Beneath an aged alchemy workshop hanging a dilapidated, abandoned signboard on the outskirts of London.
The damp, bone-chilling cold wind blew in through the cracked stone crevices, causing the old-fashioned oil lamps hanging on either side of the sloped passage to flicker back and forth.
Patches of warm golden light cast across the coarse stone steps, stretching long with the rise and fall of footsteps.
Hermione bent her knees slightly, both small hands clad in coarse cloth protective gloves pressing firmly against the edge of a heavy ironwood crate ten feet wide.
Planting her feet on the floor tiles, she pushed hard along the downward-sloping stairs.
Behind her, Jerry had both hands in his coat pockets, his toes rhythmically tapping against the edge of the slick stone steps. He turned his head, glancing at Hermione's shirt-clad back taut with exertion, and that pair of rounded buttocks trembling slightly with her movements.
"No need to push with so much force," Jerry spoke, his voice echoing in the narrow stone corridor. "This shipment is packed with high-pressure explosive micro-needles. If the seal cracks from a drop, the protective runes inside the crate will blast this entire passage flat."
Hearing this, Hermione's steps halted abruptly. She wiped away the fine sweat on her forehead, whipped around, and glared fiercely at Jerry, her long legs stomping loudly against the stone steps with a heavy thud.
"You tell me this now?!"
Hermione lowered her voice, her hands clutching the crate tight, her teeth grinding audibly.
"To pack these two hundred sets of Hardened Shield Plates and three thousand high-frequency disrupters, I pulled Catherine and Parvati through two full days of pulling all-nighters in the underground workshop! We haven't even closed our eyes! If you dare break this crate, when we get back to the dormitory tonight, I'll shred every last stitch of your clothes into rags!"
Jerry let out a laugh, raised his right foot, and tapped the sole of his shoe lightly against the bottom of the ironwood crate.
A faint yet exquisitely precise wind-guiding force field spread along the crate; the originally immensely heavy wooden box instantly became as light as a dry sponge, sliding smoothly down the stairs.
At the end of the passage lay a vast, ancient underground ice cavern.
Dozens of water-repelling rune stones glowing with an eerie green light were embedded in the surrounding stone walls. There was not a trace of moisture in the air; instead, it was permeated with a heavy, pungent stench of aged herbs and metal anti-rust oil.
Six colossal rough-hewn stone tables stood in the center of the ice cavern.
Old Nott leaned on his wooden walking stick with the concealed jet-black stiletto, his withered frame hunched, a pair of somewhat turbid eyes staring fixedly at the sliding ironwood crate. Beside him, Patriarch Greengrass sat cross-legged on a wooden chair with his cane laid horizontally across his knees; Mrs. Bulstrode wore a deep purple velvet gown, her thick fingers crowded with various gemstone rings, flipping through the inventory list in her hands with a solemn expression.
Lucius Malfoy stood at the very front.
His black tailored woolen coat was buttoned neatly up to the topmost button, his right hand gripping the snake-head cane concealing the narrow rapier, his knuckles slightly white with tension.
Seeing Jerry and Hermione enter the cavern, Lucius took half a step forward, the snake-head cane tapping heavily against the hard ice with a crisp, metallic clink.
"Mr. Rosier."
Lucius's tone was flat, yet an uncontainable spark of eagerness danced in his eyes as they locked onto the ironwood crates.
"Are these all the hard munitions produced by the frontline workshop over the past half-month?"
Hermione stepped forward, standing beside the stone table. She pulled a heavy leather-bound ledger from the inside of her coat and slammed it onto the tabletop with a sharp snap. She braced both hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward, her slender back drawing an exceptionally smooth curve, and tore open the first page of the ledger.
"Everything is here, Mr. Malfoy."
Hermione's voice was crisp and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.
"First crate: two hundred sets of Portable Hardened Shield Plates. All stamped with dense iron from vintage spoils of war, to be sewn into the inner lining of Auror or private militia shirts. As long as it isn't a Killing Curse or equivalent high-tier Dark Magic, it deploys a deflection force field within half a second."
