Chapter 93: The God of War Descends
If Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore represented the pinnacle of magical power in the modern wizarding world, what the witnesses inside the Lovegood house were seeing was the violent shattering of that very definition.
Elian hadn't dodged the storm of curses. He hadn't needed to. With a simple, almost dismissive motion, he'd brought the whirling Ring of Raggador to his chest, and the combined magical assault had simply… ceased to exist. It dissolved against the golden disc of light like snowflakes hitting a hot stove.
In the stunned silence that followed, the werewolf Death Eaters felt the primal part of their brains scream in terror. Every hair stood on end.
Then, Elian moved. He showed them despair. He showed them what it meant to be prey before a predator of a different order.
This time, there were no clones, no illusions. There was only brutal, overwhelming efficiency.
A sharp crack of displaced air.
BOOM. The frozen earth erupted where a werewolf had stood a millisecond before.
A wet, sickening thump.
Before the pack could process the sound, they saw him. The boy who had been floating was now among them. Dark, arterial blood sprayed in a fan across the pristine snow. A dismembered arm, still clutching a wand, spun through the air.
Elian straightened from a slight crouch, a faint, chilling smile touching his lips as he surveyed the frozen ring of horrified faces. Beneath his feet, the ground was cratered, littered with a black cloak and the ruin of its former occupant.
Devil. The thought was a collective, silent scream in every werewolf mind. The cold, paralyzing fear was so intense it was a physical weight.
How? He was over there! What is that shield?
Their wands trembled in their hands, pathetic talismans against the nightmare in their midst. Yet, the coppery scent of fresh blood, thick in the cold air, began to work on their cursed biology. Fear warred with a rising, feral bloodlust. Eyes that had been wide with terror began to glaze over with a crimson haze.
A low, guttural growl built in one throat, then another.
"Rip him! Tear him APART!" a voice, more beast than man, roared.
The spell broke. With a chorus of feral howls that were equal parts defiance and madness, the remaining werewolves lunged, abandoning any pretense of spellcraft for sheer, savage physicality.
Elian's grin widened. He became a blur of crimson and gold.
Boom. Thwump. Crack.
He moved with impossible speed, a dance of death orchestrated by the Levitation Cloak. He would rise, avoiding a clumsy swipe of claws or a poorly aimed curse, then drop like a stone, the edge of a Raggador ring in his left hand slicing through the air—and through flesh, bone, and robe—with terrifying precision. The ring in his right hand remained a static, impenetrable barrier, deflecting the occasional spell a werewolf remembered to cast in its frenzy.
It was harvest, not battle. Each touch of the luminous disc was final. A head tumbled. A torso was cleaved. A charging form was met with a concussive blast from the shield that pulverized bone.
In the span of a few frantic heartbeats, the cacophony of snarls and screams died. Silence rushed back into the clearing, now fouled with the stench of blood and voided bowels.
Eleven dark shapes lay still in the reddening snow.
Elian landed softly in the center of the carnage. His breathing was even, calm. A few strands of hair were out of place. There was dust on his trousers and shoes. He was otherwise pristine, untouched by the violence he had just authored.
"Eleven," he mused aloud, his voice conversational in the ghastly quiet. "A respectable number. Voldemort must be taking me somewhat seriously. A pack of werewolves is no small investment these days."
In the ruined doorway of the Lovegood house, five figures stood as if Petrified. They were so still they might have been mistaken for statues, save for the shallow, disbelieving rise and fall of their chests.
Lupin's hand, trembling violently, found Sirius's shoulder and gripped it like a vice. "S-Sirius… did you… see that?" he whispered, the words barely audible.
Sirius Black swallowed, his throat painfully dry. "I… saw."
Alastor Moody's magical eye, which had been whirring in a frantic, panicked loop trying to track Elian's movements, emitted a sharp crunch and stopped dead, pointing rigidly at a random spot in the trees. Moody didn't even notice. His mind, a fortress of decades of combat experience and dark knowledge, had been breached and overrun.
He had just watched a sixteen-year-old boy wade into a pack of armed, magically-capable werewolves and slaughter them with what appeared to be… melee weapons made of light. No wand. No incantations. Just flight, impossible shields, and ruthless, close-quarter butchery.
Battle Mage. The term surfaced from the depths of his memory, from obscure texts on extinct magical traditions. But this was no historical relic. This was alive, terrifying, and happening in a Devon forest.
This was the "different system" Dumbledore had hinted at. It wasn't just different; it was revolutionary. It was heretical to everything Moody understood about magic. And the power… to dispatch eleven opponents—however bestial—with such casual, brutal ease… It spoke of a level of potency that belonged in the same breath as Dumbledore and the Dark Lord.
A deep, atavistic fear, the kind he hadn't felt since his first year as an Auror, coiled in Moody's gut.
Before this chilling realization could fully settle, his one good eye caught a furtive movement at the far tree line.
A large, dark shape was melting back into the forest, moving with predatory silence away from the clearing.
Moody's instincts roared back to life, shattering his stupor.
"THRONE!" he bellowed, his voice cracking like a whip. "THE ALPHA! GREYBACK! HE'S FLEEING!"
The spell of horrific awe broke. In the clearing, Elian's head snapped up, his grey eyes, cold and sharp, locking onto the retreating shadow. The hunt was not yet over.
(End of Chapter)
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