[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 671 - 675

Chapter 671: The Awakening

Eager! Satisfied! Fulfilled!

Like a starving ghost who had been hungry for thousands of years suddenly presented with a feast, the god's soul trembled with shock and delight. The entire space between the eyebrows began to quiver, sending ripples through the mystical dimension.

All present could clearly feel the joy emanating from the surrounding ether—spontaneous and heartfelt elation that seemed to pulse with ancient power. The very fabric of reality thrummed with anticipation.

"Quick!" Mephisto's voice cut through the charged atmosphere.

"Break it!" he commanded, his usually composed demeanor shattered by urgency.

Before Mephisto could elaborate further, everyone understood that something had gone terribly wrong. They cast spells one after another, their hands weaving complex patterns as they attempted to sever the dark yellow tentacles writhing before them.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The tentacles appeared deceptively soft but proved remarkably resilient. After all, they were manifestations of the original power from the God of Twilight—an ancient deity whose very existence predated the cosmic order Strange had sworn to protect.

Several thunderous impacts echoed through the dimension as spell after spell collided with the pulsating appendages. The surface of each dark yellow tentacle vibrated violently under the magical assault, yet remained intact.

But soon...

Crack!

One of the tentacles finally fractured. Dormammu, Lord of the Dark Dimension, waved his hand with deliberate precision, channeling the primal power of darkness to tear the tentacle into fragments that dissolved into the ether.

Simultaneously, Mephisto unleashed a barrage of devastating spells in rapid succession, his fingers tracing sigils that burned with hellfire as he methodically shattered another tentacle.

However, at this moment, the True Spirit Light Ball had already shrunk by more than half. The anxiety knotting in their hearts formed a stark contrast with the joy rising in the surrounding space—a dissonance that spoke volumes about the gravity of their situation.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

A gentle breeze seemed to caress the space around them—the breath of the true spirit itself. The depths of the soul sphere glowed with white-gold light that, upon closer inspection, appeared tainted with a faint yellow hue.

David's true spirit was being assimilated, or perhaps more accurately, the true spirit of the god was becoming contaminated by his essence. David's soul had already undergone a second transformation, and his true spirit was barely maintaining his intelligence in conjunction with the original power of the God of Twilight.

He eventually surrendered to the inevitable.

Because, even if he could resist, how long could he truly endure? Better to completely integrate into the true spirit of the gods, he reasoned. The god would own his memories, possess his experiences, inherit his personality.

So, what remained? A David who carried the memory of a god? Or a child who retained only fragments of David's life?

How significant was the difference?

Or perhaps, more accurately, a god named David would emerge.

In a sense, his plan had succeeded. The true spirit was coalescing, and the true self was awakening once more.

The surrounding mystical dimension shuddered violently! The world of gods seemed to emanate pure joy, as if the very fabric of reality celebrated this momentous occasion.

They were rejoicing, heralding the imminent birth of a new deity that would reshape the cosmic order.

But the next moment, suddenly...

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The immense god's soul began to rupture, black flames erupting from within and consuming it like a ravenous beast. Almost instantaneously, the once-magnificent god's soul sustained catastrophic damage.

Outside the soul sphere, Dormammu's lips curled into a knowing smirk as he recognized the familiar hellish magic ravaging the god's essence. The Ancient One had once warned him of such tactics—Mephisto's specialty.

As expected, Mephisto's true strategy had finally revealed itself. The Lord of Hell had never been one to disappoint when it came to treachery.

Dr. Strange and Grindelwald immediately fixed their piercing gazes upon Mephisto. The dark wizard from the wizarding world seemed particularly intrigued, his wand hand twitching as if eager to learn this new form of magic.

Mephisto, for his part, felt somewhat aggrieved. Earlier, he had managed to glimpse part of the mystery surrounding the god's soul. This insight had allowed him to guide their group while simultaneously establishing a secret contingency—using hellfire to contaminate a portion of the soul's power.

This particular stratagem was one he had employed countless times throughout millennia. He had disguised his intentions so masterfully that even the nascent god hadn't detected his influence. Of course, the deity's lack of rational thought had been a significant advantage.

So when the power condensed into the massive god's soul, Mephisto's hidden magic had seamlessly integrated with it. This explained his apparent indifference to David's plan to seize the divine body—regardless of whether David succeeded, the god's soul would sustain severe damage through Mephisto's intervention.

Naturally, he had also intended to buy time—time he needed to fully assume control over this colossal soul through the magical tether he had established.

However, the unexpected awakening of the god's true spirit had disrupted all his carefully laid plans.

Once the awakening succeeded, the residual hellfire magic within the soul could be dispelled at will by the newly conscious deity. After all, an awakened god and an unconscious one existed in completely different paradigms.

One relied on pure instinct; the other possessed conscious wisdom. The difference was as vast as that between beast and human.

Observing the massive soul body now engulfed in his own hellfire, Mephisto's heart filled with a complexity of emotions impossible to articulate. All his meticulous planning had been rendered futile in an instant.

The true spirit had consolidated, but the process of self-recovery was now interrupted. The surrounding mystical space gradually returned to an eerie calm.

The true spiritual light ball before Mephisto had diminished by more than half its original size. This development brought visible relief to the assembled sorcerers and even to Dormammu himself.

The process had finally ceased; otherwise, they all might have been held accountable for cosmic consequences beyond imagination.

Mephisto scrutinized the diminished sphere of light before him with calculating eyes. He had lost so much in this venture and desperately needed to recover what he could.

At this precarious moment...

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Around the calculating Mephisto, black shadows materialized from the ether. A large contingent of robed figures appeared, forming a tight circle around him. Their sudden arrival created a barrier, effectively separating Mephisto from the wounded god's soul.

The leader of this unexpected intervention was none other than Gilderoy Lockhart, the flamboyant wizard who had once claimed fame in the halls of Hogwarts. Standing beside him was Thor, the God of Thunder, resplendent in his crimson cloak and wielding the mighty Mjölnir, which crackled with barely contained lightning.

Their collective gaze fixated upon Mephisto with unwavering intensity.

Yet, surprisingly, none of this particularly shocked the Lord of Hell. What truly astonished him was the presence of two particular individuals among the newcomers.

"Why are Tony Stark and Lockhart's student Ian among them?" Mephisto thought, his composure momentarily shaken.

