Under the same sky where ashes danced like fireflies, another corner of London was in chaos. Inside the British Ministry of Magic, destruction reigned. Shattered spires and collapsed buildings stood as grim reminders of the onslaught.
The ceiling, a brilliant peacock blue adorned with shimmering golden runes, shifted and flickered endlessly. Walls had been blown to smithereens, leaving behind splintered dark wooden panels scattered across the ground.
Amid the debris lay corpses and grievously wounded individuals, their bodies twisted and broken. Some had succumbed to vicious curses, while others bore the gruesome marks of blunt-force trauma to the head.
Ahead, the surreal sight of wands floated ominously in the air, dancing erratically within a grand yet ravaged hall. Beneath these wands stood two opposing factions locked in a tense standoff. One side consisted of fully armed Aurors and Ministry officials, forming a protective circle around the Ministry's highest-ranking members, backed by statues of centaurs and wizards.
On the other side, countless wizards clad in prison garb closed in with sinister, maddened smiles. Leading this group was a man draped in a black cloak. His face was gaunt, his demeanor lifeless. He moved like a hollow shell, a soulless puppet shuffling forward.
When he reached about thirty meters from the Ministry's forces, the man raised a trembling hand. The prisoners halted instantly, leaving him to stagger forward alone.
In contrast to the madness surrounding him, the man's empty, apathetic eyes stood out. He was Vincent, the Azkaban warden, whose mind had been enslaved by Grindelwald's mental curse.
From the Ministry's side, another man stepped forward. Bald and draped in a dark blue robe, he exuded a commanding presence despite his pale and solemn expression. This was Leonard Spencer Munn, the current Minister of Magic for Britain.
"Vincent," Munn demanded sternly, "what is going on here? Explain why all the prisoners from Azkaban have escaped!"
The warden lifted his head, his voice dull and lifeless. "Munn, it's over. We've lost. Surrender."
"Surrender? Just because of one monster?" The Minister's voice rose in anger.
The warden responded quietly, "If we don't stop that dragon, both Muggles and most wizards will perish in madness. Think about it, Munn."
"You've seen Grindelwald?" Munn's sharp gaze pierced the warden.
Vincent nodded mechanically.
"When?"
"It doesn't matter anymore," Vincent said flatly. "I'm here to deliver a truth: this country has already lost."
He pointed toward the sky, where the faint roar of an unseen, massive dragon echoed across the heavens.
"That creature is like a plague," Vincent explained. "Sooner or later, its emptiness will infect everyone in this world. We must find a way to stop it."
"And what does that have to do with surrendering?" Munn demanded, confused.
The warden shook his gaunt head. "Because only Grindelwald can stop it. Your Aurors are already annihilated."
"Then why doesn't he come speak to me himself?" Munn shouted. "Why send you?"
"He said he had personal matters to attend to."
"You—" Munn moved forward, but an Auror behind him held him back. Stricken, he shouted, "Tell him to come see me in person!"
"I am merely a messenger," Vincent said, staring directly into the Minister's eyes. "Grindelwald says whether you surrender or not is up to you. He doesn't care. He'll kill the dragon whenever he feels like it—or perhaps he'll just play with it for a while."
A suffocating silence consumed everyone. Finally, the Minister of Magic, Leonard Spencer Munn, gritted his teeth and asked:
"What does he want?"
"To abolish all existing rules. He wants wizards and wizard society to be fully exposed to the forces of natural selection."
"Impossible!"
Leonard's gaze sharpened. "We cannot expose ourselves! The Statute of Secrecy is the foundation upon which generations of wizards have survived!"
"Then there's nothing more to say. Don't blame me for this; I was forced," Vincent replied softly. He turned and disappeared into the crowd of prisoners.
The Azkaban prisoners surged forward, raising their wands. Simultaneously, the Ministry officials began chanting incantations. The magical energy vibrating in the air felt potent enough to tear apart the molecules of their surroundings.
A massive battle was about to erupt.