As Hermione spoke, she reached out and unlatched the brass locks of the first ironwood crate.
Clatter!
The lid flipped open, revealing rows of neatly stacked dark-silver shield plates inside. The metal plates were engraved with fine, mosquito-leg-thin defensive runes, gleaming with a reassuring metallic luster under the eerie green light.
Old Nott tremblingly reached out his withered, branch-like hand to pick up a shield plate. He rubbed his thumb heavily over the runes, brought it to the tip of his nose to sniff the anti-rust oil, the wrinkles on his old face bunching together in satisfaction.
"Fine goods... truly fine goods..." Old Nott's voice was as raspy as two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. "Ten times better than those rags issued by the Ministry's Logistics Department!"
"Second crate."
Hermione gave him no time to reminisce, slapping the second crate.
"High-Frequency Magic Disrupters, two thousand four hundred in total. Each one seals a high concentration of chaotic magic crystals. Activated within ten paces after being thrown into enemy ranks, they can instantly incinerate alchemical golems relying on precise magic control, and directly disrupt the spiritual Qi guidance of Cultivators."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, looking at the pureblood patriarchs before her.
"These are single-use consumables. But anyone who has used them on the front lines knows: throw just three of these, and an entire strike team's flying swords on the opposite side will tumble from the sky."
Mrs. Bulstrode stepped forward, her thick fingers picking up a black metal sphere. Channeling a sliver of magic into it, an ear-piercing metallic hum instantly buzzed inside the sphere, startling her into dropping it back into the crate.
"Little girl, can production of this be increased further?" Mrs. Bulstrode asked darkly. "The three hundred private soldiers of our family in the northern mining districts lack nothing more right now than heavy gear that can interrupt enemy casting."
"This is already the limit of the underground workshop, Mrs. Bulstrode," Hermione replied coldly. "To suppress these chaotic magic crystals, several of my people have suffered hand injuries from magic backlash every single day."
Jerry walked up to the stone table, naturally wrapping an arm around Hermione's slender waist.
Pulling Hermione into his embrace, his left hand gently kneading the soft warmth at her waist, his gaze swept across the faces of the four patriarchs.
"Everything is here," Jerry got straight to the point. "Malfoy, hand over the thirty crates of Olympian sacred spirits you promised, along with the iron tokens for the Greengrass family's vintage procurement lines."
Lucius did not hesitate.
He turned sideways, gesturing to the shadows behind him.
Several neatly dressed, expressionless Malfoy private soldiers immediately hauled forward several heavy iron crates. The crates landed with heavy thuds, rich, intoxicating liquor fragrance and ancient divine energy fluctuations leaking from the seams.
Old Patriarch Greengrass pulled three iron tokens gleaming with black-gold luster from his robes, slapping them onto the stone table, sliding them across the ice before Jerry.
"The operating rights and customs passes for three routes," Greengrass said in a low voice. "Starting tonight, as long as a merchant caravan flies the flag of the Rosier family, no one in customs will dare inspect it."
The handover was swift and tacit.
However, watching these four pureblood patriarchs command their private soldiers to pack over two thousand high-frequency disrupters and thousands of shield plates into their private storage crates without hesitation, Jerry's eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly.
This volume was far too massive.
If it were merely to guard against stray Cultivators from the front lines or periodic Ministry inspections, there was no need for such lethal armaments.
The blast radius and deflection angles of these disrupters were tailored entirely for close-quarters urban street fighting and trench storming.
Hands stuffed in his overcoat pockets, leaning slightly back against the edge of the stone table, Jerry fixed his black eyes squarely on Lucius Malfoy.
"Lucius,"
Jerry spoke, his voice ringing clearly in the cold ice cavern.
"Taking so many high-frequency disrupters and close-combat shield plates... are you truly preparing to fight a civil war in Britain?"