"Weren't those two secretly eliminated?" he wondered. "How is it possible they still draw breath?"

"Mephisto, Dormammu—it's been too long," Lockhart greeted with a disarming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. The wizard's demeanor had changed dramatically from his days as a fraud professor; power now emanated from him in palpable waves.

"Thank you sincerely for providing this extraordinary spectacle," Lockhart continued, gesturing toward the damaged god-soul. "I never anticipated that an unborn deity could present such... interesting complications. I'm genuinely grateful."

"Had it not been for your intervention, I fear we would have expended considerably more effort to achieve similar results."

Hearing Lockhart's words, Mephisto remained outwardly impassive. His gaze methodically assessed the assembled forces—the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj standing alongside Asgardian warriors, an alliance he had believed fractured beyond repair.

His attention lingered significantly on Wanda Maximoff, who stood quietly at Lockhart's side, crimson energy dancing between her fingers.

"Yes, that's her!" Mephisto realized with sudden clarity.

"I questioned why she wasn't present on this battlefield," he thought. "It appears she was merely staging her death during the supposed civil war—a performance for our benefit."

Mephisto regarded Wanda with a smile that masked his growing apprehension.

Meanwhile, Dr. Strange approached Mephisto, his brow furrowed with confusion. "What's happening here?" he asked nervously. "Could this be Mr. Wong's doing? How are Tony Stark and the others still alive? And why aren't Kamar-Taj and Asgard at war as we believed?"

"Perhaps they've been acting all along," Mephisto replied dismissively, showing little interest in providing Strange with a proper explanation.

By now, virtually every sorcerer from Kamar-Taj and warrior from Asgard had focused their attention on him—or more precisely, on the diminished spiritual light ball hovering before him.

"Mephisto," Lockhart addressed him coldly, all pretense of cordiality vanished. "Surrender the god's true spirit now, and we may spare your current incarnation."

Mephisto glanced at the anxious sorcerers surrounding him and noted Dormammu's indifferent expression with interest. The Lord of the Dark Dimension seemed almost amused by his predicament.

Suddenly...

Mephisto laughed!

It began as a chuckle but quickly escalated into wild, unrestrained laughter that echoed throughout the dimension. Even Thor tightened his grip on Mjölnir, disturbed by the demonic mirth.

"Lockhart," Mephisto finally declared between fading laughs, "you cannot obtain what I myself cannot possess."

His eyes gleamed with malevolent purpose as he raised his hands in a grand gesture.

"Let the Earth be reduced to a sacrifice for the birth of gods—and be destroyed!"

The spiritual light ball pulsed ominously as Mephisto's words hung in the air, a promise of cataclysm that none present could ignore.

Chapter 672: Awakening and Deception

Whoosh!

Mephisto withdrew his magic power with a casual flick of his wrist, relaxing the suppression that had contained the true spirit. The ancient sigils he had woven into the spell faded like dying embers, their crimson light dissolving into the ether.

His strategy was brutally simple and direct. Since he couldn't claim the power for himself, neither would anyone else—not Lockhart standing before him, nor the fallen sorcerers surrounding them with their desperate, hungry eyes.

Gods were born on planets, and the birth of each deity invariably meant the destruction of a living world. It was cosmic law, written into the very fabric of reality itself. Let the god awaken, and Earth would be obliterated in the process.

Then all their schemes would collapse into nothingness. The elaborate plans of the Sorcerer Supreme, Kamar-Taj, and Lockhart would crumble to dust, rendered meaningless by the very power they sought to control.

But as Mephisto observed the tableau before him, a doubt gnawed at his mind: what exactly was Dormammu's endgame in all this? Why did the Lord of the Dark Dimension remain passive when so much power hung in the balance?

Didn't Dormammu desire the god's true spirit for himself? Such power would make him unstoppable, even against the Ancient One's most powerful wards.

As Mephisto relaxed his mystical suppression, the true spirit of the God instantly surged forward, streaking toward the massive soul body like a comet across the night sky. The luminous essence moved with such blinding speed that it appeared as a streak of white-gold against the darkened dimension.

It was too late to reconsider his action, but the consequences unfolded more rapidly than even Mephisto had anticipated.

Almost instantly, Dr. Strange, who had been standing nearby observing with calculating eyes, sprang into action. The Master of the Mystic Arts employed the same secret method of suppression he had learned from Mephisto during their uneasy alliance. With a series of precise gestures, Strange's fingers traced glowing symbols in the air, and bands of mystical energy directly ensnared the fleeing true spirit.

"Mephisto, the true spirit of the gods is our collective harvest," Strange spat, his usually composed demeanor cracking under the pressure of the moment. "What gives you the right to relinquish it unilaterally?"

Even as he voiced his outrage, Strange stepped backward cautiously, retreating to the side of his unlikely teacher, Grindelwald. The dark wizard's eyes gleamed with cold interest as he observed the confrontation, his wand held loosely in fingers that had once nearly brought the wizarding world to its knees.

The situation had become perilously complex, and Strange recognized he couldn't manage it alone. The god's soul had been severely injured in the magical crossfire and now hung motionless in the dimensional space. David, who had led them into this predicament, was most likely dead—consumed by the very power he had sought to control.

Lockhart and the forces of Asgard had appeared together, presenting a united front that gave them a decisive tactical advantage. Meanwhile, Mephisto and Dormammu—incarnations of cosmic evil whose power stretched across dimensions—could take action at any moment, unleashing devastation beyond imagination.

Strange decided it would be prudent not to reveal his identity as an undercover agent. Though Kamar-Taj appeared to hold the upper hand in this confrontation, both Mephisto and Dormammu were watching him intently, their ancient eyes promising vengeance for his betrayal.

"This will turn truly miserable," Strange thought grimly, particularly aware of how he had leveraged his position as a supposed ally to confront Mephisto. The trust he had violated would not be forgotten by beings who measured grudges in millennia.

The other fallen sorcerers were visibly confused by Strange's intervention, their expressions shifting from surprise to uncertainty. As Strange spoke, however, a new interpretation formed in their minds: Mephisto was attempting to abandon the True Spirit, and Strange—their champion—was reclaiming their most prized objective.

However...

The scene that unfolded next threw their fragile understanding into chaos.

