CHAPTER 197: SOUL SULFUR

Facing the tide of the dead, Sylas drew forth the Light of Eärendil and poured his magic into it. The phial blazed with pure, holy brilliance, and the cavern shuddered with radiance as bright as dawn.

The dead army faltered. Though the light could not destroy them, as it would wraiths or spirits, still they shrank back, for theirs was a nature bound to shadow, and such light seared them with pain they could not endure.

Holding the radiant phial high, Sylas called out across the cavern, his voice firm and steady:

"King of the Mountains! I did not come here as your enemy. Cease this attack! Although I cannot break your curse myself, I know of one who can grant you release."

The spectral host froze. A ripple of unease passed through their hollow ranks.

The crowned shade, the King of the Dead, fixed Sylas with burning, empty eyes. His voice rang like steel dragged over stone:

"You are not lying to me?"

"I swear it by my name as a Wizard," Sylas said calmly. "What I speak is truth."

The King’s face twisted, torn between suspicion and yearning. "Who then? Who can free us from this binding?"

Sylas raised his voice so that it echoed through the bones and the stone.

"The one who lays the curse must see it undone. You swore your oath to Isildur of Gondor. Though he is long gone, his bloodline remains. Swear to his heir, and your oath may yet be fulfilled. Only then will your souls know peace."

But instead of hope, fury blazed across the King’s decayed features. He erupted with a terrible wail, and the mounds of skulls caught fire with ghastly green flame. A wave of killing cold washed over Sylas as the cavern shook.

"LIES!" the King roared. "Gondor has no king! Isildur’s line was broken long ago. You dare mock us, Wizard? For that, you will join us in death!"

The spectral host shrieked as one, their faces twisting into nightmares, their green fire flaring brighter. They surged forward like an ocean of malice.

Startled by the force of their rage, Sylas summoned his Patronus, the white owl bursting forth in blazing light to shield him from the soul-freezing flames. He shouted over the storm, his voice cutting through their fury:

"Wait! I do not lie! Isildur’s blood endures, his line was not broken!"

The King halted mid-strike, his hollow eyes narrowing. "You claim his bloodline lives still?"

Sylas nodded quickly. "Though the line in Gondor faltered, Isildur’s heirs in the North yet endure. The Dúnedain of Arnor preserve his house. Even now his descendant walks the world. He will bear Narsil reforged, and both Gondor and Arnor will look to him. He is destined to rise in Gondor’s hour of need. When that day comes, you may fulfill your oath to him."

The King wavered, the fire about him dimming. Still suspicious, still aching for certainty, he growled, "And why should I trust your word?"

"This truth cannot be feigned," Sylas answered. "For generations, every heir of Isildur has been fostered in Rivendell under the care of Elrond himself. When the time comes, I swear I will guide him to you, so that your curse may end."

The King’s dreadful aura receded, though suspicion lingered in his tone. "Wizard, I will have a binding vow. Swear to me upon the Black Stone of Erech. Swear, or share our doom."

Sylas’s brows tightened, but he nodded. "I swear. By the Stone of Erech, I will see Isildur’s heir brought to you, that your oath may be fulfilled and your souls released."

The King studied him a long moment, then lowered his blade. The restless horde quieted, fading back into the gloom like mist into shadow.

Sylas let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Just then, the familiar chime of his hidden system rang in his mind.

[Hogwarts Sign-In System: Location confirmed, Paths of the Dead. Would you like to sign in?]

"Sign in," Sylas answered silently.

[Sign-in successful. Congratulations, you have obtained the method to forge a Deathly Hallow: the Resurrection Stone.]

Sylas froze, his eyes widening.

The Resurrection Stone?

Yet Sylas knew well the truth of this so-called Resurrection Stone: though it could summon shades more tangible than ghosts yet less than flesh, it could never restore true life. For all its name promised, it was not a key to resurrection, but only a mirror of memory.

Still, he had no time to unravel its mysteries now. With the army of the dead pressing around him, he pushed the knowledge aside and followed their lead deeper into the cavernous dark.

At last, after what felt like hours of walking beneath mountains of stone and bone, he emerged on the southern flank of the White Mountains. There, looming above the barren summit, stood the Stone of Erech.

The land here was stripped of trees and grass, as though the very earth shrank from that terrible relic. At the hill’s crest lay a perfect black monolith, half buried, half exposed. More than twelve feet across, round as a sphere, its surface glistened dark and cold.

The Ghost King and his spectral host formed a circle about Sylas as he approached the stone. Its presence weighed on the air like an oath unspoken, a promise too heavy for mortal tongues.

Curious, Sylas raised his staff, muttered a spell, and tried to lift the stone. He poured out his full strength, every ounce of magic he could muster, yet the stone did not stir so much as a finger’s breadth. It felt rooted to the earth itself.