The moment these words left his mouth, the atmosphere in the ice cavern fell dead silent.
The soldiers hauling crates stopped in their tracks; even Old Nott's fingers paused in mid-air over the shield plates.
Greengrass gripped his cane tightly, glancing at Jerry with complex emotion in his eyes, remaining silent.
Lucius Malfoy slowly turned around.
No panic of being exposed showed on his pale, haughty face; instead, he exhibited the unique composure and coldness of an old-blood aristocrat. He adjusted the collar of his black woolen coat, rested both hands on the pommel of his snake-head cane, and looked down at Jerry.
"A civil war?"
Lucius's lips curled into a self-deprecating and mocking arc.
"My boy, you think of us old folks far too nobly, and far too madly."
Lucius stepped forward half a pace, his cane etching a faint groove across the ice.
"Fighting a civil war requires faith, requires madmen, requires leaders like Grindelwald or the Dark Lord who can inspire thousands of wizards to willingly march to their deaths. Whereas we..."
Lucius pointed his thumb at himself, and then at Old Nott and Greengrass beside him.
"We are merely the heads of twenty-eight surviving families. We hold the lands, vaults, cellars, and deeds left by our ancestors. We have no ambition to overthrow the Ministry of Magic, nor any interest in risking our lives against those Cultivators on the front lines."
Old Nott scoffed, taking over with venom and bitterness in his voice.
"A civil war? Those fools in the Ministry aren't worthy of us waging a civil war! Those childless scum in the Department of War Mobilization stare at our vaults every single day! The universal conscription faction wants to send our fifteen- and sixteen-year-old children to the front lines as cannon fodder! They want to eat our flesh and chew our bones!"
Old Nott's withered hand slammed against the ironwood crate with a dull thud.
"We take these things not to launch an assault on the Wizengamot, nor to storm the Ministry atrium! We do it purely for self-preservation!"
"Yes, self-preservation,"
Mrs. Bulstrode stepped forward, her purple gown rustling.
"If Aurors from War Mobilization force their way into our manors tomorrow morning to search our private assets and conscript our children, we must have weapons in hand that can instantly shatter their Shield Charms! We will make them understand that if they wish to consume the pureblood families, they had better be prepared to fill the void with the lives of hundreds of Aurors!"
Lucius looked at Jerry, his gaze cool and transparent.
"You see, Mr. Rosier. This is not called a civil war. This is called defense—the only bargaining chip to keep those civilian bureaucrats intoxicated by power rational."
Jerry looked at the emphatic pureblood patriarchs, neither agreeing nor refuting.
He merely chuckled, picked up the three black-gold iron tokens, and tucked them into his coat pocket.
"As long as the bargaining chips suffice," Jerry said flatly. "The handover is complete. Let's go."
Taking Hermione's hand, he walked toward the stone corridor exit without looking back.
Clasping her heavy ledger, Hermione stuck close to Jerry's side in her leather boots. At the corner of the corridor, she couldn't help but look back.
In the cavern, the patriarchs were commanding their private troops to load the crates onto shielded carriages, the atmosphere heavy like an impending expedition.
They ascended the damp stone steps.
Emerging from the rusted iron door of the workshop, night was deep outside.
Searing autumn rain drizzled from the broken eaves onto the cobblestones, splashing into delicate sprays. The street was deserted, with only the faint glow of distant Ministry sentry posts flickering through the dense fog.
Jerry paused beneath the eaves.
Pulling out a thin cigar, leaning against the rough stone wall, he lit it with a spark from his fingertip. The glowing red ember illuminated his cold, sharp profile in the damp night air.
Hermione stood beside him, wiping the rain from her cheek. Clasping her ledger, her brow furrowed with confusion and unease.
"Jerry,"
Hermione leaned in, her small frame pressing against his coat, her long legs lightly brushing his thigh.
"Mr. Lucius and the others just now... is it truly just for self-preservation?"
Hermione paused, her voice hushed very low.
