Pain. Agony.
It was raw and searing, crawling through every nerve as if his very soul was being torn apart and stitched back together.
Voldemort. This name that summarized his pursuit of immortality was still a fitting moniker. Ever fiber of his essence was focused on one thing: surviving.
Voldemort gasped—not the cold, controlled breath of a Dark Lord, but a ragged, desperate intake of air. Flesh. Bone. Blood. He was whole again, yet something was wrong. Familiar, yet foreign. He flexed his fingers slowly, feeling the sinew and bone beneath aged skin. This body was not his own, yet it yielded to his command. Each movement sent ripples of discomfort through his limbs, as though the body itself protested his presence.
But there was more than pain. Beneath the raw edges of discomfort, something stirred—a cohesion he had not known in decades. His soul, once fragmented and scattered across Horcruxes, now pulsed as a singular, unified force. There were no lingering shards, no spectral echoes of himself. He was whole, unbroken. The sensation was alien and intoxicating. Power did not bleed from him in fragments but surged as a singular, unstoppable current. Rising from his place of rest, he attempted to stand and leave his dwelling. His body did not comply, and he tumbled to the floor, the ground uneven beneath his feet—or rather, the feet of this body he now commanded. It was unsettling. Voldemort had always possessed absolute control over his form, over his magic. Yet now, there was resistance—not of will, but of flesh. Muscles long accustomed to another master, nerves unfamiliar with his ruthless precision. This body had been honed by years of delicate craftsmanship, not by conquest or destruction. And it bristled beneath the sudden weight of his dark presence.Even as his limbs rebelled, he sensed the undeniable truth: given time, the body would bend, break, and reform under his dominion.
Voices. Not whispers in the dark, but thoughts—memories—not his own. They flooded him, swarming like vultures over carrion. Hands calloused from years of grinding herbs, fingers stained with the remnants of rare ingredients, lips murmuring ancient alchemical incantations. Knowledge of elixirs, refining flames, and mystical herbs stretched before him—an endless web of wisdom. A lifetime of experience not his, yet now part of him.
He sifted through those memories, tasting their texture, feeling their weight. A boy bent over ancient scrolls, the scent of ink and parchment heavy in the air. The slow mastery of flames—learning the subtleties of heat, the balance between destruction and creation. Days spent in the market, haggling for rare herbs, his tongue sharp but always respectful, lest he offend the wrong merchant. Hours in quiet contemplation, meditating to align mind and body for the delicate process of pill refinement.
Gu He.
The name surfaced, distant yet integral. A respected alchemist of the Jia Ma Empire, a man of stature and influence. Yet now, Voldemort was in control. Voldemort's presence did not merely inhabit; it had devoured the previous soul. There was no division, no conflict. Voldemort did not need to suppress or dominate this vessel—it was his, in essence and being. A perfect unity of mind, body, and soul.
He lay where he fell. Still motionless, feeling the strength of Gu He's body—aged but potent, honed by years of alchemical mastery. Yet, Voldemort felt no kinship with this man's former self. Gu He's compassion, his cautious nature—all were smothered, crushed beneath the weight of Voldemort's will. The man had been meticulous, prudent, content to serve the powerful rather than become powerful himself. It was an existence Voldemort found contemptible.
He rose slowly, his joints protesting as he examined his surroundings: shelves lined with jade bottles, scrolls etched with ancient symbols, the lingering scent of rare herbs clinging to the air. This was Gu He's sanctuary. No—his sanctuary now. The dim glow of alchemical flames flickered in corners, casting long shadows that danced along the walls. Tools of the trade—mortar and pestle, cauldrons of varying sizes, crystalline vials—each object now belonged to him. Symbols of potential power, waiting to be wielded.
Voldemort stood slowly, feeling the shift in balance. The muscles responded sluggishly at first but grew more obedient with each movement. His gaze settled on a polished bronze mirror. A face stared back—sharp, refined features, streaks of silver in raven-black hair—a face of authority. But the eyes—those eyes burned with a ruthless glint not born of Gu He, but of Voldemort himself. Cold. Unyielding. Patient.