Dormammu, who had been standing aside with apparent indifference, suddenly surged into action. His target was not Strange, as many had expected, but the true spirit of the god still suppressed within the Master of the Mystic Arts' magical binding.

BOOM!

Without preamble or warning, a blade of pure darkness—sharper than any earthly weapon—sliced through Strange's suppression spell as though it were gossamer. The ancient magic shattered like glass, fragments of arcane energy dissipating into nothingness.

Released from its constraints, the innate true spirit shot back toward the enormous soul body with lightning speed, leaving a trail of white-gold energy in its wake.

Witnessing this development, Mephisto's face twisted into an expression of dawning comprehension. It was almost impossible for a being like Dormammu to relinquish benefits within his grasp.

Unless...

There was a greater prize at stake!

"Dormammu, what are you doing?" one of the fallen sorcerers exclaimed, their voice trembling with fear and confusion.

But neither Mephisto nor Dormammu deigned to acknowledge the outburst. Instead, their attention fixed across the dimensional space at Lockhart and Thor, who stood ready for battle, the latter's hammer crackling with barely contained lightning.

"Thor," Mephisto said with deliberate casualness, "I'm curious how Lockhart convinced you to participate in this elaborate charade." His lips curled into a knowing smile. "Odin's mission to you should not have changed. The Supreme Sorcerer's position should remain constant."

He tilted his head slightly, studying the God of Thunder with genuine interest. "To be frank, I find myself quite curious. Would you care to satisfy my curiosity?"

Upon hearing this inquiry, Thor—the mighty God of Thunder—merely snorted coldly, refusing to engage. He had never developed the habit of answering questions posed by his adversaries, particularly those as duplicitous as Mephisto.

In truth, it had been remarkably easy for Lockhart to convince Thor to join his cause. He had needed only a single sentence:

"There exists another path to achieve both our objectives," Lockhart had told him, "if you simply cooperate with me in a performance."

Naturally, Thor had pressed for elaboration.

However, Lockhart had declined to explain further. Instead, he had produced a magically binding contract that formalized precisely what he had just proposed. Out of hard-won trust in Lockhart—trust forged through previous trials—Thor had not pursued additional questions before signing.

The remaining terms of the agreement had provided ample security for Thor's interests. Should Lockhart fail to deliver on his promises, the contract stipulated that Lockhart would voluntarily withdraw from Kamar-Taj and dedicate his considerable talents to helping Thor complete his mission for Asgard.

Click! Click! Click!

When the remnant of the true spirit merged with the immense soul, it was as though a cosmic switch had been flipped. Accompanied by an ethereal clicking sound that resonated through the dimension, the soul body began to move once more.

The process of awakening—interrupted earlier by Mephisto's treachery—resumed its inexorable progress.

"All sorcerers, form the array!"

At the precise moment when Mephisto posed his question—or more significantly, when the true spirit returned to the god's body—Lockhart's commanding voice rang out across the dimension. In immediate response, all the Masters of Kamar-Taj surrounded the god's soul in a perfect circle. Each sorcerer raised aloft a mystical ring, from which emanated countless pale golden threads that shimmered in the dimensional air.

These threads rapidly constructed themselves into an enormous golden mesh, binding the god's soul in a network of mystical energy that shone with ancient power.

"Lockhart, abandon this futile effort," Mephisto mocked, his voice dripping with condescension. "There's no purpose to your struggle."

His eyes narrowed as he continued, "Poor, pathetic David! Manipulated by you until his final moment."

Mephisto's laughter echoed through the dimension, hollow and cruel. "I initially believed that by concealing my plans from you, I could seize control of the god's power. How unexpected that you would use us all as pawns in your own game—sacrificing them to consume the god's essence."

He gestured expansively. "You've engineered a scenario where both we and the god lose, while you alone profit from the chaos. This was your plan all along!"

Lockhart offered no response to these accusations. He gazed coldly at the massive god's soul now bound within the pale golden silk mesh, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts or intentions.

"Tony Stark! Iron Man!" Seeing that Lockhart remained silent, Mephisto grew visibly irritated and shifted his attention elsewhere. "You must be unaware of Lockhart's true agenda. I saw nothing of it when I glimpsed your mind."

His voice softened with false sympathy. "Tell me, how does it feel to be betrayed by those you considered allies?"

Mephisto's provocation was crude and transparent, yet it proved surprisingly effective against Tony Stark, whose technological genius had never fully prepared him for magical manipulation.

Iron Man's face darkened with barely contained anger. "That's none of your business," he retorted coldly.

Despite his defiance, the memory of his rescue continued to replay unbidden in his mind—the moment when he had believed himself lost, only to be saved by intervention he hadn't fully understood. The uncertainty of that moment still unsettled him.

Mephisto, observing from across the dimensional space, nodded slowly as though confirming a theory. "I see... it appears my hypothesis was correct," he said with quiet satisfaction. "It was the young woman called Wanda who orchestrated it."

His eyes gleamed with recognition. "Her magical signature was peculiar when I last encountered it—a variant of chaos magic unlike any I've witnessed before. No wonder she could conceal her actions from my perception."

Hearing this revelation, Tony Stark's expression shifted subtly, a mixture of surprise and confirmation flashing across his features before he could mask it.

Almost immediately, an orange barrier of protective energy materialized before him, interposing itself between Stark and Mephisto.

"Mephisto," Lockhart's voice cut through the tension like a blade, "even in my presence, you dare attempt to invade his memories?"

Mephisto merely smiled in response to Lockhart's challenge, offering no verbal reply. Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, he regarded Lockhart with renewed interest.

"Lockhart," Mephisto inquired, gesturing toward the bound god's soul, "the deity is on the verge of awakening. What exactly are you waiting for?" His eyes narrowed speculatively. "Are you preparing to engage us in direct combat?"

As their confrontation unfolded, profound changes occurred within the god's soul. The white-gold energy of the true spirit began to permeate throughout the soul body, boiling with power and potential. This energy transformed into countless white-gold threads that intertwined along complex, seemingly random trajectories.

These luminous filaments continuously formed an intricate and massive spiritual imprint—a cosmic signature unique to this nascent deity. However, the pattern would occasionally collapse, reverting to formless white-gold spiritual energy before beginning anew.

It appeared that the construction repeatedly failed, unable to stabilize into its final form. Despite these setbacks, the process continued undeterred, with the True Spirit Brand gradually coalescing toward completion.

