bacchusnovels Chapter 428 Voldemort's Resurrection
Chapter 428 Voldemort's Resurrection
Chapter 428 Voldemort's Resurrection
"Master, can you please not cut my flesh?"
"No, it has to be cut."
"Will it hurt a lot when I get it cut?"
"Of course, but you will gain even greater power."
Listening to the snippets of conversation coming through the satellite phone, the man in black robes beside him frowned with obvious disdain.
"Is this really me, the scammer?"
"Genuine or genuine."
Sean nodded, holding a brand-new Sony digital camera in his hand, slowly adjusting the focus and pointing the lens at the center of the cemetery where the "Great Revival Project" was underway in the distance.
In the scene, the deformed Voldemort is curled up in an iron pot, while the pitiful undercover agent Peter is kneeling on the ground with a face full of despair, holding a small knife that is gleaming coldly in his hand, which is trembling incessantly, as if he is going through an extremely painful inner struggle.
"A greater power..." Sean murmured, repeating the phrase as he filmed, not forgetting to look up and mock Riddle standing beside him. "I say, is this what you call 'wise leadership'? Even your promises are so clumsy?"
Young Riddle—or rather, Tom Riddle, whose life was forever frozen at eighteen—stood beside Sean, his brow furrowed, his face almost overflowing with disgust.
He stared at Voldemort in the distance with an indescribably complex gaze, and after a moment, said coldly, "Is this what I'll become? A... a deformed monster huddled in an iron pot, stewing itself, using such clumsy means to gain loyalty?"
Sean pressed the shutter button on his digital camera, glanced down at the captured image, and then gave a meaningful smile: "Yes, this is the great result of your 'pursuit of immortality' after so many years. Making people suffer while simultaneously offering empty promises and empty rhetoric."
It looks... truly touching.
"Touched?" Riddle scoffed, his eyes filled with disgust and loathing. "It's utterly repulsive. How could I have fallen to this state? All because of those stupid servants and shameless..."
"Shameless? I think that's quite in line with your style." Sean smiled and moved the camera aside. With a "click," the image of Riddle's furious face was captured on the digital camera. To be honest, such a scene was very rare.
Eighteen-year-old Riddle maintained a cool (and suave) demeanor, rarely showing any emotion.
After doing all this, Sean hung the camera back around his neck and said, unusually seriously, "But it's understandable, after all, you weren't yourself anymore. Losing humanity and pursuing immortality will always mean losing something essential, like... dignity."
Riddle rolled his eyes, then turned his gaze back to the cemetery, offering his commentary on the scene before him without blinking: "Peter Pediru, that coward, becoming my servant? My... only servant? Or an undercover agent? How... absurd."
The word "absurd" became even more absurd when it was uttered by Riddle himself, for some reason.
"Am I destined to rely on such useless people to maintain my great cause in the future?"
Sean shrugged: "Useless people are the easiest to manipulate, aren't they? Besides, what you don't know is that there's an organization in the East called 'The Winery.' Apart from a very few employees, most of them are spies sent in by others. That 'Winery' is still highly efficient. And now there's only one spy. You should feel relieved."
At this point, Riddle couldn't tell whether Sean was comforting him or mocking him—after all, Voldemort only had one undercover agent, but also... only one employee.
"And, to be honest, the 'Voldemort' you see now doesn't care whether his servants are loyal or capable. He just wants them to kneel down and offer everything, even their flesh, even which part of their flesh—he doesn't care anyway."
Finally, Riddle couldn't stand Sean's teasing any longer. He pulled out his wand from his waist, ready to emerge from the bushes and deal with that "scoundrel."
However, just as he stood up, Sean reached out and stopped him again.
"Where are you going?"
"What for?" Riddle's brows furrowed so deeply they could crush a cockroach. He raised his wand, a chill spreading through his voice. "I'm going to deal with that... monster, of course. No, it can't even be called a monster, that's an insult to monsters."
Sean shook his head. "It's not time yet. Let's keep watching."
