The vast chessboard trembled as Harry screamed hoarsely.
To allow him to promote, the White Queen had sacrificed herself—trading her life for the enemy's Black Queen.
Hermione now stood exposed to enemy encirclement.
Ron… Ron…
The ground quaked. Tears brimmed in Harry's emerald eyes, reflecting the suddenly darkened sky above, the howling winds, the dust swirling violently.
Reflecting the lightning snaking along the horizon.
Reflecting Quirrell's expression changing—slowly—into terror.
Power…
A wild, violent power surged into Harry's body. His vision rose—higher and higher—until Quirrell looked as small as a… bug.
High above the board, Vaughn lifted his head, observing the "world" birthed by alchemical magic.
Brilliant, mysterious magical radiance rippled faintly across his eyes, like a cool morning mist drifting before the gaze—soft blue touched with faint gold.
Ancient magic was never blinding. It flowed like water—quiet, persistent, seeping into everything.
Like this moment.
Below, Harry's body was transforming.
Stone-grey lines spread up his skin—like a creeping disease—climbing from his soles and crawling across his entire body.
Crack… crack…
The chessboard melted like collapsing cement, flooding toward Harry. The grinding roar of stone against stone filled the air, and in mere seconds, he was sealed within an eight-foot stone figure.
Tall, elegant, robed in sharp-edged garments carved from stone, crowned with a royal diadem, and gripping a six-foot stone greatsword.
The Queen.
Her promotion—her rebirth—echoed through the entire alchemical world. The earth shook. Thunder boomed. Dark clouds rolled violently overhead.
These were not Dumbledore's "special effects."
Vaughn could clearly see the volatile flickering of the world's sigils—those countless symbols composing the painting realm.
They spun like carnival lights—flaring, fading, rotating madly.
The quaking earth, the lightning, the storm—these were all the visible symptoms of the overstrained alchemical engine powering Harry's promotion.
Even with Vaughn's beginner-level alchemy knowledge, he could tell how enormous the magic powering this transformation was—how deep and raw the forces it called upon were.
Essentially, it was turning a twelve-year-old boy—weak, frail, barely capable of lifting a wand—into a magically-born weapon of destruction.
"AHHH—!"
Harry roared. Hatred and fury exploded from his voice.
The towering Queen statue bent subtly—and then sprang forward with terrifying speed.
White squares shattered beneath her feet. A circle of white shockwaves blasted outward.
Her figure blurred—
Then reappeared.
Already behind the Black King.
Only then did the delayed boom erupt behind her, ripping long cracks across the chessboard and leaving a trail of white vapor in her wake.
At the same moment, the Black King cracked apart—cleaving cleanly in half.
Chunks of stone and powdered debris rained outward, marking the end of the chess match.
But everyone knew—this was far from over.
The moment the game ended, Quirrell sensed it—the invisible force of the chessboard that restrained him had disappeared.
He saw the Queen—Harry's Queen—turn her stone helm toward him.
He saw the greatsword rise again.
The promotion had not ended.
The chessboard could no longer restrict actions.
And the furious, grief-driven Harry—what would he command his Queen to "take" next?
Quirrell didn't need to think.
The painting-realm's lightning punishment was agonizing—so much so that he never dared use Voldemort's remaining power to resist, and even had to protect his "master" from disturbance.
But no amount of electric agony mattered compared to death.
So Quirrell whipped out his wand almost instantly.
"Impedimenta!"
BOOM!
The moment the jinx materialized, its dense force rippled violently, air screeching as it tore open.
The Queen's afterimage vanished—her massive body slammed directly into the barrier.
"Damn it—!"
Cold sweat burst from Quirrell's forehead. The recoil from the collision rattled his vision.
But he didn't dare stop.
"Diffindo!"
"Confringo!"
Explosions blasted across the Queen's stone body—deafening, like artillery striking concrete.
She staggered back two steps.
And that was all.
Quirrell stared, horrified—his spells had not left the slightest dent.
His expression tightened. He whipped his wand faster.
Two more Blasting Curses engulfed the Queen in flames.
Then he turned sharply—sending a silent, red Disarming Charm toward Hermione.
Not Hermione—but the broomstick she was holding.
No matter how timid he acted in the past, it was all an act.
The real Quirrell was a full-grown wizard—a talented Ravenclaw who had dared hone his skills in the deadly Balkans.
A dog may grovel before its master—but outside, it could still be a wolfhound, a Caucasian Shepherd, a wolfdog—brutal, cunning, decisive.
Just like him now.
Seeing Harry's Queen shrug off magic, he immediately switched targets.