"Looking at them, they seemed genuinely terrified that War Mobilization and the conscription faction would storm their manors. If it's merely for defense, aren't the defensive wards of their manors enough?"
Jerry took a deep drag from his cigar, exhaling hot smoke into the icy night.
Catching Hermione's tender hand, gently kneading her damp palm, a chillingly cold, mocking smirk curled upon his lips.
"It appears this civil war truly will be fought."
Hermione shuddered!
Looking up with sheer disbelief, her delicate face was filled with shock.
She gripped Jerry's sleeve, her voice laced with urgency and confusion.
"How can that be?! Didn't they make it clear? It's just for self-defense! To prevent the Ministry from seizing their property and children! Lucius even swore they have no ambitions to overthrow the Ministry!"
Jerry looked down at the naive top student in his arms.
Pinching her soft cheek firmly until she whined and swatted his hand away.
"Silly girl."
Jerry's voice was utterly calm, yet his words cut like a scalpel, tearing through all gentle pretenses in an instant.
"If they wanted self-preservation, they would ask for Hardened Shield Plates, for high-tier defensive arrays, or reinforce their manor wards three layers thicker."
Jerry pointed toward the underground workshop below.
"Yet what did they take just now?"
"Two thousand four hundred high-frequency disrupters, three thousand boxes of explosive micro-needles, and stamped munitions capable of tearing through an entire Auror squad's defenses in an instant."
Jerry took a final puff and flicked the butt into the rain with a hiss.
"None of those items are designed for defense."
"The sole purpose of high-frequency disrupters is to breach enemy bunker positions, forcefully disrupt magic and spiritual Qi, and create opportunities for close-quarters slaughter by assault troops. As for explosive micro-needles... they are lethal weapons designed for indiscriminate clearing in narrow alleyways and enclosed rooms."
Jerry tightened his hold on Hermione's waist, feeling her body tremble from the shock.
"A landlord who truly wants to close his doors and live his life does not replace all the armor in his castle with battering rams, flamethrowers, and rapiers for close-quarters brawling."
Jerry's voice drifted through the rain.
"They claim self-defense only because the Wizengamot bill hasn't passed its second reading yet, and their private armies haven't fully mobilized. When the fourteenth comes..."
Jerry paused, his gaze as cold as ancient glacial ice.
"The pureblood families armed with these lethal weapons will be the first to charge into the Ministry of Magic's atrium, snapping the necks of Margaret and those conscriptionists."
Hermione fell completely silent.
Clutching her ledger tightly, pressing against Jerry, the cold rain dripping down her neck brought a bone-chilling chill.
She finally understood that the armaments she and the workshop had rushed to produce day and night over the past half-month were never defensive gear for the front lines, but the very catalyst driving this internal bloodbath within the wizarding world!
"Then... what do we do now?"
Hermione's voice carried a soft rasp as she looked up at Jerry.
Jerry wiped away a raindrop from her lip.
Then, his large hand slipped smoothly beneath her robes to firmly squeeze her firm buttocks.
"We watch and adapt!"
Cold wind blew into the fourth-floor corridor.
The stone walls carried a damp chill, and the torches flickered, warping shadows across the floor.
Draco Malfoy strode out from the corner of the stairs holding a thick, black leather-bound notebook on Transfiguration variations, stepping with measured, steady cadence.
His Slytherin woolen robes were neatly buttoned, his shirt collar tight against his Adam's apple, with pale pink calluses from two weeks of intense sword thrusts still lingering on his knuckles.
Diagonally opposite, Harry Potter walked toward him.
Harry's right leg injury hadn't fully healed; his knee stiffened slightly with each stride as he carried a heavy leather potion satchel. Beside him, Ron Weasley carried several thick books under his arm, chewing on half an apple turnover, his boots thudding against the floor.
Both sides braked abruptly in the narrow corridor.
Ron looked up, saw Draco, and nearly choked on his pastry. He stepped forward half a pace, shielding Harry behind him, glaring straight at Draco.
