Quirrell's lips curled in a smug smile.
After feeling Voldemort's magic firsthand during the Fiendfyre incident, his own black magic had improved dramatically. This time, he'd chosen the curse in advance, studied it, prepared it.
With planning on his side against an unsuspecting first-year… he refused to believe Theodore Ashbourne would survive the fall.
Right then, Theodore frowned.
The Instinct to Avoid Calamity talent he'd taken from Lucius Malfoy stirred; a faint prickle of wrongness crawled up his spine, like someone was lurking in the dark with a knife pointed squarely at his back.
At the same time, a new line of text flashed across his system panel.
[On the eve of the Sect Grand Tournament, a chill runs through you. A deep, murderous intent locks onto you—it is the incarnated shard of Duobao Daoist.]
[Last time he unleashed demonic flame, you narrowly escaped with your life while he wounded his own essence. With his vengeful nature—and the suspicion that you've discovered his identity—how could he possibly let you go?]
[Using the Sect Grand Tournament as cover, he plans to strike again, swearing to grind you to dust.]
[The system reminds you: the plan has changed. Cultivation is a path of struggle, but surviving comes first. Recommended action: withdraw from the Sect Grand Tournament!]
Theodore blinked.
Then his eyes began to shine.
Quirrell was targeting him again?
Even better.
After his last round of talent fusion, Reversing Five Elements Origin Sea was incredible, but it had erased almost all of the merit he'd slowly accumulated. He was basically back at square one, merit-wise.
If Quirrell was going to make a move during the Quidditch match… that meant free, high-grade merit delivered straight to his doorstep.
Theodore's mouth curved into a faint smile.
As for the system's timid suggestion that he drop out of the "Tournament"?
He ignored it completely.
Quirrell was personally bringing himself up to Theodore's chopping block. It would almost be rude not to accept.
A moment later, bright-red lines scrolled across the system.
[Your Dao heart is iron. You say—]
["My Dao is struggle. How can a few thorns in the path make me retreat?"]
["Before the Great Way itself, even Duobao's incarnation is just another opponent to surpass."]
[As expected of one praised by both the Dungeon Warden and the Southern Pole Immortal as bearing an invincible Dao heart.]
Theodore rolled his eyes inwardly.
Drama queen.
He tuned out the system's theatrics and started planning exactly how to grind Quirrell and Voldemort for merit during the match without drawing obvious suspicion.
He couldn't just stare at Quirrell and blast curses at him; that would be a bit too on the nose.
So what could he use?
His gaze landed on a book on Harry's desk: Quidditch Through the Ages.
"Harry, where'd this come from?" Theodore asked.
"Oh, that?" Harry—currently in the middle of testing lip gloss—looked over. "Hermione lent it to me. It's brilliant."
"You know, Theodore, there are seven hundred recorded fouls in Quidditch, and all of them occurred in a single World Cup match in 1473."
"Merlin's beard, when I read it I thought it had to be a joke. Apparently the game lasted three months."
While Harry babbled about history, Theodore's eyes lit up.
"Seven hundred fouls…?"
"Let me take a look."
He flipped straight to the rules section, which made up more than two-thirds of the book. Everyone in the wizarding world knew the basics: seven players per team, one Keeper, two Beaters, three Chasers, one Seeker; ten points per Quaffle goal, one hundred and fifty for catching the Golden Snitch, and the game only ends when the Snitch is caught.
But buried under all that were pages of obscure foul clauses—intentional collisions, malicious elbowing, taking experimental flight potions before a match, that sort of thing.
Then Theodore found the gap.
There was a rule that said a Beater deliberately hitting spectators with a Bludger was a foul.
But if the Beater didn't deliberately aim at the stands—if the Bludger's mad flight happened "on its own"—that was not a foul.
It was "an unfortunate accident".
There were dozens of recorded incidents: Bludgers gone wild, smashing through the stands and injuring or even killing spectators, and official records shrugging and calling it bad luck.
Theodore's smile sharpened.
Quirrell had been miserably unlucky recently—lightning strike, public embarrassment, life hanging by a thread. Everyone had seen it.
Compared to being struck by five-coloured heavenly thunder, a Bludger smacking him in the back of the head wouldn't even register as strange.
The system text chimed in again.
[To deal with Duobao's incarnation, you borrow an ancient manual from young Nezha, hoping to find a way to escape Duobao's clutches.]
[But Duobao's powers touch upon Genesis itself. No secret art can easily prevail against him, especially in your current, fragile realm.]
