Lockhart of The Kaleidoscope

Mercia's breath shuddered in the cold air as she stared into the void of Salazar Slytherin's ghostly eyes. His words echoed in her mind, a siren song of power and temptation. Her fingers trembled around the wand she held, but her resolve—drawn from a deep well of ambition and pride—hardened. The whispers curling through the chamber seemed to grow louder, almost impatient, as if urging her toward the darkness that had awaited her for centuries.

"I accept," Mercia whispered, her voice hoarse, barely audible over the pulsing energy that now surrounded her.

The temperature in the chamber dropped even further. Slytherin's ghost did not smile, but his eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction. The shadows around him flickered, and the distant, serpentine shapes that had been lurking at the edges of Mercia's vision seemed to shift, writhing with malevolent energy.

"Very well," he murmured, his voice a low, reverberating hiss. "But know this—once the path is opened, there is no turning back. What you will see cannot be unseen. What you will touch cannot be returned."

Mercia nodded, though the weight of her decision pressed down on her with a force that made her knees weak. The chamber itself seemed to tremble as if some ancient force was stirring beneath the stones, eager to be unleashed.

"Step forward," Slytherin commanded, his voice cold and imperious.

Mercia obeyed, her legs moving of their own accord. She approached the stone sarcophagus, the intricate carvings of serpents twisting around the figure of Salazar etched into its surface. The air here was different—thicker, heavier, as though the very atmosphere was saturated with ancient magic. Her fingers hovered over the cold stone, and as she made contact, a shock of power raced up her arm, sending a chill through her body.

With a flick of his spectral hand, the runes carved into the sarcophagus began to glow, their light pulsing rhythmically, in time with the beating of her heart. Mercia could feel the energy coursing through the chamber, a deep, primal force that thrummed beneath the very foundations of Hogwarts.

The stone slab on the sarcophagus shifted with a low, grinding sound. It moved slowly, revealing not the bones of Salazar Slytherin, but something far darker—a black, gaping void beneath the coffin's surface. Cold, unnatural winds howled from within, carrying with them the unmistakable scent of decay and age beyond time.

A chill swept over Mercia, far colder than the night air around her. She could feel something emanating from the void, something ancient and foul, a presence that had waited, slumbering for centuries. The darkness was not merely an absence of light; it was alive, pulsing with malevolent intent.

Her heart pounded as she stared into the abyss. "What… what is it?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Slytherin's ghost seemed to tower over her, his form shifting, becoming darker, more monstrous. His face no longer resembled the man carved into the stone; it was something far older, more primal. His eyes, once cold, were now pits of blackness, voids that reflected the ancient chaos beyond the veil of the mortal world.

"The source," he whispered, his voice deeper, more resonant. "The root of all magic. The raw, untamed chaos that binds our world to others. The power I sought to harness."

Mercia's mouth went dry. The void seemed to beckon her, calling out in a language older than any she had ever heard, its words crawling into her mind like tendrils of madness. Her knees shook, but she could not pull away. Some part of her—some dark, twisted part—wanted to know. It craved what lay beneath.

Slytherin's ghost moved closer, his presence oppressive, suffocating. "You must reach into it," he whispered. "Claim it. Only then will you understand what it means to wield true power."

Mercia's hand trembled as she reached out toward the void. The air around her seemed to vibrate, the whispers growing louder, more insistent, until they became a deafening chorus of madness. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the abyss, and in that instant, everything changed.

A force, unlike anything she had ever known, surged through her, tearing through her mind and body with the violence of a thousand storms. It was as if she had touched the very fabric of the universe, and it was unraveling around her. Images flashed before her eyes—visions of horrors beyond comprehension, worlds twisted and broken, ruled by ancient, monstrous beings that defied all logic and reason. She saw cities crumbling beneath dark, writhing skies, and oceans boiling with the blood of forgotten gods.

The force pulled her deeper, and she felt herself falling into the abyss. The chamber around her dissolved into blackness, and she was no longer in Hogwarts. She was nowhere. She was everywhere. Time itself stretched and twisted, distorting into something grotesque, something inhuman. The voices screamed in her mind now, their words a cacophony of despair, promising madness, promising power.

She could feel it—the raw, seething chaos that Slytherin had sought to control. It was limitless, boundless, and it wanted to consume her. Her body burned with cold fire, and her mind strained against the weight of the knowledge flooding into her, knowledge not meant for mortal minds.

Just as she thought she would be lost forever, consumed by the darkness, Slytherin's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

"Focus, Mercia!" he hissed. "You are not weak! You are Slytherin's heir."

With a supreme effort, Mercia tore her mind from the abyss, pulling back from the brink of madness. The chamber around her reformed, solid stone once more, though the oppressive weight of the darkness remained, coiled in the air like a waiting predator.

Her chest heaved, and sweat dripped down her forehead. She had seen… something. Touched something ancient, something that had no place in this world. And yet, she was still here. She had survived.

Slytherin's ghost regarded her with a mixture of satisfaction and expectation. "You see now," he whispered. "You understand what it means to wield true magic."

Mercia's body trembled, and she could feel the lingering touch of the void within her. The power was there—vast and untapped—but so was the darkness. It was waiting for her to slip, to let it consume her entirely.

Her heart pounded as she stepped back from the sarcophagus, her mind reeling from the experience. "I… I felt it," she whispered. "But it's dangerous. It's…"

"Necessary," Slytherin finished for her. His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of something darker. "Magic has always been dangerous. Only those who embrace its full potential are worthy of wielding it."

The shadows in the chamber seemed to recede slightly, the serpentine carvings on the walls once more still and lifeless. But the air was still thick with the presence of the void, and Mercia knew that what she had touched would never truly leave her.

"What now?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Slytherin's ghost smiled, a cold, predatory smile. "Now, you will take what you have learned, and you will use it. The power is yours, but it comes with a cost. You must control it, or it will control you. The knowledge you gained is known as Soul Arts. The knowledge on souls. According to my understanding the root is divided into 5 sections-Mind Arts, Soul Arts, Chrono Arts, Spatial Arts, Material Arts"

Mercia nodded slowly, though the weight of his words pressed down on her like a physical force. She had unlocked something ancient, something primal, and now she would have to live with the consequences.

The chamber felt colder now, the whispers fading into the background as Slytherin's ghost began to dissipate. But before he vanished completely, his voice echoed one final command:

"Remember this, Mercia—power is never given. It is taken. And if you do not take it, someone else will."