Defense Against the Dark Arts class was pure torture for Rayleigh.
It wasn’t because the course material was boring, but because Professor Quirrell’s stench was overwhelmingly potent.
A heavy reek of garlic mixed with some unidentified, rotting spice, all topped off with the sour funk of his signature purple turban, which clearly hadn’t seen a wash in days.
Twisted together, these scents combined into a bio-weapon of mass destruction.
Rayleigh had to hold his breath every class, feeling as though his olfactory nerves were being repeatedly pulverized.
“F-Finally…
made it through.” When the bell rang to end class, Rayleigh felt liberated, his very soul ascending.
Snatching up his bag, he wanted to be the first one out the door, refusing to linger for even a single second.
“M-Mr…
Mr.
Stark, p-please wait a moment.” A stuttering, nervously trembling voice called out from behind him.
Rayleigh froze, the hair on the back of his neck instantly standing on end.
He turned stiffly to see Professor Quirrell, wearing his ridiculous purple turban, standing by the podium with a smile that looked worse than a grimace.
“P-Professor, is something wrong?” Rayleigh forced a customer-service smile while alarm bells screamed in his head.
*I’m screwed.* *I’ve been targeted.* “I…
I…
I am merely…
very interested in your…
spell.” Professor Quirrell leaned forward slightly, a sharp, greedy curiosity flashing in his eyes that felt entirely uncharacteristic of his timid persona.
“The one that…
made…
Mr.
Malfoy…
so…
terribly uncomfortable.” Rayleigh’s heart sank like a stone.
*This is bad!* *Did this bastard sense Dark Magic in it and now wants to recruit me as a mini Death Eater?* “I…
I heard that it was…
a spell…
of your own creation?” Quirrell pressed on.
In this context, his stuttering was no longer laughable; instead, it exuded a suffocating pressure.
“Uh…
well…
I was just messing around.
Nothing special, really not worth mentioning,” Rayleigh stammered vaguely, his mind racing for an escape route.
“No, no, no.” Quirrell shook his head repeatedly, his smile growing increasingly uncanny.
“It…
it is exceptionally…
creative.
I…
personally…
have studied…
such…
magic quite extensively as well.
I think…
we could…
exchange notes.” He paused, finally revealing his true objective.
“Tomorrow evening, come to my office.
I…
I have a few…
interesting…
little spells…
to teach you.” A chill shot straight from the soles of Rayleigh’s feet up through the crown of his head.
*Holy shit!* *Exchange notes?* *This is nothing but a trap!* A Defense Against the Dark Arts professor offering to teach a student “interesting little spells” in private?
Not even a ghost would fall for that line!
Rayleigh knew full well that a dark lord was currently cohabiting inside Quirrell’s body.
And that dark lord possessed the ability to peer into people’s minds.
His greatest secrets—the fact that he came from another world, the world of *Diablo*, and that magical Horadric Cube—if Voldemort discovered any of it…
The consequences would be catastrophic.
Rayleigh’s brain went entirely blank.
He could even feel an invisible, frigid force creeping into his mind, attempting to pry into his deepest thoughts.
“A-All right, Professor.” Under a pressure cold enough to freeze him solid, Rayleigh had no choice but to nod.
Watching Quirrell turn and walk away satisfied, Rayleigh realized his back was drenched in cold sweat.
Instead of heading back to his dormitory, he wandered the castle like a phantom until he found an abandoned, empty classroom and locked the door behind him.
He needed to ask Akara for help right now!
His pink revolver definitely wouldn’t be enough to take down Quirrell!
In the next instant, his consciousness sank into the depths of his mind.
His surroundings peeled away rapidly as a familiar darkness enveloped him, only to be swept aside a moment later by the hazy, dry light of a desert sun.
He had arrived at the Rogue Encampment.
Without even pausing to catch his breath, Rayleigh threw open the flap of Akara’s tent and burst inside.
“Sister Akara!
Help!” His shout startled Akara, who was in the middle of meditating.
The sightless nun slowly opened her unseeing eyes and calmly “looked” toward him.
“Rayleigh, what has shaken you so?” “Big trouble!” Rayleigh sputtered, dripping with cold sweat as his words tumbled out like rapid gunfire.
“There are two massive villains out there!
One wants to rip my secrets out with mind reading, and the other wants to teach me Dark Magic—the kind that makes you go insane!
What should I do?
Is there any spell to block mind probes?
Or a potion to purify the soul?” He was like a drowning man, desperately trying to grab at any floating straw.
Yet, in the face of Rayleigh’s frantic plea, Akara’s reaction was unexpectedly serene.
She didn’t even shift her posture.
Instead, she gently questioned him, considering how vague his panicked explanation had been.
After listening to Rayleigh’s fragmented, scattered ramblings, Akara finally grasped the situation.
“Rayleigh, you have no need to worry about this.” “Huh?” Rayleigh was baffled.
“No need to worry?
The guy’s practically got a knife to my throat!” Akara explained placidly, “Regarding your first concern—the one attempting to read your mind—you need not fear him.
Ever since your soul entered this realm, it has been infused with the power of Baal, the Lord of Destruction.
That power stems from the very essence of the Burning Hells, raw, potent, and chaotic.” She paused, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Therefore, any being who attempts to pry into your inner secrets will face the direct retaliation of the abyssal depths of Hell.
