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As Ian stepped onto the first level, he was hit by a cold, gloomy aura.
Eerie green magical lamps hung overhead. The walls were made of obsidian and were engraved with anti-magic runes. Iron cages lined both sides of the corridor. The prisoners inside sat with vacant expressions and hollow eyes, as though their souls had been stripped away.
Amidst this deathly silence, Dementors drifted slowly through the air.
Wrapped in tattered black robes, their hunched figures floated soundlessly. Their faces had no features, only bottomless black voids. They were beings meant to inspire terror, the devourers of souls, the destroyers of happiness.
Yet the moment Ian appeared, they stopped moving abruptly.
None of them launched an attack.
This was entirely in line with Ian's expectations.
Yes.
Ian possessed the highest level of authority over Dementors. In every sense, he was the Lord of the Dementors.
These creatures had originally emerged from the Twilight Zone before being 'reassigned' by humans to serve as prison guards. They had once been nothing more than laborers serving Raven.
Ian held a natural dominance over them. Whether they were diligently patrolling or lazily floating in the corners, as they were now, they posed no threat to him. In fact, as a higher sovereign, they could be considered extremely useful helpers at this moment.
With a thought, Ian dispelled his Raven form and returned to his human appearance. He stood within the dim and damp prison passage.
"Come here."
Without hesitating for a moment, he casually beckoned to the nearest Dementor, which had been curled up in the shadows as if dozing.
Ian's voice was calm and quiet, yet it carried an indescribable pressure that seemed to originate from the soul itself.
More precisely, an extremely subtle yet incomparably pure aura spread outwards from him like ripples on water.
He had glimpsed a trace of the essence belonging to the true Raven, the embodiment of Death and Reincarnation, at the edge of the Twilight Zone.
His voice seemed to resonate directly within the Dementors' consciousness.
At that moment, Ian was imitating the ancient majesty that stood above all living beings and governed the final destination of souls.
The effect was immediate.
In an instant, the previously indifferent Dementors shuddered violently as though pulled by invisible strings and turned towards Ian in perfect unison.
They neither attacked nor hesitated. There wasn't even the slightest trace of doubt.
Instead, they hurriedly floated over, behaving almost like hunting dogs responding to their master's call.
Their movements were astonishingly swift. Gone was their usual eerie drifting. They moved with a sense of urgency and eagerness, as if pulled by invisible strings. They rapidly floated towards Ian.
Then their massive, cold, despairing bodies actually seemed to curl inward slightly.
Their hoods lowered.
They stood as though ministers before a king.
As though servants greeting their master.
This was exactly what Ian had expected.
To most wizards, Dementors were symbols of terror. However, their true origins were deeply connected to the Twilight Zone and to the Raven itself. According to certain ancient definitions, they could even be regarded as Raven's servants or derivatives within the material world.
They sensed the Origin aura emanating from Ian.
The obedience engraved into their souls over countless ages was instantly awakened.
Their attitude naturally became incomparably humble, showing far greater reverence than they would ever show even to the highest officials of the Ministry of Magic.
A conditioned instinct buried beneath the dust of ages had awoken.
Their master had returned.
This was not respect born from authority.
It was a mark branded into their very existence.
They had been born to obey the incarnation of Raven.
"Take me to the cell where Newt Scamander is imprisoned."
Ian looked down at the creatures that had once terrified the world.
He issued the command directly.
Although he wasn't sure if Dementors could fully understand human language, he believed that a soul-level connection would suffice to convey his intentions.
And that was indeed the case.
Dementors had no language of their own, but they could understand.
They could perceive emotions, memories, and intentions, and Ian's command was crystal clear.
The massive Dementor before him shuddered once more. The darkness beneath its hood seemed to turn towards Ian, as though seeking confirmation or perhaps expressing surprise.
Could this being, who carried the aura of their master, communicate with them so clearly?
But the surprise lasted only a moment.
The irresistible obedience buried deep within its soul activated like the most fundamental genetic code.
It could not summon even the slightest thought of resistance.
One of the Dementors turned around and silently floated forward.
It changed direction and began to lead the way obediently and with a hint of eagerness to please, .
The other Dementors that had been wandering or lying dormant in the distance also seemed to sense the commotion and aura here. One by one, they drifted closer.
Yet none of them dared to approach too closely.
Instead, they followed silently from afar, like the most loyal honor guard or moths afraid to draw too near a flame.
"They're even easier to command than Pals."
