Chapter 63: Thunderous Means, A Heavy-Handed Strike!

London, England.
The Ministry of Magic.
Hidden deep beneath Whitehall, the Ministry of Magic resembled a perpetual hive, constantly humming with a busy atmosphere.

With a flash of emerald Floo powder, Vane Knot and Lucius Malfoy gradually materialized from the mist, appearing in the bustling atrium.
The two of them looked utterly disheveled.
This sight instantly drew countless gazes.
In the wizarding world, figures of their prominence—born to illustrious, noble pure-blood families—had always presented themselves with elegance and dignity, rarely appearing before the public in such a wretched state.
For a moment, murmurs rippled through the hall as witches and wizards whispered to one another, their eyes filled with curiosity and confusion.
Some stopped in their hurried tracks to watch, while others stole glances in this direction, lowering their voices to discuss the scene with their colleagues.

Ignoring the stares, the two men headed straight for the lifts.
Their destination:
The Minister for Magic's office.

Cornelius Fudge sat in his office, wading through mountains of paperwork.
Suddenly, the door was violently shoved open.
"Minister Fudge, you must seek justice for us!"

Fudge looked up to see Lucius Malfoy and Vane Knot—the usually glamorous heads of pure-blood families—standing before him in such a wretched state.
His eyes widened, written all over with shock and confusion, utterly unable to believe what he was seeing.
Their robes were tattered, stained with dust and scorched in numerous places, emitting a pungent odor. Their hair was as messy as a bird's nest, strands of it hanging limply over dirt-smudged foreheads. Deep fear and panic still lingered in their eyes, and their bodies trembled slightly and uncontrollably.

"What... on earth happened here?" Fudge stammered.
In his mind, these were prominent figures in the wizarding world, accustomed to moving with aristocratic elegance and dignity. How had they ended up in such a state?

Vane’s lips quivered, and just as he was about to speak, he was interrupted by a fit of violent coughing.
Lucius took over, his voice laced with tears: "Minister, we were attending a gathering at Vane’s estate when a powerful dark wizard suddenly emerged from nowhere and launched a frenzied attack against us. That is why we have come here to request reinforcements."

Hearing this, Fudge felt as though he had been struck by lightning. He jolted up from his seat, slamming both hands down hard on the desk with a dull thud that rattled the documents scattered across it. "A dark wizard? How is that possible! The Ministry has always maintained tight surveillance on such dangerous elements; not a single ripple escapes our notice. How could a sudden attack on you possibly happen?!"

Indeed, if a dark wizard dared to assault even a pure-blood family's estate—
Then the entire British wizarding world was not far from chaos.

Vane said through gritted teeth, "Minister, you've forgotten one person—he is not a dark wizard, but he is worse than a dark wizard, and far more terrifying."

Fudge froze, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes. Could there really be such a figure in the British wizarding world? Why had he never heard of him?
Unconsciously, he asked, his voice rising a fraction: "Who?"

Lucius and Vane locked eyes with Fudge, their expressions grim as they uttered with heavy, deliberate emphasis:
"Burn Morris."

Understanding instantly dawned in Fudge's heart.
The name flashed across his mind like a streak of lightning.
Since it wasn't a dark wizard, then things would be easy to handle.
He let out a sigh of relief, drew a deep breath, patted his chest, and then said firmly: "I now order Scrimgeour to mobilize the entire Auror Office, with all standby Hit Squads in southwestern Britain cooperating in the operation."
"Protecting the property and lives of British wizards has always been the responsibility of the Ministry of Magic." He paused, his tone growing even more resolute: "We will never tolerate such atrocious villains. We must strike with thunderous force to make him pay a heavy price for his actions!"

...

In the basement.
Morris stared blankly at the mask in his hand, his eyes hollow, as if drained of all vitality.

Seven masks.
Seven souls.
Seven desperate choices.
A total of seven people had chosen to embrace death.
Behind every mask lay the hope and struggle of a life, and now, the brilliance of those lives had been extinguished, leaving behind only these cold, inanimate masks.

Morris’s hands trembled slightly. He felt an unspeakable sense of oppression, like an abyss, slowly swallowing him whole.
He lowered his head, breathing in the decayed air that pierced his lungs like needles. Deep within his heart, anger and helplessness intertwined, turning into a surging wave that utterly engulfed him.

At that moment, he knew the only thing he had to do was lead the survivors out of this hellish place.
From the moment he stepped foot in here, fate had left him only one path.
That's right—fight his way out!
Carve a bloody path through heavy encirclement with the blood and death of his enemies!
To let himself cower like a pathetic rat in a basement, awaiting the whims of fate? Sorry, he couldn't do it!
To let himself bow and surrender like his enemies? Sorry, he couldn't do it!
To let those people, whose hopes had reignited, plunge back into the abyss? Sorry, he couldn't do it!
Why should some die swiftly while others suffered slow torment?
Even in death, there are differences!

And now, he had one more reason to leave this place:
To lead these pitiful people and fight their way out together!
To slaughter them until not a single one remained!
To wash the ground in rivers of blood!
To turn the world upside down!

A resolute look flashed across Morris's face, an expression as if he were making a clean break with his past self.
Then, slowly, he raised his right hand, his movement solemn yet tinged with ruthlessness, and pressed it firmly against his chest.

In an instant, magic surged within him, rolling endlessly like a dark, violent tide.
With a low, deep roar, he channeled his magic and pressed down hard.
A muffled thud echoed, and his chest instantly ran red with blood, crimson droplets continually seeping out like broken beads to stain his garments.
Bizarrely, the blood did not drip down; instead, it hovered before him, slowly revolving around his body, radiating a bone-chilling aura.

At the same time, a power so strong it was suffocating erupted from him.
The surrounding air seemed to be squeezed by an invisible giant hand, emitting sharp cracking sounds as the very space warped.
The wound on his chest gradually healed, but Morris's expression morphed into something uncanny—cold, devoid of mercy, and ferocious.

This was a forbidden dark magic spell Morris had learned from a book titled *Supreme Dark Magic* back in his fourth year—
Sacrificing his own vitality and soul in exchange for a temporary surge of formidable magic.
However, this dark magic could only be cast three times in a lifetime. Each time it was used, the caster was inevitably plunged into a lengthy period of weakness, suffering injuries to both body and spirit that were difficult to heal.
The cost was steep, and its demands on talent were exceedingly harsh—
Consequently, ordinary dark wizards were neither qualified nor capable of using it.
Those dark wizards who *did* have the ability to cast this magic would never resort to such a dual-destruction spell lightly... compared to this mutually destructive way of solving problems, they had other methods.

This was only the second time he was using it.

"Stay behind me, and let me take you home."
Morris walked alone toward the exit of the basement.
He had already put on the little girl's mask, even though it was so small, even though it could barely cover the central part of his face, even though the mask made him look absurd and comical.