From the moment he saw Hermione holding a broom, he had planned this.
Under suppressed spellcasting conditions, mobility mattered above all—and nothing gave mobility like a broomstick.
To Quirrell's surprise, Hermione Granger—the bookworm he'd heard about—was not helpless at all.
The moment his Disarming Charm shot forth, Hermione cried:
"Protego!"
The Shield Charm was weak and fragile—like a soap bubble in Quirrell's view.
But she defended.
She had been guarding against him the entire time.
The red light shattered her shield with a dull pop, then his silent second Disarming Charm slammed into her.
Hermione was hurled backward—her wand and the broom spiraling upward through the air.
All within a blink.
Harry, enraged once more, commanded the Queen forward—shattering the smoke and earth in front of her with a downward strike.
WHOOO—
The air wailed like a train whistle—a massive body ripping through the atmosphere.
Quirrell didn't waste time retrieving Hermione or her wand.
He flicked his own wand sharply, yanked the broom to him, and leapt on.
He didn't dare pause even a second—launching skyward.
A split-second later—
BOOM!!
The ground where he had stood erupted violently.
A spherical shockwave expanded like an underwater detonation, white vapor blooming outward, rubble flying—
And the Queen reappeared, greatsword slamming into the earth.
Cursing, Quirrell ignored the shards pelting his legs and backside, gripping the broom and fleeing into the forest.
Quirrell never imagined he would one day flee for his life…
From a boy not even twelve.
But Harry wasn't thinking either.
His mind was gone—boiling with pain, rage, guilt.
The cold clarity of Occlumency evaporated beneath the firestorm.
"Chess Town match concluded. Calculating results…"
The narrator's voice echoed dimly. Harry didn't hear a word.
He only chased—using the overwhelming power roaring through him—hunting the fleeing shadow above the trees.
The strength was monstrous: he grabbed a chunk of stone and threw it—it roared through the air like a shell cannon.
It missed by ten feet, screaming past Quirrell, then vanished into the forest.
Distant trees collapsed with a thunderous crash.
Harry saw Quirrell glance back—perhaps wanting to sneer—
But lightning fell from the heavens.
CRACK!
The bolt engulfed Quirrell instantly. His smoking form plummeted.
"Violation of the rules—lightning punishment!"
A spark of clarity returned to Harry's fogged mind.
But instead of cheering, he spun around—
Only to see another bolt of lightning strike toward Chess Town.
Hermione.
The narrator intoned:
"…Quirinus Quirrell and Hermione Granger, punishment administered."
"...Hermione…"
Harry stared between Quirrell's fallen silhouette and the smoke rising from the town.
His footsteps slowed.
Then clenched.
Ron… Ron was already gone.
He couldn't let his last friend face danger alone.
"Damn it—!"
…
…
"Damn it!"
Vaughn glared at Dumbledore—silently expressing the exact sentiment Harry just voiced.
Dumbledore's hand froze mid-beard-stroke.
"Er… If I say I didn't expect Miss Granger to break the rules… would you believe me?"
"Heh." Vaughn's smile was not a smile.
"In that situation, should she just wait politely to die? You should thank Merlin Quirrell only cast a Disarming Charm. If he had used Dark Magic—"
"Please don't smile like that. For some reason, it feels like you're insulting me," Dumbledore sighed. Then he added, "Relax. He couldn't have used Dark Magic. I prepared this challenge carefully—entirely tailored to Harry, Vaughn, and Miss Granger's personalities."
"I asked Minerva to design a puzzle whose only solution was forcing Harry's promotion. Ron's 'sacrifice' was also expected. Even Harry's emotional collapse was within projections."
"And after Harry gained that power, Quirinus could never cast Dark Magic. You've studied Dark magic corruption—you know Quirinus is weak in it. In a split-second crisis, even if he tried, he'd barely tickle Harry."
"As for the punishment—you know first offenses aren't severe. Only a sting. A warning."
Vaughn shrugged.
"I hope it's the last warning, Albus. Now that Harry has 'Promoted' and can counter Quirrell—can't we remove the 'no magic' rule?"
He didn't ask to bias the rules—he understood contracts.
The rules existed because for those entering the chamber, the magical contract enforced fairness by applying the same restrictions to all, unless altered by the creator or keyholder.
Dumbledore nodded vigorously.
"Of course! My original plan was to lift the restriction in the next challenge anyway. And honestly… we can't keep it in place much longer."
He glanced at the black smoke in the forest.
"If I let Quirrell get humiliated further… Tom might stop holding back."
