readease Chapter 573, page 582: Deep Space Echoes March 2
Chapter 573, page 582: Deep Space Echoes March 2
Chapter 573, page 582: Deep Space Echoes March 2
came back.
Grindelwald took a deep breath, sensing the thin magical energy around him. Compared to ten thousand years ago, the magical energy of this era was like a desert. But the legendary power surging within him meant he no longer needed to rely on external magical energy—he himself was a mobile source of magical energy.
came back.
Grindelwald took a deep breath, sensing the thin magical energy around him. Compared to ten thousand years ago, the magical energy of this era was like a desert. But the legendary power surging within him meant he no longer needed to rely on external magical energy—he himself was a mobile source of magical energy.
Dumbledore felt it all too. He looked up at the sparse stars in the sky, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"I'm back," he said softly.
Ian carefully put the time machine away, then looked at the two old people. Their youthful faces showed a hint of weariness, but even more so, a sense of relief at having completed their mission.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. "Have you adapted to the power of the legend?"
Dumbledore sensed the surging power within him and nodded: "It will still take time, but—it's different now."
Grindelwald didn't speak, but simply raised his hand and snapped his fingers lightly. A ball of black flame danced at his fingertips, purer and deeper than before, as if containing the darkness of the entire universe. He gently clenched his fist, and the flame vanished.
"That's enough," he said.
Ian laughed. He turned and walked towards the tavern: "Come on, let's go in and sit down. We've been up all night—no, all ten thousand years—it's time to rest."
Dumbledore and Grindelwald exchanged a glance, then followed.
The tavern door was pushed open, and the brass bell on the door rang out with a clear, crisp sound.
The old wizard with gray hair was still behind the bar. When he saw them return, he simply nodded slightly and continued wiping his glasses.
The person in the portrait looked at the two old men with curiosity, as if they had noticed some changes in them.
The three of them walked to the table by the window in the corner and sat down. It was the same spot, the same dim lighting, as if they had never left.
But everything is different now.
Ian leaned back in his chair, watching the two silent old men. He knew they were feeling, processing, and adapting to the power they had just gained.
The silence lasted for several minutes.
Then, Dumbledore suddenly spoke up: "Gellert, do you think—those lives will remember us?"
Gellert paused, then understood what he meant. He shook his head, his gaze becoming distant. "No. Everything will be gone. The forests, the animals, the dragons, even the traces we left behind—all will be wiped out in that apocalypse."
Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then nodded slightly. He didn't say anything more, but a complex light flashed in his bright eyes.
Ian looked at them, a light beyond his years shining in his deep eyes. He spoke softly, his voice calm yet carrying an indescribable power: "The river of history will not change course because of a few stones. The stones we threw were completely submerged in that apocalypse."
Ten thousand years from now, no one will know what happened in that forest, no one will know that the ancient dragon once existed, and no one will know that two legendary wizards from the future once fought, ate, and laughed there.
He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. "But that's not important. What's important is that we know. We remember."
Dumbledore looked at him, a hint of relief flashing in his deep blue eyes. He gently patted Ian's shoulder without saying a word, but that gesture was enough.
Outside the window, the night remained deep.
In the distance, the faint roar of the waves could be heard—an ominous sign from the direction of Voldemort, belonging to this era. But at this moment, the three of them simply sat quietly, enjoying this brief moment of tranquility.
Because they knew the storm was coming soon.
And they are ready.
The primeval forest of 10,000 years ago has completely changed.
The lava covered everything. The towering trees that once reached into the clouds, the ancient creatures that once roamed, and the open space that had witnessed the three's battle were all swallowed up by the crimson lava, turned to ashes, and vanished into nothingness.
The volcano was still erupting, and the sky was covered with a thick layer of volcanic ash, like an eternal darkness. Occasionally, lightning would flash across the sky, illuminating this devastated world—a world of nothing but lava, devoid of any trace of life.
The enormous ancient dragon carcass, along with its remaining bones, was also engulfed by the lava. Those indestructible bones slowly melted in the extreme heat, eventually merging with the lava to become part of this apocalyptic world.
