Chapter 272: An Uninvited Guest at Azkaban, The Dementors Submit

Thus, Melina officially became a member of Arthur’s household.

Yet compared to life in the real world, she preferred accompanying Arthur through the Lands Between.

Unlike Ranni, Melina did not possess a small doll body.

She traveled in her true physical form.

And one should not mistake her eleven- or twelve-year-old appearance for weakness.

Melina was still a divine being. She inherited Marika’s Numen lineage talents and retained the combat techniques of the Black Knife Assassins.

With her current strength, assassinating a weaker demigod would be effortless.

When Melina asked to travel alongside Arthur, Malenia and the others—now spirits—were present as well.

They, too, wished to return to the Lands Between for a look.

But without physical bodies, their power had been reduced to less than a tenth of its former strength.

Arthur could not possibly allow them to wander a land filled with maddened beings.

So he devised a compromise.

Using Ranni’s doll as a template, Arthur crafted several replica puppets.

Malenia, Trina, and the others only needed to attach a wisp of their soul to the dolls to see through their eyes—and even move and speak through them.

Fortunately, they merely wished to visit occasionally. They were not as eager as Melina to journey constantly at Arthur’s side.

For them, the puppets were sufficient.

And so, whenever Arthur traveled the Lands Between, several doll pendants now hung quietly at his side.

Azkaban — The Unwelcome Visitor

Far to the north of Britain, in the icy sea, stood an unnamed island.

It appeared on no map—neither Muggle nor wizard.

For it was Azkaban.

The only official wizarding prison in Britain.

Rumors claimed the island itself was created by magic. Others believed its internal space had been magically expanded.

The truth was uncertain.

Originally, the island had belonged to a powerful Dark wizard named Ekrizdis, who lured, tortured, and murdered passing Muggle sailors for sport.

Only after his death did the Ministry discover the island and its fortress.

The first investigators returned pale and silent, willing only to mention that the place was infested with Dementors.

Later, Dark Arts experts concluded that every wall of the fortress was saturated with torment and despair—and that the Dementors were bound to those very stones.

Any attempt to destroy the structure would provoke violent retaliation.

The fortress was abandoned for years.

Then came the International Statute of Secrecy.

The Ministry realized scattered prisons across Britain posed security risks. A breakout could expose wizardkind through explosions or magical flashes.

Thus, Azkaban was repurposed.

With thousands of Dementors acting as guards, it required minimal manpower and expense.

And so Azkaban became what it is today.

The Return of Voldemort

But today—

Azkaban welcomed an uninvited guest.

He cared nothing for its history.

He cared only whether those imprisoned inside had been driven mad by Dementors.

The figure stepping onto the island was none other than Voldemort—returned from the realm of death.

Having grasped the power of death itself, he came directly to reclaim his followers.

The Ministry of Magic, currently consumed by ministerial elections, noticed nothing.

And Azkaban, remote and desolate, was rarely supervised directly.

Voldemort entered without obstruction.

The Dementors sensed a foreign presence.

They gathered from every corner of the island in a black tide.

Eager.

Hungry.

The nearest Dementor lunged at Voldemort, pressing against his face, attempting to devour his happiness.

And then—

It found nothing.

No joy.

No soul to extract.

Its dim awareness faltered.

If there was no happiness, it should have been able to suck out his soul entirely.

Unless...

This was something dangerous.

Before it could react, Voldemort raised his hand and seized it by the throat.

Black mist poured from his palm—like ink spreading through water.

The Dementor’s gray form darkened.

Where the black mist touched, its essence withered.

In seconds, the black consumed it entirely.

The Dementor disintegrated into powder.

Gone.

Voldemort examined the lingering deathly haze around his fingers.

"So this is the power of death," he murmured. "Even Dementors can be killed."

This was merely the most basic application of his newfound power.

He turned slowly, surveying the countless Dementors surrounding him.

"Submit to me," he said calmly, "or be destroyed."

He needed forces.

Dementors were ideal—numerous and devastating against any wizard lacking a Patronus.

The remaining Dementors hesitated only briefly.

They were not intelligent—but neither were they foolish.

They had witnessed what just happened.

Their draining ability was ineffective against him.

Even if they overwhelmed him by numbers, it would change nothing.

And they were not confident they could exhaust him anyway.

The black mist still clung to his hand—an unmistakable threat.

One by one—

The Dementors bowed.

They chose submission without resistance.

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