Forced by Sean's orders, Riddle, though helpless, could only squat down in frustration and continue watching what was happening before him. Peter Pettigrew knelt on the ground, his hand trembling so much that he could barely hold the knife, his face covered in sweat and tears, his body shaking slightly.
Although Phillips and Voldemort had warned him in the past few days that he would make a sacrifice today, they never expected it to be this kind of sacrifice.
Voldemort's cold voice rang out again: "Peter, I have no time to wait for you. Now, prove your loyalty!"
Peter took a deep breath, his teeth grinding together. After three seconds, he closed his eyes, pointed the knife at his left arm, and then—
"puff!"
The sound of a knife cutting through flesh was particularly jarring.
Peter let out a suppressed scream, but dared not stop moving.
With trembling hands, he placed a piece of flesh he had cut off into the iron pot beside him, and blood dripped from his fingers into the boiling liquid.
The liquid in the iron pot immediately billowed thick smoke, which swirled in the air like living things, emitting a low and eerie hissing sound.
"Very well, Peter," Voldemort said with some satisfaction, a sinister smile spreading across his deformed face. "You will be remembered—as part of assisting my rebirth."
Peter slumped to the ground, his face deathly pale, having lost almost all his strength.
He looked down at his blood-soaked arm, his body twitching slightly, lost in thought—perhaps regret, regret for what he had done back then...?
Thus, the resurrection ceremony was carried out under these circumstances.
Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed slightly, and his hoarse voice echoed in the air.
"Your son can be reborn from the bones of your father, donated unintentionally."
The liquid in the iron pot became even more turbulent, and billowing black smoke spread rapidly like snakes, coiling around every inch of the land surrounding the cemetery. The surrounding air suddenly turned icy cold, as if even the moonlight was swallowed up, and the entire cemetery was plunged into a deep darkness.
"The flesh of your servant, if donated voluntarily, can bring your master back to life."
Suddenly, a blazing red light shot into the sky from the iron pot, tearing through the thick fog and dyeing the entire cemetery blood red. The red light pierced the sky like a sharp blade, accompanied by a shrill whistling sound, as if something was breaking free from its restraints and returning to the world.
"The blood of your enemy, if forced to be offered, can bring your enemy back to life."
As he spoke, Voldemort took out the jar of blood he had collected from the Gryffindor dormitory at Hogwarts a few months earlier and poured it into the jar.
Sean and Riddle, who were not far away, watched this scene intently.
He knew better than anyone the outcome of this resurrection ritual.
success?
How could it possibly succeed?
That wasn't Harry Potter's blood at all; it was his.
Sean slowly raised his camera, his eyes close to the viewfinder. Just as he was about to record the moment Voldemort's resurrection failed, his smile suddenly froze—the liquid in the pot suddenly stopped for a moment, and everything fell silent.
But the next second, the Zhen Gege iron pot suddenly exploded, and countless black liquids splashed everywhere, instantly igniting dark red magical flames on the ground.
In the center of the flames, a blurry and distorted figure slowly rose to its feet.
"How is that possible...?"
Sean muttered to himself.
In that instant, countless thoughts flashed through his mind.
Is he related to Harry Potter by blood? Is this dark magic ritual inherently flawed, requiring no enemy's blood at all? Or is it due to his unique status as a transmigrator, where his blood clashes with this world, thus having the desired effect?
But whatever the reason, it doesn't change one fact—
Voldemort... has risen from the dead!
Voldemort's body was reborn. He slowly raised his hands, then revealed a chilling smile. "I'm back...?"
His smile, like Sean's before, was stiff, as if it had been frozen.
He looked down at his body, and the initial ecstasy in his eyes was gradually replaced by shock and anger.
"This...this is impossible!" Voldemort growled, his voice sharp and piercing, even...distorted, sounding exactly like the sound of tires rubbing against the ground.
Voldemort's body was indeed reborn—but it was nothing like the tall, thin, and imposing figure he had envisioned.
