Chapter 627: Trial Cleared—Reward: A Portkey!

— — — — — —

Voldemort had finally entered the temple’s inner courtyard.

After passing through the smooth gleaming door, a blinding burst of light hit him head-on.

When the glare faded, Voldemort found himself standing in a garden.

A dome arched overhead, clearly marking the place as an indoor space. Yet the sunlight here felt warmer and more radiant than anything outside.

The ground was paved with white marble polished to a mirror-like sheen. Between the slabs, ancient runes glowed faintly with a soft golden light. Each step he took stirred a fleeting shimmer, as if the temple itself were quietly breathing.

Voldemort swept his gaze across the surroundings. It didn’t take long for his eyes to lock onto the most striking structure in the courtyard: twelve towering Doric columns rising straight up to the dome. Each pillar bore intricate carvings of a different chief deity.

"Strong traces of Transfiguration..." he murmured, giving a slight nod.

To him, the presence of magic wasn’t a flaw. Quite the opposite. A palace built by wizards without magic would be far more suspicious.

A low hum echoed.

Just as Voldemort studied the carvings, searching for a way to activate the trial, the figures etched into the columns suddenly came alive.

The gods seemed to step straight out of myth, each radiating overwhelming power. The plants in the garden—grass and trees alike—shivered and swayed as if cheering them on, their combined presence forming a crushing pressure that bore down on him.

"Hmph. Just stone pretending to be gods?" Voldemort scoffed. The effects of his earlier transfiguration faded, revealing his noseless face once more. His green robes fluttered lightly as magic pulsed around him.

The pressure might have been enough to shake an ordinary wizard to the core, but to Voldemort, it was little more than a show.

When Andros had set up this ruin, he’d been in a hurry. He wasn’t particularly skilled in this area either, merely copying inscriptions based on Tom’s instructions.

If Tom himself had designed it...

Even Voldemort would’ve had to shed several layers of skin to reach the final chamber.

But the pressure wasn’t the only threat here.

Whoosh—

The statues attacked.

Twelve streams of magic shot forth, each carrying a different element and layered with various spell effects.

Lightning. Shattering force. Suppression. Burning heat. Piercing strikes.

Each one was dangerous on its own. Combined, they finally made Voldemort’s expression turn serious.

BOOM!

Explosions erupted around him, swelling into roiling black mist that wrapped tightly around his body. The fog hissed with corrosive power, eating away at the spells that struck it.

Then the black mist surged upward.

Moving at incredible speed, Voldemort darted through the courtyard. The statues fired at fixed intervals, far too slow to keep up. One by one, their attacks were evaded, then shattered.

At last, the statue of Zeus cracked and broke.

The twelve massive columns collapsed with a thunderous roar. From the rubble, several pieces of silvery metal flew out, assembling themselves midair into an ornate silver door embedded in the garden wall.

The door swung open on its own.

But beyond it lay nothing... only pitch-black darkness.

Voldemort took his time, inspecting it from every angle. Only after confirming there were no hidden dangers did he step inside.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, he felt empty air beneath him, as if he had just stepped into a bottomless abyss. He frowned slightly, but didn’t panic.

This wasn’t a real fall. Just a magical illusion.

Under normal circumstances, he might have been curious enough to study it. Any illusion capable of affecting him was no trivial spell.

But right now, the golden apple was likely within reach. What little patience he had left was long gone. He hadn’t even spared a glance at the treasures dropped by the twelve gods’ statues.

"Avada Kedavra."

A sickly green light burst into existence within the darkness.

The surrounding void suddenly froze, then cracked apart like glass, shattering into countless fragments.

Voldemort’s mastery of the Killing Curse was unmatched. In his hands, the spell had evolved far beyond a mere tool for taking life. It had become a force that could erase concepts themselves.

Just like now. The final barrier separating the courtyard from the inner sanctum was effortlessly destroyed.

The darkness vanished, revealing the space before him.

It was vast, nearly as large as the outer temple, though far more sparse. Gone were the excess decorations and clutter, leaving behind an austere, open hall.

At the very heart of the temple stood a colossal statue of a woman. Voldemort didn’t need to think to recognize her—Cybele, the Great Mother of Phrygia, goddess of nature and fertility, mother of gods and mankind.

His gaze lingered on the statue for only a moment before shifting to the altar below.

A table draped in red velvet stood there. Nothing else rested upon it except a single Golden Apple.

Step by step, Voldemort approached, utterly confident that no traps or attacks lay in wait.

This was the most sacred core of the temple. Out of reverence for the deity, no one would dare defile it with traps.

As he drew closer, he felt a faint aura emanating from the Golden Apple. His expression changed instantly—shock, disbelief, and then overwhelming elation.

The aura was weak, but unmistakably different.

Divine. Eternal. Lofty.

It made his very being, steeped in dark magic, recoil in discomfort. Yet at the same time, a certainty rose within him.

Eat it. Devour the Golden Apple.

It would grant him greater talent, a more perfect body. Even a form of immortality far superior to Horcruxes.

Everything else faded from his sight.

His steps quickened, until he was almost gliding forward. The closer he got, the more pronounced that transcendent aura became.

Without hesitation, Voldemort reached out and seized the Golden Apple.

In the next instant, he felt a sharp tug just behind his navel.

His feet left the ground as he was yanked violently through space, hurtling toward some unknown destination.

"...A Portkey?"

.

.

.