Chapter Eighty-Two: The Hexagonal Demon Prison

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Hexagonal Demon Prison.

This was a full-scale prisoner uprising. Each inmate’s uniform was marked all over with numbers, and some bore suits and symbols—clubs, spades, and other card emblems. The wands in their hands were nothing but rolled-up newspapers—yet somehow, they unleashed real magic.

Amid the raucous, maniacal laughter of these hardened criminals, hundreds of soul-reapers were being forced back, step by step. Even many powerful wardens had begun to sweat, fear filling their eyes. The inmates had slaughtered their way up from the lowest levels of the prison.

As they broke through each line of defense, the prisoners laughed madly, showering newspapers about. The air and ground were littered with fluttering paper, turning the whole scene into a grotesque carnival.

It was a terrifying riot. Should these demons escape the prison en masse, chaos would engulf the entire wizarding world. Yet, this deranged mob seemed to have no intention of breaking out; instead, they charged relentlessly toward the warden’s office.

A faint but unmistakable sound of leather shoes echoed from a corner of the corridor. Suddenly, the inmates turned wild, feverish eyes toward the bend, surging forward in a frenzy: “Hahaha—Bolst! Hand over your Jack of Diamonds! My cellmate was obsessed with it before he died!”

“You didn’t bring the Reaper’s Lantern today—you’re finished!”

“You’re finally here! I’ve waited a hundred and eighty years for this day!”

“Kill him! Without his lantern, he’s nothing!”

“The Jack of Diamonds is mine! With this card, I’ll claim the Wizard King’s throne! I’ll be the next Wizard King!”

“Kill him—he’s unworthy of that card!”

Rumors had long circulated that Bolst was powerless without his lantern, and the tales only grew. His identity as the Faceless One was proof enough of his strength without the lantern, but the inmates refused to believe it.

No longer caring about the soul-reapers and wardens flitting about under the high-vaulted ceiling, the prisoners—driven by vengeance, ambition for the Jack of Diamonds, or simply the bounty on the warden’s head—rushed madly toward the corner.

Yet, many who surged forward collapsed with eyes rolled back, struck down by some eerie force. Their souls began to stream from their features, slipping into the blue magical lanterns that lined the corridor.

Soon, prisoners fell like wheat before the scythe, the survivors scrambling back in terror—gone was their earlier bravado. That soft, relentless footstep never faltered, cutting clear through the uproar.

A polished leather shoe landed squarely on the shadow of a crawling prisoner, who instantly dropped lifeless to the ground. His soul wriggled free, only to be snared by a soul-reaper and dragged, body and spirit, back to his cell—since the Hexagonal Demon Prison straddled the Underworld and the mortal realm, a soul could be returned to its body and revived if the treatment was swift enough. But the process was agony.

With the footsteps drawing nearer, a slender, middle-aged man emerged from the corner, nonchalantly sipping coffee and reading a newspaper he’d just plucked from the floor. He wore a robe patterned with countless King of Clubs, a file tucked under his arm.

“No, no, no, stay away! Stay away!”

“He—he really is the Faceless One! Aaaah...”

A few inmates dressed as the Ten of Clubs, Ten of Spades, and Nine of Clubs crawled in panic, but the pajama-clad man didn’t spare them a glance; as he passed, they simply died.

Any shadow touched by Death was fatal.

[I do not have the Jack of Diamonds.] The man in the King of Clubs robe set down his paper and took a sip of coffee. He hadn’t spoken, yet his cold, indifferent voice rang throughout the prison.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, those eyes burning with blue ghost-fire, and looked down the corridor at the little magician clown.

The magic clown was a plump fellow, sporting a tall hat folded from newspaper, adorned with a Jack of Diamonds emblem. His suit, too, was crafted from newspapers. He stood before the office door, performing tricks.

At his feet scurried countless thumb-sized people—some prisoners pleading in tears, some guards and even wardens quaking with fear. All were dressed as miniature clowns, shrieking and running about in terror.

Amid peals of mad laughter, the magician performed his tricks. A few wardens and guards clustered nearby, watching the lunatic as if facing a mortal threat, yet none dared approach.

The laughing magician reached up, snatching at the air above his head—suddenly, an invisible soul-reaper who’d crept up to ambush became a balloon in his grasp. With a few quick twists, he shaped it into a tiny dog, shrank it further, and pinned it as an ornament to a clown at his feet.

It seemed that Harold had grown even more powerful these days.

“Ha~ro~ld~” Warden Bolst sipped his coffee, eyes narrowing. “Is it you who let this mob loose again?”

“In front of a magician, there are no doors! No locks! No chains! Hahahahaha!”

