Harry doesn't want to be a wizard, he wants to be a superhero

As the black mist gradually dissipated, the figure emerging from it—holding a scythe and wearing a cloak—became increasingly clear.

Once He fully appeared before them, they immediately noticed the various unusual things about this figure.

First of all, his cloak was anything but ordinary.

The fabric that makes up the cloak is composed of countless black mists.

At the lowest point of the black fog, thick, black mist dripped continuously, corroding deep pits into the ground, resembling concentrated acid.

Besides the cloak, his scythe had also materialized completely, surrounded by a hazy gray mist, with the entire blade emitting a dark purple light and covered with twisted runes.

As he gently swung the scythe, the runes on it twisted subtly, as if countless tiny souls were struggling within, emitting faint shrieks.

Kiel was shrouded in black mist, his body bound as if by invisible chains, unable to even move his fingertips.

He watched as Death emerged from the shadows, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints with terror, the veins bulging on his forehead still visible, his face draining of color in an instant, leaving only a deathly pallor of despair.

"No, I haven't lost yet. I still have a chance to beat him. You can't..."

His voice was hoarse, as if it had been sanded, and with each word he spoke, a sweet, metallic taste of blood welled up in his throat. But before he could finish speaking, he was interrupted by the cold gaze of death.

Death stopped before him, and from the shadows beneath the hood, a pair of eyes gleaming with an eerie green light finally appeared, their gaze like poisoned ice spikes piercing straight into the depths of Kiel's soul.

"Shut up, you foolish ant. According to the contract, the price of failure is that your soul belongs to me."

Having said that, Death ignored Gil, raised his scythe, and the runes on the blade suddenly lit up. The black mist instantly became even thicker, enveloping Gil tightly like boiling asphalt.

Enveloped in the black mist, Gil immediately let out a piercing scream from the depths of his soul, but his scream was immediately muffled by the black mist, leaving only weak, wheezing breaths like a broken bellows.

The next second, Death swung his scythe.

There was no earth-shattering sound, only a sizzling sound as the black mist was sliced ​​open by the blade, like the sound of a red-hot iron being branded onto flesh.

The scythe didn't strike Kiel directly, but landed precisely on his chest.

There, a faint gray light was struggling; it was Kiel's soul, about to be swallowed by the black mist.

“Your soul is tainted with too much power that doesn’t belong to you,” Death’s voice was hoarser than before, with a greedy, deep tone. “Now, it’s time to return it to me.”

He tightened his grip on the scythe slightly, and the runes on the blade began to absorb the light from Gil's soul core. Gray light spots, like threads being pulled away, flowed little by little along the blade into the scythe, and the originally dark purple blade gradually became stained with a strange gray.

Kiel's body began to become transparent at a visible speed. First, his skin lost its luster, then the outline of his bones gradually faded, and finally only the core of his soul, which was being continuously extracted, remained.

He wanted to beg for mercy, to ask Death for another chance, but he didn't even have the strength to open his mouth. He could only watch helplessly as his soul was devoured bit by bit.

As the last wisp of gray light was absorbed by the scythe, Gil's body completely turned into a wisp of black smoke and dissipated into the air, leaving only a pool of black water on the ground that was still emitting cold air, as if nothing had happened.

Death sheathed his scythe, and the runes on the blade gradually dimmed, leaving only a faint gray light flowing within the blade.

He glanced down at the water stains on the ground, a satisfied glint in his eerie green eyes, then turned and stepped into the thick black mist that had enveloped him. But just then, a cold voice came from behind him:

"You just left like that, without even saying goodbye?"

The voice made Death freeze in place, motionless. After a moment, He turned around and looked incredulously at Harry, who had been standing at a distance from the beginning.

Death's turning motion was stiff, like a rusty machine. His shoulder line under the black cloak was taut and straight, and even the composure he had shown when devouring Gil's soul had vanished without a trace.

His deep green eyes, capable of seeing through the very essence of a soul, were fixed on Harry in the distance, his pupils dilating slightly in utter shock.

Harry stood a dozen steps away beside a dead tree, the hem of his black trench coat fluttering gently in the evening breeze. His hands were in his pockets, and his face was expressionless, as if he were just a passerby.

But in Death's perception, this person was as if he didn't exist.

As the entity that harvests souls, Death's sensitivity to the breath of life far surpasses that of any other creature.

Even the most wondrous creatures hidden in the deep sea, or the tiny sprites huddled in the rock strata, as long as they possess a soul, will leave a mark on his perception like a candle flame.

But Harry before her seemed to be completely isolated by an invisible barrier, whether it was the warm fluctuations of his soul or the faint energy of his life.

When his senses swept over Harry's location, they only touched a cold emptiness, like trying to grasp air with your hand, leaving nothing behind.

"You..." Death's voice cracked for the first time, hoarse and trembling almost imperceptibly. He instinctively gripped the scythe in his hand, the remaining golden specks on the blade flickering slightly due to his emotional turmoil. "Why... can't I sense your soul?"

Harry slightly raised his eyes, his gaze falling on the scythe in Death's hand, his tone remaining cold and indifferent, as if discussing the weather:
Is it strange that we can't sense it?

You can harvest other people's souls because you can track their movements. But what if there are souls that are not even within your reach?

Death's breath hitched, and he instinctively took a half-step back.

This was the first time since his birth that he had felt an instinctive fear of a human being.

He tried again to use his senses and strained his senses to reach in Harry's direction, but the result was the same.

A void. There was no aura of soul, no tremor of life. The person in front of him was clearly standing there, yet he seemed like a phantom without substance. But that cold voice and those emotionless eyes were so real that they chilled him to the bone.

"What exactly are you?" Death's voice deepened, a wary glint flashing in his eerie green eyes. He slightly raised his scythe, the blade aimed at Harry. "In this world, there is no soul I cannot sense, unless..."

He suddenly stopped, as if he had considered some terrible possibility, and his pupils contracted sharply:

"You don't even exist in this world?"

Upon hearing this, Harry's lips curled into a very faint smile, a smile devoid of any warmth.
Whether or not this world exists is not important.

The important thing is that I know everything about how you commissioned the fairy to steal the Deathly Hallows.

Now, let's talk about the price you'll have to pay! (End of Chapter)