The self-awareness of the god continued its awakening, advancing further toward consciousness with each passing moment. This time, no external force impeded its progress—only the natural complexity of divine birth slowed the process as the deity's essence continually concentrated and awakened.

In other words, every being present—from ancient cosmic entities to mortal sorcerers—now waited in tense anticipation, watching the unprecedented spectacle unfold before them. The birth of a god was an event witnessed perhaps once in many millennia, and none present could tear their gaze away from the awesome, terrible beauty of creation itself.

Chapter 673: The Battle of True Spirits

The colossal visage of the nascent god's head loomed before them, its features still undefined yet somehow radiating both majesty and menace. Suspended in the dimensional void, Lockhart, Thor, Mephisto, Dormammu, and a contingent of fallen sorcerers faced one another, an uneasy tableau against the backdrop of cosmic creation.

"Lockhart, what exactly are you waiting for?" Mephisto's voice cut through the charged silence, each syllable dripping with sardonic amusement. "The mandate assigned to you by the Supreme Sorcerer was unambiguous—kill the god."

The Lord of Hell's lips curled into a sneer, his eyes gleaming with malicious intelligence. "Your current inaction suggests you've perhaps surrendered to Asgard's demands."

Without pausing, he pivoted to challenge Thor directly: "God of Thunder, firstborn son of Odin All-Father, mighty prince of Asgard and future King of the Gods—do not underestimate Gilderoy Lockhart."

Mephisto gestured toward the wizard with an elegant, dismissive motion. "He lacks the righteous courage that burns in your heart, but his mind harbors as many schemes and deceptions as my own—perhaps more."

"Observe his restraint," Mephisto continued, his voice a persuasive whisper that somehow carried across the dimensional void. "He has done virtually nothing yet has manipulated us all, engineering the severe damage to the god before us."

Mephisto's eyes narrowed as he delivered his final barb: "If he isn't acting now, I assure you, some grand conspiracy gestates in his mind. You would be wise to exercise greater caution in your alliance."

Hearing Mephisto's words—seemingly friendly guidance that masked pure provocation—Thor frowned deeply, his grip tightening on Mjölnir until faint bolts of lightning crawled across his knuckles. The God of Thunder remained silent, but the storm brewing in his eyes spoke volumes.

Meanwhile, the fallen sorcerers gradually repositioned themselves, moving closer to Mephisto and Dormammu like moths drawn to twin flames of power.

"Lord Dormammu," one ventured nervously, "what course of action should we pursue now?"

"The forces of Kamar-Taj have virtually surrounded us," Strange added, his tone deferential yet urgent. The Sorcerer Supreme's apprentice maintained his cover masterfully, giving no indication of his true allegiance.

Similar inquiries flooded the otherworldly senses of both Dormammu and Mephisto as the other tribal sorcerers communicated their concerns through mystic channels.

The situation had crystallized with brutal clarity.

Kamar-Taj and Asgard had united their forces, leaving the fallen sorcerers no choice but to band together for survival. Their most formidable assets were undoubtedly Mephisto, the Devil of Hell, and Dormammu, the Dread Lord of the Dark Dimension—ancient entities whose power stretched across multiple realities.

Even the least perceptive among them recognized that the coming conflict would center on these two cosmic beings.

"Remain calm," Dormammu instructed, his voice unnaturally resonant in the dimensional void. "They have allocated substantial resources to contain the god's soul."

His fiery gaze swept over their assembled forces with cold calculation. "At worst, we face a significant battle, but not an unwinnable one."

Despite his reassurance, Dormammu appeared strangely detached from their predicament. His attention fixed exclusively on a single figure amid the chaos—Lockhart.

His burning eyes smoldered with naked avarice and desire, an intensity that surpassed even his earlier hunger for the god's true spirit.

Dormammu had first encountered Lockhart long ago, in circumstances known only to them. Throughout their intermittent confrontations, he had suffered numerous defeats at the wizard's hands. Yet each loss, rather than diminishing his interest, had only inflamed his obsession.

He had become absolutely convinced that Lockhart possessed some artifact or power of incalculable value—a treasure of such magnitude that it transcended ordinary magical relics.

So profound was this power that it seemed to illuminate a path forward for Dormammu himself—a means to ascend beyond even his current dominion. The object of his fixation appeared to be nothing less than a multiversal entity on par with Eternity itself.

Though Dormammu attempted to conceal his covetous gaze, the ever-vigilant Grindelwald detected it immediately. The dark wizard's perception, honed through decades of magical combat and political manipulation, missed nothing of significance.

Naturally, this crucial intelligence was promptly relayed to Lockhart through their established magical connection.

At that precise moment...

BOOM!

A thunderous roar reverberated through the void, and once again, waves of ineffable joy suffused the dimensional space around them. Every being present felt it clearly—a primordial emotion that transcended species and origin.

This surge marked the god's true spirit advancing further along the path to complete awakening.

"NOW!" Lockhart commanded without hesitation, his voice ringing with authority.

As though they had rehearsed for this precise moment, every sorcerer loyal to Kamar-Taj sprang into synchronized action.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Lockhart flourished the wand in his hand with practiced precision, and majestic waves of cold magical energy condensed into the signature emerald beam of the Killing Curse. The forbidden spell—one of the three Unforgivables from the wizarding world—streaked toward Mephisto with deadly intent.

Simultaneously, Thor, the God of Thunder, enveloped himself in crackling lightning that danced across his Asgardian armor. With a mighty roar, he swung Mjölnir in a perfect arc and launched himself toward Dormammu, becoming a living missile of divine vengeance.

Ian, Wanda, and the other sorcerers of Kamar-Taj directed their combined assault against the remaining fallen sorcerers, their coordinated attack a testament to rigorous training.

"DEFEND YOURSELVES!" Strange shouted, his voice carrying above the building chaos.

The fallen sorcerers reacted with practiced efficiency, their hands weaving intricate patterns as they conjured protective shields. Mystic rings glowed with eldritch energy as multicolored barriers materialized throughout the dimensional void. Above their collective formation, a brilliant bronze dome of arcane protection snapped into place.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Ian, Wanda, Vera, and their companions proved formidable opponents. Storms of elemental fury, bolts of primordial lightning, and blades of mystical ice descended upon the defensive barriers like a magical deluge.

