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[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 551 - 555
🕑 Added 2025-03-07 01:00:02 +0000 UTCChapter 551
Buzz!
The moment the fierce blue fire erupted, the delicate golden ripples of the surrounding binding magic trembled violently. Distorted by the powerful surge of energy, the enchantment began to collapse and shrink inward, unable to withstand the interference.
Turan, the Goblin King, narrowed his golden eyes. This fire…!
A calm, composed voice rang out, carrying a weight that sent shivers through those who recognized it.
"Turan, you're being impatient."
"Attacking a weaker wizard in such a manner… does that truly befit a king?"
The voice belonged to Gellert Grindelwald.
The mere mention of his name was enough to make enemies rethink their strategies, and his sudden appearance on the battlefield shifted the atmosphere entirely.
By Grindelwald’s side, Allend, who had just broken free from the magical restraint, felt a surge of pure relief and exhilaration.
The black panther he had transformed into purred lowly and obediently circled around Grindelwald, its sleek tail swaying slightly, betraying its excitement.
But his emerald-green eyes never left Turan, his sharp claws still extended, ready to pounce at a single command.
Across the battlefield, Turan’s gaze remained locked onto the blue flames and the imposing figure of Grindelwald.
His expression shifted subtly.
Without hesitation, he took a massive step backward, instinctively summoning his red-gold Disc of Fate—a powerful artifact that instantly detached from his forehead and hovered menacingly in the air, aimed straight at Grindelwald.
Whoosh!
The six golden shields that had been orbiting his body accelerated rapidly, spinning so fast they became a nearly solid golden dome, obscuring his form behind an impenetrable defense.
Turan did not need to be told twice. He understood what this meant.
The true monsters of this war were now stepping in.
"Dumbledore!" Turan called out sharply, casting a powerful spell alongside his cry.
On the other end of the battlefield, Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes flickered toward Turan’s direction before shifting elsewhere—toward an even greater threat.
Because he was no longer just facing an ordinary enemy.
Voldemort had arrived.
The Dark Lord stood in the distance, his snake-like red eyes glowing with eerie amusement. The corners of his lips curled into a sinister smirk, as if he had been waiting for this very moment.
Dumbledore did not react with hostility. Instead, his expression softened, a gentle smile appearing as he greeted the one who had once been Tom Riddle.
"Tom, has your problem been solved?"
"I heard that you’ve been having some… issues with your other self."
The taunt hit its mark.
Voldemort’s smirk froze.
For a brief moment, there was a flicker of pure rage in his eyes.
"Old fool!" he spat. "Our affairs are none of your concern!"
The Dark Lord's voice dripped with venom. He had suffered two humiliating defeats already—twice he had died, twice he had been resurrected.
Even for someone as arrogant as Voldemort, he understood that his chances of victory were slim against both Tom and Lockhart at the same time.
Thus, his strategy had shifted.
He needed time. He needed to plan. He needed the perfect opportunity to strike.
But Dumbledore’s words, spoken so casually, struck a nerve.
Voldemort’s fingers tightened around his wand.
His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement, but his tone was laced with a deadly promise.
"My dearest Headmaster… this time, I will make sure you stay by my side forever."
"Don’t worry. I’ll take very good care of you."
His lips twisted into a mocking smile, but the murderous intent in his voice was unmistakable.
Dumbledore, however, simply sighed, his old shoulders rising and falling as if burdened by some unseen weight.
"Why," he muttered to himself, "must I always be left to clean up these messes?"
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "What did you say?"
But Dumbledore did not respond.
Instead—
Whoosh!
With a flick of the Elder Wand, a series of dark green wind blades materialized and shot toward Voldemort’s head at terrifying speed.
Sharp. Swift. Deadly.
Voldemort made no attempt to dodge. He allowed the blades to slice through him, his form splitting apart into thin red threads as if he had been cleanly dissected.
For a brief moment, his body seemed to unravel like fragile silk.
But then—
Click! Click! Click!
His head tilted slightly, a sickening crack sounding as his body knit itself back together.
"Dumbledore," he whispered, "you'll have to do better than that."
Dumbledore observed him carefully.
Twice dead. Twice resurrected.
Voldemort had transcended his former self.
His flesh was no longer bound by normal limits. His body was no longer purely human.
His metamorphosis was complete.
Dumbledore’s eyes darkened.
Silently, he lifted his palm.
Click. Click. Click.
The air in front of Voldemort began to warp—a spatial distortion forming a powerful trap.
Space freeze.
Space cage.
Space isolation.
A series of interwoven space-restraining spells locked down the battlefield around Voldemort, trapping him within a nearly unbreakable prison.
Voldemort's smile vanished.
Damn it!
This was his one weakness.
He had no fear of death. No fear of pain. No fear of any ordinary spell.
But sealing magic was an entirely different matter.
If he was sealed away—whether for ten years, a hundred, or even a thousand—then it would all be over.
A curse burned on his tongue as he lunged backward, his wand flashing.
Above, the sky darkened, swirling into a chaotic vortex. From within the darkness, a torrential black rain began to fall.
