thebusnovel Chapter 561, page 570: Ian the Great Demon God 8
Chapter 561, page 570: Ian the Great Demon God 8
The arrival of the mother.
It made Voldemort's soul tremble wildly.
Like a sieve.
This is definitely the scar he least wants to have reopened.
"How dare you!!"
Voldemort roared madly.
however.
Dumbledore, however, did not stop there.
The scenes shift—Merope being abused by her father, old Gaunt's mad and violent roars; Merope secretly using a love potion to make a handsome Muggle fall in love with her; she elopes with the Muggle, thinking she has finally found happiness; then, the Muggle breaks free from the potion's control and abandons her while she is pregnant.
This was a period of history that Voldemort knew but had never witnessed, and now Dumbledore was presenting it to Voldemort in this ocean of consciousness.
The woman, of course, met a tragic end.
That's how history is. In the end, she lay alone in a London slum, gave birth to her child, and named him "Tom Marvolo Riddle".
She used the names of her father and the man who abandoned her.
A combination of honor and Muggle.
The woman then died.
As she died, she didn't even have the strength to look at the child one last time. The scene continues: Voldemort's maternal grandfather, Old Gaunt, the mad and tyrannical man, was sent to Azkaban for attacking Muggles and died there. Voldemort's father, Tom Riddle I, the handsome but foolish Muggle, was controlled by a potion and gave birth to him, then abandoned them, ultimately dying alongside his parents at Voldemort's hands—at the hands of the son he never acknowledged.
The scene continues—the ancestors of the Gaunt family, generation after generation of inbreeding, obsessed with the illusion of pure blood, ultimately becoming mad, twisted, and deformed. Their portraits flash by, each face bearing that morbid pride, and that deep, undisguised… madness.
The deepest, most hidden, most vulnerable, and most unwilling fears in Voldemort's soul were revealed one by one and exposed in this gray void.
He finally understood.
The "pure-blood honor" he pursued throughout his life, his proud identity as a "Slytherin descendant," and the capital he used to despise those "Mudbloods"—
It's nothing but the laughable legacy of a bunch of lunatics, thugs, and outcasts.
He desperately wanted to escape the shadow of the orphanage, he desperately wanted to conceal his Muggle father's bloodline, and he desperately wanted to erase the memory of that poor woman.
It is precisely those things that are truly "normal".
And his proud "noble lineage" is precisely the root of the most twisted, ugly, and insane things.
"I don't want to know any of this! You're trying to distort my understanding!"
Voldemort retreated.
Therefore, the power of the soul begins to decline.
This world is just so idealistic.
"Do you see that, Tom?" Dumbledore's voice seemed to come from afar, yet also from the depths of his heart, gentle and calm, yet like a mirror, forcing him to look directly at himself. "This is what you've been running from. Not death, not failure, not any external threat." He raised his hand, pointing to the images:
"But this."
"Forgotten".
"Being ignored."
"It has been proven... that you were never special."
Voldemort's body froze.
The images continued—but this time, they were no longer images created by Dumbledore, but rather the most real and ugly fears forced out from the depths of his heart.
He saw the children in the orphanage, desperately trying to prove themselves, desperately trying to show their "difference." He succeeded—they began to fear him, began to avoid him. But that wasn't what he wanted. What he wanted was...to be recognized, to be accepted, to be truly...seen.
He saw that Hogwarts boy, striving to learn Dark Arts, trying to become Slytherin's pride. He succeeded—his teachers praised him, his classmates revered him. But that wasn't what he wanted. What he wanted was…to be understood, to be respected, to be truly…accepted. He saw the Dark Lord, countless Death Eaters prostrating themselves at his feet, chanting his name. But that wasn't what he wanted. They feared him, they depended on him, but they never truly…loved him.
He spent his entire life pursuing power, immortality, and domination, only to find that none of these things could fill the deepest void within his heart.
That girl from the orphanage, abandoned, who always longed to be seen...
