The pile of ash didn't just sit there. It began to churn, a sickening, dry sound echoing through the chamber as if the dust itself was screaming. From the center of the grey mound, a blackened, skeletal hand thrust upward. Tutankhamun wasn't dead. He was charred beyond recognition, his regal linen now nothing more than carbonized flakes, but the ancient magic keeping him upright was stubborn.
He crawled out of the wreckage of his own servants, his joints clicking like dry twigs. His blackened knuckles were fused around the wand inlaid with dark, oily gems. Before Allen could fire another curse, the Pharaoh pointed the wand at his own chest and hissed a short, guttural incantation that sounded like a dying man's final breath.
"He's boosting his own speed!" Allen shouted, his eyes narrowing. "Watch out!"
The change was instantaneous. The Pharaoh didn't shuffle anymore; he blurred. He surged toward the trio with a terrifying, unnatural momentum. His hand, now nothing but bone and scorched sinew, shot out with enough force to pierce a stone wall. He wasn't aiming for Allen this time—he was going for the weakest link. He lunged straight for Ron's throat.
"Get back!" Ron let out a strangled, high-pitched yelp, scrambling backward so fast he nearly tripped over a pile of golden chalices. He flailed his arms, desperate to avoid the lethal, grasping fingers that smelled of ozone and ancient rot.
Allen frowned. Why wasn't the mummy using magic? Up close, the Pharaoh's aura was chaotic, like a flickering candle in a storm. He didn't have time to ponder the mechanics of ancient lich-craft, though. As Tutankhamun bypassed him, Allen pivoted on his heel and lashed out with a fierce, heavy-booted kick.
Crack.
The kick caught the mummy square in the ribs. The force sent Tutankhamun flying backward, his light, hollow body skidding across the floor like a piece of burnt driftwood.
But he didn't stay down. Almost before he'd finished sliding, the Pharaoh flipped back onto his feet, moving even faster than before. His empty eye-sockets were fixed on them with a vacant, soul-chilling intensity. His jaw was locked in that permanent, horrific grin that only a skull can achieve, a mocking expression of death that had lasted four thousand years.
He stiffened his arms and lunged again. Allen braced himself, ready to deliver another bone-shattering strike, but the Pharaoh had a trick left. As he closed the distance, his arms seemed to dislocate and elongate, shooting past Allen and Ron like two black spears. Before anyone could react, those tar-blackened hands clamped firmly around Nancy's throat.
Nancy's eyes bulged. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream as she was lifted off her feet. Tutankhamun tilted his scorched head back, his grip tightening with mechanical, merciless strength. Nancy thrashed her legs, her fingers clawing at the blackened bone of his wrists, but her choked cry quickly devolved into a series of ragged, wet coughs.
"Let her go, you dusty bastard!" Allen spun around, his blood boiling. He grabbed the mummy's arm, trying to wrench it away, but it felt like trying to bend a steel girder.
The scorched skeleton let out a dry, rasping sound—a laugh, or perhaps just the sound of air escaping a punctured lung. He didn't look at Allen. He kept his focus on Nancy, squeezing her neck and forcing her backward toward the edge of a deep pit in the corner of the room. Nancy's face was turning a terrifying shade of purple. She shut her eyes in despair, her arms flailing uselessly as the world began to fade.
"Let go! Drop her! Drop her!" Ron had scrambled up and found a heavy wooden ritual staff lying nearby. He began to hammer at Tutankhamun's arm with everything he had, the wood splintering against the mummy's hard, carbonized flesh.
Allen knew that raw physical strength wouldn't win this. Even with his training, a magical construct like a mummy possessed a tier of strength that defied biology. He needed precision. While Ron provided the distraction, Allen whipped out his wand, stepping in dangerously close—right into the Pharaoh's personal space.
"Relashio!"
He shouted the spell directly at the mummy's wrists. A burst of white-hot sparks exploded between Nancy's throat and the blackened fingers. The shock worked; the mummy's grip reflexively loosened for a fraction of a second.
Nancy collapsed, hitting the floor and clutching her neck, gulping in air in ragged, desperate sobs.
Tutankhamun let out a snarl that sounded like a tectonic plate shifting. He turned his full, murderous attention to Allen. If this boy was the primary threat, he would be eliminated first. The mummy grabbed Allen's shoulders, his strength so immense that Allen felt his collarbones groan under the pressure. With a sudden, violent jerk, the Pharaoh tried to hurl Allen across the room, intending to smash him against the far wall.
Allen went airborne. As he was flung through the darkness, his survival instincts kicked in. He flailed his arms, reaching for anything to stabilize himself or take the Pharaoh down with him.
His hand caught on a piece of loose, scorched linen hanging from the Pharaoh's chest. Rippp.
Allen crashed to the floor, rolling several times to dissipate the impact. As he scrambled to his feet, he heard a distinct clink-clink sound. A purple object had fallen from the mummy's chest, tumbling out of its hidden pocket and rolling across the dusty floor.
The Pharaoh froze. He didn't chase Allen. Instead, he twisted frantically, his eyeless head darting back and forth, trying to locate the fallen object.
Allen saw it first. It was a beautiful, terrifying amulet: a scarab beetle carved from a single piece of crystal-clear purple amethyst. Even in the dim light, it pulsed with a faint, rhythmic violet glow, as if it had a heartbeat of its own.
Tutankhamun lunged for it, his movements desperate and jagged.
But Allen was faster. He dove forward, his hand closing over the cool, vibrating amethyst just seconds before the Pharaoh's fingers reached it. He scrambled back, holding the amulet high. He didn't need a textbook to know what this was. This was the phylactery. The soul-jar.
