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After leaving the Chamber of Secrets, Sargeras returned first to his office, handling the hourglass with great care as he placed it down in a proper spot.
Then, uncorking the bottle, he released Peeves the poltergeist, who had been imprisoned inside for quite some time. Surprisingly, the little troublemaker only muttered a few incoherent grumbles. He didn't stir up any chaos for once, nor did he attempt any of his usual antics. In the blink of an eye, he dissolved into a murky gray blur and fled in a flurry of panic.
After a brief moment to collect himself, Sargeras set out at a leisurely pace toward the safehouse hidden deep within the Forbidden Forest.
"Yeh'll find all sorts o' things in the Forbidden Forest!"
That was what Hagrid used to say to him back when Sargeras was still a student. He'd always thought it was a bit of an exaggeration, something said to scare first-years or add some drama to the mystery of the woods. But ever since he'd come across a decrepit old car on the trail to the safehouse, he'd started to believe there might be some truth to those words after all.
If he hadn't had pressing business to attend to, he might have lingered to investigate what exactly was going on with that thing.
Stepping into the clearing in front of the safehouse, Sargeras gave his wand a casual flick. At once, a crimson magic circle flared to life on the ground beneath him.
The air at the center of the array began to twist and swell, distorting violently. A sickening sound followed — flesh squirming and sliding wetly over bone, like something alive trying to claw its way free. Then, without warning, a grotesque mass of muscle and gore erupted into view, a towering creature made of raw, pulsating flesh summoned straight into the middle of the formation.
Almost immediately, a scream of anguish burst from deep within the creature's churning body.
"What… what did you… do to me?!"
The voice wasn't a single voice at all. It sounded more like a dozen people speaking at once, layered on top of each other in a maddening, dissonant chorus.
"Me?" Sargeras smiled gently, his tone light, almost casual. "Why, I saved you, of course."
He took a slow, unhurried step forward and lazily pointed his wand at the hulking mass of flesh in front of him.
"After all, you just killed a reporter from the Daily Prophet right in front of everyone, devoured one of the esteemed members of the Hogwarts Board, and even ripped off one of the Minister of Magic's arms. If I hadn't stepped in when I did, Dumbledore and those Aurors would have torn you apart long ago. There wouldn't even be ashes left."
In truth, most offensive spells only fed the creature's flesh, making it grow stronger with every strike. Dealing with it was not going to be easy. But Sargeras wasn't about to admit that out loud. Who would even know? Especially a monster that had just been reformatted into this world.
Sargeras didn't usually lie. But luckily for him, this thing wasn't human, so telling a few lies didn't trouble his conscience in the slightest.
"But that was you!" the monster roared. "You were the one controlling my will… you made me commit those crimes!"
All at once, countless eyes embedded in its swollen body began to writhe and spin wildly. Rage and hatred flashed in their shifting, flickering depths, mixed with a desperation that bordered on madness.
"Yes," Sargeras replied calmly, not even attempting to deny it. "That was me. But they have no evidence. Or rather… they don't dare look for any."
As he spoke, he turned his gaze to the creature. "And you, my dear 'Tom'—you haven't stepped forward to accuse me, have you?"
"Because you chained me!" the creature howled. "You locked my throat with that damned shackle and robbed me of my voice!"
Its scream carried a deep, seething humiliation, soaked in the helpless fury of being toyed with. The massive bulk of its body shuddered, trembling violently with rage.
"Yes," Sargeras said, his voice soft but sharp, "and it's good that you understand!"
His smile vanished in an instant, wiped away as if it had never existed. What remained on his face was only a cold, detached indifference, the kind of look that came from high above, like a master surveying an unruly beast that had not turned out quite right.
His gaze drifted slowly over the monster's grotesque form, over its ever-expanding, endlessly writhing flesh. He looked at it the way an unsatisfied sculptor might examine a flawed statue, as if deciding whether it was worth destroying and starting over.
"Then you should understand this. Whatever I want you to do, you will do. And whatever I do not want you to do… you will not even be able to think about."
His eyes finally came to rest on the rows of unnatural, flickering eyes embedded in the monster's head. His voice turned quiet, but it cut like ice.
"Know your place. Because if I wanted to, I could create a dozen more like you with a flick of my wand."
As he spoke, he gave a casual flick of his wand behind him. Instantly, the decayed, rotting stump on the ground began to twist and convulse. Its wood splintered and reformed, bits of bark and dust spinning in the air. In the span of a heartbeat, it had reshaped itself into a tall, black wooden chair, its lines hard and clean like something carved from a single piece of obsidian.
Sargeras lowered himself into the chair with unhurried grace, leaning back ever so slightly, his posture relaxed and composed. He sat there as if the grotesque, monstrous thing looming before him wasn't a terrifying mass of writhing flesh. No… he looked more like a patient teacher preparing to discipline a wayward child.
"So," he said softly, "take your time and think it over. Use that brain of yours, whatever's left of it beneath all that meat, and carefully consider what kind of attitude you should have when speaking to your current 'landlord,' the self-proclaimed 'great' Dark Lord?"
Sargeras hadn't erased this creature immediately. The only reason it still existed was because it might, still prove useful. A powerful, controllable pawn. Disposable, yes, but strong enough to be hurled at anything that dared to stand in his way.
If nothing else, it could serve to clear the path for other members of the Bronze Feather. And if, by some miracle, it proved sufficiently 'obedient'… well, letting it join the organization wasn't entirely out of the question.
But he would never place his faith in its strength.
"Flesh Forging," after all, was a forbidden art. An ancient transfiguration spell so thoroughly banned by the International Confederation of Wizards that ninety-nine percent of modern witches and wizards had never even heard its name. At its core, it was nothing more than a raw, destructive curse cloaked in ritual.
