[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 541 - 545

Chapter 541

Ilvermorny, USA
A Secret Location

In the air, golden lines continuously emerged, weaving and intertwining like an intricate web of fate. They pulsed with a mysterious energy, forming patterns beyond human comprehension.

On the ground, a massive green plant stood, its roots tangled in a complex network—yet none of them extended deep into the earth. Instead, the only thing touching the soil was a large, spherical green fruit, its smooth surface reflecting the dim light around it.

Above, the golden lines continued to flicker and shift, occasionally drifting down into the green fruit like strands of destiny being woven into its very core.

Then, suddenly—

A powerful surge of golden energy poured into the fruit as if responding to an unknown stimulus. The once-calm surface of the fruit trembled violently.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The sound of splitting echoed through the space as visible cracks began forming across the fruit’s surface, spreading outward like a spiderweb.

Boom!

With an explosive burst, a cloud of light green gas erupted from the ruptured fruit. A figure emerged from the mist, stepping forward with deliberate ease.

Draped in a black robe, the man exuded an air of absolute confidence. His piercing gaze swept over his surroundings before his lips curled into a knowing smile.

"Just as I expected..."

A deep satisfaction welled up in Grindelwald’s heart. He could feel it—the power of destiny had expanded within him by nearly half. This was more than he had ever anticipated.

His smile widened, his expression brimming with intrigue. It was as if he had stumbled upon something far more fascinating than he had initially predicted.

Snap!

With a casual flick of his fingers, a pale golden flame ignited in midair, flickering gently with an almost ethereal glow.

Grindelwald focused his energy, channeling the power of destiny into the flame while simultaneously weaving magic into it, simulating Lockhart’s aura. The flame remained steady, its glow unwavering.

That was strange.

Grindelwald’s brows furrowed slightly. This reaction wasn’t what he had expected—unless his assumption had been incorrect.

He hesitated for a brief moment before trying again, this time simulating the auras of others—Harry Potter, Ian, Remy, Vera, and Wanda.

The pale golden flame reacted smoothly to the first few names, burning steadily, neither too fierce nor too dim.

However—

When he infused the flame with Wanda’s aura—

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The flame surged violently, expanding as though it had been struck by an immense force.

At the same moment, Grindelwald felt something vast and unfathomable descend upon Ilvermorny—a consciousness so immense that it pressed upon the very fabric of reality itself.

Across the school, professors and students alike felt an eerie pressure settle over them. Their chests grew heavy, their breathing unsteady, yet no one could identify the source of the sensation.

Grindelwald, however, knew.

Lowering his head slightly, he displayed a respectful bow, acknowledging the presence of the grand consciousness that had turned its attention toward him.

Then, raising his wand, he guided the power of destiny within him, crafting intricate golden runes that he steadily cast into the blazing fire.

The fire reacted immediately, growing wilder, brighter—until, suddenly, it stopped.

Moments passed in silence.

Then, as abruptly as it had come, the immense consciousness seemed to withdraw, satisfied with whatever it had discovered.

The pale golden flame of destiny dimmed back to its original state, as if nothing had happened.

Yet, Grindelwald knew better.

An immense surge of power flowed into him, rewards materializing from an unknown source. He could feel the sheer abundance of destiny’s power at his fingertips.

His grin widened.

And then—

It turned into full-blown laughter.

He had just pulled off the biggest lie in history.

United States, Magical Congress

Inside the grand parliamentary conference room, discussions buzzed among the gathered officials. At the head of the long table, Dumbledore sat quietly, draped in the deep red robes of the Wizengamot. His expression was composed, unreadable.

At the main seat, Deputy Speaker Chenos rose to his feet, his voice filled with fervor as he addressed the assembly.

"We have received confirmation!" he declared, his voice echoing throughout the chamber. "Grindelwald is dead in England!"

A wave of murmurs rippled across the room. Chenos, emboldened by the moment, continued, his excitement barely contained.

"The old Dark Lord attempted to strike at both Hogwarts and Kamar-Taj." He shook his head dramatically. "But in the end, he lost everything. His grand plan collapsed, and he perished in his own folly."

He exhaled sharply, his exhilaration evident. If he had a wand in hand, he might have set off celebratory fireworks right then and there.

Across the room,a Goblin Elder blinked in surprise. "Are you certain, Speaker Chenos?" he asked hesitantly.