But before the raindrops could hit the ground, they froze midair—caught within the rapidly forming space seal.
Yet even as they solidified, a faint black mist seeped from them, corroding the very fabric of reality itself.
The space cage was weakening.
Voldemort smirked.
He had bought himself time.
His blood boiled with fury. How dare that old man attempt to restrain him like some common beast?!
His wand snapped upward.
A sickly red mist swirled.
From within, countless Blood Abyss Worms—hideous, writhing creatures—erupted toward Dumbledore, eager to feast upon his flesh.
But Dumbledore merely watched, intrigued.
So, this was Voldemort’s infamous devouring swarm.
"Fascinating."
He lifted the Elder Wand.
A shimmering dark blue wave erupted, engulfing the swarm.
"Transfiguration—Wood!"
The blood-red mist hardened into solid bloodwood, freezing the creatures in place.
But then—
They began devouring each other.
The transformation wasn't enough.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes.
It was time.
His grip on the Elder Wand tightened.
Whoosh!
A golden glow surged outward.
Above, Hogwarts Dreamland descended.
Chapter 552
Lockhart had always relied on deception and theatrics, but now he wielded the dream world as a formidable weapon. This time, however, it wasn’t just another of his schemes—he had deliberately sown the seeds of dreams, allowing them to spread and take root.
Dumbledore, ever perceptive, had taken notice. The moment Lockhart displayed the power of the dream world in front of him, the old Headmaster had begun his own research into the phenomenon. In truth, he had been subtly guided towards this path, as though destiny itself had nudged him to explore the mysteries of dreams.
Using his vast knowledge and wisdom, Dumbledore crafted a dream world—one modeled entirely after Hogwarts.
Then, like an unstoppable tide, the power of the dream world descended.
Voldemort’s sharp instincts immediately sensed something was wrong. The environment around him shifted unnaturally, as though reality had been torn away, leaving him stranded in another dimension.
No—this wasn’t just another place. It was Hogwarts.
The ancient castle loomed around him, its towers piercing the sky as they always had. The stone walls, the vast corridors, the flickering candlelight—every detail was nearly identical to the Hogwarts he knew. And yet, something was off.
It was silent. Too silent.
There were no students, no chatter, no scurrying feet. The emptiness stretched in all directions, an eerie hollowness that sent a chill down even Voldemort’s spine. The air itself felt unnatural, heavy with something intangible.
His crimson eyes narrowed, and the blood-red mist surrounding him swirled violently in response to his rising unease. The dark magic within him instinctively lashed out, expanding outward like a living entity, seeking to consume everything in its path.
And yet...
Without warning, shadowy figures began materializing just beyond the mist.
At first, they were faint—like ghosts flickering in and out of existence. But then, one by one, they became clearer, their features sharpening.
Snape.
McGonagall.
Quirrell.
Lockhart.
More and more figures emerged, stepping forward with a quiet, imposing presence. Some Voldemort recognized immediately—professors who had taught at Hogwarts over the years. Others were unfamiliar yet strangely familiar, their faces ones he had seen countless times in portraits hanging within the castle walls.
Armando Dippet.
Phineas Nigellus Black.
And more—countless former Headmasters and professors of Hogwarts, summoned from the echoes of history itself.
It was as if every person who had ever left a mark on Hogwarts had been called forth.
A vast, overwhelming magical energy gathered in the air. The pressure mounted, sinking into Voldemort’s very being. He felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Fear.
Damn it!
Voldemort’s mind raced. Was it the nature of this dream world affecting him? Or was it something else—some unseen force that made his heart waver?
His instincts screamed at him. He had to act.
With a deep, guttural hiss, Voldemort unleashed his fury.
The blood-red mist erupted like a living tide, surging outward in a frenzied storm. The monstrous Blood Abyss Worms hidden within it wriggled to life, their grotesque forms gnawing at everything around them.
They consumed with reckless abandon—devouring trees, grass, the very magic in the air. Even the power of the dream world itself was not spared from their endless hunger.
The nightmare was spreading.
But then—
A new force emerged.
A hum filled the air. A deep, resonant vibration that sent a shiver through the very fabric of the dream.
One by one, the gathered figures raised their wands high.
The will of Hogwarts—Dumbledore’s will—flowed through them. The dream’s magic surged, turning into pure energy, filling each professor, each Headmaster, each defender with an overwhelming power.
Their wands crackled with light.
Then, in unison—
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A storm of magic exploded forth.
Raging torrents of spells—red, green, blue, gold—shot like cannon fire toward the blood-red mist.
Flames roared. Shadows twisted. Blades of light carved through the abyss.
The spells crashed down upon the mist like relentless waves, tearing through the Blood Abyss Worms. The creatures shrieked, their bodies warping, melting, disintegrating into nothingness.
The dream world itself responded, reinforcing every attack, magnifying their power.
Voldemort felt the pressure intensify. The spells weren’t just powerful—they were absolute. They carried the weight of history, the peak of every spellcaster’s ability, frozen in time and unleashed in perfect form.
And under Dumbledore’s influence, each of them fought at their very best.
Voldemort snarled, his mind racing for a way out. But there was no escape.
