At the same time, Harry was still racing along on his flying broomstick, hurrying to the scene.
The next room, he wasn't sure who had designed it—perhaps Professor McGonagall. He could tell it had been set up with some seriously impressive transfiguration magic.
Harry stood at the edge of a gigantic chessboard, with black chess pieces in front of him. Those pieces were taller than people, seemingly carved from some kind of black stone.
At the far end of the room, facing him, were white chess pieces—these towering white pieces had no facial features at all.
"Interesting. The power infused here is not to be underestimated. If Professor McGonagall were to ambush me in a fight, her threat level might not match up to Snape or Flitwick, but with advance preparation, she can easily whip up all sorts of tricks. No wonder so many fantasy stories say you should never fight a mage in their tower—yeah, you'd definitely come out on the losing end."
Harry stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"These chess pieces must have a normal way to pass, too. Does that mean I have to play chess to get to the other side?"
He spotted a door behind the white pieces.
"Well, fine. With my chess skills, I don't even need to lift a finger myself—I can breeze right through this level."
"Black pieces, rejoice! You've encountered the greatest chess player in history! You shall fight shoulder to shoulder with me, Chess Saint Harry!"
A few minutes later... Harry was checkmated.
"Heh," Harry sneered disdainfully. "Time for a real duel!"
He kicked the piece in front of him flying on the spot and stomped through the chessboard beneath his feet.
Harry bent down and exerted his strength, actually lifting the entire massive chessboard.
The pieces toppled over one after another, then switched to combat mode. Both sides' pieces raised their weapons and charged at each other, and Harry drew the Sword of Gryffindor he'd brought with him.
These pieces were enchanted, each with strength probably over ten points, their moves ferocious. Even if decapitated, they could keep fighting. Ordinary soldiers would stand no chance against these magical constructs, but unfortunately for them, they were up against Powerhouse Harry.
Since decapitation didn't kill them, he smashed them thoroughly into powder. In just two short minutes, Harry shattered most of the pieces.
The white queen, left with only half a head, still tried to lunge at him, but Harry kicked it aside.
The remaining white king trembled all over. He didn't resist further; instead, he removed the crown from his head and tossed it at Harry's feet.
Harry had won.
The white king bowed and stepped back, clearing a path straight to the door.
Harry glanced at him. The king was weak, couldn't leave the board—when only the last piece remained, did it automatically surrender?
A king like that—no wonder you couldn't beat me!
Harry charged through the door and continued down the next corridor.
"Now I've passed Professor Sprout's trap—that Devil's Snare... The one who enchanted those keys must have been Professor Flitwick, right? Madam Hooch's levitation spells probably aren't that refined. Why isn't the Quidditch coach skilled at magic for saving people on the pitch? Probably put all her energy into riding broomsticks... Professor McGonagall transfigured the chess pieces and brought them to life—and now all that's left is Quirrell's magic, and Snape's..."
"I can feel it—that mark isn't far. Quirrell's just ahead."
Harry came to another door and pushed it open.
A nauseating stench hit him right in the face. With his five senses already heightened, Harry had anticipated it.
He saw a troll—this one even larger than the one he'd beheaded last time—lying motionless on the floor ahead.
"So Quirrell went and got another troll? No external wounds. My intuition faintly picks up the scent of dark magic—Avada Kedavra?"
Without bothering further about the troll that Quirrell had sent over and then taken down himself, Harry pulled open the next door. There was only a table inside, with seven bottles of different shapes arranged on it.
"Potions—Snape's level," Harry thought. "He wouldn't deliberately set up some time-wasting puzzle just to mess with me, would he?"
The moment he stepped over the threshold, a wall of flame whooshed up behind him, sealing the doorway.
This flame was unusual—purple. Harry's magic resistance wasn't as high as his physical resistance; if he tried to force his way through, he'd still prefer McGonagall's transfiguration over this.
At the same time, black flames flickered to life at the door leading forward.
Beside the bottles was a roll of parchment with a riddle on it.
Harry read it through, unsure what Snape was playing at.
A puzzle game?
The thing Harry hated most was puzzle games!
He could barely make out that it seemed to say these bottles contained different potions: three were poisons, then there was a transformation potion—probably Snape's way of scaring people, since he'd become the person hinted at by the Dark Souls reference himself, and up to now, he still hadn't suspected himself...
Of course, among them was a potion that would let him pass through the flames.
Harry didn't want to waste time on any deduction puzzle games. Going by instinct, he grabbed a bottle straight away, drank it, and charged forward.
Hm, it was the right potion—the flames didn't hurt at all.
He made it smoothly to the other side and entered the final room.
There was already someone inside—Quirrell, or rather, Voldemort.
Harry immediately noticed that the title on his panel, the one that gave him various buffs when facing a great enemy directly, was shining.
It was him—yes, him, no mistake.
"It's you, no doubt about it. Finally, I've found you, Voldemort. I've waited far too long. I really didn't expect—I really didn't expect you to hide from me this long. Your choice of undercover agent was pretty lousy, but you're smarter than I imagined, and you've got guts. But heh, hahahahahaha! Gotcha—I got you!"
As he spoke, Harry suddenly burst into maniacal laughter.
Then came an overwhelming murderous intent.
Quirrell turned and saw the aura of malice radiating from Harry, nearly gasping for breath.
"M-Master, it's Potter! It's Harry Potter!"
"Fool! What are you shouting for? Use the magic I taught you!"
"Y-Yes, Master—Avada Kedavra!"
Quirrell instinctively cast the curse. Since Voldemort was on him, sharing magical power to some extent, the spell was barely activated by the already demoralized Quirrell. But it was too weak—directly shattered by the blood-colored domineering aura wrapped around Harry.
The bonus from his five points of charisma had already pushed Harry through the gates of legendary heroism. In his fury, his emotions naturally stirred the energies of heaven and earth. This effect wasn't constant, but it was no weaker than ancient magic.
"Master! Harry—Harry's magic, is that magic? Harry Potter isn't afraid of Avada Kedavra—what do I do now, what do I do?"
Quirrell really couldn't catch his breath. To Harry, he was just a "coward" who couldn't stand in his presence.
"I can't breathe, Master."
"Useless fool—your Avada Kedavra was too weak! Your killing intent isn't enough!"