"Without a doubt," Chenos affirmed with absolute confidence.

With a flick of his wand, he conjured shimmering images into the air.

The floating scenes displayed the fateful battle—Voldemort and Grindelwald, side by side, clashing against Lockhart.

"The reports from Kamar-Taj and the British Ministry of Magic confirm this," Chenos continued. "And Headmaster Dumbledore himself has vouched for it."

At the mention of his name, all eyes turned toward Dumbledore.

Dumbledore cleared his throat softly and rose from his seat. His tone was measured as he spoke.

"Yes, I have personally confirmed this with Headmaster Lockhart of Kamar-Taj. Grindelwald is indeed dead."

The room erupted into cheers.

Among the goblin delegates, Elder Nas and his fellow wizards exchanged triumphant grins. The long-feared dark lord  Grindelwald was finally gone.

But then—

Dumbledore raised a hand.

"However," he said, his voice cutting through the revelry, "we must not be so quick to celebrate."

The chamber fell silent.

Frowning, many of the wizards and goblins exchanged confused glances.

"Grindelwald was no ordinary wizard," Dumbledore continued. "His magical knowledge and abilities far surpassed what most of us can comprehend. His death may not be as final as we hope."

A cold unease settled over the room.

"Resurrection rituals exist," Dumbledore explained gravely. "For a wizard of Grindelwald’s caliber, death does not necessarily mean the end. It is entirely possible that even now, he has already set plans in motion for his return."

Chenos’s expression faltered.

The joyous atmosphere had all but evaporated.

Yes, wizards of their caliber had means beyond conventional understanding. To ordinary magic users, death was an end. To Grindelwald? It could be little more than a temporary inconvenience.

"But even if he does return," Chenos interjected quickly, regaining some of his bravado, "he will be weakened. That much is certain."

Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed. All magic comes with a price. While I cannot say what resources Grindelwald may require upon his resurrection, history tells us that wizards who return from death often experience a period of weakness."

Chenos seized upon the point. "Then that is our advantage!" He clenched his fist in determination. "If Grindelwald has truly fallen, we must act swiftly. We can reclaim Ilvermorny, reestablish the Magical Congress, and purge his followers before he regains his strength!"

His voice rang with conviction.

"This is a turning point for the wizarding world of America!"

Chenos took a deep breath and issued the command that would decide the future.

"Summon all forces. Hunt down Grindelwald. Crush the Saints. Wipe out any and all resistance!"

Chapter 542

Goblin Palace

In the grand, dimly lit throne room of the Goblin Palace, the Goblin King, Turan, sat motionless upon his ornate seat, his piercing eyes fixed on Elder Nass, who stood below, delivering his report with conviction.

"My king, if the news is accurate this time, then this is indeed an unparalleled opportunity," Nass declared, his voice filled with urgency.

"If we allow this moment to slip away and wait until Grindelwald regains his full strength, we will once again find ourselves trapped in the same deadlock as before."

The elder’s expression grew more determined as he continued.

"Chenos has promised that, should we succeed in killing Grindelwald and eliminating the Saints, the goblins will retain all of our previous rights and privileges in the American Wizarding Territory."

Turan remained silent, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the throne's handle, his sharp nails making a soft but deliberate clatter, clatter, clatter with each strike.

Nass, emboldened by the King’s patience, pressed on.

"Furthermore, Chenos has assured us that once he ascends to the position of Speaker, he will allocate ten parliamentary seats to our kind."

At this, Nass’s tone lifted slightly, betraying his satisfaction.

The Magical Congress of the United States, unlike the Ministry of Magic in Britain, operated under a Speaker-Member system. To hold a congressional seat meant to wield real political power—to stand among the ruling class, shaping policies and securing influence over the wizarding world.

For the goblins, who had long been forced to maneuver from the shadows, gaining an official, legitimate voice in Congress was nothing short of revolutionary.

Compared to centuries of clandestine negotiations and subtle maneuvering, this offer was almost too tempting to refuse.

Turan’s fingers continued their rhythmic tapping against the throne, his gaze unreadable.

Then, suddenly—

"Nass, follow Chenos’s request in full."

Nass blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before quickly composing himself.

"Of course, my king," he said respectfully.

"Chenos requests that we deploy at least one thousand elite goblin warriors to join the battle. Additionally, to ensure Grindelwald's absolute destruction, you, my king, must personally take action."