The dimensional battlefield echoed with continuous impacts, punctuated by occasional explosive detonations as particularly powerful spells collided with their targets.

One by one, the shields began to falter and collapse, unable to withstand the relentless magical barrage.

The fallen sorcerers, recognizing their peril, responded without waiting for Strange's command. They spontaneously began casting offensive spells, establishing a rhythm of resistance and counterattack.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Black spears trailing miasmic death, arcs of destructive lightning that rent the very fabric of the dimension, along with various orbs of lethal energy, corrosive poisonous mists, and other arcane ordnance streaked toward the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj.

Throughout the void, crimson flames of magical energy pulsed, emerald spells surged forward, and mystic constructs—whips, spears, shields, and countless other weapons—intertwined and collided in a deadly dance of power.

The fluctuations of raw magical energy continued to intensify, building toward what threatened to become a cataclysmic release.

The scene was chaos incarnate—frenzied, violent, overwhelming in its intensity, and mesmerizing in its deadly beauty.

Suddenly...

"AHHH!"

A heart-rending scream pierced the cacophony as one unfortunate fallen sorcerer intercepted the path of a Killing Curse. His cry of agony terminated abruptly as the spell extinguished his life force instantly.

While most combatants remained oblivious, focused on their own survival, something extraordinary occurred. An invisible yet potent mystical force descended upon the fallen sorcerer's corpse.

His fractured soul and true spirit were extracted through some clandestine process, pulled free of his mortal remains. Then, autonomously, these spiritual essences streaked toward the nascent god's soul.

As they made contact with the center of the divine entity's metaphysical brow, the god offered no resistance. Indeed, it seemed to welcome this unexpected offering, allowing the sorcerer's spiritual essence to penetrate deep into the core of its being.

Within the divine soul, the sorcerer's individual identity began to dissolve, his true spirit assimilated into the greater whole. The white-gold spiritual matrix—already tainted by the power of twilight—acquired a faint grayish cast where the new essence integrated.

The discoloration was subtle—easily overlooked by any observer not specifically searching for it.

Yet this spiritual absorption triggered some hidden mechanism. Almost immediately, another fallen sorcerer's soul and true spirit began to merge with the god's essence.

The grayish tinge intensified perceptibly with each new integration.

Curiously, the god's true spirit exhibited minimal resistance to these intrusions. The divine instinct recognized that these new spiritual components would significantly enhance its ability to consolidate its true spirit—a particularly valuable benefit after the severe damage it had sustained.

Though some primal aspect of the god's awareness vaguely sensed potential danger in this process, the immediate advantages of absorbing these fractured true spirits proved too compelling to reject.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

In the external world, the tumultuous battlefield grew increasingly savage. Numerous sorcerers from both factions succumbed to violent deaths, their fallen comrades' fates only intensifying the survivors' resolve.

The magical assaults grew progressively more potent, the tactics increasingly ruthless. Both sides remained locked in a bloody stalemate, neither able to secure a decisive advantage.

BOOM! BOOM!

A sorcerer from Kamar-Taj, momentarily distracted, failed to evade a particularly vicious curse. Gravely wounded and disoriented, he had no opportunity to defend against the follow-up attack that claimed his life.

His broken true spirit, like those before it, was drawn by the invisible force and cast into the depths of the god's soul.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Several incandescent fireballs bombarded a fallen sorcerer who initially managed to neutralize several attacks. However, the defensive shield before him eventually shattered under the relentless assault. Before he could respond, a blade of concentrated wind magic—following closely behind the fireballs—pierced his chest.

Death was instantaneous.

As with the others, upon his body's demise, his true spirit was harvested and invested into the god's ever-growing soul.

The combatants who had caused these deaths remained utterly unaware of the spiritual consequences of their actions, focused solely on their own survival amid the chaos.

The battlefield descended further into brutality, with death becoming commonplace rather than exceptional.

The true spirits of fallen sorcerers—regardless of allegiance—continued to be integrated into the depths of the divine soul.

The god's true spirit accumulated mass and power at an accelerating rate, expanding dramatically with each new absorption.

However, its originally pure white-gold essence now displayed a troubling transformation. Dark black streaks, charcoal gray patches, venomous green swirls, sickly yellow stains, and crimson flame-like patterns spread throughout its spiritual matrix.

The once-pristine divine essence now resembled a chaotic canvas splashed with discordant colors—disorganized, incoherent, and undeniably tainted.

This was contamination in its purest form.

The god's true spirit was being polluted by the very energies it consumed.

As it assimilated the true spirits of both fallen sorcerers and Kamar-Taj's defenders, it absorbed not only their power but also their impurities, their mortal flaws, and their conflicting magical signatures.

What had begun as the birth of something pure now threatened to become the creation of something fundamentally corrupted—a god whose very essence was compromised from its inception.

And still the battle raged on, feeding more spiritual energy into the growing abomination, with none of the combatants recognizing the true horror they were collectively creating.

Chapter 674: Realms of Power

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

The god's soul trembled perceptibly, sending ripples through the dimensional void.

In an ordinary being, such minute vibrations might have gone unnoticed. But within such a colossal entity, these tremors manifested with unmistakable magnitude—like earthquakes across a cosmic landscape. Even the slightest movement in something so vast created waves that could be felt by all attuned to mystical energies.

Despite these internal convulsions, the nascent deity's soul maintained its position, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to influence the ferocious battle raging among the sorcerers. The massive entity continued its gradual awakening, oblivious to the chaos it had sparked.

The conflict had escalated to unprecedented levels of brutality.

A Master of Kamar-Taj would cast an intricate spell, only to have a fallen sorcerer counter with several devastating enchantments that not only neutralized the initial attack but provided enough residual energy to launch an immediate counteroffensive.

Not to be outdone, other Kamar-Taj defenders responded with their own rapid-fire spellwork, their hands blurring with the speed of their gestures as they channeled mystical energies.

Both factions had abandoned any pretense of caution, resorting to increasingly aggressive and destructive magical techniques. Death had become commonplace on the mystical battlefield, each fallen comrade only intensifying the survivors' determination and fury.