Instead, he was only three or four feet tall, ridiculously thin, like a dwarf with odd proportions.
His pale skin, like a layer of wax, covered his disproportionately large frame, while his scarlet eyes stood out so much that they almost filled his deformed face.
This situation is less of a resurrection and more of a partial resurrection.
"I...: What's going on?" Voldemort waved his short arms, his gaze sweeping around before finally settling on the wreckage of the iron pot and Peter.
"Peter!" he screamed, his voice growing increasingly urgent, "You incompetent fool! Is this your loyalty?!"
Behind the bushes in the distance, Sean put down his camera, his expression very complicated.
His lips twitched slightly, as if he was trying his best to suppress something, but in the end, he couldn't help but chuckle softly.
"So..." Sean raised an eyebrow, "this is the result of the greatest dark magic ritual in the magical world? A... dwarf?"
Standing beside him, Riddle stared at the small, contorted figure in the center of the flames, his face practically contorted with disgust. He spoke coldly, "This is an insult to the name 'Voldemort.' I thought it would at least be something to be feared, but... it's not even as good as a house-elf."
Sean laughed even harder, patting Riddle on the shoulder: "Hey, don't be so harsh. After all, your future 'self' has already tried very hard, although... the result was indeed disappointing."
"Can you shut up?" Riddle's face showed disgust as he stared at the comical yet furious Voldemort, his tone icy. "If he were my future self, I'd rather die today."
"Don't jump to conclusions," Sean shrugged, continuing to watch the scene in the distance with interest. "This is just the beginning."
Peter huddled on the ground, his face filled with terror that almost brought tears to his eyes.
He shook his head vigorously and stammered, "Master...Master! This can't be my fault. I am absolutely loyal to you!"
Absolute loyalty! I followed your instructions precisely every step of the ceremony!
Voldemort's scarlet eyes were fixed on him, his rage almost burning Peter to ashes.
His thin, trembling arm raised his wand, his voice icy cold: "Loyalty? Peter, if this is your loyalty, then why is my body... like this?!"
Peter sensed Voldemort's murderous intent was almost tangible. He immediately kowtowed, pleading, "Master, this is absolutely not my fault! The ritual was perfect... Yes! The only possibility is—" His mind raced, finally coming up with an excuse to deflect blame, "It's Harry Potter's blood! Maybe... maybe the blood has spoiled, or... we didn't use enough!"
Voldemort's eyes narrowed dangerously: "Contaminated blood? Insufficient blood? Peter, are you telling me I designed a failed ritual?!"
Peter shook his head violently, almost hitting his forehead on the ground: "No, no, no, Master! It's a matter of blood, not a matter of ritual!"
Perhaps the blood has been left out for too long. After all, there's that complex connection between you and him; his blood couldn't possibly be unsuitable as a medium... Or perhaps the amount of blood is too small!
As he spoke, he seemed to believe this reason and continued to explain.
"You see, the ritual itself was successful, you've returned, but......it was just a little short! If we can find more blood and perform the resurrection ritual again, I believe......your power will be fully restored, and your body will be completely healed!"
Voldemort narrowed his eyes and repeated in a low voice, "Perform the resurrection ritual once more...?"
Peter nodded frantically, his face full of obsequiousness and hope: "Yes, sir! It's not your fault! It's just... we don't have enough materials! As long as you allow me to collect more blood for you, purer blood... we will definitely be able to make you fully recover!"
Voldemort stared at Peter's lewd appearance as he knelt on the ground, his eyes growing even colder.
Although he was angry, he also had a vague feeling that Peter's explanation might have some merit. Although he was unwilling to admit it, his body was indeed half-defeated, and even his magic was weaker than before.
Moreover, his thin, contorted body was an insult to his great image—how could he possibly conquer England, Europe, or the world with such a physique?
How could someone with such an image possibly achieve his grand plan?!
Then, Voldemort slowly raised his short wand, its tip emitting a dark green light, hovering above Peter's head...