HP/LOTM: Visionary - 445

Chapter 445: The Descent Ritual in the Atlantic, The Writer’s Move

While Aiden was still arguing his way out of Aunt Molly’s wrath, a remote island deep in the Atlantic was busy with a very different kind of work.

At the centre of the island, a group of Muggles in long black robes moved in orderly silence, using the materials female Tom had provided to complete the final stage of the ritual.

“Lady Veronica, the whole job’s finished,” the foreman of a European labour crew said to one of the robed figures. “Shouldn’t you be settling the payment now?”

“Payment?” The woman called Veronica slowly applied crimson lipstick, pressed her lips together, then offered the foreman a smile that felt… wrong.

“Yes,” she said. “Go gather the rest of the workers. You’ve all worked hard these days. I’ll give everyone an extra bonus.”

The foreman, a man with no magic at all, could not see the face hidden beneath her hood.
He could not see the clustered eyes packed into her sockets—too many pupils squeezing together, shoving and straining as if they wanted to push past her eyelids just to admire the world.

“Soon, soon. Don’t worry, my lords, we’ll definitely…” Veronica pulled her hood lower, then made a phone call. At her summons, the other black-robed figures began to gather.

At the workers’ camp, word spread that today they would receive an extra reward. Many of the labourers even changed into cleaner clothes, hoping to look more presentable in front of the client, maybe earn a little more.

They stood together, full of excitement, waiting.

Some were already planning what to buy for their wives and children once the money came in.

They would never get the chance.

The black-robed figures surrounded them. In perfect unison, they drew automatic rifles from under their robes and opened fire.

Gunshots thundered across the lonely island.

Within moments, the workers became corpses that still held a trace of warmth.

The robed figures packed the bodies away like cargo, hauled them to the island’s centre, and fed them into a gigantic ritual that covered the entire island.

“Feast, my Lord. The day of Your descent is close.”

Veronica knelt with the others at the blood-red core.

The ritual site stirred power, gnawing bit by bit at the boundary between reality and illusion, until the Deep Realm’s force began to seep onto the ground without anyone noticing.

Yet at the edge of the island, a small boat slipped in quietly, hidden beneath the cover of a cathedral built from bones.

Only two people were on board.

The Deep Realm King, the controller of Hell, Ethan Beckett.

The controller of Death, the holder of the Silent Slate, Oliver Graves.

(TL Note: The surnames used here may have been the correct ones from the beginning. If anyone remembers differently, please let me know so I can make the necessary corrections.)

“Just the two of us. Are you sure that’s enough?” Ethan muttered. “And Edmond even gave me this thing.”

A tiny church floated above his palm.

“Don’t underestimate it,” Oliver said, lifting his brows at him. “That’s Aiden’s divine kingdom.”

The moment they stepped off the boat, the vessel folded in on itself like paper, shrinking and vanishing.

“So what now?” Ethan sat down on a rock by the shore.

“This,” Oliver said, pulling out a glass bottle.

Grey mist churned inside. At the centre of the fog grew a towering tree that seemed to touch the sky, radiating a vivid emerald glow.

From the instant the bottle appeared, the plants around them reacted as if enchanted, their growth accelerating at a visible pace.

“Interesting,” Ethan murmured. Magic coiled around his fingers as he reached out and caught a thread of that green radiance from the air.

“An Eastern treasure,” Oliver said, stowing the bottle away as he explained. “A Deep Realm weapon. Jianmu.”

“Five thousand years ago, Eastern wizards discovered and captured the Deep Realm King who descended directly into the East at the time. Life. Then they began a long study of it.

“To suppress Life, they balanced it with the death of an entire nation, forging a life and death equilibrium and building a massive alchemical matrix called the Huntian Secret Rite.

“What I’m holding is a replica of that Huntian Secret Rite.”

Ethan blinked. “And what’s it for?”

“Plenty,” Oliver said, the corners of his mouth already lifting. “The biggest use is deploying the weapon they created, Jianmu. A great tree that grows in both illusion and reality at once.

“If those scum down there try to chew through the boundary and force a descent, we’ll give them a very big surprise.”

Then Oliver’s tone abruptly shifted.

“But honestly, they’re ridiculous. Britain would be even better suited to countering this thing. Life is what we were built to guard against. And yet the research applications I submitted back then were rejected…”

The moment Oliver entered that familiar mode, the new Department of Mysteries Director persona fully came online, and the muttering began.

Ethan quietly used magic to block his own ears, then wore a polite smile like he was listening with great interest.

…

Back in Britain, after finally explaining everything to Aunt Molly, Aiden set off from the Burrow.

A teenager with dragon horns, delicate features, and mismatched eyes strolled down the street as if he had nowhere to be.

“So,” he mused, “where to next?”

A group of London street kids caught his attention.

They wore newsboy caps and darted through alleys and crowds. One child would create a distraction while the others picked a target clean.

The moment they got the goods, they slipped into a narrow lane and split the loot.

“Stealing isn’t a good habit,” a pleasant teenage voice said.

They jumped as if struck.

Turning around, they saw him.

A refined, elegant dragon-blooded youth, watching them with calm interest.

“Devil!” the leader shrieked.

He whipped a black ball at Aiden. It burst as it neared him, exploding into sand and dust that flew straight for Aiden’s face.

“Stop.”

Magic drove his words into a command. The dust and grit froze in mid-air.

And so did the children who were trying to flee.

Aiden lifted his foot and tapped the ground lightly.

The buildings around them began to collapse and fold away like scenery being dismantled on a stage, revealing what lay behind the set.

The children found themselves brought into a dimly lit meeting room.

A broad round table rose up before them. Ornate chairs slid into place and caught them as they dropped.

Dishes appeared on the tabletop. Hot, fragrant, impossible feasts.

The whole scene felt like a fairy tale.

“Pumpkin juice?” Aiden asked.

The children were stunned by the change, but hunger was the one constant for London orphans.

Even if the food in front of them was poisoned, they would still eat first and worry later.

They devoured the meal with frantic speed, and Aiden waited patiently until they were done.

Before long, they were slumped back in the chairs, clutching their stomachs, unable to eat another bite.

The leader finally gathered his courage.

“Excuse me… what do you want from us?”

“Does this feel like a dream?” Aiden asked instead of answering.

All of them nodded.

“Then let me ask you this,” Aiden said, fingers interlaced beneath his chin, voice lazy and gentle. “If you suddenly had magic and became wizards, would you want it?”