Pain.
A raw, burning agony seared through him as spell after spell found its mark.
Weakness.
His magic tried to mend his wounds, but it wasn’t fast enough.
Despair.
No matter how hard he fought, no matter how much power he called upon—he was being overrun.
The curses battered him from all directions. One spell cut through his defense; another followed before he could counter it. His body twisted under the relentless assault.
Even as he struggled to heal, more magic crashed against him, bringing new suffering before the last wound had even closed.
Corroding.
Burning.
Paralyzing.
Every type of pain imaginable surged through his body, overwhelming his senses.
And then—
Voldemort screamed.
A raw, guttural sound of rage and agony tore from his throat. His mind teetered on the edge, the relentless suffering pushing him to madness.
His vision blurred. The world twisted. Reality itself seemed to fracture.
He was losing.
For the first time in decades, Voldemort was losing.
But Dumbledore wasn’t done.
The ancient Headmaster had already foreseen this moment.
Any enemy, no matter how formidable, could adapt over time. The Blood Abyss Worms would eventually evolve resistance to these attacks.
There was only one way to end this.
They had to strike now—strike with their full might before Voldemort could recover.
Dumbledore’s voice, steady and commanding, resonated through the dream.
“Focus your power. Do not let him escape.”
The figures around him responded without hesitation.
A final surge of magic gathered—greater, more concentrated than ever before.
This was it.
They would crush the Blood Abyss Worms.
They would break Voldemort.
Because even if he resurrected later...
It would take time.
And time was all they needed.
This was Dumbledore’s final solution.
There was no need to hesitate—Dumbledore and his allies would strike with the most powerful attack available.
The dream seeds had long since taken root in the spiritual ocean of Hogwarts. Under Dumbledore’s leadership, they had fully bloomed, giving rise to an entire dream world—a vast and powerful realm modeled after the castle itself.
But the true power of this dream world did not lie in its mere existence.
It was the countless imprints of those who had once shaped Hogwarts—principals, professors, even the most outstanding students throughout history—that had been drawn into it.
These were the echoes of the past, lingering traces of wizards who had left their mark on the school’s spiritual fabric.
When Dumbledore first discovered this, he could have allowed the dream world to simply devour these imprints for raw power.
But he chose a different path.
Instead of consuming them as mere fuel, he nurtured them. He refined their essence, strengthened their spiritual forms, and gradually transformed them into something more—virtual souls within the dream world.
Each one of these figures had been among the greatest of their time. Whether principal, professor, or student, they had once shaped the very foundation of Hogwarts’ magical legacy.
They were the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of thousands of years—an inheritance of unimaginable depth. To simply erase them would have been a waste beyond comprehension.
And now, because of Dumbledore’s choice, that inheritance stood as an unstoppable force.
The battle had reached its peak.
For the first time in Hogwarts' long history, every legendary wizard who had ever walked its halls fought together.
Their wands ignited with unparalleled magical force. Their combined will and mastery of spellcraft surged into a single, devastating assault.
The sheer power was overwhelming.
The very fabric of the dream world trembled under the strain.
The massive burst of spells crashed down in an endless barrage, illuminating the battlefield with blinding flashes of magical energy.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The sky itself seemed to split apart as ancient magic rained down upon Voldemort.
The dream world of Hogwarts—the sanctuary that had stood for generations—was now a battlefield where time itself had gathered its greatest champions.
The effects were nothing short of catastrophic.
The blood-red mist that had once filled the battlefield shattered under the onslaught, vanishing like smoke in the wind. The entire landscape bore the scars of the attack—the ground had been leveled by nearly half a meter, and from above, a massive crater stretched across the battlefield, evidence of the sheer destructive force that had been unleashed.
At its very center—
Voldemort was gone.
Not a trace of him remained. Not even the monstrous Blood Abyss Insects had survived. Every last one had been obliterated.
And thus—
The Dark Lord Voldemort had perished for the third time.
Cause of death: At the hands of Albus Dumbledore.
Time elapsed: From the start of the battle to its conclusion—less than a minute.
Dumbledore stood in the dream world, his eyes closed as he reached out with his senses.
In the unseen depths of existence, beyond what mortal minds could comprehend, something stirred.
The fabric of the world—the very force of fate—rippled like a river disturbed by a stone.
Something had changed.
Three times now, Voldemort had perished. Three times, he had defied the natural order—only to be struck down again.
What did it mean?
In the unseen recesses of the universe, the consciousness of the world itself hesitated.
It had chosen Voldemort. Had granted him favor. Had tied his fate deeply to its own grand design.
And yet, no matter how much power had been bestowed upon him, he continued to fall.
Even under its divine blessing, he had been slain. Again. And again.
Had it made a mistake?
Had it backed the wrong contender?
Even an entity that acted purely on instinct—on the natural flow of causality—could not ignore the truth.
When an investment fails repeatedly, a new strategy must be considered.
And so, the flow of destiny paused.
For a moment, it stilled—neither moving forward nor backward. It was a moment that could have lasted a second, a day, or a thousand years.
And then—
A fork appeared in the river of fate.
The cosmic force of favor began to shift.