[Even so, you cling to that sliver of hope.]
[The road ahead is long and filled with snow and ice, but your heart is still. You sink your mind into these arcane arts, determined to carve a path through the storm.]
…
Three days passed in a blink.
On the morning of the match, Hogwarts was buzzing. Even at breakfast, the Great Hall was thick with the smell of grilled sausages.
Everyone was talking about the coming Quidditch game. Even the Heads of House had brought proper brass telescopes to the stands.
Harry had finished his full makeup early, wearing a uniform styled almost exactly like his mother's.
Unlike in the "original timeline," where he'd been too nervous to eat, this Harry—after sparring with three-headed dogs, Devil's Snare, and packs of murderous Biting Cabbages—was downright relaxed.
Excited, sure, but not sick with anxiety.
He ate sausages while checking his reflection in a handheld mirror, making sure his lip gloss hadn't faded. Then he waved cheerfully at Snape.
"Professor, cheer for me!"
Snape stared at him for a long moment, and something in his expression eased.
He'd always hated that jock James Potter.
But if you phrased it as Lily Evans, the athletic prodigy?
That, to Severus, was perfect.
Merlin above, he thought with secret relief, Harry's playing Quidditch in drag. He truly isn't like that gorilla James at all.
By eleven o'clock, it felt like half the wizarding world had crammed into the stands. The seats rose high into the air like scaffolding around a storm.
On the Gryffindor side, an enormous banner had been hoisted, emblazoned with: "Theodore & Harry Will Win!"
Below it, a great scarlet lion roared silently. Hermione had enchanted the fabric to make the lion move, as if roaring its support for the Gryffindor team.
Meanwhile, Theodore and the rest of the Gryffindor players had changed into their bright red robes in the locker room.
Worth noting: the original Beater, George Weasley, had been replaced—by Theodore. The two Beaters now were Theodore and Fred.
As for why George had lost his spot…
He'd tried to manufacture another Troll Dung Bomb.
Professor McGonagall had been so furious that not only had she slammed him with detention, she'd banned him from playing in this match.
"It's fine," George said from the bench, clapping Theodore on the shoulder. "We've seen you hit. What you did to Flint was a thing of beauty. Just do that again—smash the Slytherins to pieces."
Theodore smiled.
"Don't worry. I'll pound our Slytherin seniors so hard they'll never want to see a Quidditch pitch again."
Wood and the others burst out laughing, even the three Chaser girls giggling as they tightened their gloves.
After the formalities were completed, Madam Hooch lifted her silver whistle and blew.
Fifteen brooms—including eleven brand-new Nimbus 2000s—shot into the air at once.
In the front row of the stands, Quirrell's eyes burned.
From here he had the best view. No flags or banners obstructing him, nothing but clear sky and the players. He could keep his gaze fixed on Theodore, maintaining his jinx with total focus.
He would watch Theodore Ashbourne fall. He would see the boy's body smash into the ground.
As Quidditch "tradition," of course.
High overhead, Theodore's own gaze swept over the stands and brushed briefly across Quirrell.
A flicker passed through his eyes.
Right then, a black Bludger screamed past, trying to knock Gryffindor Chaser Angelina Johnson off her broom—she'd grabbed the Quaffle at the opening toss and immediately drawn the Bludger's attention.
Theodore raised his bat.
The thing wasn't an ancient divine staff, but under his Staff Mastery Reaching the Divine, it might as well have been.
Quidditch history had never seen a Beater who understood impact like Theodore Ashbourne.
A wandering cultivator's blow upon a mortal ball.
The Bludger vanished from sight in an instant.
Angelina let out a shrill whistle.
"Beautiful!"
On the sidelines, commentator Lee Jordan nearly screamed into the megaphone.
"What a hit! Gryffindor Beater Theodore Ashbourne with a stunning strike—he's knocked the Bludger completely out of sight! Just like the last time he whacked Flint and those infuriating Slytherin players so hard they couldn't even show up for this match—"
"Ahem. Yes, Professor McGonagall, that is a fact, I stand by the facts."
"Back to the game—"
High above the pitch, Theodore's system interface flashed again.
[The Sect Grand Tournament begins. You stride onto the first platform alone, your solitary figure drawing every eye. Then—]
[You raise your sword toward the Duobao-possessed Golden Immortal across from you.]
["Martial Uncle… please enlighten me."]
[Your words barely fall before sword-qi explodes forth—one blade's cold light sweeping thirty thousand li!]
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