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Inside the shadowy temple, the thick darkness seemed almost tangible, surging like a tide and drowning everything within. And right there, the Brash Goddess was throwing all dignity aside, tilting her head back and shouting at the top of her lungs.
"Father! Big Brothers! Big Sisters! Help me! If you don't save me now, I'm going to catch the plague! You wouldn't want to see me come home raving mad, would you?!"
Her voice turned into palpable sound waves, rippling outward from her as the center. The temple's vaulted ceiling trembled under her cries, and the silent, shadowy wraiths clinging to the stone pillars scattered in panic.
The body of a god, especially their vocal cords, must be something else. The Brash Goddess's bellowing could pierce through the temple itself, shattering the thick clouds she had conjured, sending them exploding upward into the sky.
The broken clouds scattered like cotton wool before a raging wind.
The moon reappeared.
And with it, certain beings' sight became clear once more.
"Wait… she can do that?"
Not only was the suspended Riddle caught completely off guard, but even Ian was dumbfounded by the Brash Goddess's antics. This was nothing like the "journey alongside a god" adventure they had imagined.
Since when did a goddess panic and start calling in reinforcements like this? And if she was going to call for help, shouldn't it be something more dignified like: 'Father, heed my call and deliver me from this endless darkness!'
But no, she just screamed, "Hurry up and save my sorry life!" What kind of goddess does that? Ian felt that he was gaining a much clearer picture of his contract partner. No wonder that after she died, this Brash Goddess could get along so well with the Dementor.
"BOOOOOM!!!"
A thunderous sound erupted outside the temple. It really proved the saying, when you're out in the world, your background and connections matter. The Brash Goddess once again demonstrated this truth through sheer action.
And then, following her loud, unrestrained cries, the moonlit sky left behind by the scattered clouds didn't last for long. The once-bright moon lingered for only a few fleeting seconds.
Its silver light reached its peak and then quickly dimmed. In the next instant, a blazing sun seemed to be shoved into place by an invisible hand, bursting through the clouds and climbing into the sky at an impossible speed.
Day replaced night in the blink of an eye, and the searing golden brilliance devoured the moon's silver glow, as if even the order of the stars themselves was twisted in that moment.
Such was the terrifying power of a god. A brilliant golden pillar of light shot straight down from the sun, piercing the temple's dome like a blade that could split heaven and earth.
It carried endless heat and divine majesty.
The protective wards set up by the priests might as well not have existed at all.
The beam struck precisely at the silent, shadowy wraiths closing in on the Brash Goddess. Their shrill, piercing screams rang out before they were hurled away under the overwhelming might of the attack.
Even Riddle, still held in the Brash Goddess's grasp, wasn't spared, apparently deemed a foreign object and expelled by the same force. Luckily for him, he only slammed into a pillar and coughed up a few mouthfuls of blood.
Compared to him, many shadowy wraiths that had been just as close to the Brash Goddess truly suffered a far worse fate.
They were obliterated on the spot, reduced to nothing but drifting ash, without even the time to let out a proper scream. Of course, since some of them had already latched onto Riddle's body, he didn't feel much physical pain.
Under the peculiar power of the shadowy wraiths, all he could sense was his mind,and every one of his senses, eing shrouded in a strange, stifling mist.
That was no ordinary mist. It carried a sickly grey-green hue, and within it countless tiny motes seemed to drift and writhe, moving as though they were alive. The air grew oppressively heavy, and an icy chill crept up Riddle's spine, making him halt instinctively.
He glanced around. From within the fog, a vague mass of black mist slowly began to take shape, like the silent opening of some abyssal gate, releasing an ancient, malevolent aura.
It was the Silent Wraith in its spiritual form.
"This damn thing!"
Through the haze clouding his mind, Riddle tried to retreat.
Suddenly, his back slammed into what felt like a solid wall. The wraith's invisible maw yawned wide, and in an instant it, swallowed him whole, dragging him into a twisted yet familiar world, his past.
A stabbing pain shot through his temple, and uncontrollable images began to flicker in his mind: the orphanage's dim corridor, the frightened stares of other children, a rabbit hanging by the neck.
"No!"
Riddle roared into the vast white fog, desperate to block the memories, but the mist closed in, enveloping him completely. The surrounding scene began to warp and melt, like ink paintings dissolving in water.