Quirrell was never the threat.
The "charging port" stuck on the back of his head was.
Even Dumbledore's contract magic could restrain Quirrell and the trio a little—but Voldemort's fragment?
Not a chance.
Even as a remnant soul, Voldemort's magical knowledge matched his peak.
Vaughn accepted the explanation and turned his gaze downward—
Harry had stopped chasing Quirrell and was running back toward Chess Town.
"A good child, isn't he, Vaughn?"
Dumbledore wiped tears again.
This time, Vaughn didn't ignore him. He nodded.
But his focus was on the magic itself.
"What's sustaining Harry's transformation? It feels like Transfiguration… but not exactly."
"An ancient magic, or more precisely… ancient Transfiguration."
That explanation hit Vaughn's blind spot—he had little foundation in ancient magic. It was outdated: powerful, yes, but slow, rigid, full of ritualistic constraints.
One major reason medieval witches and wizards were slaughtered by Muggles in witch hunts was precisely because their magic took too long to activate.
Many caught by Muggles never completed their rituals—and those unfinished diagrams became evidence of witchcraft.
Still, Vaughn planned to study it eventually.
It was the ancestor of modern spellcasting—valuable for research.
Especially this form of ancient Transfiguration.
Seeing Vaughn's interest, Dumbledore smiled.
"This magic isn't rare today—some countries still use it. In Africa, for example. If you're interested, perhaps we could visit for academic purposes during the summer?"
He winked.
"As the continent with the most divided magical territory, many werewolves hide in East and South Africa. Uagadou even runs… ah… 'Werewolf Learning Programs.'"
Uagadou's reputation in the global wizarding world was faint—Africa conjured images of poverty, chaos, backwardness.
Vaughn's mind involuntarily echoed the stereotype.
He asked, "Where is Uagadou located?"
"Mountains of the Moon. Uganda."
"Uganda…"
Vaughn dug through both past and present memories.
Only one name came to mind—Amin, the cannibal "president."
Everything else was war, unrest.
Dumbledore understood his thoughts immediately.
"The wizarding world in Africa is far more stable than the Muggle one. Muggle governments can be fractured, but they cannot interfere with wizards."
"Wizards still have enormous influence there. The International Statute of Secrecy is also more relaxed—many Muggle tribes maintain close ties with wizards."
"They only adopted wands a century ago, but their hand-gesture and dance-spell traditions are ancient Egyptian in origin—modernized and adapted. I'm certain you'd find their magic fascinating."
Vaughn's interest gradually warmed.
His previous readings contained very little on African magical culture.
He only knew they seldom used wands.
Now that he thought about it—it did resemble ancient ritual magic.
"So," Vaughn said, "let's visit during summer. How's the werewolf situation there?"
"Terrible, my dear."
Dumbledore sighed.
"With no stable Muggle nations, Dark wizards run free, and lycanthropy spreads unchecked. Many Muggles even willingly seek infection—hoping it will help them survive."
"If not for Uagadou's unique Transfiguration traditions, the African magical world might already be overrun by werewolves and vampires."
"And in fact… Uagadou will likely invite you formally before year's end. Babajide Akinbad has just submitted an observer application to the Werewolf Affairs Committee. He'll be a committee member soon."
Vaughn repeated the name.
"Who is he?"
"Headmaster of Uagadou. Representative of African wizards. A rising power in the International Confederation of Wizards. If nothing drastic happens, he'll succeed me as Supreme Mugwump one day."
Ah.
Another political animal.
Vaughn immediately lost interest.
He placed the conversation into mental storage and refocused below.
The sigils filling the realm—after overloading—began to dim.
"The promotion is ending?" Vaughn asked.
Dumbledore nodded.
"Natural. The power is external, and Harry's own magic rejects it. But it was enough to counter Quirinus."
"Let's hope."
…
Hermione had never truly experienced electrocution.
She'd only seen one case—when the twins' secret experiment sent Ron to the hospital wing for two days.
The painting-realm lightning wasn't physical electricity—it attacked something deeper.
Magic.
She convulsed twice before pushing herself upright, trembling, sensing her condition.
Her magic was sluggish, sticky—disrupted.
But improving.
The first punishment was only meant as a warning.
And this confirmed her suspicion:
This realm was a trial—prepared by Dumbledore and Vaughn.
To test Harry and Quirrell.
"What are they trying to do…?"
She sat blankly, unable to make sense of it.
Then the trees rustled—parting.
The Queen emerged—grey stone towering above the branches.
Hermione did not panic. She recognized it immediately.