Like a tributary breaking away from the main current, part of the world’s blessing was now redirected—flowing toward an unknown path.
Toward a new champion.
Toward Albus Dumbledore.
He who had struck down the world’s chosen adversary.
He who had seized victory where others had failed.
He who had proven himself worthy of fate’s attention.
From this moment forward, Albus Dumbledore would be blessed by the world.
A new decree was written into the flow of destiny:
“Seek and destroy the invaders of this world.”
Chapter 553
Profound! Eternal! Detached!
It was beyond comprehension—an existence that governed all, an unimaginable force that surpassed logic itself.
At this moment, Albus Dumbledore stood motionless, utterly stunned. His keen, intelligent eyes were now filled with confusion, shock, horror, and a deep, unsettling disbelief.
It was overwhelming—like a single raindrop standing before an endless ocean. The sheer magnitude of what he had just encountered was impossible to grasp. What kind of world consciousness was this? What vast intelligence loomed over existence itself?
Though the experience had lasted for only a fleeting instant, the impression it left on Dumbledore’s mind was indelible. He found himself continuously recalling that moment, struggling to articulate it in words even to himself.
He was not a wizard who had ever delved deeply into the mysteries of fate or destiny. Yet, at this precise moment, he felt an inexplicable harmony with everything around him.
Raising his arm slightly, he marveled as the magic of the world shifted in response. With nothing more than a mere thought, the arcane forces around him fluctuated, bending to his will. He had no doubt that, should he push his intent just a bit further, he could cast spells without the need for incantations, wands, or gestures.
Everything welcomed him. Everything recognized him.
It was more than familiarity.
More than home.
Even more than Hogwarts itself.
No—this was deeper, grander. It was as though he had tapped into some fundamental, omnipresent force—one that connected all things, all knowledge, and all wisdom.
Ideas flooded his mind like a river breaking through a dam. Spells he had never conceived of, theories that had once eluded him, intricate webs of magic that no human had ever documented—all of it surged forth without effort. It was as if he no longer needed to think; the knowledge simply flowed into him, filling him with endless revelations.
This sensation…
It was exhilarating! It was intoxicating!
A strange thought surfaced in his mind.
This is the blessing of the world.
It made no sense, and yet it felt irrefutable.
Dumbledore’s heart clenched. It was beyond rational understanding.
This knowledge—this vast, limitless wisdom—was not something he had earned. He was not studying, nor was he uncovering secrets through careful thought and research. No, it was as if an almighty hand had spoon-fed him the knowledge of the universe itself.
It was a gift.
A love so profound, so boundless, that it seemed almost divine.
But why him?
Why was he, of all people, chosen to receive such extraordinary favor?
Dumbledore’s breath caught in his throat. He was not prone to arrogance, but he could not deny the truth before him.
This… was terrifying.
The manifestation of the world’s favor was different depending on the recipient.
For Voldemort, the favor of the world had taken the form of a blood-abyss worm—an entity that devoured all things and verged on eternal existence.
For Dumbledore, it was something far more insidious.
Infinite wisdom.
A terrifying, all-consuming intellect that could grasp the workings of the cosmos itself.
It suited him perfectly.
In an instant, he could see flaws in the magic he had spent his lifetime studying—gaps and imperfections he had never noticed before. With nothing more than a stray thought, he could correct and refine them, perfecting spells that had once seemed immutable.
But then, something even more profound occurred.
The moment he turned his thoughts toward understanding the essence of world consciousness, it was as if a veil had been lifted.
He understood it.
He understood its purpose, its thoughts, its desires.
He understood what it demanded.
The fundamental principle of world consciousness was simple: perpetuity.
The world must continue to exist, without end, without disruption.
Anything that threatened this fundamental law would be met with absolute resistance.
Dumbledore had no doubt of this truth.
Knowledge he had never possessed before surfaced in his mind, interwoven with what he already knew. His thoughts raced, forming intricate connections, revealing hidden truths.
One by one, possibilities and theories unfolded before him.
Why had past magical civilizations—dragons, goblins, and other mystical beings—died out?
The answer was clear.
They had become too powerful.
They had reached the precipice where their very existence posed a threat to world consciousness.
And so, the world itself had struck them down.
Dumbledore knew this with absolute certainty.
This was not merely a conclusion he had drawn through logic or deduction—this was knowledge given to him. The world had told him this.
And in that instant, Dumbledore understood his purpose.
Find the hidden intruder.
Find the thief.
Destroy it.
Preserve stability.
His thoughts were crystal clear.
For the first time in his life, he felt as though he could see the entire world laid bare before him.
He knew what needed to be done.
Suppress Grindelwald.
Eliminate Lockhart.
Erase all traces of meditation.
Restrict the growth of wizards.
Promote Muggles to replace wizards.
Preserve the environment.
Expand the spiritual ocean further…
Ideas poured into his mind like an unstoppable tide, rapidly forming detailed plans.
At this moment, Albus Dumbledore was no longer merely a wizard.
He was a visionary.
A guardian of the world.
Then—
"Dumbledore, come and help me quickly!"
A voice pierced his trance.
