"Let's go inside and talk."
Seeing Quirrell bowing respectfully before him, Arthur stepped into the office.
"Turn your head. I want to speak to Voldemort."
Quirrell obeyed, unwrapped the scarf from around his head, and revealed that hideous, noseless face.
"Tell everything you know about magic that can bring about resurrection."
"Yes, Master!"
Voldemort revealed his entire plan for using the Philosopher's Stone to regain a body. He even described, in detail, the ritual he would later employ during the Triwizard Tournant:
The father's bone, the servant's flesh, the enemy's blood, brewed together with potion.
A ritual that would restore him.
This gave Arthur an idea.
During sumr break, I should drop by the Gaunt family graveyard… maybe I can swap out Voldemort's father's bones. I wonder, if he tries the ritual then, will it fail outright? Or will he be reborn into so… different species?
No, Arthur didn't plan to kill him—at least, not yet. After all, Dumbledore had gone to all that trouble setting up those elaborate protections. To take out one of the "main actors" before the play even began would feel… disrespectful to the old man's effort.
So, once he'd wrung the resurrection thods out of Voldemort, Arthur calmly cast Obliviate on both of them and left.
A while later, Quirrell awoke, unaware of anything amiss. Voldemort, however—being pure soul—imdiately sensed a gap in his mory.
"Fool!" he hissed.
Quirrell flinched. "M-Master, you're awake? But… doesn't your condition require slumber to preserve strength? And here, inside Hogwarts, it's dangerous if soone notices—"
"Idiot! Soone used Obliviate on us. You didn't even notice?"
Voldemort was weary of his servant's incompetence. But then again—he hadn't exactly had a choice.
Quirrell trembled. "W-what should we do? Could it be that Dumbledore discovered us?"
"No, not Dumbledore. If he knew I was here, he'd have co in force already. For now, you will lie low. Gather information. And… get unicorn blood. I'll need to restore so strength in case of trouble."
"Yes, Master."
Quirrell's heart sank. He knew what that ant. Drinking unicorn blood granted life force—but cursed the drinker. Voldemort wouldn't suffer the curse. Quirrell would. His master didn't care in the slightest.
anwhile, Arthur, ard with Voldemort's resurrection formula, began his own research.
He intended to rge Voldemort's ritual with the "creation rite" of the Empyrean's child from the Lands Between—crafting a new vessel for his beloved Ranni.
Of course, he'd need the Philosopher's Stone. The one he'd snatched earlier had already been drained dry. That ant he needed another.
"Looks like I've got my work cut out. First step—recover Ranni's old body."
Her body lay within the Divine Tower of Liurnia. On the Night of Black Knives, she had stolen the Rune of Death, perishing alongside the Prince of Death. That was how she beca Empyrean—half-mortal, half-divine—free of the Two Fingers' control.
Freedom had its price. The Fingers hunted her relentlessly, even planting a failsafe within her loyal half-wolf Blaidd, ensuring that one day he would turn on her.
To even reach Caria Manor's archives, Arthur would first have to complete Ranni's assigned task: retrieve the Blade of the Black Knives—the very weapon that could slay the Fingers. Proof of Nokron's rebellion, capable of wounding the Greater Will itself.
"Looks like it's finally ti to clash with my dear brother-in-law…"
He had been scouring the Siofra River depths for weeks. There lay the ruins of Nokron, the Eternal City, once glorious, now banished beneath the earth for defying the Greater Will. Their punishnt had been Astel, Naturalborn of the Void.
General Radahn, learning of this, used his unmatched gravitational magic to halt the movent of the stars themselves—sealing off any further intrusion from beyond the firmant. Known as the "Starscourge," Radahn's na echoed across the Shattering.
But in his fateful duel with Malenia, he was struck by Scarlet Rot, driven to madness, and now wandered the wastelands of Caelid, awaiting challengers to put him down.
To open the way into Nokron, the stars had to be set in motion again. Which ant… Arthur had to face Radahn.
That was surely why Ranni had entrusted the task to her retainers. She couldn't bring herself to strike down the brother she still cherished.
Radahn, yes. But as for her other brother, Rykard… she'd gladly plunge the blade herself.
He had betrayed their family, bent the knee to Leyndell, and even let himself be devoured by the serpent, fusing with it in pursuit of the blasphemous "Great Serpent" ideal—a regression to the primal Crucible before the Erdtree. A disgusting mockery.
Arthur could barely restrain his anger at the thought.
For now, he turned back to alchemy. Radahn could wait—first, he had to master Voldemort's ritual and secure more Philosopher's Stones. Yes, plural.
Why? Because Ranni was no ordinary soul. She was Empyrean. Her soul's weight was imnse. A re mortal vessel would shatter under the strain. To forge a body worthy of her, he'd need life energy beyond imagining. One Stone would never suffice.
Alchemy was about equivalent exchange. How had Nicolas Flal crafted his Stone? History was silent. But consider: it had extended his life six centuries. That level of soul-energy was far beyond what a handful of lives could yield.
Because this wasn't rely about flesh. It was about souls.
Look at Voldemort. Why hadn't he restored himself to youth in his resurrection? Because the soul itself was bound to his true age—unalterable.
Thus, the Philosopher's Stone must involve soul energy. Which raised a chilling question: where had that pure soul-energy co from?
The answer was unpleasantly clear.
To nourish a human soul, only human souls would suffice. Nicolas Flal must have consud countless lives in his pursuit of immortality.
And suddenly, Dumbledore's words from the book rang differently: Flal was "ready to die." Perhaps it wasn't wisdom. Perhaps it was exhaustion.
Six hundred years of absorbing tainted fragnts of other souls… his own essence must have long since grown mottled and impure. How much of himself still remained truly his own?
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