All traces left by the three—the trenches of battle, the scorch marks from the raging fire, the leftover bones—were also erased, covered up, and forgotten.
It was as if they had never existed.
It was as if that giant dragon had never existed.
It was as if everything in that forest was just a dream.
And that is history.
History erased by the apocalypse.
A history that will never be known.
But Ian is right—that doesn't matter.
The important thing is that someone remembers. Ten thousand years later, three people sit quietly in an unassuming little pub in London's West End, remembering.
The tavern's lights remained dim and warm, the night outside the window was deep, and the distant roar of the waves could be faintly heard. The three sat around a table in the corner.
Several cups of tea, now completely cold, were placed in front of them, but no one had the appetite to drink them.
Ian leaned back in his chair, his deep eyes sweeping over the two faces, a slight smile playing on his lips: "Now that you've eaten and drunk your fill, it's time to get down to business."
Dumbledore set down his teacup, a hint of seriousness flashing in his deep blue eyes: "Have you thought about what exactly you're going to do?"
Ian nodded, took a piece of parchment from his pocket, and spread it on the table. The parchment contained a simple diagram—the outline of Azkaban.
The surrounding sea area, and several key azimuth points.
"The plan is simple." He pointed to Azkaban's location. "First, you put on a show—in front of everyone at the Ministry of Magic, Grindelwald betrays Dumbledore and severely injures you. The injury must be convincing enough for Voldemort to believe you're incapacitated."
Grindelwald raised an eyebrow: "And then?"
"Then you escaped, badly wounded." Ian looked at Grindelwald. "The more pathetic your escape, the better. Ideally, everyone would think you also—"
He was severely wounded and near death. Only then would Voldemort lower his guard and see an opportunity to strike.
Grindelwald sneered, a mischievous glint in his heterochromatic eyes: "Acting? I'm good at that. I did plenty of acting back in Europe."
Dumbledore shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. He looked at Ian: "And you? What role do you play in this play?"
A sly glint flashed in Ian's eyes: "Me? I'm going to be dragged into a dreamlike illusion by Death."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow slightly: "Death?"
Ian nodded, raised his hand, and a dark, misty gray light appeared at his fingertips. The light condensed in his palm, eventually forming a blurry, cloaked humanoid silhouette—a silhouette without a face, only two eerie green lights flickering in the eye sockets, radiating a chilling aura of death.
"This is an illusion I conjured with magic," Ian said. "It will leave a fatal mark on me, then drag me into a hazy, dreamlike world. Everyone who sees this will think I'm dead, or at least completely incapacitated."
Grindelwald stared at the shadowy humanoid silhouette, a complex light flashing in his heterochromatic eyes: "The Enchanted Realm—can you really hide there?"
Ian smiled slightly, a smile that seemed particularly mysterious on his youthful face: "I've said it before, the Enchanted Realm is the place I know best. There, no one can find me—not even Voldemort, not even the being behind him."
He withdrew the dark illusion and looked at the two of them again: "Voldemort's target is Headmaster Dumbledore. His hatred for you is currently his strongest emotion. As long as he sees you critically wounded and dying, or sees me killed, he will not be able to resist taking action. And at that time..."
He paused, a cold glint flashing in his eyes: "That's when we'll truly make our move."
Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then slowly nodded: "The plan is feasible. But there's one problem—the people from the Ministry of Magic must witness it all firsthand. Only then will the news get out and reach Voldemort's ears."
Grindelwald smiled, a smile brimming with confidence: "That's easy. Aurors patrol the gates of Azkaban every day. We'll 'make our move' there."
Ian nodded and put away the parchment. "Then it's settled. But before we proceed..."
He looked at Dumbledore: "You should let Mr. Nico know we're safe first. He's still waiting for news of our return."
Dumbledore paused for a moment, then smiled. He stood up, walked to the window, and pulled a small, gleaming silver mirror from his pocket—a two-way mirror, his special means of communication with Nicolas Flamel.