Harry's Queen.
She had just watched its terrifying power.
As soon as the statue saw her, it strode forward.
"Hermione, are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Harry…"
Warmth filled Hermione's chest.
Of course Harry came back for her.
He had countless flaws—always getting into trouble, always making her want to tug her hair out.
But he was loyal.
Always loyal.
He would abandon revenge to check on her.
He would care.
She opened her mouth to speak—
Then remembered Ron.
Her expression froze.
She turned involuntarily toward the chessboard that had swallowed him.
The Queen stopped abruptly.
A silent, motionless statue.
He's grieving…
As the thought crossed her mind, stone dust began falling from the Queen's body.
The promotion was ending.
Sand-like particles peeled away, drifting into the void.
The massive form shrank rapidly.
Moments later, it vanished entirely—leaving only a small boy at the chessboard's edge, kneeling, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Hermione… Ron… Ron is gone…"
…
"ACHOO!"
Ron woke with a violent sneeze.
"Bloody hell—who cursed me?"
Half-conscious, he rubbed his eyes, sat up—
And froze.
His head lifted higher.
And higher.
And his mouth fell open.
Who am I?
Where am I?
Wasn't I helping Harry with the chessboard? Where's Chess Town? Harry? Hermione?
And… WHAT IS THAT?!
Countless thoughts slammed into Ron's head—but his body refused to move.
Only his pale blue eyes still functioned—reflecting the massive silhouette towering over him.
A dragon.
A full-grown dragon.
It crouched on thick hind legs, membrane wings folded like a wrinkled cliff wall. Its enormous head—scaled, spiked, long-snouted—loomed overhead.
Descending a jagged ridge of black spinal spikes.
Every inch radiated violence.
A Norwegian Ridgeback.
Ron recognized it instantly—he'd studied them when helping Hagrid raise Norbert.
He stared for several seconds—
Then finally processed the situation.
"AAAAH—!!"
He tried to bolt—
The dragon roared.
The shockwave alone knocked Ron flat, ears ringing, balance gone.
Then—
A claw seized him.
Enormous. Scaled. Each talon thicker than his arm.
Like a man holding a mouse.
Ron nearly fainted, kicking wildly.
But the dragon dragged him back, set him down—
And flicked him.
BONK!
The claw tapped his forehead.
To Ron, it felt like being punched in the skull.
He collapsed, seeing stars.
When he recovered—
The claw seized him again—
Set him down—
And flicked him again.
BONK!
Ron: "@_@…"
It repeated.
And repeated.
Eventually, after who-knew-how-many bonks, Ron finally collapsed flat, waving both hands:
"STOP! I surrender!"
The claw fell in front of him—BOOM—kicking up dust.
But it didn't grab him.
Ron breathed out shakily.
Then—
A heavy breath warmed the top of his head.
Ron lifted his gaze—
And met two long, narrow vertical pupils.
Mocking pupils.
As if the creature were… amused.
Ron's brain churned desperately.
He remembered the fire dragon that punished him and Quirrell in the earlier fairy-tale stage.
"…Could this be the same dragon?"
The narrator's voice echoed:
"Your betrayal of your companions has attracted the attention of the great and brutal dragon Nobetta. She admires your cowardice… and despises your shamelessness. Ron Weasley—your fate is now in Nobetta's hands. Please her, and you may re-enter the challenge!"
"Re-enter? So I was knocked out earlier? And I just need to please the dragon to return? Then—then I HAVE to please her—Harry and Hermione need me!"
He looked up cautiously.
The vertical pupils narrowed—expectant.
Then Ron noticed:
"She." The narrator said she.
A female dragon.
Female Norwegian Ridgebacks were far more vicious than males.
If Norbert had been female and stayed with Hagrid—
Wait.
Ron's freckles turned deathly pale.
He stared at the long snout.
The spiked crest.
The wrinkled wings.
Old memories slammed into him—
"…It's a female, Hagrid—"
"Give her a new name then—Nobetta, how's that?"
Ron's face twisted in horror.
His lips trembled.
"…Nobetta?"
"ROOOOAR—GAGAGAGA!!"
Nobetta howled—a horrible blend of roar and laughter.
She reared her gaunt, skeletal neck and sprayed fire toward the sky—
Delighted.
But her eyes narrowed like a hunting serpent—full of predatory hunger.
She spread one wing, reached out—
And flicked Ron again.
BONK!
◇ BONUS & SUPPORT ◇
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 10 reviews — drop a comment!
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ Read 70 chapters ahead on P@treon → patreon.com/FinalArcHero789