remember ancient days told me you can paint true history."
Her small shoulders trembled. "Can you… paint a history where I was never born? Then everyone would be happy."
Ethan's brow creased. "I don't like that request."
"If we follow that logic, the wizarding world would be better off without me too. Thousands would sleep easier." His smile turned sharp. "But some people would be miserable. Sirius Black, rotting in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit, for one."
Ariana blinked.
Then—she giggled. A sudden, sunny sound that lit her whole face.
"You're funny, big brother." The gloom lifted for a moment. "But please… I'll give you my soul if you paint that world for me."
[A mysterious girl requests you paint a Tier-3 historical canvas for her. Accept?] [Warning: Extremely dangerous. Possible reward: Tier-3 · Purple Epic]
Purple Epic.
Ethan nearly choked on air.
The Soul Potion ritual—the one that would finally free him from all magical restraint and turn Voldemort into raw material—required exactly that rarity.
He'd been racking his brain for inspiration, and now the universe dropped it in his lap like a gift-wrapped bomb.
He flashed a thumbs-up, grin blinding. "Deal! Trust me, little customer, you're getting premium service—no refunds, no scams, satisfaction guaranteed!"
Ariana looked faintly worried, but… the fish had insisted this glowing, righteous (and apparently very handsome) boy could be trusted.
She reached out a tiny hand. "Then… hold on, I'll take you to—"
Her plush rabbit slipped from numb fingers and thudded into the sand.
Her eyes went huge.
A scream ripped out of her throat—"AAAAAHHHH!!!"
The darkness inside her exploded outward.
Black storm clouds of magic roared across the beach, devouring the sky. The crimson sea boiled, waves surging a hundred feet high.
Ethan's eyebrows shot up. "Well, damn."
Golden Light armor flared around him, crackling under the pressure.
So this was an Obscurus.
No wonder the system flagged it red.
"Run—RUN!!" Ariana shrieked, shoving him with all her tiny might.
In that desperate push, a ribbon of gray-black energy latched onto Ethan's chest.
Whoosh—
Consciousness hurled backward a thousand miles. The red beach shrank to a pinpoint.
The last thing he saw was a little girl drowning beneath a mountain of her own raging magic.
[You have obtained extraordinary material: Energy · Obscurus]
"Ugh…"
Ethan woke in his four-poster, moonlight striping the blue hangings.
Michael Corner snored like a chainsaw two beds over. Anthony Goldstein muttered something about Arithmancy in his sleep.
Ethan sat up, rubbed his eyes, and opened his palm.
A writhing gray storm, no larger than a Snitch, spun above his fingers—violent, hungry, magnificent.
"Obscurus…" he whispered, tasting the word.
"Magic suppressed until it becomes a parasite that devours its host."
He closed his fist; the storm vanished inside him, tamed for now.
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face.
"Couldn't peek into her history this time, but next visit I will."
"Still… unexpected souvenir."
Perfect for the second task. Perfect for something no one had ever seen.
Ethan's eyes glittered in the dark.
"No one's ever witnessed an Obscurus up close and lived."
"Let's give them a show they'll never forget."
After all, under his brush, excitement had no ceiling.