For he is not reading your mind; he is peering into Hell itself, and into the Lord of Destruction who rules over it.” Rayleigh was stunned speechless.
He stood dumbfounded, taking in the information.
His soul had been corrupted by a demon lord—a secret he had been terrified of exposing—yet now it turned out to be his ultimate defense?
Someone wants to cast Legilimency on me?
Welcome to a one-day trip to Hell!
*Holy shit…
that’s insane!* “W-Well…
what about Dark Magic?” Rayleigh recalled his second concern.
“If I learn that stuff, won’t my soul really get corrupted until I lose my mind?” “That is even less of a concern,” Akara replied, as calm as ever.
“What ‘dark magic’ could possibly be darker than the power of a Hell Lord?
Your soul was forged in the deepest abyssal darkness.
Before that, these so-called dark spells are merely trickling streams compared to a vast ocean.” “Consider this,” she added by way of example.
“The Necromancers spend their lives immersed in bones, curses, and deadly poisons.
Is their magic dark enough?
Yet have you seen any of them driven mad?” Rayleigh was completely flabbergasted.
He felt as if a whole new dimension of thinking had just opened up.
*Right!* *Compared to the magic in Diablo, Voldemort’s Cruciatus Curse and Killing Curse are basically child’s play!* *When it comes to darkness, who can outdo a Lord of Hell?* *When it comes to evil, who can outdo Necromancers who control life and death and play with corpses?* *So after all this time, my biggest ‘debuff’ was actually a god-tier ‘buff’ that immunizes me against mental intrusion and corruptive magic?* A surge of wild joy welled up from the bottom of his heart.
Every bit of fear and anxiety vanished in an instant.
“I get it!
I totally get it now!” Rayleigh pumped his fist in excitement.
Seeing him look like a man who had just narrowly escaped death, Akara sighed softly.
She had long sensed that Rayleigh did not belong to this world, but she had not expected his realm to be equally rife with treacherous perils.
“Rayleigh, the world you dwell in is far from peaceful.
Though you have inherited the Sorceress class legacy, you remain fragile.” Akara’s expression turned grave.
“I have decided to give you a means to preserve your life.” Saying this, she extended her withered hand and tapped the air.
In front of Rayleigh, the air warped as an intricate, ancient magic circle materialized out of nowhere, emitting a pale golden glow.
“I shall bypass the laws of time and space to bind you in a contract with a powerful warrior.” Akara’s voice grew ethereal and majestic.
Her aura surged rapidly, pouring forth a power that made even Rayleigh’s heart leap into his throat.
The light of the magic circle flared brilliantly, and a hazy silhouette slowly condensed at its center.
It was a tall warrior wielding a spear and clad in the garb of the desert folk.
“This is a desert mercenary from Lut Gholein, level twenty-four.” Akara introduced him.
“Bound by the laws of this world, he cannot fight alongside you here.
However, when you return to your world, you may summon him through a sacrifice.” “Sacrifice?” Rayleigh keenly caught the key word.
“Yes, sacrificing your character levels,” Akara explained.
“The cost required for the summons depends on your level at the time.
The stronger you are, the smaller the price.” Rayleigh’s heart beat wildly.
A level twenty-four Desert Mercenary!
What did that even mean?
What level was he right now?
Pulling this guy out might be a stretch to completely rule Hogwarts, but ordinary nobodies definitely wouldn’t dare mess with him!
Although summoning came at a price, this was an absolute ace up his sleeve—a trump card capable of turning life and death around!
“Thank you, Akara!” Rayleigh stepped forward in excitement, wanting to hug the revered sightless nun, only to notice her swaying slightly.
He hurriedly supported her.
Weariness showed on Akara’s face.
Clearly, forcefully breaking the rules to forge this cross-realm contract for him had exacted a heavy toll on her power.
“Go, child,” Akara patted the back of his hand.
“Grow stronger.
Only power can ensure your safety, no matter what world you are in.” Rayleigh nodded heavily.
He helped Akara sit down before stepping out of the tent.
Standing in the center of the camp, his eyes peered past the palisade, gazing toward the peril-filled Blood Moor.
He remembered Kashya’s quest.
Blood Raven!
The fallen Rogue hero was currently nesting in the Burial Grounds.
Before, he had planned to farm a few more levels in the outskirts before confronting her.
But now, an unprecedented sense of urgency and drive pushed him forward.
He had to level up!
To save up the capital needed to summon the Desert Mercenary!
To prepare for any sudden attack from Quirrell—or rather, Voldemort!
…
After a night of bloody combat, when an exhausted Rayleigh finally stood at the entrance of the Burial Grounds, he hesitated after all.
Looking at the few potions remaining in his inventory, he decided on a…
strategic retreat.
He still had three magic items waiting to be identified, and time was running out anyway.
*Play it safe, don’t get greedy.* His consciousness returned to the empty classroom in Hogwarts.
Outside the window, the sky was already turning fish-belly white.
A new day had begun.
And tonight, a perilous trap was waiting for him.
Rayleigh cracked his stiff neck.
Far from showing fear, his face bore a wickedly mischievous grin.
*Excellent.* *Let’s see which is stronger: your Legilimency, or the madhouse of our Lords of Hell.*