He tapped the mirror gently, and a few seconds later, Nicolas Flamel's aged and kind face appeared in the mirror.
"Albus!" Nicole's voice visibly relieved. "You're back? Did it go smoothly?"
Dumbledore smiled and nodded. "You're back. It went smoothly. Thank you, Nico. We couldn't have done it without your help."
Nico waved his hand, a smug smile on his face. "Don't mention it, Albus. It's only natural for me to help my apprentice. By the way," he leaned closer to the mirror, lowering his voice, "how's the child? Is he alright?"
Dumbledore glanced back at Ian, who was waving at him. He smiled and said to Nico, "He's fine. He just made a pot of spicy blood tofu with dragon's blood, which really gave us two old folks a run for our money."
Nico paused for a moment, then burst into laughter. The laughter echoed in the mirror, filled with satisfaction and pride: "Good! Good! That's my apprentice! By the way, what does that dragon blood spicy hot pot taste like?"
Dumbledore thought for a moment and said seriously, "To be honest, it's quite delicious."
Nico laughed even harder. He waved his hand, "Alright, alright, you guys get on with your work. I know you have important things to do. Remember, no matter what happens..."
He looked at the small figure in the distance in the mirror: "Child, your teacher's wife said she'll cook you something delicious next time she comes."
Ian smiled, a smile that shone brightly on his youthful face: "Thank you, Madam!"
The image in the mirror disappeared.
Dumbledore put away the two-way mirror and turned to look at the two. His expression became serious again, but his deep blue eyes burned with an unprecedented light: "Let's go."
"
Grindelwald stood up and stretched. He looked at Ian, a complex light flashing in his heterochromatic eyes: "Kid, when you make your move later, don't actually kill me."
Ian blinked, his innocent expression making you want to punch him: "Don't worry, I'll go easy on you. After all, you're my professor."
Grindelwald snorted and turned his head away, but a smile was clearly on his lips.
The three of them walked out of the tavern and stood on the quiet street. The night was deep, there was no moon, only sparse starlight.
Ian pulled a pair of magical shackles from his pocket—shackles that Dumbledore had "borrowed" from the Ministry of Magic, specifically for imprisoning dangerous wizards. Grindelwald stretched out his hands, allowing Ian to fasten the shackles onto his wrists.
The shackles gleamed with a faint silver light and appeared to be indestructible.
Grindelwald glanced down at the shackles on his wrists, a hint of amusement flashing in his heterochromatic eyes: "This thing, can it really lock up a legend?"
Ian smiled slightly: "It can't be locked. But it looks like it is, and that's enough."
Grindelwald nodded and said nothing more.
Dumbledore walked over to the two men and extended his hand. Ian took his hand, and Grindelwald reciprocated by placing his hand on Ian's shoulder.
The three of them leaned against each other.
Ian took a deep breath, and magic surged within him—
"Snapped!"
With a loud bang, the three figures disappeared into the night.
When they reappeared, they were standing on a dark reef.
The waves roared beneath my feet, crashing against the rocks and splashing up a cloud of cold foam. The night wind howled, carrying a biting chill and the salty smell of the sea.
In the distance, a black fortress stood atop an even larger reef, its walls battered day and night by the waves, eerie and terrifying. That was Azkaban, the most infamous wizarding prison in the wizarding world.
Several figures patrolled the gates of Azkaban; they were Aurors from the Ministry of Magic, responsible for guarding the prisoners on this isolated island. Their wands gleamed faintly as they warily scanned the surrounding darkness.
Dumbledore gazed at the black fortress, a complex light flashing in his azure eyes.
Grindelwald looked at it too. Fifty years ago, he had been imprisoned here—no, not here, but in another tower. But he would never forget that feeling.
Ian released their hands and took a few steps back. He looked at the two elderly men, a serious glint in his deep eyes: "Professors, are you ready?"
Dumbledore took a deep breath and nodded.
Grindelwald's lips curled up slightly, revealing a complex smile tinged with self-deprecation: "I've been prepared for this for a long time."
""
Ian nodded.
The real show is about to begin.