Perhaps due to their rigorous training and extensive combat experience, or possibly because of their unified purpose under the Ancient One's guidance, the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj demonstrated remarkable resilience. Conversely, the alliance of fallen sorcerers—hastily formed and lacking true cohesion—showed signs of strategic weakness. Those recruited by Grindelwald and Strange clustered together defensively, possibly employing clandestine tactics unknown to their adversaries.

Whatever the reasons, the disparity in casualties was becoming increasingly apparent. The fallen sorcerers suffered numerous deaths, while Kamar-Taj's defenders typically managed to retreat after sustaining serious injuries rather than perishing outright.

This imbalance placed tremendous pressure on the fallen sorcerers, though their immediate prospects remained uncertain. Their hopes rested primarily with their two most powerful allies—Mephisto and Dormammu, cosmic entities whose power dwarfed that of even the most accomplished human sorcerers.

Mephisto, with his preternatural awareness, had not failed to observe the destination of the released spirits after each sorcerer's death. With cold calculation, he watched as each fragmented true spirit and soul merged into the forehead of the nascent god.

Even the dullest intellect might have recognized something amiss in this pattern. For Mephisto—a master of souls whose expertise in spiritual matters stretched across millennia—the implications were unmistakable.

"Lockhart," he called out, his voice dripping with sarcastic admiration, "your heart truly harbors exquisite venom!"

His eyes narrowed as he continued: "You dare sacrifice the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj themselves? Are you not concerned about the Supreme Sorcerer's judgment?"

Mephisto's smile widened, revealing teeth too sharp to be human. "If the Ancient One discovered you were using her own disciples as sacrificial pawns, as mere consumables in your grand design..."

He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. "Tsk, tsk, tsk..."

"Mephisto," Lockhart responded evenly, his composure unshaken, "has anyone ever informed you that your words reek of sulfur and deceit?"

The wizard adjusted his grip on his wand, his movements precise and deliberate. "With that darkness-rotted mind of yours, I fear you'll never comprehend the concept of voluntary sacrifice embraced by the Masters of Kamar-Taj."

With that declaration, Lockhart raised his wand with ceremonial precision, each word that followed resonating with power: "Let your essence serve as the finest tribute to our fallen Masters of Kamar-Taj."

His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried across the dimensional battlefield: "Crucio... crush the heart... gouge out the bones!"

In an instant, a dark crimson beam—the distinctive signature of the Cruciatus Curse—erupted from Lockhart's wand. The forbidden spell, designed to inflict unendurable agony, streaked toward Mephisto's form with unerring accuracy.

Whoosh!

Simultaneously, Mephisto stepped forward with subtle grace, his movement barely perceptible. In the span of a heartbeat, three identical phantoms manifested around him—to his left, right, and behind.

Each duplicate was indistinguishable from the original, each radiating the unmistakable aura of Hell's dominion. To any observer, it was impossible to determine which represented the true Mephisto and which were mere projections.

BOOM!

The dark crimson Cruciatus Curse passed through what appeared to be Mephisto's central form with a thunderous impact, the figure dissipating like smoke in a strong wind.

Yet in the same instant, all remaining versions of Mephisto winced in synchronized pain, their expressions contorting into grimaces.

Lockhart's Cruciatus Curse was no ordinary implementation of the Unforgivable Curse. He had methodically enhanced it with elements of binding curses, fate manipulation, and other arcane factors that effectively locked onto their target's essence.

Even if the physical form could be evaded, the victim would still bear a portion of the spell's effects. Though Mephisto had successfully diffused much of the curse's power through his phantasmal duplicates, he could not entirely escape the pain it inflicted.

The agony was merely reduced, not eliminated.

"Impressive technique!" Mephisto acknowledged, rapidly regaining his composure. As Lord of Hell, he was intimately familiar with countless methods of torture. The pain inflicted by Lockhart's enhanced spell, while significant, was merely one variant among the infinite forms of suffering he had witnessed—and often administered—throughout his existence.

"Now sample my... Soul Whipping!" he countered.

Whoosh!

At Mephisto's command, multiple crimson whips materialized in the void surrounding Lockhart. These were no ordinary weapons—each was studded with barbed spikes that gleamed with unnatural sharpness, and each trailed wisps of sulfurous smoke that hinted at their infernal origin.

With a sound like tearing silk, the whips converged on Lockhart from all directions simultaneously, leaving no apparent avenue of escape.

Facing this overwhelming assault, Lockhart's expression remained impassive, betraying neither fear nor concern. With a casual gesture—as though merely brushing aside an annoying insect—he raised his hand and made a gentle pushing motion toward both sides.

Instantly, a dazzling prismatic ripple expanded outward from his position, rapidly encompassing the surrounding area. Within seconds, a kaleidoscopic barrier had formed around him—a realm of dreams that shimmered with colors no mortal eye was meant to perceive.

The moment this chromatic domain established itself, Mephisto's spiked whips froze in mid-motion, as though time itself had ceased to flow within their specific coordinates. They hung suspended in the dimensional void, their deadly potential temporarily neutralized.

In the next moment, Lockhart executed another elegant gesture, his hand moving with the precision of a conductor leading an orchestra.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Accompanied by a series of sharp, crystalline sounds, the crimson whips shattered one by one, fragmenting into countless glittering particles. These remnants briefly illuminated the surrounding space with blood-red light before gradually fading into nothingness.

Mephisto observed this effortless display with narrowed eyes, his ancient mind recalculating his assessment of his opponent.

Lockhart's power had grown at an alarming rate since their last encounter. The ease with which he had neutralized an attack that would have obliterated lesser beings spoke volumes about his progression.

Even as these thoughts formed, Mephisto initiated his counter-response. Behind him, vast waves of ebony mist began to propagate outward, rapidly expanding to encompass the surrounding dimensional space.

This was no ordinary fog—it carried the unmistakable sulfurous odor of Hell's chaotic essence, laden with the accumulated suffering of countless tortured souls. The air itself seemed to grow heavier within its reach, reality becoming more malleable and responsive to Mephisto's will.

Domain against domain—a battle of realities.

Hiss! Hiss! Hiss!

Within heartbeats, Lockhart's dream realm and Mephisto's infernal domain collided along their boundaries. The meeting of these incompatible realities generated continuous sizzling sounds, like water droplets on superheated metal.

As their respective fields of influence expanded, the distance between the two beings steadily diminished. Within their overlapping territories, manifestations of their power engaged in proxy combat—prismatic dream-creatures battling obsidian hellspawn in an ever-shifting conflict.