"Draco Malfoy!"
Ron's voice exploded in the empty corridor with uncontainable fury.
"What dirty tricks did you pull at the bottom of the Black Lake! You blew up Durmstrang's ship! If Hermione hadn't spent all her time in the workshop whipping up illicit gadgets for you, do you think you could have scored a seventeen-minute victory! That was cheating!"
Draco stopped.
He didn't raise his eyebrow to curse back, nor did his gaze linger on Ron for even half a second. He casually shifted the notebook to his left hand, shoved his right hand into his coat pocket, and leaned back against the rough stone wall.
That utter disregard felt like a stinging slap across Ron's face.
"Who do you think you're talking to!" Ron took another large step forward, his face flushed red with rage, his right hand immediately resting on his wand grip. "Malfoy! Are your eyes stuck on the top of your head?!"
"Ron."
Harry reached out and tapped Ron's shoulder, signaling him to step back.
Harry took a step forward, stopping less than three feet from Draco. Though his right leg was stiff, his spine was ramrod straight. His pale face was etched with hard lines, gripping his satchel tightly until his knuckles whitened.
"Malfoy,"
Harry spoke with no inflection, yet his tone carried a desperate resolve.
"Consider yourself lucky in the second task. But the third task won't be like the Black Lake. The third task is a live-combat ruin with no room for underhanded tricks."
Harry raised his chin, planting his feet firmly.
"Headmaster Dumbledore made the direction of the third task crystal clear. On a real battlefield, relying solely on your father's Galleons and shady alchemical gadgets won't stop true lethal magic. The final championship will belong to Gryffindor."
The corridor was silent for several seconds.
The torch popped, illuminating Draco's impassive face.
Draco straightened from the wall.
Without drawing his wand or backing down, he took a step forward.
The step landed heavily with a dull thud. Having undergone two weeks of hellish training, his frame had broadened, radiating a beast-like aura of lethality.
Draco stepped straight into Harry's three-foot personal space.
He reached out and clamped a brutal hand onto Harry's left shoulder!
Five fingers like steel pincers dug through the thin robes into Harry's shoulder blade!
"Ah!"
Harry instinctively tried to twist away while reaching for his wand!
But Draco's grip was impossibly strong. Over those two weeks of enduring hundreds of wandless force strikes from Jerry, his forearm and grip strength had far surpassed that of an ordinary teenager.
Draco pinned Harry's shoulder dead tight; no matter how Harry writhed, even jarring his injured right leg, he couldn't break free by half an inch.
Draco leaned in, his pale face right beside Harry's ear.
"Take first place?"
A mocking smirk spread across Draco's chapped lips.
"Potter, you think flying a couple of laps on a broom and swallowing some herbs underwater makes you the savior of the world?"
Draco applied pressure with his right hand, forcing Harry to stagger forward.
"I crawled through the dead in the third basement level for fifteen full days. Every day, Jerry blasted force capable of shattering ribs right over my head. The blood I shed on those stone slabs could dye that ragged robe of yours red three times over."
Draco released his grip, patting Harry's chest hard twice, sending a dull ache through Harry's ribs.
"That might not happen, Potter."
Draco leaned forward, his tone low and clear.
"If I were you, before stepping into the third task's ruins, I'd go to the hospital wing and have that bum leg of yours sawed off. Because once inside, there won't be a golden Age Line drawn by Dumbledore, nor a grandstand of spectators treating you like a precious treasure."
"You..."
Ron couldn't contain himself, whipping out his wand and pointing it at Draco's nose, roaring:
"Expelli--!!"
Smack!
Draco didn't even draw his wand!
Backhanding with his right palm, whipping up a fierce gust of wind, he struck Ron's right wrist dead on!
A textbook close-quarters disarm!
Ron felt as if his wrist bone had been struck by an iron plate; intense numbness shot to his brain, and the blackwood wand flew from his grip, spinning twice in the air before clattering onto the floor five feet away!