"You want this?" Allen growled, his voice low and dangerous. He made a move as if to smash it against the floor.
The Pharaoh stopped dead. He stayed perfectly still, his arms outstretched, trembling with a terror so profound it was palpable. He looked less like a god-king and more like a beggar pleading for his life.
Allen realized then that the wand wasn't the key. The magic wasn't the key. This was the anchor.
He tucked his wand into his belt and reached into his storage space. Instead of wood, his hand closed around the cold, jagged surface of the Basilisk's fang. The venom-soaked tooth gleamed with a lethal, oily sheen.
With a fierce, downward swing, Allen drove the fang straight into the heart of the amethyst scarab.
The amulet didn't just break. It screamed. The carved beetle seemed to come alive in Allen's hand, writhing and struggling as if it were a real insect being crushed. A thick, putrid black smoke began to pour from the crack Allen had made, smelling of ancient spices and burning hair.
"NOOO—!"
Tutankhamun's scream wasn't human. It was a sound that shook the very foundations of the tomb, a wail of four thousand years of ego being torn apart. He collapsed to the ground, his limbs twitching in perfect, agonizing unison with the struggling scarab in Allen's hand. He rolled across the floor, his blackened form breaking apart with every convulsion.
He rolled near Nancy, who scrambled backward on her hands and knees, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and awe.
"My life... my eternity..." Tutankhamun's voice was a wet rasp now. He lifted his head one last time, glaring at the shard in Allen's hand with a hatred that could have curdled milk. "Four millennia... I waited... for a child to... I'll bury you... I'll take you with..."
He tried to raise his hand for one last curse, a flicker of purple light dancing at his fingertips, but it was too late. The light sputtered and died. His voice trailed off into a series of wet, clicking noises.
Before their eyes, the Pharaoh began to disintegrate. His head, his arms, his entire torso—it didn't just rot; it turned into fine, grey ash that drifted into the air, joining the dust of his servants. Within seconds, the Great King of Egypt was nothing more than a smudge on the floor.
"What... what just happened?" Ron gaped, his staff falling from his hands. "That scream... it sounded exactly like the noise my dad makes when he's trying to mimic a constipated Amos Diggory from the Ministry. Honestly, it was a bit much."
"He tied his soul to that amulet," Allen said, his voice steady as he flicked his wrist. The powdered remains of the amethyst scarab drifted to the floor like purple sand. He looked at Ron and a small, dark smirk tugged at his lips. "And speaking of constipation... you know that scarabs are actually dung beetles, right? He spent four thousand years living inside a literal piece of crap."
"Wait..." Nancy stammered, rubbing her bruised neck. "That beetle... that was him? His actual life?"
Allen nodded. "It's a crude version of a soul-anchor. He thought he was being clever, ensuring his revival, but he never planned for someone to actually find the 'heart' of the operation."
It was a strange thought. Tutankhamun had waited in the dark for thousands of years, dreaming of a new empire, only to survive for less than ten minutes in the modern world. Was the prophecy a gift, or was it a final, cruel joke played by the gods he served?
They didn't have time for philosophy.
A low, guttural rumble started deep beneath their feet. The entire tomb began to vibrate, and then came a thunderous BOOM from the corridor outside.
Ron ran to the door and yanked it open, only to recoil as a cloud of dust hit him. "The exit! It's gone! Huge stones are falling—the whole tunnel is sealed shut!"
The tremors grew more violent. This wasn't just a localized collapse; the structural integrity of the entire hidden complex was failing. Huge slabs of limestone began to peel away from the ceiling, crashing into the piles of gold below.
"Tutankhamun's final spite," Allen said, his eyes scanning the room. "He's collapsing the tomb to turn it into our shared grave."
"Can we Apparate?" Nancy cried, stumbling as a particularly large jolt threw her against Allen. He caught her, steadying her against his chest.
"No. The anti-apparition wards are still active, and they're probably tied to the collapse itself," Allen replied. His mind was racing. He looked at the walls, at the murals of the sun god Ra, and then his eyes landed on the massive, ornate golden sarcophagus in the center of the room.
"Into the coffin! Now!" Allen pointed.
"Are you mental?" Nancy shrieked. "That's where the mummy lived! I am not getting in there!"
"The sarcophagus is reinforced with ancient protective magic and solid gold!" Allen shouted over the roar of falling stone. "It's the only thing in this room that won't get crushed when the ceiling hits the floor. Move!"
"Listen to him, Nancy!" Ron was already sprinting toward the golden box, his fear of being buried alive far outweighing his fear of mummy-cooties.
Nancy grabbed Allen's hand, her fingers trembling, and allowed him to pull her toward the center of the room. The floor was bucking like a wild animal. They nearly fell three times as they navigated the shifting piles of treasure.
With a final, desperate heave, Allen helped Ron and Nancy scramble over the high golden edge of the sarcophagus. It was surprisingly spacious inside, lined with faded silk that smelled of cedar and myrrh.
Allen didn't jump in immediately. He looked at the chaos around him. The ceiling was shedding massive blocks of stone now.
"What are you doing? Allen, get in here!" Ron yelled from the shadows of the box.
Allen didn't answer. He flicked his wand, summoning Tutankhamun's discarded wand into his hand. Then, with a series of rapid-fire 'Accio' and 'Depulso' charms, he began sweeping the most valuable treasures—the emeralds, the golden statues, the ancient scrolls—into his expanded storage space. He wasn't going to let four thousand years of history go to waste just because the ceiling was falling.
CRACK-BOOM! A massive block of limestone smashed into the floor just three feet from him, shattering into a thousand razor-sharp shards.
"Allen! Get in the bloody box!" Nancy screamed, her voice bordering on hysterical.