The surroundings were dim and foul, with the stench of stagnant water and mold filling the air. The occasional squeak of rats echoed in the background. The only glimpse of sunlight came from a small, barred window, slicing through the ceiling like a wound in the sky. This, this dismal, suffocating place, was where Allen found himself after slipping the letter through the gate.
Something was clearly wrong.
Even if they had used unconventional means to summon the entrance to this hidden laboratory and forged the invitation to gain entry into the castle, Allen should not have ended up in a place like this.
According to the Ministry of Magic's records, those who entered the trial were meant to undergo a succession challenge, as potential inheritors of the castle's legacy. While it was expected to be perilous, bordering on deadly even, this situation went beyond that. This wasn't a challenge, it was a death sentence.
Case in point: the shackles on his wrists and the heavy irons locking his feet into the brackish water.
Allen didn't spare the bindings more than a glance. Instead, he studied his surroundings. Despite the darkness, his vision remained unaffected, it was one of his advantages.
And what he saw wasn't good.
Not a single person in sight.
While it was true that none of the other entrants were likely to be allies, being completely alone was never a good sign.
It could only mean one thing: he had triggered a hidden dungeon.
But hidden didn't always mean treasure, more often, it meant brutal difficulty. Considering Slytherin's personal tastes and those of his descendants, Allen was certain this was the "Extreme Mode" version of the trial.
Compared to the others, Allen had a distinct disadvantage, he wasn't a pure-blood, or even a half-blood. He was a Muggle. Through and through.
By the standards of Slytherin and most of his descendants, someone like Allen should be burned alive, and the only concern would be how to dispose of the ashes without harming the environment. So being thrown directly into a water prison? Sadly, not unexpected.
And this was no ordinary cell.
His magical power was completely suppressed. Any spell requiring a wand was out of the question.
For most wizards, this would be game over. Time to say goodbye and greet Merlin in the afterlife.
But Allen wasn't most wizards.
Thanks to the system, his strength wasn't fully tied to conventional magic. These suppressions barely weakened him.
After easily neutralizing the magical suppression, Allen took some time to examine and dismantle the restraints. Unfortunately, without the enchantments on the cell itself, the equipment was basically worthless as loot.
Interestingly, the designers of this dungeon had such confidence in their prison that they hadn't installed a single magical trap.
That oversight was Allen's gain.
He also discovered something valuable, the other cells weren't just used to imprison wizards. Some held magical creatures. Though their corpses were now little more than scattered bones, Allen spotted a thighbone from one such beast, perfect wand core material. Of course, any wand made from such a source would require ornate decoration to avoid being mistaken for a Dark artifact.
The dungeon wasn't large, and soon Allen exited the cell, carrying his prize.
But beyond the cell… was more dungeon. With shadows shifting in the dark.
Not people. No.
They were the cheapest form of dark magic constructs, corpseshades.
Easy to make, cheap materials, and long-lasting. Their presence here explained a lot, especially those piles of bones in the cells. No one needed to guess where the Muggles who vanished ended up.
The corpseshades had already sensed Allen's presence.
Maybe they weren't built to kill, but they were certainly programmed to drive intruders away.
They moved awkwardly, thin and shriveled by both death and enchantment, their limbs stiff and claw-like, their eyes coated with a milky film of decay.
At least Allen didn't have to look into their soulless, empty sockets.
"Incendio Maxima."
Allen's incantation was quiet, even casual. But with it, a wave of flame erupted from his wand, a spell taught to him privately by that Ugandan professor.
Corpseshades, creatures born of necromancy, without soul, life, or will, feared only two things: light and flame. They thrived in shadows and rot, mindless husks of flesh.
Just like the books described, the fire sent them stumbling and flailing in panic.
But Allen wasn't content to merely drive them back.
He wanted them gone.
Permanently.
It might cost extra magic, but the best end for these creatures was cremation, consumed by cleansing fire. He figured that if the poor souls these corpses once were had known what they'd become, they might've chosen this end themselves.
Ironically, their creators must have held such disdain for Muggles that they didn't even give them the courtesy of a real cell, leaving open flame as a very convenient option.
With a flick of his wand, Allen ignited the cages one by one. Flames danced across the dungeon, spreading fast, and the corpseshades panicked. They thrashed and tried to flee.
But there was nowhere to go.
Allen didn't hesitate. No mercy.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, these poor things deserved rest, not eternal torment. Let them finally lie down. They'd been standing for far too long.
With Allen's magic fanning the flames, the entire dungeon transformed into an inferno. One by one, the corpseshades collapsed, their bodies turning to ash in the roaring fire. And with their fall, the fire only grew fiercer, fed by their remains. Allen knew it was the corpse oil fueling the blaze, but somehow, it still felt like their final act of atonement, offering themselves to the purifying fire.
And yet, not a single ember touched Allen.
Wizards had powerful spells to shield against fire, some even got themselves captured just to indulge in the experience of flame.
Allen knew there were probably valuable things left behind in this dungeon. Notes on Muggle experimentation, maybe even personal belongings.
But he felt no regret.
A few Galleons and trinkets?
Let them burn.
After all, fire purifies most sins.
Doesn't it?
As the flames roared around him, Allen found a strange line of poetry surfacing in his mind:
"I hope that one day, the flames beneath will consume both me and this coffin I walk in. That I may be reborn in fire and blood, and find eternity."
Maybe… maybe those who became corpseshades once thought the same.
••┈┈┈┈┈༓┈┈┈┈┈•••
150 Advance Chapters Available on Patreon! Patreon.com/Veltoria