Thought-forms collided with physical manifestations; chromatic spiritual storms crashed against ebon spears of death. To the observer, this confrontation rivaled the intensity of the main sorcerer battlefield nearby, though on a more conceptual level.

Witnessing this magnificent display of power, Thor—the God of Thunder—felt his warrior's blood surge with excitement. While he occasionally regarded sorcerers with mild disdain for their preference for ranged combat and indirect approaches, he could not deny the visceral thrill of witnessing two cosmic powers collide directly.

As the confrontation escalated, the thunder god's battle-lust overcame his restraint. Without hesitation, he raised mighty Mjölnir overhead, channeling the primordial power of storms through his divine form. With a battle cry that shook the dimensional void, he launched himself toward Dormammu, his hammer crackling with lightning that could shatter mountains.

Dormammu, for his part, displayed no interest in engaging Thor directly. The Dread Lord of the Dark Dimension had no desire to wage a war of attrition against the Asgardian—a fighter whose legendary endurance had been forged in countless battles across the Nine Realms.

Moreover, Dormammu needed to preserve this particular incarnation for the subsequent confrontation he anticipated. With casual indifference, he waved one hand, unleashing waves of dark magic that rapidly coalesced around him.

This sorcery formed a disorienting realm of pure darkness that expanded outward, engulfing everything in its path. Within this absolute void, all visual perception was nullified, all bearings lost.

Even Thor, with his divine senses, found himself momentarily blinded.

"Dormammu!" Thor bellowed into the impenetrable darkness, his voice thunderous with frustration. "You bear the title of God of Darkness, yet you behave as a coward!"

When no response came, Thor tightened his grip on Mjölnir. In an instant, a magnificent deluge of lightning erupted from his divine form, radiating outward to dispel the surrounding darkness. The brilliant azure light of Asgardian thunder magic pushed back against the unnatural void, creating a sphere of visibility around the thunder god.

Yet as the darkness retreated, Thor discovered that Dormammu was nowhere to be found within the radius of his lightning's illumination.

"Thor," Dormammu's disembodied voice resonated from somewhere beyond the light, his tone simultaneously calm and dismissive, "I harbor no interest in trivial combat with you."

The darkness seemed to whisper around Thor as Dormammu continued: "Were I confronting your father, I might approach the matter with appropriate gravity."

A faint shimmer in the void suggested Dormammu's actual location, though it vanished before Thor could target it. "Conserve your strength rather than allowing Lockhart to exploit you as a mere weapon in his elaborate scheme."

The voice grew closer, then more distant, impossible to pinpoint as it echoed: "Observe with discernment—despite the apparent ferocity of their combat, both Lockhart and Mephisto carefully preserve their true power."

A chuckle emanated from the darkness, hollow and cold. "At most, they expend trivial portions of their magical reserves. Neither has sustained even the slightest injury."

Dormammu's voice took on a colder edge: "The only casualties are those expendable sorcerers—the pawns in this cosmic game."

A final whisper brushed past Thor's ear: "Engage your intellect, Odinson. This is not yet the moment for our decisive confrontation."

The darkness swirled around Thor once more, testing the boundaries of his lightning shield as the thunder god considered Dormammu's words with growing suspicion.

Chapter 675: The Soul Contest

Who am I?

Am I David?

Am I Madoc?

Am I Francis?

I am...

I am from Kamar-Taj and I am a sorcerer.

No, no, no—I betrayed Kamar-Taj. I am a fallen sorcerer...

I want to protect the world.

No, I want to become a god...

...

KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL!

The path to godhood is paved with death!

Damned sorcerers!

Just die, or drag the fallen sorcerers down with you...

These traitors—your conspiracy will never succeed...

...

Deep within the nascent deity's soul, myriad conflicting thoughts surfaced and collided. Some ran parallel, others diverged, and many stood in direct opposition. These fragmented consciousnesses—remnants of the sorcerers whose souls had been absorbed—transformed into spiritual nutrients, continuously feeding the god's emerging true spirit.

In optimal circumstances, pure thoughts would have provided the ideal foundation. But now, having suffered severe damage, the reforming divine essence had no alternative but to absorb everything available to it—pure and corrupted alike.

The immense true spirit of the god slowly coalesced into a constantly shifting spiritual imprint. Across its metaphysical surface, a chaotic spectrum of colors intermingled without pattern or harmony. An aura of twisted malevolence emanated from certain sections, radiating a subtle but unmistakable murderous intent.

The mere sight of this corrupted divine pattern would have been enough to contaminate an ordinary mortal's mind, transforming them into deformed abominations. Yet despite—or perhaps because of—this corruption, the nourishment provided by the multitude of absorbed true spirits accelerated the god's awakening.

The spiritual brand grew increasingly complete, the aura it emitted becoming more mysterious, twisted, and unhinged with each passing moment.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The vast divine realm began to pulse with rhythmic breaths, like a slumbering titan stirring from eons of dreamless sleep. Strange, chaotic transformations manifested throughout this pocket dimension.

Barren deserts were suddenly inundated with seawater, creating impossible coastlines. Prehistoric creatures—long extinct on Earth—flooded into regions of perpetual ice and snow, their primal roars echoing across landscapes where they had never existed.

Water worlds that had been pristine oceans were abruptly contaminated by rivers of molten magma that poured forth from nowhere. The waters began to boil violently, filling the air with scalding steam that condensed into clouds of unnatural colors.

The god's internal world underwent cataclysmic metamorphosis, energy patterns throughout becoming erratic and unpredictable. Storms of pure magical force erupted spontaneously, raging across the landscape before dissipating just as suddenly.

Simultaneously, all living entities within this realm—from mundane animals to extraordinary mystical creatures—began exhibiting signs of infection. Their behavior grew increasingly erratic, then violent, then outright murderous as the corruption spread.

Chaos. Bloodlust. Madness.

Great swathes of crimson liquid materialized across the divine landscape, reminiscent of sacrificial offerings from primordial times. The corpses of creatures caught in this supernatural slaughter withered rapidly, desiccating into husks that crumbled to dust.

Their concentrated blood essence ascended skyward, guided by invisible forces, flowing inexorably toward the god's central form. The deity's physical shell, suspended in the dimensional void, began to tremble perceptibly as these ethereal blood offerings spontaneously integrated with its developing body.