Turan’s expression remained unreadable, but Nass pressed on.

"Chenos insists that we must coordinate with Dumbledore and use the Disk of Destiny to cut off any possibility of Grindelwald's resurrection."

A heavy silence settled over the room before Nass hesitated, then added,

"There is one more matter, my king." He exhaled softly before continuing. "Though Chenos did not say it outright, his intentions are clear."

"He hopes that once Grindelwald is truly do death, we will commit all of our resources to ensuring his rise to the position of Speaker."

A smirk curled the corner of Turan’s lips.

"I see."

Nass nodded, his expression serious.

"If Grindelwald is truly eliminated, the prestige Chenos will gain from this victory will all but guarantee his ascension to the Speaker’s chair. And, of course, he expects certain... rewards for his efforts—magical artifacts, treasures, design schematics for magic firearms..."

He trailed off, sensing he had said enough.

Now, it was up to the King to decide.

Despite the enticing offer, Nass knew better than to overstep. He was an elder, an advisor—but the ultimate decision lay solely with Turan. To assume otherwise would be a fatal mistake.

The Goblin King, after all, had earned his crown not through diplomacy, but through sheer, ruthless power.

No wizard had slain more goblins than Turan himself. And no goblin had slain more wizards than him.

The room remained silent as Turan’s mind churned.

Finally, his gaze lifted once more.

"Nass, are you certain this proposal came directly from Chenos?" His tone was measured, but his eyes held a dangerous glint. "Has he been influenced by anyone else?"

Nass immediately shook his head.

"I personally spoke with him after the congressional meeting," he confirmed. "I used every method at my disposal to probe his intentions. I am convinced that this plan is entirely his own."

"He has staked everything on this. To Chenos, defeating Grindelwald is the key to securing his rise to power."

Turan’s fingers stopped tapping.

"And Dumbledore? How did he react?"

Nass took a moment to recall before answering carefully.

"Dumbledore remained cautious," he admitted. "He did not oppose the plan, but neither did he express great enthusiasm. He merely warned the assembly not to underestimate Grindelwald. Beyond that, he said little."

Turan leaned back in his throne, his sharp gaze narrowing in thought.

It was true—this was a rare and perhaps final opportunity. Grindelwald was weakened. If they acted now, they could crush him and his followers, ensuring goblin dominance in the wizarding world’s political sphere.

If they succeeded, goblins would no longer be creatures lurking in the shadows of human governance. They would be equal participants in shaping the future.

The risk was great—but the reward was far greater.

Turan exhaled slowly, the decision solidifying in his mind.

"Very well," he said at last. "Contact Headmaster Dumbledore. I wish to discuss the specifics of our battle strategy with him personally."

Ilvermorny, Headmaster’s Office

Grindelwald sat at his desk, his complexion flushed with vigor. A slow, knowing smile played on his lips as he listened to Holm, the elite Saint responsible for overseeing intelligence operations.

Across from him, Holm stood stiffly, shifting nervously under the leader’s gaze.

"Leader," Holm began, his voice tight, "we’ve received troubling reports from the Magical Congress. Something is happening—something significant."

Grindelwald’s smile widened, but he remained silent, allowing Holm to continue.

"It seems they are preparing for a large-scale attack on Ilvermorny."

At this, Holm hesitated, stealing a quick glance at his leader’s expression before pressing on.

"The reason for their aggression is a rumor—one they themselves spread."

Grindelwald arched an eyebrow, intrigued.

"They claim that you perished in the United Kingdom," Holm elaborated, "and though you have since been resurrected, you remain in a weakened state."

He exhaled sharply. "They believe this is their best opportunity."

For the briefest moment, silence stretched between them.

Then—

Grindelwald chuckled.

The sound was soft at first, then it deepened, growing into a rich, amused laugh.

"Interesting," he murmured, his amusement unmistakable.

Holm, however, swallowed hard. He had not seen the leader in days, and with the Congress confirming these claims, he couldn't shake his growing unease. If there was any truth to them—if Grindelwald was vulnerable—then the Saints might be walking straight into their own destruction.

"Leader..." Holm hesitated. "What are your orders?"

Grindelwald leaned forward slightly, fixing Holm with a knowing gaze.

"Holm," he said smoothly, "what do you think we should do?"

Holm stiffened, a cold sweat forming on the back of his neck.