When the haze cleared, he found himself standing in a room of Wool's Orphanage.
How could he forget this afternoon? It was the summer of 1943, the air stifling and hot enough to choke. Eleven-year-old Tom Riddle stood in the center of the room as a tall man stepped inside, Albus Dumbledore.
The man had effortlessly uncovered his hidden "collection": toys stolen from other children, Billy Stubbs' rabbit, Amy Benson's silver bracelet.
"These things don't belong to you, Tom." Dumbledore's voice was calm but unyielding. "I think it's time they were returned to their owners."
Riddle wanted to argue, to deny it, but Dumbledore was already taking the items away, and then he raised his wand. A burst of blue fire erupted from its tip, swallowing the wardrobe in an instant.
The flames were cold, without any heat, yet Riddle felt as though they were burning him alive.
It wasn't just his trophies that were gone.
It was everything he had accumulated over the years, everything that proved he was different, superior, wiped away in a single moment. And the loss burned in him like a wound.
This was the fear and shame buried deepest in his heart. He saw his younger self: small, alone, eyes glimmering with a hunger for power and recognition.
"Enough! I said enough!"
He didn't even know whether he was shouting at Dumbledore or ahe Silent Wraith forcing him to relive this memory. But his desperate, hysterical cry changed nothing.
Dumbledore still stood there, gaze cold, those piercing blue eyes seeming to strip away all his defenses, seeing straight into the deepest darkness of his soul.
"You're a wizard, Tom." Dumbledore's voice was sharp and clear over the crackle of the flames. "But that does not mean you are free to do whatever you please. Magic is not a tool for harming others."
The familiar words rang once more in his ears, and Riddle's face twisted into something monstrous. He saw his younger self kneeling on the carpet, hands clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white. The helplessness, the feeling of being laid bare, it was as vivid as the day it happened.
"Avada Kedavra!"
As though to banish his fear, his past, Riddle's hand snapped up, the Killing Curse bursting forth. Green light slashed through the air, and the world around him began to warp again.
Dumbledore fell at his feet.
"Yes… yes! That's it!"
Riddle's reason began to fray under the Silent Wraith's influence, his thoughts spiraling into chaos.
And at that moment, "Why is it that every time I see you, you're killing someone, Nose-less Tom?"
A voice, tinged with wry exasperation, suddenly spoke from behind. The next instant, the "dead" Dumbledore opened his eyes.
"Now this, this is the true miracle of magic."
That same voice sounded again, almost out of place.
Perhaps the timing was wrong.
Yet those words, that voice, made Riddle involuntarily recall another afternoon, another year, he thought of the "resurrected" cat, and of the reason he could never quite bring himself to face Ian directly.
"Ian Prince." Riddle turned his head with difficulty.
And sure enough, there it was: the humiliation that even Voldemort himself would choose to forget, the deep, festering fear buried at the very core of his being. And now it stood right behind him, dredged up by the Silent Wraith as though to ripen into their feast.
…
While Riddle suffered and floundered in the world of memory, In the real world, faced with the manifestation of the Sun's divine power, the young wizards weren't faring much better.
"Bloody hell! That's an actual sun!"
Ian instinctively raised an arm to shield his eyes, yet still felt the searing heat of the light. Within the column of radiance, a towering figure loomed faintly.
He wore golden war armor and held a longbow blazing with light. Brilliant gold radiance poured from his form, and though his face could not be seen, his unmatched power and majesty could be felt in every fiber of one's being.
Even his shadow stretched long behind him, but it was not darkness. It shimmered faintly gold, as if even his shadow carried the warmth of the Sun.
"My daughter… Are you saying you weren't mad enough before?"
The voice came from the golden figure, low, resonant, like rolling thunder echoing across heaven and earth. Every syllable was steeped in boundless power, laced with a soul-penetrating authority, yet at the same time it burned like searing flame.
That flame, however, held a trace of weary resignation.
"Let's not talk about that, quick, Father, give this avatar of mine a bit of power, no, give me some fatherly love! I'm going to team up with my companions to challenge the evil wizards plaguing the world!"
The Brash Goddess, seeing her backer arrive, immediately straightened up and marched right into the blazing sunlight to clasp the Sun God's hand, eager to "borrow" a little strength.
(To Be Continued…)