Not satisfied, he struck with the sword, then drove Aeglos down with all his force. Sparks scattered, but the black stone remained unmarred, not a scratch upon its flawless surface.

Sylas drew back, awe flashing across his face. Never before had he encountered a substance so impossibly hard. How the Númenóreans of old had borne such a thing across the sea to this mountain summit was a riddle beyond him.

At last, admitting defeat, he lowered his weapons. Before the vast host of cursed warriors, he placed his hand upon the monolith and swore his vow: that he, Sylas the Black-robed Wizard, would one day guide Isildur’s heir to this place and see their ancient oath fulfilled.

The instant his words left his lips, he felt it: a pull, like invisible chains fastening about his heart. An unseen force welled up from the stone, binding his promise. The Black Stone drank in his vow, absorbing it, engraving it into its eternal weight. For the briefest moment Sylas sensed the monolith grow heavier, as though burdened by yet another oath it must bear for eternity.

A shiver ran through him. Now he understood why the Stone of Erech was immovable: it was not its mass of rock alone, but the crushing weight of thousands of oaths absorbed over the ages, each pledge another stone laid upon the mountain’s back.

Even he, with all his magic, could no more lift it than he could hoist the mountain itself.

Just then, the familiar chime of the system sounded in his mind:

[Hogwarts Sign-in System: Location confirmed, Stone of Erech. Do you wish to sign in?]

Sylas blinked, surprised. He hadn’t expected the stone to be such a place of power.

"Sign in."

[Sign-in successful. Congratulations, you have obtained the method to create the Marauder’s Map.]

Sylas chuckled softly to himself. ’Not as grand as a Hallow, perhaps, but useful in its own way.’ Better something than nothing.

And because of the oath he had bound before the Stone, the Ghost King’s bearing softened. The hostility that had burned in the hollow eyes of the dead gave way to a grim, fragile respect.

"Wizard, since you have sworn upon the Stone, you are our guest," the Ghost King said, his hollow voice echoing in the cavern. "What is it you seek? If it lies within these mountains, we will guide you to it."

Sylas did not waste words. He bowed slightly and spoke plainly:

"I am searching for something called Soul Sulfur. It resembles ordinary sulfur but forms only where souls linger in great number. Do any among you recall such a thing?"

The Ghost King frowned, unfamiliar with the term, and turned to the mass of shades behind him. "Have any of you seen such a substance?"

Most shook their translucent heads. At last, a pale woman among them drifted forward, her voice thin as wind. "I remember, in another tunnel, veins of yellow ore mingled with the stone. We wept there often, and our tears seeped into it. Perhaps that is what you seek."

Sylas’s eyes lit with sudden hope. "Can you take me there?"

The ghost nodded and led him down a winding passage deep beneath the mountain. At last, they came before a towering wall of black stone, smooth as polished iron and cold as the grave.

"This is the Wall of Memories," the Ghost King explained solemnly. "Here our minds grow sharper. Here we recall our oaths, our lives, our regrets, and we weep, for we cannot rest. Some call it the Wall of Sighs."

Sylas reached out and touched the surface. At once a biting chill shot through his hand, sharp as frostbite. The wall felt metallic, unnaturally hard, and steeped in sorrow. His fingers trembled with the weight of countless lamentations etched invisibly into the stone.

Yet his gaze quickly shifted to the surrounding cavern. Embedded in the dark rock were streaks of black ore, veined with faint yellow stains. The color glowed like impurities trapped in glass, subtle but unmistakable.

"These yellow veins..." the ghost woman whispered. "They are our tears, hardened over the centuries."

Sylas’s heart quickened. ’This is it. Soul Sulfur.’

With the ghosts’ leave, he set to work. Carefully, he chipped away at every fragment of ore bearing the yellow stain, sealing them into his enchanted satchel. He would later refine them, smelting away the stone to extract the pure essence of Soul Sulfur.

The work consumed hours. By the time he finished, the chamber was greatly widened, the veins of ore stripped bare. Yet satisfaction glimmered in his eyes as he secured the last piece.

Before departing, Sylas returned to the Wall of Memories. Its strange aura gnawed at his curiosity. After asking the Ghost King’s permission, he drew the spear Aeglos and cleaved away a slab of the black stone, shrinking it with magic to carry home for study.

At last, he turned once more to the King of the Dead. "When Isildur’s heir comes of age, I will bring him here," Sylas vowed. "Then your oath will be fulfilled, and your people released."

The Ghost King’s hollow gaze lingered upon him. Finally, he nodded.

For the Dead had already endured millennia. What were a few more decades of waiting to them?