Turan, the King of Goblins, shouted desperately beside him.
"The two of us must suppress Grindelwald together!"
Turan’s voice jolted Dumbledore back to reality.
In an instant, cold sweat trickled down his back.
Horrifying.
It was truly horrifying.
The thoughts and desires that had consumed him just now—those were not his own.
He had almost lost himself.
No, he had almost been assimilated.
The world consciousness had not simply given him knowledge.
It had begun to use his mind.
He was no longer thinking as Albus Dumbledore.
He had become a vessel.
An instrument of the world’s will.
A puppet.
The more he drew upon this so-called infinite wisdom, the more he surrendered his identity.
Dumbledore’s heart pounded as he forcibly severed the connection.
Forget it. Forget all of it.
The longer he dwelled on it, the easier it would be for him to fall under its influence once more.
This was not the world’s blessing.
This was not love.
It was a poison.
A slow, insidious poison that seeped into the mind, corrupting thought itself.
Dumbledore’s expression hardened. With swift precision, he raised his wand, casting a series of spells to check for abnormalities in his own consciousness.
At the same time, he began sealing away certain memories and fragments of knowledge.
These were viruses.
Information viruses.
Mental viruses.
Dangerous. Deadly.
Meanwhile, Turan was fully occupied, summoning enchanted defenses to hold off Grindelwald’s relentless onslaught.
But deep inside, he couldn’t help but curse Dumbledore in frustration.
What the hell was he doing?!
He had just witnessed Dumbledore obliterate Voldemort with a single attack, a feat more astonishing than terrifying. It had filled him with confidence—more confidence than fear.
But now?
Dumbledore was standing there, eyes closed, unmoving.
Turan gritted his teeth.
Damn it! What is he doing?
They had to act now.
Suppress Grindelwald. Take back the Magical Congress. Drive the enemy from their land.
Then, and only then, could Dumbledore return to England.
But instead…
He was just standing there.
Turan thought silently to himself, but he dared not voice his thoughts aloud.
Dumbledore's effortless and terrifying method of killing Voldemort had shaken him to his core. The sheer power displayed in that moment had left an imprint on his mind, an unspoken warning. If someone as formidable as Voldemort could be annihilated in an instant, what chance did he—a mere goblin king—stand if he ever became a target?
For that reason, Turan held his tongue.
Though he trusted Dumbledore’s character, he had no desire to test the wizard’s patience. He knew better than to provoke someone who had just wielded such overwhelming power.
However, Grindelwald’s relentless assault left him with little room to think. The spells coming from the dark wizard grew stronger, more intricate, more precise. Each incantation was rare and deadly, and with each passing moment, Grindelwald’s excitement only seemed to heighten. The more he fought, the more ferocious his attacks became.
Turan was beginning to struggle.
At this moment, it was clear—among the four strongest combatants present, the balance of power was shifting.
Voldemort had once enjoyed the most generous favor of the world, an extraordinary blessing that had granted him terrifying strength.
Then there was Grindelwald, who had cunningly deceived the world consciousness, drawing its attention in subtle ways. Though his favor was not as pronounced as Voldemort’s, it had still provided him with considerable benefits.
And now, there was Dumbledore—who had just received the favor of the world in a way that surpassed them all.
As a legendary wizard, a symbol of justice, and the greatest champion of order and stability, Dumbledore had dedicated his life to preserving peace. When the world consciousness finally turned its attention to him, it was as if it had found its perfect candidate—the ideal guardian.
Without hesitation, the world’s favor rained down upon him, far surpassing anything Voldemort had ever received.
After all, why would the world continue favoring someone like Voldemort, a repeated failure who had met his demise multiple times, when it could empower someone far more capable?
Previously, Dumbledore had been overlooked, his fate entangled too deeply with Voldemort and Lockhart. But now that the world had recognized his true potential, it was clear where its resources should be invested.
And then, there was Turan.
The only one among them who had yet to receive even a sliver of the world’s favor.
He had been completely ignored.
Without divine intervention, without supernatural aid, he was at an undeniable disadvantage.
Turan had reached his limit.
In his desperation, he had called out to Dumbledore, and though the old wizard seemed to acknowledge him for a moment, he had soon fallen back into deep contemplation, as if checking himself rather than engaging in the battle.
What is he doing?!
Turan cursed internally. He had hoped for immediate action, yet Dumbledore seemed preoccupied, lost in his own mind.
A dark thought crept into his consciousness.
Was Dumbledore planning to use him? To let him weaken Grindelwald first before stepping in to claim the victory?
His frustration boiled over. He could no longer afford to wait.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, let's join forces!" he suddenly shouted, his voice echoing through the battlefield.
"Many Aurors and goblins have already died!"
His words carried across the battlefield, reaching the ears of every wizard and goblin present.
Dumbledore heard it.
Grindelwald heard it.
Everyone heard it.
Dumbledore, who had seemed lost in thought, finally stirred. He frowned slightly but made no delay in responding. With a calm yet deliberate motion, he ascended into the air, drifting down next to Turan.
The tension in the air was palpable.
