The clear, silver-gray water closed over them as the man exerted pressure with his fingertips, using the tip of his wand to push against the silver-haired boy's fair neck until a distinct depression formed.
The base of his tongue and vocal cords were squeezed, and the inability to breathe brought a trace of pain to Wenxiu Lord's calm face.
Tom Riddle looked down at him, his wand piercing the skin like a sharp blade, drawing beads of blood that wound their way down the tip.
Chapter 395