As Harold cackled, the little people at his feet turned into playing cards. With a flourish, he gathered them up and sent the cards flying skyward.

In an instant, the corridor walls twisted into a labyrinth made of folded playing cards. The lanterns overhead transformed into fresh flowers.

All the wands and weapons in the hands of guards and soul-reapers became nothing but newspapers. Panic-stricken, everyone scattered.

Seeing this, Bolst—the Thousand-Faced Reaper—blazed with fury. Normally even-tempered, this time he was truly enraged.

“This~time~you~will~not~escape!”

Without another word, he transformed into a gigantic white specter, like the shadow of Death itself, and swept through Harold’s body in a flash.

But in that instant, Harold turned into a red matador’s cape, while a clown’s nose and balloon horns sprouted on Bolst’s head and face.

The entire labyrinth vanished.

“Hahahaha! Death can’t catch the magician—never catch the magician!”

Bolst stared in momentary disbelief, then erupted: “Harold!”

The guards cowered; some fainted at the force of Bolst’s dreadful magic, others collapsed to their knees.

Furious, Bolst tore off the clown accoutrements and stomped them to pieces. Then, passing through the office door, he entered the room.

Shutting the door behind him, he yanked off his flaming robe, reached beneath it, and produced a lantern—a hefty thing, several kilograms, its surface singed with burnt hair.

Without delay, Bolst pulled several fire-extinguishing potions from his sleeve and doused himself below the waist, rolling in agony on the floor.

“Damn, damn, damn—it's burning me alive!”

He was clearly unique: contact with the fire of the Infernal God would kill most instantly, but it had been burning him for ages and he was still intact.

After a while, the flames on his robe died out. Pale and trembling, Bolst gritted his teeth, steadied himself on the desk, grabbed the Reaper’s Lantern, and slumped into his chair behind the desk.

Staring at the ever-diminishing flame within the lantern—its divine fire depleted by constant use—Bolst clutched it in despair and terror, cursing through his tears.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

“Your Majesty Francesco, why in the world did you choose me? I’m just a slightly special wizard! Why did you assign me to the world’s most horrific place...?”

“I’m really not cut out to wield this lantern and guard the Demon Prison... This is no cushy job at all!”

Soon, the warden was sobbing uncontrollably.

He set the Reaper’s Lantern in the center of the office’s crystal array to recharge, then returned to his desk with a grave face and began rifling through the chaotic heap of files.

He quickly found a dreamstone, a spellbook, and two exam papers.

The spellbook belonged to Stuart—its pages a jumble of notes.

Of the two papers, one from yesterday was graded A+, the other, today’s, still blank.

With great care, Bolst took several sheets of blank parchment, rolled up his sleeves, selected a quill, and copied the exam a dozen times over.

After checking carefully for errors, he played the lessons stored in the dreamstone, listening to Louis’s lectures as he pored over Stuart’s notes.

His expression was solemn and intent, radiating a sacred focus.

From time to time, following the spellbook’s instructions, he tried out some spells. Perhaps because of his long exposure to the Reaper’s Lantern, he found insight into the contents of "Divine Scroll of the Underworld I: The Shadow of Death".

With the help of the lantern’s divine fire, he could cast those spells—barely. Unlike Stuart, who could not use them at all, even with the lantern.

After much effort and contemplation, Bolst gradually pieced together the answers. He began to fill out the first exam paper in earnest.

His imitation of Stuart’s handwriting was so uncanny that Louis himself, standing by, would be hard-pressed not to believe Stuart had written it.

The dreamstone continued to play the lessons. Each time Bolst finished a paper, he would carefully listen to the lecture again.

He filled out each paper many times over. Every line of the lecture he listened to repeatedly.

[No wonder Stuart’s grades are so much better than Harold’s,] he thought. [Someone else always does his homework. No wonder this person is so talented. After all, if he didn’t outshine Harold, he’d be dead by now...]

Standing before the magic mirror, Louis massaged his face in exasperation at the scene within.

“I knew someone else was doing his homework! That lazy dog Stuart! Mirror, tell Stuart that starting tomorrow, he has to bring his classmates to class!”

Shaking his head, Louis closed the magic mirror and shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, blue ghost-fire blazed within. He stretched out his arms, his body dissolving into a spectral Reaper, floating in midair.

With a single sweep of his hand, he gathered the shadows of all objects in the stronghold.

“That fellow never made use of this... Still, not bad.”

With a sigh, Louis reformed into solid flesh, took a step—and the scene shifted. He returned to his dormitory to change clothes.

He was going on a business trip today.

‘Muggle cities... Albion... Count Crawley—wasn’t he in the original edition of the storybook?’

‘Why did the Witch Queen marry a Muggle King...’

Louis shook his head.

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