Sargeras might very well be the only living person left who fully understood its inner workings, both how to wield it and how to unravel it. And it was precisely because he grasped its nature so intimately that he understood, better than anyone else, just how catastrophic these flesh-bound constructs could become if allowed to spiral out of control. When they broke free, they did not merely become threats. They turned into walking cataclysms, driven by meat and madness.
Blood Vortex Surge was one of the rare forbidden curses capable of suppressing or even dismantling such a creature. It too had been buried beneath centuries of lost knowledge. Almost no one alive today could even recognize the spell, let alone comprehend its function.
So it wasn't power that Sargeras lacked. What he chose to lack, deliberately, was recklessness. Great power required restraint. Wield it carelessly, and all it would take was a single misstep to spark disaster. A mistake like that could never be undone.
He sat in the cold black chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrest, slow and deliberate. The low, dull thud of knuckle on wood echoed in the quiet space, like a patient drumbeat marking time.
Before him, bathed in the crimson glow of the summoning circle, the massive creature shifted uneasily. The light painted its grotesque form in vivid red, casting flickering shadows that made its movements seem even more beastlike… less alive, more trapped. Like a caged animal, it twitched and strained in silence.
Sargeras watched it with a gaze that held no warmth, no sympathy. Not even a flicker of amusement. There was only cold observation, like one might give to an experiment teetering on the brink of failure.
"I can offer you a chance," he said at last, his voice quiet, almost gentle, as though he were bestowing something trivial, something utterly beneath him. "If you offer me your entire will, if you surrender to me completely, then in return I will grant you a sliver of limited freedom."
Then, his voice shifted. His hand stopped tapping. Silence lingered for a heartbeat, and then he spoke again:
"Or," he said, each word now weighted and final, "you can refuse… and remain here… to embrace what is truly yours; complete, eternal… obliteration."
Faced with Sargeras's cold and deliberate threat of annihilation, the creature of flesh and blood was struck by a pressure it could neither resist nor comprehend. It was not born from spell or curse, but from the overwhelming force of its creator's absolute will. This was domination in its purest form, imposed from a height so great that the monster could do nothing but feel it pressing down on every thought, every impulse.
Its massive body convulsed violently, trembling beneath that invisible weight. One by one, the hatred burning in its countless eyes flickered out, extinguished and replaced by something far more primal… fear. Not just fear of pain or defeat, but a raw, soul-deep terror before an existence it could never hope to defy.
And at last, after a long, heavy silence broken only by the crackle of magic still lingering in the air, it let out a broken, guttural cry. The sound was thick with humiliation, with hatred choked down by helplessness.
"…I submit."
Sargeras' expression didn't shift. There was only a quiet calm, the kind that suggested this outcome had never been in question.
As though this was simply how things ought to be.
With a flick of his wand, he summoned the emblem of Bronze Feather from within his cloak. The small emblem floated up into the air, hovering steadily before him. In an instant, it released a swarm of fine, threadlike energy chains that flashed forward, piercing deep into the creature's writhing form.
A shriek tore through the air as the monster thrashed in agony. The glowing rune-bound chains tightened around it, wrapping its enormous body in tightening coils of magic. Its limbs twisted and compressed, its flesh folding in upon itself in a sickening spiral until, with a final surge of force, the entire abomination was sealed. Compressed and crushed into silence within the hovering emblem.
Then, without missing a beat, Sargeras sent a message to every member of the organization.
Moments later, the silence of the forest was broken by a series of low, muffled bursts — pop, pop, pop — as one by one, the members of Bronze Feather apparated into the forbidden woods, their forms rippling through the air like shadows slipping through cracks.
This time, Sargeras didn't bother disguising his appearance. And seeing that, the others instinctively followed his lead, reaching up and pulling back the hoods from their heads, revealing their faces to the night.
"Let's talk inside," he said simply, turning toward the safehouse and leading them in without another word.
There were no greetings, no pleasantries. Just quiet footfalls on worn wood as they stepped into the safety of the hideout. Once inside, Sargeras walked straight to the long table in the center of the room and set the emblem down without flourish.
"A new 'tool.'"
His voice was calm, concise. He didn't waste time with dramatics.
He explained the function of the insignia in clear terms: sealed within it now was a powerful, 'living weapon' — one that any member of the organization could summon and command through the badge itself.
Sargeras' gaze swept across the table, brushing over each face with a calm, assessing weight.
"Its strength is yours to wield," he said. "Use it to clear the obstacles in your path, to strike fear into your enemies. But remember… this power demands restraint. And it demands wisdom."
He paused there, letting the silence settle like dust. Then, with slow, deliberate motion, he tapped a long finger lightly against the edge of the badge.
"If you misuse it… or worse, if you lose control of it… the consequences will not be something any of you want to see. Because this creature, its very existence, is a warning."
At that moment, a dark red light flared from the insignia.
With a sickening squelch of shifting flesh and the grinding crack of bones twisting into place, the sealed monstrosity reappeared. It was only a distorted, pulsing projection, hovering above the center of the table. It writhed in silence, a grotesque lump of meat and limbs that churned as if alive, constantly circling in the air.
Several members around the table stiffened at once, their bodies going rigid. Fingers tightened reflexively around the grips of their wands. And in the dead stillness of the room, more than one sharp inhale cut through the air.
Sargeras raised a hand and waved it once, calmly. The repulsive projection vanished.
Then, without ceremony, he spoke the final truth aloud — the identity of the creature's former self, the being that now lived only as a twisted puppet bound to their will.
Dark Lord!
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[Chapter End's]
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