Grindelwald, who had momentarily ceased his onslaught, regarded Dumbledore with keen interest. His piercing gaze locked onto his old rival, eyes filled with curiosity.
"Albus," Grindelwald spoke at last, his voice laced with intrigue, "how do you feel?"
His expression was unreadable, yet it was clear that something had caught his attention.
Just moments ago, he had sensed an overwhelming force surrounding Dumbledore—a terrifying power, something beyond even his comprehension.
He had received the world’s favor before, but compared to what had just descended upon Dumbledore, it was insignificant. A mere fraction. Not even one percent of what Dumbledore had gained.
It was enough to make Grindelwald question everything.
Turan, standing beside them, felt uneasy. He had been so focused on holding off Grindelwald’s attacks that he had not paid close attention to Dumbledore’s transformation.
Now, seeing the way Grindelwald regarded the older wizard, his unease deepened.
Dumbledore did not answer immediately.
He seemed to be contemplating his response, choosing his words carefully.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"The feeling… it is vast, majestic, mysterious…" He paused, his voice thoughtful. "Beyond imagination. Unstoppable. Invincible."
The weight of his words lingered in the air.
To be aware of world consciousness itself—this was something unheard of in history.
It was very possible that Dumbledore was the first in all of existence to experience it so clearly.
"However," he continued, his tone shifting slightly, "it also feels… anxious. Restless. A little angry, even. And… perhaps, a little afraid."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. "I am not sure. But for a brief moment, I could sense something—something small, yet unmistakable."
The battlefield fell into an eerie silence.
Grindelwald’s expression shifted. Surprise. Interest. And perhaps, the faintest trace of amusement.
"Really?" he mused, his tone slow and deliberate. "You mean to tell me that such an existence—something so grand and omnipotent—could feel fear?"
Grindelwald chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"What, then, could possibly frighten something like that?" he asked, tilting his head. "What could make a force as vast as world consciousness feel anxious?"
He paused, then added with a knowing smirk, "Surely, not Lockhart?"
His voice carried a hint of mockery, yet beneath it, there was something else. A growing realization.
Turan, still standing beside them, watched the exchange closely.
The two of them—Dumbledore and Grindelwald—were discussing matters that seemed far beyond his understanding. It was as if he were no longer even present.
A creeping unease coiled in his gut.
Instinctively, he began to take a step back.
Slowly, subtly, as if to remove himself from whatever conversation was unfolding between these two titans.
Then—
He felt two pairs of eyes land on him.
Grindelwald’s half-smiling voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Your Excellency Turan," he said with a teasing lilt, "it is truly an honor to meet you."
Chapter 554
"Your Excellency Turan, it’s truly not easy to meet you."
As soon as Grindelwald’s voice fell, the Goblin King, who had been cautiously retreating, suddenly stiffened.
In an instant, six golden shields surrounding his body levitated at high speed, forming a defensive perimeter. Above his head, a red-gold Disc of Fate hovered, radiating an aura of immense magical power. His fairy sword remained sheathed at his waist, but his grip on his scepter tightened instinctively.
Behind Turan, dozens of golden spears and intricately crafted weapons infused with powerful magical energy materialized in mid-air, their tips locked onto Grindelwald and Dumbledore. The tension in the air was palpable, an unspoken warning of imminent conflict.
He was on full alert. Every last card had been played.
For a long time, the relationship between Grindelwald and Dumbledore had been a mystery—like enemies, but not quite, like friends, but never fully allies. Yet, despite knowing this, why had he, Turan, allowed himself to be blinded by impulse?
Why had he trusted Dumbledore’s invitation so readily?
First, Grindelwald invited Voldemort—who ended up dead.
Now, Dumbledore invited me. I fear my fate will be no better.
A deep sense of regret filled Turan. He was furious with himself for being swayed by the allure of power, for ignoring the instinct that had warned him against stepping into this trap.
"Dumbledore," Turan finally spoke, his voice carrying a forced steadiness, "can you tell me when exactly you joined forces with Grindelwald?"
Despite his composed tone, there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He quickly replayed the events in his mind—the moment Dumbledore had set foot in America, every move he had made since then.
But the deeper he thought, the more alarmed he became.
Dumbledore had never explicitly asked for anything.
From the very beginning, he had merely observed, letting others act while he remained on the sidelines. Even the strategy for ambushing and suppressing Grindelwald hadn’t come from Dumbledore—it had been Speaker Snott of the Magical Congress who had proposed it.
Dumbledore had expressed no personal ambitions, no desires of his own.
When others sought his opinion, he had offered only mild suggestions, never once using his authority to force anyone’s hand. He had played the perfect role of a neutral observer, a supporter—never a leader.
And that was why Turan had trusted him.
Because, in the entirety of the Magical Congress, there was no one who didn’t trust Dumbledore.
Even Speaker Snott himself had felt assured by the great wizard’s apparent passivity.
Dumbledore had seamlessly integrated himself into their system, not disrupting their interests but instead subtly reinforcing them, making it easy to believe in his goodwill.
And yet…
Had he let his guard down too much? Had he miscalculated?
Turan’s breath grew unsteady.