The crimson essence flowed into forming veins and arteries, functioning as a catalyst that stimulated the operation of the god's nascent internal organs. Blood circulation initiated, organs began their functions, and systems activated one by one.

The god approached awakening—or more accurately, the god approached birth. A consciousness of divine magnitude was coalescing, destined to enter the universe already possessing godhood.

Outside this internal realm, the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj and warriors of Asgard who maintained their vigil observed these developments with mounting alarm. They swiftly employed various mystical means to contact Lockhart and Thor, who had entered the dimensional space between the god's metaphysical eyebrows.

Upon receiving this intelligence, Lockhart cast a measured glance toward the trembling, metamorphosing divine soul. Despite the chaotic corruption evident in the entity's development, anticipation rather than concern showed in his expression.

Simultaneously, Mephisto appeared to notice these critical changes. With undisguised hunger, he licked his lips as naked greed illuminated his ancient eyes. Without warning, he disengaged from his battle with Lockhart, creating distance between them.

This time, Lockhart made no attempt to prevent Mephisto's withdrawal.

Dormammu likewise abandoned his confrontation, gliding through the dimensional void to position himself beside Mephisto. Their temporary alliance, it seemed, had been rekindled by the imminent divine awakening.

Thor, the God of Thunder, naturally returned to Lockhart's side, his expression troubled.

"Lockhart," he demanded, his voice resonating with barely contained frustration, "tell me now exactly what you intend to accomplish here."

Thor's tone carried not just dissatisfaction but profound suspicion. Dormammu's earlier insinuations had found purchase in his thoughts, planting seeds of doubt that now sprouted into direct questioning.

Though Thor had initially refrained from probing Lockhart's intentions—a restraint born of hard-won trust—he had reached his limit. If Lockhart continued to withhold crucial information at this juncture, Thor might grudgingly accept it, but their alliance would suffer irreparable damage.

Recognizing the gravity in Thor's demeanor, Lockhart abandoned further secrecy. He knew the God of Thunder's legendary temper would not tolerate additional evasion.

"Thor," Lockhart began, his voice measured yet urgent, "I informed you previously that I possessed a solution beneficial to both our causes."

He gestured toward the corrupted divine soul as he continued to explain while simultaneously studying the enormous true spirit taking form before them.

"Your father tasked you with safeguarding the god's true spirit, while our Supreme Sorcerer demands its destruction. These directives appear fundamentally opposed, leading many to conclude that conflict between Asgard and Kamar-Taj is inevitable."

Lockhart's eyes never left the transforming entity as he spoke. "Yet a third path exists—one that achieves equilibrium between these seemingly incompatible objectives."

He turned to face Thor directly. "Consider why your father directed Asgardian forces to guard the dormant deity. Based on the intelligence you provided and my independent research, the critical concern is avoiding the attention of the Celestials at this delicate juncture—attention that would potentially bring devastating consequences to Asgard."

"Therefore," Lockhart continued, "maintaining the god in its dormant state represents the optimal strategy for Asgard's interests."

"Conversely, the Supreme Sorcerer's directive to destroy the god stems from Kamar-Taj's sacred duty to protect Earth from supernatural threats."

At this point, Lockhart paused briefly, conspicuously omitting mention of some secondary motivation.

Resuming his analysis, he addressed Thor: "The requirements of the Supreme Sorcerer and All-Father Odin appear irreconcilable on the surface."

"However," Lockhart's voice took on a subtly triumphant quality, "there exists a nexus point where the interests of both parties achieve perfect alignment."

He held up a finger for emphasis. "That nexus is absolute control over the deity."

"If we establish total dominion over this god, we can command its continued slumber or its destruction according to changing circumstances. For both your father and the Sorcerer Supreme, the existential threat posed by this being would be neutralized entirely."

As comprehension dawned across Thor's features, it was swiftly followed by renewed skepticism.

"Lockhart," Thor pressed, "why did you withhold this reasoning from me until now?"

"I required a convincing trap for Mephisto and his allies," Lockhart explained rapidly, glancing toward the distant figures of Mephisto and Dormammu. "Only genuine opposition between us would motivate them to intercede in this conflict, effectively eliminating the god on our behalf."

He placed a hand on Thor's armored shoulder. "I withheld information because knowledge itself can betray us. The more you knew, the greater the risk of inadvertent disclosure."

"I needed your authentic anger, your unfeigned rage."

"Mephisto's perceptiveness is legendary—any prepared deception would have been transparent to him."

Thor considered this explanation before nodding slowly. "Very well, let us set aside past misunderstandings."

His grip on Mjölnir tightened as he posed his next question: "But how confident are you in your ability to establish absolute control over this entity?"

Thor's voice resonated with genuine curiosity, having rapidly identified the critical element in Lockhart's strategy:

Absolute control was the linchpin upon which everything depended.

Without it, their efforts were meaningless, potentially catastrophic.

Rather than answering directly, Lockhart's gaze fixed on the god's soul, where the twisted true spirit imprint had manifested between its metaphysical eyebrows.

"Thor," he stated with quiet determination, "the moment has arrived."

"I require your assistance for what comes next."

"Protect my physical form."

"Beyond that, take no additional action."

Hearing Lockhart's decisive tone, Thor's expression cleared momentarily before clouding again with questions that demanded voice.

Before he could articulate his concerns, Lockhart cut him off: "Thor, follow my instructions precisely—that will constitute your greatest contribution."

"What follows concerns Mephisto and Dormammu directly."

The instant these words left his lips, Lockhart's soul separated from his physical vessel. His spiritual essence manifested as a stream of crimson flame-colored light that streaked toward the god's metaphysical brow.

With characteristic Asgardian reflexes, Thor caught Lockhart's collapsing body before it could strike the dimensional floor.

Simultaneously, Mephisto and Dormammu—evidently anticipating Lockhart's strategy—initiated their own spiritual projections. Their physical forms began to radiate intense energy as they channeled their consciousness into their souls.

These essence-projections transformed into streams of smoky gray and midnight black light respectively, pursuing Lockhart's crimson soul-light into the god's brow.

The contest for divine control had begun in earnest—three immensely powerful beings racing to claim dominion over a nascent god whose awakening threatened reality itself.