"A piece of trash who can't even hold his wrist steady dares raise a wand before me?"
Draco didn't even glance at the fallen wand. Straightening his coat cuffs, he pulled out a thin cigar, lit it with a spark from his fingertip, and took a deep drag.
Whoosh!
A plume of scalding white smoke blew directly into Ron's stunned face.
Draco turned, striding with steady steps past Harry and Ron.
"See you in the third task, Savior."
Draco's voice drifted through the wind of the corridor, carrying unprecedented arrogance and coldness.
"I hope you scream your name a little louder before my blade pierces your belly."
Harry clutched his heaving chest, staring at Draco's retreating black silhouette. His fingers ached from gripping his bag too tightly.
Ron bent down in a panic to retrieve his wand, his wrist trembling violently.
"Harry... the force in his hand... he wasn't like a wizard at all..."
Harry did not reply.
He merely rubbed his bruised left shoulder with his left hand, his tightly set jaw sinking, a murderous intent glistening in his eyes.
...
Three days later.
The sky hung low as if about to collapse, churning dark clouds pressing heavily against Hogwarts Castle's spires.
The lush green turf of the Quidditch pitch had been completely cleared away.
Replaced instead by a sunken ancient ruin spanning hundreds of yards, constructed from dozens of towering black boulders!
Thick iron chains coiled around wooden stakes, securing the perimeter of the ruins. The air reeked of scorched earth and pale purple anomalous energy leaking from the inter-realm rift. Dozens of stone pillars etched with anti-magic runes ringed the ruins, blazing with blue-white fires at their tops.
Dense crowds packed the stands.
The pureblood patriarchs sat in the highest VIP box; Lucius Malfoy, dressed in noble black robes holding his snake-head cane, looked calmly at the entrance below, while Old Nott rhythmically tapped the wooden armrest with his withered fingers.
On the side of the stands, Margaret Brown led over twenty frontline dress-uniform Aurors, hands on their wands, sealing the perimeter airtight.
In the center of the dais.
Dumbledore stood beneath the banners of the four houses, his robe patterned with silvery-yellow moons fluttering in the gale.
"Welcome! Welcome to the final battle of the Triwizard Tournament!"
The old wizard's voice boomed via a Sonorus Charm, resounding across the entire arena.
"The Third Task! The Live-Combat Ruin Labyrinth! In the deepest recess of this ruin woven with ancient magic and inter-realm energy lies the Triwizard Cup symbolizing supreme honor!"
Dumbledore pointed toward the pitch-black gates below.
"There is only one rule! The first person to traverse the labyrinth and touch the cup shall claim ultimate victory! During the task, all compliant magic and tactics are permitted!"
The five champions lined up before the arena gates.
Cedric Diggory wore his yellow Hufflepuff combat uniform, wand gripped tightly, eyes grave.
Viktor Krum wore tight-fitting beast pelts, his muscular arms wound with defensive runes.
Fleur Delacour stood in the center, her powder-blue form-fitting combat suit tracing her seductive curves, the deep-blue Titan Frost-Crystal glowing on her collarbone; she glanced toward the Slytherin box, a wanton, seductive smile on her lips.
Harry Potter stood on the left in a new red Gryffindor combat uniform, a precision auxiliary hardening brace on his right leg, clutching his blackwood wand.
And on the far right.
Draco Malfoy shed his black overcoat, revealing the tight dark-silver tactical leather suit. His right arm hung slightly, his fingers resting on the trigger mechanism of his wand, poised like a hunting leopard.
Jerry sat in the front row of the VIP box.
Beside him, Hermione wore a form-fitting deep blue gown, her hands clasped nervously in her lap; Fiona leaned back on the cushions with a cigar in her mouth, her long legs casually resting on the railing.
"The task... begins!!!"
With the resounding clang of a bronze gong—
BOOM!
Five stone gates before the arena lifted simultaneously!
Five youthful figures shot forward like arrows loosed from bows, plunging straight into the pitch-black labyrinth amidst the frenzied screams of tens of thousands!