Dumbledore did not respond immediately to his question. Instead, he seemed deep in thought, as if reflecting on information he had just processed.
Beside him, Grindelwald watched with keen interest, clearly entertained by the exchange between the two. He, too, remained silent, as though waiting to hear Dumbledore’s response.
The eerie stillness in the room was suffocating.
For a moment, a foolish glimmer of hope sparked in Turan’s heart.
Was it possible that he was overthinking things?
That Dumbledore had never truly aligned himself with Grindelwald?
Perhaps… this was nothing more than a reunion between old acquaintances.
Clinging desperately to this last shred of hope, Turan waited for Dumbledore’s answer.
Minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity.
Then, at last, Dumbledore stirred. His piercing gaze settled on Turan, and his expression betrayed nothing.
As if recalling the question from before, he finally spoke.
"I have never made any agreement with Gellert," he said, his voice measured and calm. "Nor have I entered into any form of alliance with him."
For a fleeting moment, Turan felt a rush of relief.
But then came the next sentence.
"However, for the goblins to continue existing in the wizarding world, I believe it would be best… if you did not."
The words were spoken plainly, without emotion.
Yet, the chill they carried was enough to send an icy dread coursing through Turan’s veins. His entire body went rigid, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow.
What did he mean by ‘not exist’?
No, the meaning was clear—Dumbledore was saying he needed to die.
"Why, Dumbledore?" Turan demanded, his voice hoarse. "Tell me the reason!"
Deep down, perhaps he already knew the answer. He just needed to hear it from Dumbledore himself.
"You know the reason," Dumbledore replied softly, his gaze unwavering.
Turan clenched his fists, his heart twisting with anger and despair.
"Does it really have to be this extreme?" he asked bitterly. "Will you leave no hope for the goblins?"
"We only wanted to stand on our own. You know this, Dumbledore."
His voice trembled with the weight of history—the struggles of his people, the centuries of oppression.
Dumbledore sighed.
"Stand on your own?" Grindelwald interjected with a chuckle, his tone laced with mockery. "That’s a rather noble way to put it, isn’t it?"
"But tell me, Turan—do you truly believe that?"
Turan fell silent.
How could anyone rise without taking from others?
The wizarding world was not limitless. Resources, power, and influence—there was only so much to go around.
If the goblins were to gain more, it would come at the cost of wizards losing something.
Turan understood this all too well.
But even so, even knowing this undeniable truth, he couldn’t help but feel unwilling.
His gaze hardened.
"Dumbledore, I know we won’t make it out alive today," he said, his voice steady despite his grim fate. "But even your reputation in the wizarding world won’t survive the backlash of allying with Grindelwald."
"Grindelwald’s influence in the United States is too great. The Ministry of Magic in other countries will never accept MAC’s involvement with him."
A flicker of suspicion passed between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
Turan smiled inwardly.
If he was going to die here, he would make sure to leave behind a seed of distrust.
Even if his people suffered immense losses today—even if the goblins were once again suppressed—so long as he survived, the fire of his people would not be extinguished.
Grindelwald suddenly clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and deliberate.
"Turan, stop struggling," he said coldly. "This time, you won’t escape."
"As for my relationship with Dumbledore… don’t concern yourself with it."
His gaze darkened, and then, as if amused, he smirked.
"But you might find this interesting."
Grindelwald’s voice dripped with amusement as he continued.
"Turan, the great Goblin King, is attempting to incite the third Goblin-Wizard War. He has been cultivating a spy—Vice-President Chenos of the Magical Congress—while disguising his actions as mine."
"He sought to assassinate Speaker Jack and throw the American wizarding world into chaos."
"But, of course, that is just the surface."
His grin widened.
"The most interesting truth was discovered by none other than the great White Wizard, Dumbledore."
"Turan, the Goblin King, is not just a rebel… but an invader from another world."
"He seeks to plunge everything into war and use the chaos to invade the wizarding world."
Chapter 555
"Intruder?"
"From another world?"
"Invading the wizarding world?"
Turan's expression remained blank for a moment before a wave of incredulity washed over him.
How absurd. How utterly ridiculous.
Did Grindelwald truly expect anyone to believe such nonsense?
The Goblin King turned his sharp gaze toward Grindelwald, his disbelief palpable. He wasn’t just being framed—he was being accused of something so outlandish that it defied logic.
Had Grindelwald lost his mind?
Turan couldn't help but sneer. Even a fool wouldn't believe such an accusation.
Yet, Grindelwald showed no sign of embarrassment. On the contrary, his smile deepened, as if he found the entire situation amusing.
The unsettling confidence in his expression sent a flicker of unease through Turan.
Something was wrong.
His gaze shifted toward Dumbledore, seeking some semblance of reason. Surely, Dumbledore—one of the most intelligent men in the wizarding world—would not resort to such a pathetic excuse for a frame-up?
However...
Dumbledore remained silent.
And silence meant acknowledgment.
Turan’s heart sank.
Even Dumbledore was standing by this outrageous claim?
An intruder from another world?
This was beyond mere slander. This accusation was reckless, absurd, and filled with holes. Why would they use such a transparent lie? Wouldn’t it create unnecessary complications for them?