Tom Riddle.
"Not the same!!!"
Voldemort let out a soul-rending roar, a roar a mixture of anger, fear, despair, and a sorrow he himself could not comprehend. He spread his arms, magic surging forth wildly, attempting to destroy everything, to destroy these images, to destroy Dumbledore, to destroy this gray void! The surrounding gray space began to tremble violently, as if it might collapse at any moment.
But Dumbledore simply watched him quietly, his eyes showing no joy of victory, only deep pity.
"You lost, Tom," he said, his voice piercing through the frantic roar and reaching Voldemort's ears clearly. "Not to me, but to... yourself."
Voldemort's figure began to twist and collapse.
The fear, inferiority, and unease he had suppressed for countless years finally erupted, like a flood bursting its banks, engulfing his soul. He tried to struggle, to resist, to rebuild that proud, arrogant mask—
But the mask shattered.
His roar grew weaker and weaker, fading into the distance, finally turning into a faint, infantile whimper as it vanished into the gray void. Only Dumbledore remained, standing alone in that gray space, gazing in the direction he had disappeared, speechless for a long time. And this was the entire process of Voldemort's grievous wound and escape.
Ian's consciousness was gently lifted and floated upwards. A few seconds later, he opened his eyes and found himself back in the tavern. Dumbledore was still sitting opposite him, a gentle smile in his azure eyes. Grindelwald was holding a wine glass, his heterochromatic eyes flashing with a complex light—a renewed understanding of Dumbledore, disdain for Voldemort, and an indescribable…感慨 (gǎnkǎi, a feeling of mixed emotions, including nostalgia and reflection). Ian remained silent for a long time.
The images kept replaying in his mind—the boy standing by the window, the teenager sitting at the edge of the crowd, the young man looking helplessly in the mirror, the lonely Dark Lord on the battlefield, the mortal defeated by prophecy, and that last sob like an infant. He finally understood what Dumbledore meant by "a lack of thought" and "a lack of self-esteem."
Voldemort thought he was pursuing power, but in reality, what he always sought was to be seen, to be recognized, and to be loved.
But the method he chose was to instill fear and obedience in others. He didn't realize that fear cannot buy love, domination cannot buy recognition, and power cannot buy... being truly seen.
This is his biggest weakness.
That's why Dumbledore was able to defeat him.
"Headmaster Dumbledore," Ian finally spoke, his voice a little hoarse.
"Um?"
"You really are... a terrifying person."
Dumbledore paused for a moment, then laughed. His laughter carried a mixture of relief, self-deprecation, and admiration for the child before him.
"Terrible? I thought you would say 'amazing' or 'smart'."
Ian shook his head: "Powerful and intelligent are used to describe strength. But what you just showed..." He paused, a serious glint in his deep eyes, "was something deeper than strength. It was an understanding of humanity, an insight into weaknesses, and the deepest... compassion for the enemy."
"Compassion?" Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, a hint of disdain flashing in his heterochromatic eyes. "You call that compassion? In my opinion, it's more cruel than any excruciating torture."
That's certainly true.
He set down his glass, leaned forward slightly, and stared intently at Dumbledore with eyes that seemed to pierce through the mists of time: "Albus, you let him see your ugliest, most vulnerable side, and then let him go, leaving him to live on with that 'seen.' What could be more cruel than that for someone who considers himself a god? Excruciating pain is only temporary, but what you gave him is eternal torment."
Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly. In that sigh, there was weariness, helplessness, and a trace of regret that only he knew...
"Gellert," he began slowly, his voice deeper than usual, "you're right. If I could, if I had the power, I would choose to utterly destroy his filthy soul—not out of cruelty, but to ensure he never has the chance to hurt anyone again." He finished speaking.
Dumbledore's eyes dimmed.
He raised his head, a complex light flickering in his azure eyes:
"But I can't do it."
Grindelwald's brow furrowed even more: "What do you mean? You clearly have the upper hand on a mental level."