Gales swept past, parting the mist at the entrance of the ruins.
True blood and slaughter officially ignited within the depths of this ancient ruin!
The passages within the ruins were far wider than they appeared outside.
Colossal stone walls dozens of yards high rose from the earth, crawling with black-purple parasitic vines. The air carried a foul stench of blood and scorched lightning amidst the cold damp soil.
The moment Draco stepped inside, the propulsion micro-arrays beneath his boots flared!
Whoosh!
He transformed into a dark-silver afterimage, skimming across the damp floor at extreme speed!
His left hand triggered the switch of the high-frequency locator in his pocket.
Hum!
A 3D map unfolded in his mind: array nodes, moving labyrinth walls, and the precise coordinates of the other four champions, all rendered in clear points of light!
"Thirty yards to the left, the first rune wall is closing."
Draco sneered internally, executing a smooth, low-to-the-ground pivot at high speed!
Slam!
A massive stone wall crashed down half an inch behind him, sending dust and shattered stone flying!
As Draco prepared to advance along the main corridor, a blinding wave of dark red fire erupted around the corner ahead!
Rumble!!
A ten-foot wall of roaring flames surged forward like a raging beast through the narrow passage!
Behind the flames, an exotic beast over twenty feet long covered in black spikes burrowed from the earth—an Abyss Shadow Wolf, a low-tier demon fallen through the frontline rift! Spitting viscous purple venom, its sharp claws tore deep bloody grooves into the stone floor!
"Die!"
A roar echoed from the other side.
Viktor Krum leaped down, firing Blasting Curses at the wolf!
However, the wolf's hide was rock-hard; the spells merely sparked against its spikes, enraging it further! Roaring, the wolf's tail swept out, smashing Krum into a stone wall, making him cough up a mouthful of blood!
After swatting Krum away, the wolf locked its scarlet eyes onto Draco sliding toward it!
It lunged straight for Draco's face, carrying a foul stench!
Two weeks ago, Draco would have paled and scrambled back with his wand.
Yet now, there was no fear in his eyes.
Looking at the gaping maw lunging toward him, a cruel smirk curled upon his lips.
Draco did not retreat.
Using the propulsion beneath his boots, he bent his body backward, sliding low beneath the wolf's belly!
A perilous and daring slide!
Click!
The mechanism in his wand handle snapped!
The dark-silver narrow rapier engraved with curse-breaking and sharpening runes sprang out with an icy glint!
Holding the sword in one hand, Draco thrust upward into the wolf's soft underbelly!
Riiip!!
The narrow blade sliced through the wolf's belly like a hot knife through butter!
Massive streams of toxic purple blood and entrails showered like a waterfall!
Whimpering in despair, the wolf crashed heavily to the floor, skidding three yards before dying against a stone wall!
Draco sprang to his feet.
With a flick of his wrist, he cleanly whipped the purple blood from the blade onto the floor. His dark-silver suit didn't catch a single drop of dirty blood.
Slumped against the wall coughing blood, Krum stared in shock.
This premier champion of Durmstrang clutched his chest, his eyes filled with disbelief and terror.
"You... you dissected an Abyss Shadow Wolf with a cold melee weapon!"
Draco didn't even look at him.
Raising his left hand, checking the locator in his mind, he dropped a cold remark:
"Learn to fight with your brain, Nordic barbarian. On a real battlefield, spells are the slowest way to kill."
With that, Draco vanished like dark-silver lightning toward the depths of the ruins!
In the VIP box above.
Lucius Malfoy's hand holding his goblet trembled slightly. Watching Draco's seamless, decisive kill in the mirror reflection, he took a deep breath and drained his liquor.
Beside him, Old Nott chuckled with his missing teeth.
"Lucius... you raised a fine son. That sword draw is identical to Grindelwald's Acolytes back then. I thought he was just an arrogant young master; under Rosier's tempering, he's become a lethal blade."
