Chapter 5: The Real Boss of Azkaban

"Not bad, Dementor."

Lester's eyes lit up as he read the seven notifications flashing across the translucent screen in front of him.

He hadn't expected Dementors to have such a useful effect—scaring prisoners and helping him collect fear points.

Originally, Lester despised these dark creatures. But now, he saw that having them as prison guards wasn't entirely without merit.

A burly man, his thigh freshly stabbed, twisted his face in pain, nearly unrecognizable.

Yet with the Dementor still looming nearby, he bit down hard, refusing to utter a sound. His whole body trembled violently, the only sign of his agony.

Standing invisibly at the foot of the man's bed, Lester curled his lips into a sinister smile.

This guy was done for.

Since things had already escalated to this point, he had no reason to hold back.

Lester understood one simple rule—eliminate threats at the root.

Gripping his makeshift stone knife tightly, he plunged it ruthlessly into the man's abdomen.

"Squish!"

The sharp blade tore through flesh with ease, sinking deep into his body.

A sharp, sickening sound echoed through the cell, sending another wave of fear through the other prisoners.

"Boss, stop already!"

Some inmates, terrified by the scene, trembled uncontrollably.

Lester might look like a kid, but his ruthlessness was on a whole different level.

The Dementor was standing right there, and he was still stabbing people? Wasn't that just asking for trouble?

Hearing the commotion, the Dementor, which had just begun to move away, paused mid-step and slowly turned back, its empty gaze locking onto the injured man.

At that moment, the man felt true despair.

He knew that silence was his best defense against a Dementor, but he couldn't do anything about the knife repeatedly stabbing into his body.

Even as his face twisted in agony, he clenched his teeth, refusing to make a sound.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

The man endured the pain with everything he had.

Even when the Dementor finally turned away, he remained silent.

"Whoosh!"

As the Dementor floated away, everyone in the cell let out a sigh of relief.

Then—

A white pillow suddenly floated into the air from a lower bunk.

And it shot straight toward the Dementor's back.

"No!!!"

The injured man, his vision blurred from pain, had no idea what had just happened.

But the other prisoners saw it clearly—

A pillow had just been thrown at the Dementor.

Watching the airborne pillow, the remaining inmates wished they could just drop dead on the spot.

They had thought having a ten-year-old in their cell would be fun, something to break the monotony of prison life.

They never expected that this kid would actually dare to make a move—

And that every move would be a fatal one.

The pillow shot through the Dementor's ghostly form and slammed into the wall behind it.

For a moment, the entire cell fell silent.

Everyone shrank back, trying to make themselves as small as possible, praying they wouldn't get caught up in what came next.

The Dementor froze.

Then its expression twisted with rage.

It couldn't believe it—

A prisoner had dared to attack it in Azkaban!

With a cold, whistling wind, the Dementor spun around, its gaze falling on the injured man.

The burly prisoner lay on his bed, his face filled with terror.

"Woooooo!!!"

The Dementor let out an eerie, echoing cry.

It had already made its judgment.

There was only one prisoner in that direction, and he was the only one with access to a pillow.

Unless there was an invisible person in the cell, it had to be him.

According to Ministry rules, any prisoner who attacked an Azkaban guard could be punished at the Dementor's discretion.

Which meant—it was free to take his soul.

Thinking of the delicious soul it was about to devour, the Dementor's mood lifted.

Its tattered black cloak billowed as it floated toward its prey.

The injured man, still clutching his bleeding wounds, suddenly went rigid.

A chilling sensation washed over him, as though he had been plunged into an icy abyss.

He had spent over a year in Azkaban. He knew what that meant.

The Dementor was coming for him.

"No!"

The man panicked. He ignored the pain in his body, scrambling backward, pressing himself against the cold stone wall.

The Dementor didn't strike immediately.

Instead, it hovered in place, savoring the moment—like a cat playing with a trapped mouse.

Slowly but surely, the prisoner's strength ran out. His resistance faded.

Finally, he slumped into the corner of his bed, his eyes filled with despair.

"Woooooo..."

The Dementor, seeing that he had given up, lost interest in playing.

It floated closer.

Its tattered cloak wrapped around his head.

Its grotesque, decaying face pressed against his own.

The other prisoners watched in horror, their bodies trembling uncontrollably.

"The Dementor's Kiss!"

The most terrifying ability of the Dementors—

The power to consume a person's soul.

Once a soul was taken, there was no coming back.

The victim would become nothing more than a hollow shell, a living corpse without thought, emotion, or will.

And then—

The man beneath the Dementor twitched violently—

And went still.

His soul was gone.

The Dementor, satisfied, floated away, closing the cell door behind it.

The moment it disappeared, the prisoners finally dared to breathe again.

But even though the Dementor was gone, none of them relaxed.

Because in this prison—

There was something far scarier than the Dementors themselves.

Someone who could move unseen.

Someone utterly ruthless.

Someone who struck with lethal precision.

They couldn't see him now, but they knew he was there—watching them.

From this moment on, Azkaban had a new king.

A true ruler.

A ten-year-old boy who could make even the most hardened criminals tremble in fear.