Chapter 314: The Black Iron City (Part II)

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The eerie streets of the Black Iron City echoed with the faint sound of two sets of footsteps. No one knew how long it had been since a living soul had disturbed this place, yet the city remained remarkably clean—likely due to magic. The magical barrier covering the entire city seemed to have a self-cleaning function. 

One of the reasons wizards tended to look down on Muggles was rooted in the Middle Ages, when Muggle cities were essentially cesspools—filthy streets flooded with human waste. Even so-called nobles were unwashed slobs, their stench so overpowering that even perfumes couldn't mask it, and yet they took pride in it. 

In contrast, wizards had cleaning charms, ensuring that their living spaces were at least presentable. Unlike Muggle streets, wizarding areas were not plagued by the sight (or smell) of casually discarded waste. 

Ironically, however, many wizards who mocked Muggle filth eventually blended in with them. One only needed to take a glance at the floor of the Leaky Cauldron or its patrons to see that magic alone didn't erase slovenliness. 

Fortunately, thanks to the self-cleaning properties of the magical barrier, Harry didn't have to worry about being covered in dust while exploring the empty houses lining the streets. 

"Was this place ever meant to be inhabited?" 

The streets were laid out meticulously, and it was easy to distinguish between residential houses and shops based on their architectural styles. However, this was all superficial. The interiors were completely barren—there was no trace of furniture, decorations, or any sign of daily life. 

Not even a broken chair leg. Nothing. 

There wasn't so much as a scrap of cloth lying around—only the black iron structures, their surfaces oxidized over time. No materials other than iron could be found anywhere in the city. 

Yet, as Harry ventured deeper, he began to notice something unusual about the Black Iron City. 

Logically, the closer one got to the city center, the more refined and luxurious the buildings should have been. However, here, it was the opposite. The outermost streets and houses were well-finished, but as they moved inward, the buildings became more and more like unfinished shells. Even the fountain statues at intersections were left rough and incomplete—the horse in one sculpture, meant to be rearing on its hind legs, looked like something out of Minecraft, its limbs and body reduced to crude blocky shapes. 

It was as if construction had been abruptly halted halfway through—like an abandoned real estate project where only the model homes were finished, luring in hopeful buyers before the developer disappeared with their money. 

Harry had originally been excited about exploring a haunted city, but the crude, unfinished sights drained his enthusiasm. Fleur, on the other hand, was delighted. 

She didn't mind Harry taking her to the movies to watch horror films, but not minding didn't mean she wasn't scared. Now that the eerie darkness of the ghost city had turned into something resembling a low-resolution cartoon, most of the fear had vanished. 

"It looks ugly-cute! Harry, Harry, take a picture of me! It's my first time riding a blocky horse!" 

Harry sighed, slightly disappointed, but still pulled out his camera and took a few quick shots of Fleur. 

"A dark knight in Minecraft style, huh? Not bad. Come on, let's check out the inner city. Maybe we'll find a message left behind by an ancestor." 

A Wakened One's magical projection could last for centuries. The remnants on Paradise Island were nearly a thousand years old—back then, there weren't even gun-wands; even the Wakened Ones had to use bows and arrows as their casting mediums. 

Unfinished magical cities weren't common, and this was Harry's first time seeing one left behind by a Wakened One. 

Though he had lost the thrill of a haunted city exploration, uncovering the mystery behind its abandonment was intriguing in its own way. 

"Ugh, this thing is uncomfortable." 

Fleur gracefully dismounted from the blocky horse, a hint of distaste on her face. The way she immediately lost interest and moved on made Harry wonder if the poor blocky horse would be muttering "heartless woman" under its breath. 

"I get it, I get it. Here, let me rub it for you." 

"No way!" 

Playfully bickering, the two passed through the unfinished gateway leading into what should have been the noble district. 

The houses here were even cruder—some didn't even have windows. The once grandiose structures were nothing more than massive, featureless iron blocks. Harry knocked on one of them—it was solid, pure iron, through and through. 