But just then, shadows filled the sky.
A swarm of fire dragons descended, their diverse forms majestic and terrifying. A man leaped from the back of one dragon and landed on the ground.
Raising his hand, he shouted, "Hold it!"
The distance between the prisoners and the Ministry officials was now filled by a dozen fire dragons. They lined up, their sharp mouths opening to spew flames, forcing the advancing prisoners to retreat.
Fathir jumped off the dragon's back and strode quickly to Vincent. "Where is Grindelwald? I want to negotiate terms."
Vincent's dull eyes flickered momentarily with light, but the glimmer soon faded.
"It's too late, Delassus. No one can stop him. This world is doomed. The only choice is to follow him to the end."
As he finished speaking, some prisoners charged directly at the dragons. The enraged beasts snapped at the prisoners, tearing off limbs. But the prisoners seemed impervious to pain, screaming as they charged forward like berserkers.
Fathir raised his arm again and shouted, "Stop, all of you!"
His commanding voice forced even the fire dragons to stand down.
Turning to Vincent, he spoke urgently, "Give us an hour. After that, do what you must."
Vincent raised his head sluggishly. "Struggling is meaningless."
"At least let us try," Fathir insisted.
There was a moment of silence. Vincent's face twitched, forcing a faint smile. "Who gave you such futile hope, Delassus?"
Elsewhere, Hoffa staggered onto a riverbank, staring at the apocalyptic red sky. Despair gripped his heart. The uncontrollable force within him was far more terrifying than he had imagined.
Exhausted and gasping for air, Hoffa felt the oppressive heat around him nearly roasting him alive. The blood-red sky loomed over the deep blue fjords and the city beyond, as if it were bleeding into the world.
In the distance, the massive, indistinct dragon roared. Hundreds of feet long, with a lion-like head and sharp, whip-like tail, it moved through the sinister mist. Its body shimmered with crimson scales, the gaps glowing with searing orange light.
Hoffa glanced at his wrist. The magical watch that stored his power had been shattered during the battle with the dragon.
Of course. No one knew him better than himself.
The dragon had exposed his greatest weakness. Without the watch, Hoffa couldn't sustain the intense combat demanded by the madness.
Around him, people ran in terror, their faces twisted in despair. Some clutched their heads as if their minds were being torn apart, their bodies flickering and distorting like illusions. The panic spread like wildfire, filling the air with desperate screams.
Hoffa felt the fear sinking into him, a bone-deep terror accompanied by an indescribable loneliness and suffocating pressure. The weight nearly drove him to cry out.
But he forced himself to endure. Clenching his teeth, he muttered under his breath, "You're closer to your true self than ever before."
With that, he tore off what was left of his shattered watch and looked around.
He realized he was in a Muggle airfield. In the distance, several fighter jets stood idle, their green-blue-gray camouflage blending into the surroundings. Their golden wings bore blue and red roundels.
An idea struck him immediately.
The dragon's roars grew louder overhead, its sound carrying an unrelenting psychic pressure that drove the entire city of London into madness and despair.
Some weaker-willed individuals slammed their heads against walls or ended their lives with firearms, unable to withstand the overwhelming force.
Meanwhile, Hoffa climbed into one of the planes and began taxiing down the runway. It was his first time piloting such a machine, but he had no other choice.
The plane took off into the sky, and Hoffa pressed the button to fire. Flames burst from the wings, striking the dragon's scales—but they couldn't even penetrate its outer layer.
Still, it caught the dragon's attention.
Amused, the dragon let out a laugh.
Its body shifted again. With a deafening roar, red lightning crashed from the heavens, draining magic from the air. A second set of wings sprouted from its body, transforming it into a six-winged monstrosity.
The massive beast, its back covered with scales radiating plasma as thick as liquid and pulsating with intense magical energy, vanished on the spot.
Hoffa didn't dare to look back. He pushed the throttle to its maximum, racing towards the Atlantic Ocean without hesitation.