"A second chance..."
His voice was smooth, deeper than his former thin rasp, but it carried the same chilling finality. He smiled—a thin, cruel curve of the lips. This world was raw, untamed. Power was fragmented between alchemists, warriors, and clans—ripe for exploitation. No Ministry of Magic to meddle, no Dumbledore to counter him. Only strength and those too weak to wield it.
He turned back to the cluttered desk, running his fingers along the scrolls and tools. Images surfaced, not memories, but knowledge. This was a world governed by Dou Qi—an energy that warriors cultivated to ascend through ranks of power. Alchemists, revered for their ability to craft pills and elixirs, wielded influence over these warriors, often determining the fates of empires.
Power defined by cultivation… how quaint.
He recalled the wizarding world's structure—pure-blood supremacy, political machinations within the Ministry of Magic, the oppressive traditions of old families. Yet here, power was more straightforward. Strength dictated respect, and alchemists were key to strength.
He delved deeper into the memories—memories that were now his. The meticulous process of gathering rare ingredients, the intricate balance of fire and herb, the subtle art of binding energy into pills. Every formula, every failed attempt, every triumph was at his fingertips. He understood the critical importance of precision—how a mere fraction of imbalance could render an elixir poisonous or powerless. And yet, he saw opportunity in that fragility.
Like the Potions Masters of Hogwarts, he mused, but elevated to kings.
Alchemists were not just craftsmen but gatekeepers of advancement. Their elixirs could break through bottlenecks in cultivation or heal wounds that would otherwise be fatal. In this Jia Ma Empire, Gu He had been a towering figure among them, second only to a select few.
Gu He had studied under the most renowned masters, yet he had never sought to surpass them. He was content in the shadow of the Misty Cloud Sect, bound by alliances and old obligations.
But Gu He had been content—complacency breeds weakness.
Voldemort sneered. He would not squander this influence. He would turn it into something far greater.
He moved to the window, gazing over the distant mountain ranges that cradled the empire. Beyond those peaks, clans warred for dominance, sects plotted in the shadows, and empires rose and fell. Magic here was not the wands and spells of his old world but energy honed through body and spirit—Dou Qi.
Magic without wands, he thought. A primitive but promising foundation.
Clans ruled by bloodlines and tradition—so fragile, so easily manipulated. Much like the pure-blood families of Britain, he thought. Tradition shrouding decay. These clans, bound by legacy and pride, clung to outdated customs, blind to how easily their foundations could be shattered. Alliances forged in honor could be twisted into chains, and rivalries could be sharpened into weapons.
Power here was categorized—Dou Zhi Qi, Dou Zhe, Dou Shi… all the way to Dou Sheng, with each stage signifying monumental leaps in strength. And alchemists were ranked similarly by their abilities to refine pills—from Tier One to the elusive Tier Nine. Yet, these classifications were rigid, confining. A hierarchy built on tradition, not innovation. Voldemort scoffed at the idea. Why stop at Dou Sheng? Why limit oneself to Tier Nine? Power should be boundless, ever-expanding.
Gu He, he noted with disdain, was a Tier Six Alchemist. Voldemort would change that.
He imagined the possibilities. If the Dark Arts of his world could be fused with the alchemy here—if curses could be bound within pills, if elixirs could enhance the mind and body beyond known limits—the very fabric of power could be rewritten. Imagine potions that enslaved the will, pills that spread disease like a plague, elixirs that granted strength but gnawed at the soul. No longer would strength rely solely on cultivation. He would create a new path, a darker path, where alchemical horrors could bend this world to his will.
He paced slowly, mind racing. Alliances would be necessary, but not alliances of trust—alliances of need. He would make them dependent, indebted. To control the influential, he must first grasp their desires, their weaknesses. Wealth, power, revenge—all could be exploited. Loyalty was fragile, but necessity was unbreakable.
Start with Nalan Yanran.