Hogwarts: The Mafia Lord of Slytherin-Chapter 639: [] The Price of Victory

At this moment, the ground on this battlefield was stained crimson with blood, corpses littering the landscape.

Voldemort leaned against a large tree, a deep wound oozing blood from his chest. His face was deathly pale, like a corpse, yet a smile clung to his lips—a smile of near madness.

He looked at Marcus Sima, who lay collapsed under a tree not far away.

"It seems I’ve won after all," Voldemort rasped.

Marcus Sima planted his longsword in the ground, struggling to his feet, but failed. He gasped for breath. "Alien... I acknowledge you."

Voldemort let out a rasping laugh. "Approval? I need no one’s approval! I am Lord Voldemort!"

He leaned heavily against the tree, attempting to stand, but his injuries were far too severe.

Just then, a hand steadied his arm. Then another gripped his other side. He was lifted to his feet.

Voldemort looked at the two figures beside him. Bellatrix, and... Lucius.

The madwoman’s face was pale, her dark hair disheveled. But for perhaps the first time, her eyes held a chilling clarity.

"Master," Bellatrix rasped, "I told you. I would never let you fall while I still drew breath."

Lucius was in an equally sorry state. He was missing an arm, severed in the chaos, and his handsome face was ashen. His usually immaculate platinum hair was matted with grime and blood.

The dignified air of the Malfoy patriarch had vanished entirely.

Voldemort chuckled darkly. "You two look utterly wretched."

Lucius managed a weak, grim smile. "We do at that." He scanned the clearing. The Death Eaters were decimated, and the old British families—his family—were lying in ruins. "After today," Lucius murmured, "our wizarding world may cease to exist."

"So what?" Voldemort sneered. "To die fighting legendary figures? It is an honor."

Lucius opened his mouth to reply, but the sound died in his throat.

A blade punched through his chest.

Lucius looked down at the jagged sword protruding from his ribs, his expression one of pure shock. Even Voldemort was stunned by the sudden attack.

It was Marcus Sima.

The man’s eyes were bloodshot. A dark aura radiated from him, his hair bleaching white as he burned through his own life force.

He wasted no time. Having struck down Lucius, he wrenched his sword free and slashed horizontally toward Voldemort.

Voldemort had no chance to dodge. When Lucius fell, the Dark Lord lost his balance, stumbling under the weight of his injuries.

He braced for the killing blow.

But it never came.

Bellatrix had released him. In a blur of movement, she stepped in front of him.

The sword sliced cleanly through her throat.

Voldemort’s pupils contracted to pinpricks.

He didn’t care. He told himself he didn’t care about anyone but his own ascension. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Yet watching Bella fall, he felt a cold terror grip his heart.

His mind flashed back—years of unwavering loyalty. The early days when the Death Eaters were little more than outcasts. The years of hiding, plotting, and struggling for survival.

Bella had always been there. Solving problems, eliminating nuisances, tireless and uncomplaining.

And now she was dead.

Dead in the dirt before him.

Just as she had sworn when she first knelt at his feet. She had given her life to protect her master.

Her body hit the ground with a dull thud. Even in death, her eyes remained fixed on him, holding a disturbing gentleness.

Marcus Sima cursed violently. He was burning his life force too fast; he was on the verge of collapse. He forced his aching body to thrust his sword at Voldemort one last time.

Voldemort was surrounded by a killing intent so thick it was suffocating.

"You insolent worm!" Voldemort snarled.

He forced himself to stand. This wasn’t mere willpower; it was the burning of his own fragmented soul.

As someone who had split his soul into Horcruxes, he possessed a unique, terrible resource. He could consume his own spiritual essence to fuel his body.

The price was total obliteration. No afterlife. No ghost. Just nothingness.

But in return, he gained temporary, transcendent power.

Voldemort didn’t dodge. He met Marcus Sima head-on, knowing his injuries left him with only one move. He couldn’t afford to let the man evade.

Their weapons clashed. Marcus Sima’s sword pierced Voldemort’s chest, driving deep.

Voldemort didn’t even flinch.

With a flick of his wrist, the discarded weapons of the fallen Qin soldiers lying on the ground shot into the air. They hovered for a split second before spearing toward Marcus Sima.

Marcus Sima tried to twist away, but Voldemort’s grip on his mind held him fast. He couldn’t move an inch.

Iron and steel pierced his chest, impaling him alongside the Dark Lord.

Marcus Sima’s eyes dimmed. "You... madman..." he gasped, before his head slumped.

Voldemort’s face aged rapidly, skin withering and sinking against his skull. He raised a trembling, wrinkled hand.

He looked up toward the sky, toward the distant duel between Erwin and Emperor Zheng Qin.

"Little Erwin," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I kept my promise. I held them back... You must survive."

His voice faded. The wind picked up, swirling gently around him.

In an instant, Voldemort dissolved into dust, scattered into the air.