“That’s the spiritual realm, Gellert,” Dumbledore interrupted him. “In the realm of consciousness, I can make him ‘see’ himself, I can break down his willpower, and I can even temporarily suppress his soul. But that’s only temporary. His magic, his legendary status—those things are real.”
He paused, his voice growing even heavier:
"The legend and the person beneath it are two different species. You should understand this better than I do."
Grindelwald remained silent. He understood perfectly well. Although he hadn't reached the legendary level, he had studied countless materials about it and knew what it meant—it meant a leap in the level of life, a connection to the essence of the rules of this world, and... it meant almost indestructible.
"In the final moments of the spiritual duel," Dumbledore continued, "I had the opportunity to try and destroy his soul completely. But at that moment, I sensed—deep within his soul—an impenetrable barrier. It was not his own power, but rather the protection of that being behind him."
He looked at Ian: "The 'deep space' you mentioned earlier, that must be it."
Ian nodded, his youthful face bearing a seriousness far beyond his years. He jumped off the chair—his small figure appeared particularly frail in the dim light.
Yet no one dared to underestimate it in the slightest.
"Headmaster Dumbledore is right," Ian said, his voice calm yet penetrating. "Those below the legendary level cannot truly kill a legendary being. Even their most vulnerable soul is protected by that 'legendary trait.' What you can do is break their will, temporarily incapacitating them. To completely kill them..."
He paused, a cold glint flashing in his deep eyes:
"We need another legend."
Grindelwald looked at him, a thoughtful glint in his heterochromatic eyes: "So, I need your help?"
Ian nodded, but then shook his head: "I need to step in, but not now."
He walked back to the window and gazed at the deep night outside. In the distance, the roar of the waves seemed to grow closer and clearer, as if something was slowly awakening from the depths of the sea.
"The Voldemort you just saw," he said, "is no longer the Tom Riddle you know; he is part of deep space."
Upon hearing this...
Dumbledore's hand trembled slightly.
"He's been tainted by something far more terrifying," Ian continued, his voice growing deeper, "a power from deep space. A power that completely alters the very nature of a life. He is now…"
Ian closed his eyes, seemingly sensing something, and opened them again a few seconds later:
"He's transforming now. His body, his soul, his very being, are being reshaped by that power. The moment he completes his transformation, he will no longer be 'Voldemort,' no longer 'Tom Riddle,' but a…" Ian turned to look at the two of them, speaking each word carefully.
"The vessel of the God of Deep Space".
This is a fact.
That was also Ian's judgment.
The air in the tavern seemed to freeze.
Grindelwald gripped the wine glass tightly, his knuckles turning slightly white. Dumbledore's face paled even more, and for the first time, genuine fear appeared in his deep blue eyes.
It's not for myself, but for the world.
"The God of Deep Space..." Grindelwald murmured, "What is that?"
Although he didn't know the specifics, he knew it was absolutely terrifying. The story of Cthulhu had been hidden by the adventure team that had previously crossed paths with Ian.
Even the Dark Lord didn't get much information.
Ian was silent for a few seconds, then slowly spoke. His voice was soft, yet it carried a power that pierced the soul, as if he were recounting an ancient and terrifying truth:
"Before the birth of this universe, before the beginning of time and space, there existed something. They are not gods, not demons, not anything we can understand. They exist in dimensions beyond our perception, on levels we cannot reach." "Their very existence is a negation of 'reason' and 'order.'" This is the core narrative and setting of the Cthulhu Mythos.
Well, how should I put it?
It might be cool and interesting when it only exists in biographies, but it's not so friendly to the world if it exists in the real world.
Or.
That can be described as cruel.
After all.
At the very core of the Cthulhu Mythos, the most fundamental concept is that all universes are a dream of Azathoth, and the dream will shatter once the blind and foolish god awakens.
Such a cruel truth.
Few people can accept it calmly.