His mind raced for a response, but before he could speak, Grindelwald exhaled a quiet sigh.

He already knew the answer.

Rozier would have never hesitated.

Grindelwald’s thoughts flickered briefly to his fallen confidant. Unlike Holm, Rozier would have simply presented the facts, then awaited orders without hesitation, without doubt.

A hint of disappointment crept into Grindelwald’s expression as he waved a hand.

"Go."

Holm, sensing his dismissal, gave a quick bow and hurried toward the door.

Just as he reached it—

"One more thing," Grindelwald’s voice called out.

Holm froze.

"Tell the Saints to be on high alert. Prepare for war."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Grindelwald’s face.

"This time, we will end the Magical Congress and the goblins once and for all."

Chapter 543

Durmstrang, Germany

"Damn it!"

Tom Riddle’s voice echoed through the spacious research chamber, filled with both frustration and disbelief. His sharp eyes burned with intensity as he paced around the dark red flames that flickered ominously in the center of the room.

"Why was this never mentioned in history?" he muttered under his breath.

His expression twisted as his mind struggled to grasp the terrifying nature of the entity before him.

"Not only does it directly target the soul, but it can also transform the human body, and—" his voice dropped lower, filled with a mixture of awe and dread, "its lifespan is nearly infinite."

His fingers clenched into fists as he stared at the blazing inferno before him.

"Hellfire... just what the hell is this?"

The fire danced in the air, casting eerie shadows along the chamber walls, its flickering light reflecting in Tom Riddle’s cold, calculating eyes.

The quill floating beside him, enchanted to record his findings, filtered out his curses and irrelevant mutterings, leaving behind only the core of his research. But at this moment, his thoughts were anything but structured.

The more he studied the hellfire, the more it gnawed at his sanity.

This power—it was too dangerous, too untamed. Unlike traditional magic, it could not be manipulated by mere force of will. It was parasitic, embedded deep within his very soul. Any attempt to escape its grasp only resulted in searing agony, as though his essence itself was being incinerated.

He shuddered.

The sensation was impossible to forget. It was as if every thought, every ounce of his magical energy, was being consumed as fuel to feed the relentless inferno within him.

Tom Riddle took a deep breath, trying to suppress the involuntary tremor in his hands.

"Damn Voldemort," he spat. "That arrogant fool. If only I had broken free from Lockhart’s control—"

His jaw clenched.

If he had been free, he would have risen to heights even Voldemort could never have dreamed of. Together, they could have stood against Lockhart, perhaps even defeated him.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

If he had gained his freedom, the first thing he would have done was consume Voldemort entirely.

Devouring his other self would have granted him unprecedented power. And with that power, Lockhart would have been nothing more than an obstacle in his path.

A wicked smirk curled on his lips at the thought.

Whoosh!

A sudden ripple coursed through the flames, and a warning sensation jolted through him.

Tom Riddle’s expression darkened.

Something was happening.

He turned swiftly, his sharp gaze locking onto a house-elf that had just appeared in the room, its tattered robes hanging loosely around its small frame.

"What has been happening at the school recently?" he demanded.

The elf furrowed its brow, its large eyes darting back and forth as it struggled to recall any abnormalities.

After a moment, it shook its head. "Nothing unusual, Master."

Tom Riddle’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Dismissing the elf with a careless wave of his hand, he turned back to the fire.

Snap!

With a flick of his fingers, tendrils of dark red flames coiled around him, illuminating the eerie gleam in his eyes.

"Danger...?" he murmured.

Despite its parasitic nature, the hellfire was undeniably useful. It had just given him a warning—one that he could not afford to ignore.

His grip on his wand tightened.

Whoosh!

With a swirl of shadows, Tom Riddle vanished from the chamber, reappearing atop Durmstrang’s highest tower.

The air was bitterly cold, the sky stretching above him in an endless expanse of blue. Below, vast fields of white sprawled across the landscape, snow covering the castle grounds and the plains beyond.

The frigid wind howled around him, yet the flames of hellfire flickered steadily in his palm, undeterred by the icy gusts.

Closing his eyes, he focused.

He allowed his mind to merge with the infernal power, reaching out with its senses.

Buzz!

The flames pulsed wildly, reacting to something unseen.

A threat loomed on the horizon.

Slowly, Tom Riddle opened his eyes, his gaze sharpening as he scanned the snowy expanse.

