Chapter 192: The Wizard Jesus's Cross
"Just a counterfeit," the man drawled. Chuck strolled over to Russell and flicked his wand, lifting the cross neatly off the wall.
"It's incredibly well made," Russell said, turning it over in his hands with a low whistle. The grain, the weight, even the faint aura—it was all convincing.
He let out a quiet breath of relief. Good. A fake. If it had been real, that would mean Jesus Christ truly existed in this world… and that thought alone was unsettling.
Then Chuck spoke again.
"The real one wouldn't be hanging here," he said casually. "It's kept in the Addams family's private vault."
Russell froze. "What?"
"He's right," Wednesday added, as if discussing something trivial. "I've seen it when I was little."
She delivered it so lightly that she didn't seem to notice the impact her words had. Russell, on the other hand, felt his entire worldview tilt.
"So… Jesus was real," he said slowly, trying to process it. "And he was… a wizard?"
"You could put it that way," Chuck replied, clearly amused. "Not just any wizard either—one of the most powerful of his time."
He glanced at Russell. "Wednesday mentioned you grew up in the Muggle world, didn't she?"
Russell nodded cautiously, unsure where this was going.
"The stories in the Bible," Chuck continued, "are mostly accurate in broad strokes. But the magical elements were stripped out—deliberately rewritten."
He smiled faintly. "Want to hear what really happened?"
That was enough to pull Hermione closer. Her parents had once been devout, and she herself knew the scriptures well. The idea that those stories had a hidden magical truth immediately caught her attention.
Chuck leaned back slightly. "Let's start with the Last Supper."
The long table of fig wood shimmered with a pale, lunar glow. Before each of the twelve disciples stood a clay cup filled with wine—brewed from ancient vines of Shechem, ripened through advanced plant magic and perfected by wizard vintners.
At the head of the table, Jesus Christ tapped his olive-wood staff lightly against the stone. The soft knock drew every gaze.
"One among you has accepted cursed silver."
His eyes settled briefly on Judas Iscariot. Around Judas's waist hung a goat-hide pouch, from which faint black mist seeped—visible only to those who knew how to see.
Acolyte Peter instinctively tightened his grip on his hazel wand. The silver filaments wrapped around its handle—woven like a fisherman's net—heated sharply, warning of nearby dark magic.
Before Philip the Apostle could question it, Jesus broke a piece of honey-dipped bread.
As the crumbs fell into the wine, the liquid deepened—thickening into something like molten ruby. Within each cup, shifting images began to form.
John the Apostle saw himself trapped in a pit of boiling tar. Bartholomew the Apostle watched temple pillars collapse in green fire.
When it came to Judas, frost spread instantly across his cup. Inside, instead of prophecy, appeared a swollen pouch of reptilian leather, tied with the jade seal of the high priest Caiaphas.
"Those who eat this bread," Jesus said quietly, distributing the glowing pieces, "shall bear the mark of protection."
Each fragment left an invisible imprint upon the skin when touched.
A sudden gust swept through the hall, lifting the woolen curtain and snuffing out the seventh of the thirteen oil lamps.
Judas rose abruptly, knocking over a salt jar. Crystals scattered across the table, but no one paid it much mind.
"I'll prepare the Passover lamb," he muttered.
As his cloak brushed the floor, it left behind the faint, tar-like scent of dark magic.
At the table, the tapping of the staff continued.
"Tonight," Jesus said, his voice low and steady, "all of you will falter."
The golden radiance at his wand's tip flared violently, and the ancient protective runes beneath the foundations of the Temple Mount roared to life, startling flocks of desert falcons into the sky.
Acolyte Peter drew his white ash wand and swore to the heavens that he would never betray his master—but even as the words left his mouth, fine cracks spread along the wand's surface. Three hours later, when he denied Jesus Christ three times in the high priest's courtyard, that wand would wail and finally snap in two.
In the Garden of Gethsemane, the olive trees stirred without wind. Jesus knelt upon the basalt stone, quietly awaiting the end he already knew was coming.
As the bronze torches of the Roman patrol approached, an amber liquid seeped up from the earth itself, rising and solidifying into a barrier that sealed the space from all prying eyes. He had only a brief moment left—and one final thing to do.
"So you've still chosen this path."
When the barrier shattered, Jesus looked straight at Judas Iscariot. Judas's lips trembled as he stepped closer, but what he breathed out was no blessing—only a venomous curse.
In the shadows behind him, twelve granite constructs embedded with Sheba crystals advanced under the control of the high priest's ebony wand. Each crystal had been stolen from the Holy of Holies, steeped in centuries of sacrificial power.
Peter lashed out with his wand, severing one construct's head—but the shattered crystal exploded in a blinding flash. In that instant of carelessness, his vision plunged into darkness.
Before the rooster crowed for the third time, Jesus—bound in cursed chains—walked across a field of shattered constructs toward his final destination.
When Pontius Pilate struck his mithril staff against the marble steps of Jerusalem, twelve black-robed priests raised their cypress wands in unison, forming a binding array that locked Jesus firmly in place.
Bound to the cross with iron thorns, Jesus lifted his head. His linen sleeve fell back, revealing three intersecting diamond-shaped scars burned into his wrist—marks left from a battle against a lake creature in Galilee the year before.
"Self-proclaimed King of Wizards?" sneered the high priest Caiaphas, his emerald ring carving symbols through the air, the crest of a golden eagle shimmering across its surface. "Why not summon your army? Let's see how many will follow you."
Mocking laughter rippled through the crowd. Several Pharisee apprentices took the chance to hurl thorned vines soaked in serpent venom.
Jesus said nothing. When one is condemned, any accusation will suffice—no doubt this charge, too, had come from Judas.
Pilate slammed his staff down once more, conjuring three granite griffins. The gargoyle-like beasts lunged toward the execution post, only to be ensnared by olive roots spreading rapidly beneath Jesus's feet.
The priests raised their wands together. Dozens of bronze nails materialized in the air, each engraved with the ancient Hebrew for "false prophet."
As the executioners began driving the cursed spikes into his body, the sky darkened into a churning mass of leaden clouds.
A surge of magic burst from Jesus, shattering every bronze nail.
Pilate was forced to act personally. He brought forth meteoric iron spikes—metal steeped in the waters of the underworld—capable of piercing even a wizard of his power.
At noon, nailed to an ebony cross, Jesus spoke his final incantation.
A torrential rain fell over Jerusalem, washing away every malignant curse in the square. When a centurion drove a mithril spear into his side, the blood that surged forth crystallized midair into countless crimson birds, each carrying a glowing olive branch as they scattered across the world.
Three days later, at dawn, Mary Magdalene arrived at his tomb carrying dragonblood resin—only to find the sealing stone split apart, forced open by something that had grown from within.
"So Jesus was resurrected in the end?" Hermione asked.
"Who knows," Chuck said with a low chuckle. "But the cross he left behind is indeed something special. No matter how powerful a wizard is, the moment they touch it, they lose all their magic."
He leaned back slightly. "Decades ago, when the Ministry was dealing with Gellert Grindelwald, they tried to borrow it from the Addams family. Naturally, the Addams refused."
"After a long negotiation, they reached a compromise." Chuck raised a finger. "They scraped wood dust from the original cross and fused it, using magic, into another ancient cross—the one hanging here now. It's not as powerful as the original, but its binding ability is still extremely strong. It was used to transfer Grindelwald into Nurmengard."
He gave a faint smirk. "Though in hindsight, it was unnecessary. Grindelwald had already lost the will to resist."