Ian followed the leading Dementor as he navigated the vast, labyrinthine underground prison.
Initially, Ian had been curious about why the Dementors here appeared so 'Buddha-like', so passive and detached compared to their counterparts in Azkaban.
By all rights, Dementors should have been ravenous, violent creatures that constantly fed on prisoners' happiness, filling the prison with despair.
Yet the Dementors here seemed unusually calm.
They floated through the air at a leisurely pace, moving slowly and almost lazily.
As Ian ventured deeper, he observed the scenes inside the cells lining both sides of the corridors.
Gradually, he understood why.
These Dementors were simply too well-fed.
Yes.
They had eaten too much.
Cell after cell contained all kinds of wizards.
Many of them, especially those held in the upper levels, stared blankly into space. Their faces showed no emotion whatsoever. Like walking corpses, they either sat or lay motionless and unresponsive to their surroundings.
"No wonder they're so obedient."
Ian sighed.
"When you're full, you naturally lose the desire to rebel."
He could barely sense any happiness remaining in these prisoners.
All that remained was numb emptiness and faint signs of life.
Clearly, the Dementors had consumed their joy and positive emotions long ago.
The Dementors here had been fed far too well.
The African continent had a vast population and conflict and chaos had never truly ceased. The local Ministry of Magic was clearly far less concerned with 'human rights' than its European counterparts when dealing with criminals.
There were no restrictions such as the Anti-Excessive Dementor Exposure Act.
Nor were there any regulations requiring the periodic rotation of Dementors to prevent prisoners from suffering irreversible harm.
For the Dementors here, this underground prison was essentially an all-you-can-eat banquet hall that never closed and never ran out of food.
They had been fed so much that they no longer felt the need to actively hunt or terrorize others.
As a result, they had become remarkably passive.
After all, even lions and tigers become lazy when they're stuffed full.
"What a simple and brutal management system."
Ian wasn't quite sure how to evaluate a prison system that resembled raising poisonous insects in a jar. Shaking his head, he continued to follow the Dementor downward.
He had witnessed the cruelty of Azkaban in Europe.
But at least the Dementors there were controlled by the Ministry of Magic.
Here, however...
These soul-eating creatures were treated as unrestricted clean-up tools.
Rescue them?
Reform the system?
Impossible.
This was not Ian's country or his home.
What right did he have to judge the laws of another nation?
Africa was vast and populous, and its Ministry of Magic had an extremely broad definition of 'criminal.'
Offend someone powerful.
Or be falsely accused of possessing a prohibited magical creature.
Either would be enough to land a person here.
Once imprisoned, all talk of human rights ceased to exist.
Just as Ministry officials openly sold Portkeys capable of infiltrating the prison, the Ministry imposed no restrictions whatsoever on the behavior of the Dementors.
They were free to feed on prisoners' happiness and extract fragments of souls as their primary source of nourishment.
When you thought about it carefully, such practices seemed almost inevitable.
After all...
Once an institution like the Ministry of Magic became corrupt, it would never be only slightly corrupt.
The corruption would spread into every aspect of its existence.
From such a rotten institution, how could one expect strict oversight or proper management?
"Respect every nation's right to choose its own fate."
The Dementors continued to lead Ian downward.
They passed through one circular corridor after another.
With each level they descended, the air grew heavier, and the magical fluctuations became more chaotic.
Surrounded silently by several Dementors, Ian continued to descend the rough, spiral stone staircase.
The deeper he went, the more complex the prison's structure became.
It resembled an enormous, inverted anthill.
Africa's "Azkaban" was not built upon an isolated island in the sea.
Instead, it lay buried deep beneath Ghost Canyon.
The entire prison resembled an upside-down beehive, consisting of nine circular levels of confinement.
Each level extended nearly a hundred metres downward.
The deeper one descended, the more oppressive the magical energy and the more stagnant the air became.
The density of the cells seemed to decrease somewhat.
However, those confined within felt differently.
The second level was home to ordinary smugglers and black-market wizards.
When they saw Ian, some muttered curses under their breath while others trembled in fear.
The third level held wizards accused of 'blaspheming the Ancestral Spirits.'
Rune-inscribed chains were wrapped around their bodies, and they continuously chanted ancient spells in an attempt to communicate with the earth veins.
The fourth level contained the most serious criminals.
Some had been charged with attempting to resurrect ancient evil gods. Others had been found to be secretly in possession of the Bones of the Ancestral Spirits. There were even those accused of being able to command Centaur legions.