And then—

In the distance, a crimson stain bled through the perfect white landscape.

A trail of blood.

His lips curled into a knowing smirk.

Boom!

With a flick of his wand, a burst of dark green fire shot into the sky.

The air rippled as a haunting image formed above the castle—the Dark Mark, a skull with a serpent slithering from its mouth.

Moments later—

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Black shadows flickered into existence around him.

Death Eaters.

Figures clad in flowing black robes emerged atop the castle, their presence an unspoken testament to their loyalty.

A masked figure stepped forward hesitantly. "My Lord...?"

Tom Riddle did not respond immediately.

Instead, he lifted his wand and pointed it toward the distant red mist.

The Death Eaters followed his gaze.

At first, it seemed insignificant—a mere mark in the snow. But as they focused, they felt it.

A dark aura radiated from the mist, thick with malice.

The sheer weight of its presence sent an instinctive chill through even the most hardened of them.

This was no ordinary foe.

Many of them were seasoned pure-blood wizards, trained in dark magic and schooled in the most dangerous spells. Yet even they could not suppress the unease creeping into their bones.

The blood-red mist loomed closer.

Tom Riddle, however, remained unfazed.

A chilling smile spread across his lips.

"Let's go and greet an old friend."

His words sent a ripple of tension through his followers.

They exchanged uneasy glances. They knew who he was referring to.

The realization made them hesitate for only a fraction of a second—

Then, one of them raised their wand, uttering the incantation for apparition.

Whoosh!

One by one, the Death Eaters vanished into the shadows, following their master without question.

Hesitation was not an option.

To falter now was to invite death.

Outside the Gates of Durmstrang

The battlefield from over a month ago still bore the scars of destruction.

Deep craters marred the frozen ground, remnants of the fierce battle between Voldemort, Tom Riddle, and Grindelwald.

Dark magic lingered in the air, mingling with the embers of hellfire that refused to be extinguished.

Tom Riddle had never cleared the battlefield.

Not out of negligence—but as a reminder.

A lesson.

He had miscalculated once. He had believed that Voldemort, despite everything, would choose pragmatism over betrayal.

That, faced with the mutual threat of Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Lockhart, Voldemort would compromise.

He had been wrong.

Voldemort had not hesitated to upend the board, throwing their fragile alliance into chaos.

Had it not been for the hellfire, he might have been consumed.

But he had survived.

And this time—

"Never again."

The frigid wind howled.

The blood-red mist thickened, creeping closer.

Tom Riddle extended his hand.

In an instant—

BOOM!

A massive surge of hellfire erupted forth, slamming into the encroaching mist.

Chapter 544

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

The blood-red mist pulsed with a faint, eerie buzzing sound, vibrating with an almost sentient intensity.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The scorching waves of Hellfire surged forward, their heat distorting the air as they crackled ominously.

Two figures stood unmoving amidst this hellish battlefield, positioned between the encroaching blood mist and the raging inferno.

They shared an uncanny resemblance—both young, elegant, and exuding an aura of dark refinement. Yet, despite their similar appearances, the differences between them were stark.

One was clad in a blood-red wizard’s robe, emanating a scent that reeked of decay and slaughter. The other, while also donned in red, bore a darker shade, akin to the very Hellfire roaring behind him—blazing yet chilling, despairing yet filled with a twisted sense of judgment.

"I didn't expect you to recover so quickly," Tom Riddle murmured, his voice carrying a hint of grudging admiration.

"Hmph. There are many things beyond your comprehension," Voldemort replied coldly, his slit-like eyes narrowing as he gazed at his former self.

"To be frank," Tom continued, his expression unreadable, "had you not been so hasty, we would have been allies soon enough." His voice carried a subtle lure. "Of course, it’s still not too late."

Even as he spoke, Tom Riddle remained alert, his mind working rapidly. He could feel the ominous threat emanating from the blood-red mist surrounding Voldemort. The dark power at his enemy’s command was palpable, shifting like a living entity.

If he hadn't returned, he would never have willingly given back the box—not without extracting something useful first.

If the opportunity presented itself, he might even consume Voldemort, assimilating his strength and, perhaps, breaking through the infernal flames that had entangled him for so long.

However…

As Tom scrutinized the blood-red mist, his gaze sharpened. The dense fog wasn’t merely an abstract force. It was made up of countless microscopic creatures—tiny, writhing red insects. They continuously burrowed into Voldemort’s body, wriggling beneath his pale skin like parasites.