The longer he stared at the two wizards—Grindelwald with his knowing smirk and Dumbledore with his enigmatic silence—the more his unease grew.
Then, a terrifying thought struck him.
What if… it wasn’t a lie?
His mind raced back to recent reports—whispers of Voldemort’s strange messages from France, rumors of something beyond their comprehension. If those reports held even a sliver of truth, then…
No. It couldn’t be.
Even if there was another world, even if invaders truly existed, what reason would Dumbledore and Grindelwald have to entangle themselves in this mess? There was no benefit to them.
Conflicting thoughts clashed in his mind, tangling together like an ever-expanding web of contradictions.
Before he could make sense of them, Dumbledore suddenly turned his attention elsewhere.
"Lockhart, are you ready?" Dumbledore asked.
Turan snapped out of his spiraling thoughts.
Lockhart?
His gaze flickered toward the figure standing beside Dumbledore.
There, appearing as if out of thin air, stood Gilderoy Lockhart.
The same Lockhart who should have been in England.
The same Lockhart who was the headmaster of Kamar-Taj.
Turan’s heart pounded in his chest. Why was he here?
"Everything is in place," Lockhart replied, his voice tinged with unmistakable excitement. "The magic circle has been fully activated."
"Everything that happens next will be recorded and archived—every trace, every fluctuation, every trajectory."
Dumbledore nodded. "Then it’s time I fulfill my part."
Turan’s stomach twisted.
What are they planning?
The casual way they spoke, the ease with which they treated this situation—as if they had already decided his fate—made his blood run cold.
A nagging thought crept into his mind. What if this wasn’t just an accusation?
What if this was… a test?
As the conversation continued, Turan’s instincts screamed at him. He needed to act.
He turned his attention back to Grindelwald—only to realize something unsettling.
Grindelwald was moving further away.
His brow furrowed. He quickly turned back to Dumbledore and Lockhart.
They were moving away too.
No— they weren’t moving. They were withdrawing.
Not out of fear.
Not as if avoiding a battle.
But as if avoiding him.
As if he were… contaminated.
A deep sense of dread settled in his gut.
Why? Why were they distancing themselves from him?
Logically, this should have been a good thing. If they were leaving, he had a chance to escape.
But instead of relief, a suffocating panic gripped him.
His instincts screamed at him. This wasn’t right. Something was terribly wrong.
A sharp chill ran down his spine. It was as if his body had been stripped bare and thrown into a frozen wasteland.
His breath hitched.
Asphyxiation. Exclusion. Suffocation.
It was as if the very world itself was rejecting him.
A horrifying realization struck him.
He reached for his magic—only to find that something was horribly wrong.
His internal magic remained, but…
The external magic was gone.
Completely absent.
No matter how hard he reached for it, the magic beyond his body would not respond.
The realization sent him into a spiral of panic.
This wasn’t suppression. This was isolation.
The world itself was cutting him off.
A sharp pain shot through his body. His magic, trapped with nowhere to go, surged uncontrollably within him.
Backlash.
A violent force tore through his body.
Pfft!
A mouthful of blood sprayed from his lips.
His vision blurred.
What… what is happening to me?
The sky darkened.
Clouds churned violently above, and a deafening wind howled through the air.
Thunder rumbled, shaking the very fabric of reality.
A suffocating pressure descended upon him, pressing down like an unrelenting force of judgment.
The world itself was reacting.
Rejecting him.
From afar, Grindelwald watched with intrigue.
"Albus, how long do you think he’ll last?" he asked.
Dumbledore, having just brushed against the consciousness of the world itself, pondered for a moment before answering.
"Perhaps… one cycle," he murmured, though even he wasn’t certain.
Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed. That answer didn’t sit well with him.
If the world’s consciousness was truly this powerful, why hadn’t it acted against Lockhart?
His thoughts drifted to the spell he had placed on Turan.
The aura of Wanda—the invader.
He had wrapped Turan in it like a second skin.
And the world had responded instantly.
Yes… this was the first real opportunity to observe world consciousness in action.
They had speculated, but now…
Now, they would finally have answers.
Lockhart, still monitoring the phenomenon, didn’t look up.
"Don’t forget our deal," Grindelwald reminded him.
Lockhart nodded. "I won’t. If we want a foothold in this New World, we’ll need help."
As they spoke, their attention remained fixed on Turan.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Dumbledore suddenly frowned.
"My emotions have shifted," he noted. "I feel an overwhelming urge to kill Turan. A strong one."
Grindelwald’s eyes glinted.
"I feel it too," he admitted, though with far less intensity. "Perhaps because I have distanced myself from fate’s influence."
He mulled over the implications.
"If the world’s consciousness influences even our emotions… we may need to develop countermeasures—wards, spells, safeguards."
Lockhart remained silent, his gaze fixed on the struggling goblin.
Turan trembled under the weight of the unseen force.
He had always believed himself to be a king, a mastermind, a figure of legend among his people.
And yet…
He was nothing but an experiment.
A pawn in someone else’s game.
How ridiculous.
And then—
Boom!