By the fifth level, Ian finally saw several highly capable wizards.
They wore no chains, yet were imprisoned within Silent Magic Fields, which prevented them from casting magic.
One of them sneered at Ian.
"Foreigner, don't think you can do whatever you want here. Once the Ministry's upper ranks learn that you've trespassed, you'll end up just like us, trapped here forever!"
Ian merely glanced at him.
Instantly, the man felt a chill shoot from his spine to the top of his head, and he dared not utter another word.
Most of the prisoners on the upper levels had already been drained dry by the Dementors, leaving them like withered plants.
But here, Ian could sense powerful magical fluctuations emanating from many of the cells, accompanied by intense negative emotions such as anger, hatred, madness, cunning, and malice.
Clearly, those imprisoned in the deeper levels were either exceptionally powerful wizards who could resist the influence of the Dementors to some extent or truly dangerous criminals who had committed far more serious offenses.
These dangerous individuals still possessed considerable value and had not yet been 'harvested' completely. Naturally, they would not simply be thrown to the Dementors.
The lower levels housed many such prisoners, whether they were powerful or influential.
Unlike the inmates above, they had not become completely numb.
Instead, they remained highly sensitive to any disturbance from the outside world.
Every single one of them turned their gaze towards Ian.
There was no helping it.
The group he was traveling with was simply too bizarre.
An ordinary-looking wizard with an extraordinary presence was being escorted by several Dementors, creatures normally feared throughout the wizarding world, as though they were loyal guards surrounding a king.
This immediately drew the attention of the prisoners along the way.
Most merely watched Ian with caution, scrutiny, or apprehension.
Those who had reached this level were rarely complete fools.
The situation before them was far too unusual.
Dementors were not creatures that Aurors could command.
Not even the Minister of Magic could order them around.
This was common knowledge.
Any wizard with even a little common sense would know that.
Of course, there were always exceptions.
There were always exceptions, though.
Where there were people with common sense, there would inevitably be people without it.
Although the statement sounded like nonsense, the more one thought about it, the more one realised that, despite this, it still contained a certain truth.
As Ian passed a particularly dark cell, a thin, filthy hand suddenly shot through the bars.
A hoarse, frenzied voice followed.
"Hey! You! Let me out! Can you hear me? Let me out right now! Do you know who I am? I'm the chief's son from the Bloodclaw Tribe! If you dare to keep me locked up, my family will tear you to pieces. They'll rip out your soul and burn it as a lantern!"
The prisoner was a wizard with filthy, tangled hair and deeply sunken eye sockets.
His eyes were filled with brutality and unnatural excitement.
He had clearly mistaken Ian for a high-ranking Ministry official conducting an inspection.
He was attempting to intimidate Ian through threats.
"Tsk, tsk..."
The Muggle world had its share of wealthy second-generation heirs and children of powerful officials.
It seemed that the wizarding world had its equivalents as well.
Although Ian had no idea how significant the title 'son of the Bloodclaw Tribe's chief' was, he immediately understood the kind of person this man was:
A spoiled and arrogant second-generation tyrant.
Though he wasn't quite the same as the little snakes of Slytherin House.
Most Slytherins were just foolish.
A combination of inbreeding, a poor upbringing, and family influence often made them unpleasant people.
But they were nowhere near evil enough to practically drip with wickedness.
This prisoner was different.
Anyone confined to a prison like this must be wicked beyond measure.
They were the kind of person who would make even a village bully's son stare in disbelief and wonder how someone could possibly be that evil.
Granted, the African Ministry of Magic was guilty of extortion and corruption.
But that didn't mean they never performed legitimate law enforcement duties.
Anyone imprisoned here had undoubtedly committed numerous atrocities.
How should he describe it?
Ian had no intention of reading the man's memories. He didn't want to contaminate his mind with such filth.
Nevertheless, he used his mental abilities to assess the prisoner's condition.
The result was difficult to describe.
What Ian sensed was strangely similar to Voldemort.
Not only had the man tampered with and fragmented his soul, but he also carried an intense bloodthirst and a heavy aura of dark magic.
Ian generally had no desire to interact with such filthy things.
His footsteps did not pause for even a moment.
His gaze swept casually over the prisoner as if he were nothing more than a stone lying by the roadside.
Yet that very indifference only enraged the man further.
"You little runt! Stop right there!"
That insult… was just as effective at provoking Ian.
(End of Chapter)