Jerry sat in the front row, smiling calmly.
"This is merely the beginning,"
Jerry said flatly.
"The real show is at the central dais."
Ahead, the stone doors at the deepest recess of the ruins were faintly visible. And the voices of Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour echoed urgently from a passage in another direction.
The final confrontation was on the verge of detonating!
In the central hall deep within the ruins, the temperature was freezing.
Snapped stone pillars lay scattered in the mud, the air heavy with blood and stone dust. Atop a black stone platform several yards high, the Triwizard Cup, radiating brilliant blue-white light, hovered quietly in mid-air.
Harry Potter half-knelt in the mud beneath the platform.
His red Gryffindor uniform was shredded, sparks sputtering from his right leg brace, breathing in heavy gasps with dried blood at the corner of his mouth from crossing the earlier hazards. He clutched his waist with his left hand, panting heavily.
Nearby, Fleur Delacour knelt on one knee.
Her blue combat suit was torn in several places to reveal fair skin, the Titan Frost-Crystal on her collarbone flaring to ward off the encroaching dark energy.
"Potter!"
Fleur bit her lip, clutching the stone platform, her long legs trembling in the mud.
"The defensive runes ahead have been tampered with! Dark Magic is draining the power from that platform!"
Harry didn't speak.
Supporting himself on his knee, he struggled to his feet. His bloodshot eyes locked onto the cup atop the platform, gripping his wand tightly.
"I must reach it..."
Harry's voice was hoarse.
"Headmaster Dumbledore said... I am the only savior... I cannot lose to Slytherin..."
Just as Harry took his first step onto the stone stairs—
BOOM!!
A dark-silver afterimage tore through the black corridor behind!
The propulsion arrays on Draco's boots roared; skating across the mud, the rapier in his right hand brought an icy gleam, aiming straight for Harry's wand!
"Malfoy!!"
Sensing the murderous intent, Harry whipped around, firing an instant Stunning Spell!
Red light tore through the air!
At high speed, Draco pulled off an impossible 45-degree angle shift!
The red beam grazed past his leather suit, blowing chunks out of a stone pillar behind!
Using the momentum, Draco closed the distance to within two feet!
The distance between them was short enough to see the ferocity in each other's eyes!
Draco's rapier blurred, thrusting diagonally along Harry's wand handle!
CLANG!!
A harsh metallic clash exploded in the hall!
Harry blocked the blade with his wand in panic, but the terrifying grip and physical force from Draco's hand sent Harry flying backward, slamming heavily into the black stone platform!
Clatter!
The blackwood wand was knocked from Harry's grip, arcing through the air and splashing into the deep mud yards away!
"I told you, Potter."
Draco landed steadily.
His rapier pointed diagonally at the ground, faint curse-breaking runes glowing along the blade. He walked toward the fallen Harry with cold, steady strides.
"A god propped up by moral cards and a headmaster... is utterly worthless before real steel."
Harry lay sprawled in the mud, his right hand trembling violently. He reached desperately for his distant wand, unable to crawl forward as his leg brace was completely wrecked.
Watching Draco holding his sword, exuding terrifying lethality, Fleur's haughty face revealed sheer awe and submission.
Draco ascended to the top of the stone platform.
Instead of grabbing the cup immediately, he paused, turned, and looked down at Harry.
"This round, Slytherin wins."
With a cold remark, Draco clicked his rapier back into the wand handle.
Then, reaching out his right hand before tens of thousands in the stadium and all the mirror projections, he grabbed the Triwizard Cup radiating brilliant blue-white light!
HUM!!
The powerful Portkey enchantment pre-set on the cup exploded with blinding golden light!
The dazzling radiance enveloped the entire hall in a microsecond!
Tens of thousands in the stands erupted into earth-shattering cheers and screams!
Patriarchs like Old Nott and Greengrass leaped to their feet in thunderous applause!
While atop the dais, Dumbledore's hands clenched into tight fists inside his sleeves, his benevolent face turning as dark as night.