The only relatively complete structure was at the very center of the Black Iron City: the lord's castle, which took up nearly half of the inner city. It was comparable in size to Hogwarts, though its layout was far more compact. Had construction been completed, this place would have been a lavish palace. 

Wandering aimlessly through such a massive, unfinished castle could take all night, so after a brief look around, they made their way toward the main hall.

The Heavy Gates of Black Iron 

The massive black iron gates weighed no less than forty or fifty tons. Fortunately, they were still functional. However, due to a lack of maintenance and lubrication, opening them produced an ear-piercing screech of grinding metal, a sound so sharp it made one's teeth ache. 

"At least it hasn't completely fallen apart!" 

Harry's enthusiasm rekindled when he spotted a second color amidst the sea of black—crimson. A deep red carpet stretched from the entrance all the way to the foot of a grand staircase. Seventeen steps up, at the top of the platform, sat a massive black iron throne. 

Lining the hall were iron candelabras, their pointed tips ablaze with flickering blue-white flames. These were the legendary Everlasting Fires of Gubraith—magical flames that never extinguished. Even Dumbledore himself had struggled to produce them. And yet, in this grand hall, thousands—no, tens of thousands—of these eternal flames burned atop black iron candleholders, illuminating the vast space with their eerie glow. 

Just the cost of this lighting alone was worth millions of Galleons. 

Bathed in the otherworldly blue-white light, the grand hall of the Black Iron Castle revealed its full splendor. Thousands of figures filled the space—some raising goblets in a toast, others engaged in lively conversation, and many enjoying an extravagant feast. Though these were merely statues, sculpted entirely from iron, they perfectly captured the grandeur of a once-thriving banquet. 

The Black Iron Throne stood empty. Its owner had not claimed the seat, as if to say that even a ruler was merely one among friends at this gathering. A symbol of power, abandoned in favor of camaraderie. 

The guests wore a stunning array of attire—or perhaps it was simply the fashion of ancient wizards, vastly different from the styles of today. Yet, despite the centuries that separated them, Harry could tell that these thousands of attendees had come from all corners of the world. 

He saw men and women clad in traditional European wizard robes, as well as elegant, flowing long-sleeved garments reminiscent of Eastern sword immortals. Some figures adorned themselves with wild tribal ornaments, exuding a fierce and untamed aura—African wizards, likely the most lifelike of all the statues. Their sculpted features were so precise that, save for the lack of luminous smiles, they were nearly indistinguishable from real people. 

Then, as Harry's gaze wandered, he suddenly caught sight of a familiar figure—Salazar Slytherin! 

Seated beside Slytherin were three other wizards: a young man with a sword strapped to his side, his pointed wizard's hat slung casually over his back—Godric Gryffindor. Next to him sat Rowena Ravenclaw, a regal crown resting upon her head, her dignified and elegant posture outshining even the most refined of royal princesses. And then there was Helga Hufflepuff, her warm smile ever-present. She was slightly plump and sat close to Ravenclaw, radiating an easygoing and affectionate nature. 

Before founding Hogwarts, the four legendary wizards had already been close friends. The reckless Gryffindor, prone to leaping into foolish endeavors, always had Ravenclaw to rein him in. The dark and brooding Slytherin found balance in Hufflepuff's gentle warmth. Each of them complemented the others, filling in one another's weaknesses with their unique strengths. 

The Wakened Ones were, by nature, solitary beings—but even they sought companionship, yearning to fill the void within their souls. 

Unlike ordinary wizards, the Wakened Ones valued unity above all else. 

The great tomb that buried their past, present, and future was not a place of death, but rather a home—a sanctuary where they could reunite in the afterlife. 

This was their gathering hall, the place where they had once celebrated in life and would forever remain together in death. 

At the highest point of the grand staircase, a swirling vortex of darkness spun steadily. This was the final message left behind by the master of the Black Iron City—a recording, a message for those who would come after. 

(End of Chapter)