Breaking through the cloud layers, he turned his head to the side. The blood-red sky reappeared, and this time, the creature had transformed into an electrified dragon. It was his own transformation ability, now wielded by the dragon, streaking toward him at an incredible speed.
Without hesitation, Hoffa nosedived the plane, which trailed a long plume of exhaust as it disappeared from the dragon's view. The dragon followed in pursuit, diving through the clouds.
Emerging from the clouds, the plane plummeted downward, rapidly approaching the vast Atlantic below. No land was in sight, just the turbulent waves of the ocean.
On the roiling ocean surface, numerous warships lay anchored. Some bore German flags, while others displayed British insignias.
They were locked in battle.
Seeing this scene, the flying dragon let out an exhilarated roar.
Curiously, the more frenzied and manic the dragon became, the more sharply rational Hoffa grew.
He glanced at the instrument panel in front of him, his hands moving deftly over the controls. What had been clumsy handling moments before now became second nature.
The plane swooped to within meters of the Atlantic's surface, streaking past the steel hulls of the warships like a lightning bolt.
With a deafening explosion, the dragon, wrapped in unmatched power, smashed into a warship, reducing it to shattered fragments.
The enormous warships only managed to slow its speed briefly. Even the colossal explosion failed to pierce its impenetrable scales.
Hoffa paid no heed to the destruction behind him. His mind was operating at peak rationality, processing his surroundings with laser focus.
He spotted a patch of white sand nine nautical miles away—a small, isolated island perfect for his plan.
Boom!
A searing blast roared closer.
Hoffa yanked the control stick, maneuvering the fighter jet out of harm's way and toward the distant sand dune island.
But at that moment, the void dragon burst through the sound barrier with a thunderous boom, its wings slamming through the air.
Trailing exhaust, the dragon spread its wings and caught up with the mundane airplane, sinking its claws into the tail and hurling it skyward.
Amid black smoke and debris, Hoffa was flung from the plane like a fledgling tossed from its nest, spiraling upward within the dragon's grasp.
As he plummeted from the sky, a faint smile crept onto his lips.
Below, a massive wave rose more than a meter high, crashing into him. The flaming wreckage of the plane tumbled into the ocean and exploded in a fiery burst.
Boom!
In that split second, a glimmer of light flickered in Hoffa's eyes. Wings sprouted from his back, wrapping around his body as he curled into a ball. The explosion's shockwave hurled him onto the island, carving a deep trench into the gray-white sand.
He staggered to his feet, battered and bloodied, his body riddled with wounds. His magical energy was utterly depleted. The wings on his back dissolved into nothingness.
The dragon descended from the sky, slamming into the Atlantic with a thunderous crash.
The ocean heaved in towering waves, hundreds of meters high, submerging the dragon's neck.
Emitting an unbearable heat, it moved like a monstrous Godzilla, step by step emerging from the ocean and climbing onto the sandy island where Hoffa stood.
"Run! Why aren't you running anymore?"
The dragon tilted its head, its rumbling voice dripping with mockery as its human-like eyes gazed playfully at its alter ego.
"There's no point in running," Hoffa said, stretching his neck. "We've reached the destination. Let's negotiate."
"Ha! Are you going to pull a gun out of your pants and point it at my head?" the void dragon sneered. "Muggle toys don't work on me. Without magic, you're nothing but a weakling. What makes you think you can negotiate with me?"
Hoffa wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and nodded. "You're absolutely right. Without magic, I'm nothing. But you're just like me. Without magic, aren't you nothing too?"
"Impossible. My magic is drawn from the essence of the world, limitless and eternal," the dragon boomed with laughter. "How could I—"
Its laughter abruptly ceased, freezing on its face.
Hoffa tilted his head, unnervingly calm. "What's so funny?"
The dragon took a step back, staring at its claws as its massive body began to tremble uncontrollably. Moments later, its gargantuan form began to shrink at a speed visible.
(End of Chapter)
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