Chapter 629: The Real Plan
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Actually, it was only after the Portkey activated that Voldemort began to understand what was going on.
If... If the Golden Apple was a Portkey, then that must mean he wasn’t the first wizard to ever set foot inside this temple. After all, in ancient Greece, Portkey magic hadn’t even existed yet.
Mid-flight, Voldemort already pieced everything together. It was a trap.
Luckily, he had ways to interrupt the Portkey’s pull and forcibly separate himself from the Golden Apple.
But he didn’t want to.
Even if it was a trap, the aura radiating from the apple was unmistakably real. That much, he trusted his own judgment on.
So even knowing it might drag him straight into danger, Voldemort chose to take the risk.
It wasn’t like this was his first time facing death. Once you’ve crossed that line, it stops mattering quite so much.
Lately, he’d even been studying a number of self-destructive spells that traded life for explosive power.
..
Because of his lack of experience with Portkeys, Tom nearly ruined the plan this time.
Fortunately, Voldemort was greedy enough to fall into the trap.
...
The flight was fast. In just moments, Voldemort crossed hundreds of kilometers and arrived at a long, narrow rift.
He landed on a patch of loose sand and gravel, his gaze locking onto a man with orange-red hair hovering some twenty to thirty meters ahead.
The man opened his eyes slowly. As he did, the wind within the canyon surged. Fine gravel lifted into the air, pelting the stone walls with sharp, rapid clicks.
It looked like nothing more than a sudden gust.
But to Voldemort, it felt like a raging sea.
This wasn’t ordinary wind. It was a storm of pure magic, threatening to tear him apart like a lone boat caught in a tempest.
"Don’t ask. You don’t need to know who I am."
The man’s deep blue eyes didn’t even seem to properly acknowledge Voldemort. The sheer indifference in his tone made Voldemort’s anger flare.
No one had ever looked down on him like this.
Not even Dumbledore.
...No, wait, that wasn’t true. There had been one.
That arrogant fool, Tom Riddle, who had gained a bit of luck and talent and thought himself untouchable.
And now there was another one—the orange-red-haired bastard.
Still, Voldemort didn’t act rashly. During the flight, he’d only realized this was a trap. But now, face-to-face, he understood something more precise—
This trap wasn’t meant for just anyone who picked up the Golden Apple.
It was meant specifically for him.
"I’ve never seen you before," Voldemort said, studying the man carefully. Not just unfamiliar—no matter how hard he searched his memory, he couldn’t recall anyone like this existing in the magical world.
The pressure this man exuded... it surpassed even Dumbledore.
The man rolled his shoulders and grinned. "Of course you haven’t. In every plan, in every version of the future, there’s no place for you. Wouldn’t it be better to stay a wandering ghost? Why insist on coming back? Do you enjoy dying over and over again?"
Voldemort’s expression darkened, then twisted into a cold smile. "I see. I don’t know where you crawled out from, but... you’re afraid of me."
"Afraid?" Andros burst into laughter. "That’s quite the confidence you’ve got there, Voldemort. Doesn’t it sound ridiculous, even to you? If we were truly afraid, why would only one Sun-Chaser show up to deal with you?"
Sun-Chaser?
Voldemort let out a cold, silent sneer. At last, a thread to pull from this mysterious man.
"Sun-Chasers? Where did you crawl out from? Just another pack of nobodies. Though I’ll admit, your information network is impressive, managing to uncover news of my resurrection."
Even as he spoke, killing intent surged quietly beneath the surface.
There’s a traitor among us.
Who?
The news of his return had leaked, and there were only three insignificant followers by his side. Voldemort’s suspicion immediately fell on Barty Jr.
Barty had been with him the shortest time and had even been sent back to Britain. If anyone was compromised, it was him.
Andros narrowed his eyes. "Dumbledore thought the same thing back then. If Tom Riddle’s little pet hadn’t saved his life in New York, Hogwarts would have a different headmaster by now."
Dumbledore... New York... Riddle’s pet...
A sharp glint flashed in Voldemort’s eyes.
"The Feathered Serpent, Quetzalcoatl? So you’re from America."
That explained the name Sun-Chasers. Probably a group of fanatics devoted to that creature. The thought eased his irritation slightly.
And yet, it only made him angrier in another way. His narrow, snake-like pupils gleamed with malice. "Sun-Chasers? I’ve never had any dealings with you, yet you’ve set your sights on me. What, do you think I’m easier to bully than Dumbledore?"
Andros kept his face carefully blank, maintaining that same air of disdain. Inside, though, he was on the verge of laughing.
Oh boy, Tom really is ruthless...
The Sun-Chasers hid in the shadows, doing who knew what. But with their history involving a divine creature—the Quetzalcoatl—and Tom’s latest trial task, they were destined to become mortal enemies anyway.
As for Voldemort, that went without saying. The one he hated most right now wasn’t Albus Dumbledore or Harry Potter.
It was Tom Riddle, the one who had nearly taken everything from him.
So why not let the two sides tear each other apart? Let Voldemort rip into the Sun-Chasers and expose everything about them.
When Andros first heard Tom’s plan, he’d felt genuinely relieved to be on the same side as him.
If he were an enemy instead, with that kind of mind... he’d probably be played to death and still thank Tom for it.
Still, being straightforward had its advantages.
Like right now. One sentence was all it took to shatter Voldemort’s composure.
"That’s right. Compared to Dumbledore, you’re much easier to deal with."
"Avada Kedavra!"
A blinding green light burst from the tip of his wand.
The wand Voldemort held now wasn’t his original one. It was something Bellatrix had casually taken from her family vault, not entirely to his liking.
But after killing a few wizards, the wand had gradually bent to his will. At the very least, it could now unleash its full power.
The instant Andros finished speaking, the curse shot forward... Or at least, it should have.
"What...?"
Voldemort stared, disbelief written plainly across his face.
At a distance of barely twenty meters, the Killing Curse should have struck in an instant.
But the moment it left his wand, the brilliant green dimmed to a dull glow. Its speed dropped to a crawl, like a tortoise inching forward. The air itself seemed thick, as though filled with glue. Every meter the curse advanced required immense effort.
Except it wasn’t glue at all.
The air was saturated with dense, viscous magic.
That man... had used this crude, overwhelming method to forcibly drain the Killing Curse of all its power.
.
.
.
