Voldemort felt a burning fire raging in his chest, scorching him from the inside.
His throat was dry, and it felt as though his windpipe was being torn apart.
To Voldemort, Cyrus's words were nothing less than an insult.
He despised the Muggle half of his bloodline more than anything—it was a mark of shame, proof that his noble lineage was tainted.
That Muggle blood was filthy.
It reeked of foulness!
And now, Cyrus had dared to say he was no different from a Muggle?
His fury reached its peak, erupting like a volcano.
In an instant, waves of overwhelming magic surged from Voldemort's body, like a tidal wave crashing outwards.
The magic lashed out like blades, and serpentine scales appeared on Voldemort's wrist. The scales stood upright, cutting like blades into the air, searing with pain.
Cyrus released Voldemort's wrist.
"I'll make you pay for those words, Cyrus!"
Voldemort spat venomously, his crimson eyes filled with murderous intent. His words dripped with venom, as if he were spewing a toxic curse, mixing blood and malice.
Cyrus immediately felt himself enveloped by an overwhelming aura of malevolence.
A wizard's ability to cast spells is innate.
Even without a wand, a young wizard can cause powerful magical outbursts when driven by extreme emotion.
Voldemort, of course, was no exception. In his calmest state, he could cast spells without a wand, and now, fueled by rage, even his words carried magical power.
In essence, magic is the power to alter the world and reshape reality.
A powerful wizard can even manifest their will into existence. If Cyrus were just a powerless Muggle at that moment, even Voldemort's words alone might have condemned him to a life of misfortune.
But unfortunately for Voldemort, Cyrus was also a powerful wizard.
"Talk is cheap, Voldemort. Your biggest mistake today was standing so close to me," Cyrus mocked.
"Master!" Barty Crouch Jr. urgently tried to rush in to assist, but he was blocked by the still formidable Bulstrode.
"This is a battle between kings, boy! You can't interfere," said Bulstrode.
His hair was graying, and his body was thin and frail. The years spent in Azkaban had been especially harsh on an old man like him.
He was a shadow of his former self, though the madness and darkness inside him ran much deeper than his appearance suggested.
"Fool! Look at who our true master is!" Barty shouted angrily.
He knew that Bulstrode was, in fact, loyal—he hadn't betrayed them even twelve years ago. But now, because of some imposter, Bulstrode had switched sides?
It was incomprehensible to him!
"You're still young, so it's understandable you don't get it," Bulstrode said softly, but his next words left Barty stunned for a long time. "In truth, the two Dark Lords are the same person, aren't they?"
"What kind of nonsense are you talking about?"
"Nonsense? I'm not senile," Bulstrode replied calmly. "I've been a Death Eater longer than you've been alive, boy. I saw the Dark Lord in his youth."
Bulstrode drifted into a brief memory.
"Back then, the Death Eaters weren't fully formed. We had another name. Most who were drawn to the Dark Lord's power gathered around him, like knights defending a king. But somewhere along the way, everything changed. Let me think—it was after the Dark Lord returned from his travels, looking ..quite different."
The original Death Eaters were called the "Knights of Walpurgis," a small group at the time, all drawn to Voldemort because of their belief in the nobility of pure blood. They believed in Voldemort's talents and trusted he would lead them to greatness.
But after Voldemort's brief disappearance and return, he had become much more extreme... more crazy.
The overall direction hadn't changed much, but gradually, everything was different. The ideals they once held dear had long since become a façade for Voldemort's terrifying rule. Beyond attracting more young, hot-headed wizards to the Death Eater cause, those ideals no longer served any real purpose.
Did pure-bloods become more noble because of it?
At least Bulstrode didn't believe that groveling on the ground like a dog, wagging your tail, and humbly kissing someone's feet was a form of nobility.
What had once held them together was the ideal and admiration for Voldemort, but eventually, only fear remained.
How many of those original followers had fallen to Aurors, and how many had been killed by Voldemort himself?
Bulstrode glanced at the Death Eaters, who had now ceased fighting.
Among them, apart from the inherently crazy Barty Crouch Jr., how many were trembling here tonight purely out of fear of Voldemort's power?
Barty listened in stunned silence to these untold stories, things he had never known and frankly didn't care about.
He didn't care about pure-bloods or glory. All he knew was Voldemort—this great wizard, like himself, had an equally detestable father, and had also taken his own father's life.
"This is betrayal! Disloyalty!" Barty shouted.
"When the betrayer is the leader of the organization, loyalty has already become a joke. It's not me who betrayed the Dark—no," Bulstrode paused.
After a long moment, he finally gathered the resolve to finish his sentence: "It's not us who betrayed Voldemort, it's Voldemort who betrayed us."
His voice was soft, almost mumbled, but to everyone's ears, it struck like thunder!
Even Sirius and the others didn't dare speak Voldemort's name, yet Bulstrode had just said it out loud.
It's not hard to understand. In his view, there is only one Dark Lord, and it isn't Voldemort—it's Cyrus now!
"You've surprised me, Bulstrode."
Voldemort had regained some of his composure. He lifted his head, his flat face resembling that of a snake, with venomous eyes fixed on Cyrus. This time, he was smarter. As soon as he freed himself from Cyrus's grasp, he immediately put distance between them.
"Ferula! Episkey!"
Voldemort pressed down on his mangled wrist. In an instant, the blood flowed back, the shattered flesh reanimated, and the bone fragments pieced themselves together, healing the injury in mere moments.
But Cyrus wasn't worried because Voldemort's wand had fallen at his feet, and Voldemort hadn't had time to retrieve it.
"I never expected you to say something that would hurt me so much, Bulstrode."
Voldemort seemed unfazed by Cyrus, nor did he care about losing his wand.
Instead, he turned his attention to Bulstrode, as though convincing this old 'friend' to return to his side was more important than facing Cyrus, a formidable foe.
In fact, for Voldemort, it truly was.
Even now, he believed he had a way to deal with Cyrus, but the words Bulstrode had spoken would plant a seed of betrayal in the hearts of all his Death Eaters.
Besides Cyrus, Dumbledore is also an enemy of Voldemort. He certainly didn't want to find himself completely isolated and vulnerable.
''I've never changed, Bulstrode,'' Voldemort said with a smile. ''Magic is power. Even the Ministry of Magic acknowledges this truth. In the beginning, I didn't have absolute power, so I had to rally behind the banner of pure-blood supremacy."
''But look how things have turned out since then. Apart from Dumbledore, no one is a match for me. And even Dumbledore cannot stop me,'' Voldemort continued. ''But I've never abandoned pure-bloods, nor have I abandoned any of you, have I? It's always been about pure-blood supremacy. Not half-bloods, and certainly not Muggles!''
''Half-bloods, at least, can be forgiven. It was their parents' foolish mistake. But those Muggles, and the wizards from the Muggle world—do they have any right to stand by my side?''
''No!'' Voldemort declared emphatically.
''The pure-blood supremacy you've shown is not what I imagined,'' Bulstrode shook his head. 'We should have parted ways long ago.'
''I thought you were smarter than this,' Voldemort said coldly. 'In the end, power is everything.''
''But you were nearly killed!'' Sirius Black mocked, his tone icy.
Voldemort merely glanced at Sirius without addressing him, then turned his gaze back to the other Death Eaters, as well as Cyrus.
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