Even with his formidable mental fortitude, a chill ran down Tom’s spine.

What in the name of dark magic has this man become?

At the same time, the Hellfire behind him flared. The infernal flames flickered violently, as if reacting to something—some unspeakable sin saturating the air.

The scent of blood, suffering, and unatoned crimes was so dense that even the flames of damnation seemed to recoil for a moment before surging forward with renewed intensity.

This was not just any sin.

This was a massacre.

A massacre of tens of thousands—an evil so profound, so vile, that it threatened to destabilize the already chaotic battlefield.

Under the influence of this dreadful aura, the Hellfire roared, expanding wildly.

Tom Riddle’s face darkened. His fingers twitched around his wand as he muttered bitterly to himself.

And this… This is exactly why I want to escape Hellfire.

It wasn’t just about the opponent in front of him.

No, the true horror was that this cursed power, the Hellfire, judged darkness without mercy.

It burned sinners indiscriminately, consuming even him, once the Dark Lord who ruled without fear.

For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle—Voldemort's past self, one of the most formidable dark wizards to have ever existed—found himself cast as a hunted man, a condemned soul facing the flames of judgment.

It was a humiliation unlike any other.

And yet, as much as he loathed this power, he had no choice but to use it.

With a resigned sigh, Tom relented to the call of Hellfire echoing within his soul. His grip on his wand tightened before he loosened it, releasing his last shred of resistance.

Whoosh!

Instantly, the infernal flames surged forward, wrapping around his body with eerie enthusiasm.

The fire twisted, reshaping itself.

In the next moment, standing in Tom Riddle’s place was a burning skeletal figure, cloaked in Hellfire.

The spectral Flaming Skull donned a fiery wizard’s robe, its surface engraved with dark-red infernal runes, pulsating with ancient power.

The entity's voice emerged—deep, hoarse, and dripping with ethereal authority:

"Sinner, look into my eyes."

Tom Riddle’s now glowing, hollow sockets locked onto Voldemort’s gaze.

For a brief moment, Voldemort's face flickered with an odd emotion—excitement.

Yes…

This was exactly what he had been waiting for.

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

Without hesitation, Voldemort opened his mouth, releasing a thick torrent of blood-red mist. It shot forth like an arrow, surging toward the Flaming Skull that Tom had become.

Whoosh!

Hellfire exploded outward as the Flaming Skull raised its right fist, countering the mist with a wave of scorching flames.

To an outsider, the battle might have appeared eerily silent—no grand explosions, no excessive theatrics.

Yet, it had already entered its most ferocious stage.

Sizzle! Crackle!

The Blood Abyss Insects within the mist shrieked as the flames scorched them, their tiny bodies bursting into ash.

And yet, for every insect burned, another took its place.

Tom Riddle’s skeleton-like visage twisted in frustration. The Hellfire should have incinerated these creatures completely… yet they continued to multiply, feeding off the very flames meant to consume them.

His expression darkened.

Then, he understood.

The Blood Abyss Insects weren’t just numerous—they were adapting.

The longer they fought, the more resistant they became to Hellfire.

If this continued…

Tom Riddle’s thoughts sharpened like a blade.

Capture the leader, destroy the army.

If he couldn’t wipe out every single insect, then he would cut off the source instead.

Tread! Tread! Tread!

The Flaming Skull strode forward, its skeletal feet clanking against the scorched earth.

With a single motion, its right hand tightened—and in a burst of flames, a blazing longsword materialized.

Without hesitation, Tom lunged.

The sword whistled through the air, its arc swift and deadly as it bore down on Voldemort.

Bang!

A blood-red arm rose, intercepting the strike.

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed coldly. The crimson hue from his arm spread rapidly, engulfing his entire body like liquid armor.

A blood-drenched entity now stood in defiance of the Flaming Skull, the two figures mirroring one another in an eerie contrast—Hellfire and Blood, Judgment and Sin.

Whoosh! Boom! Boom! Boom!

The flaming longsword clashed against the blood-red mist, waves of heat and corruption colliding in a deadly dance.

Voldemort weaved through the attacks, dodging when possible, enduring when necessary.

Each time his body was sliced apart, new flesh formed from the Blood Abyss. His regeneration was near-instantaneous—what should have been fatal wounds were nothing more than minor inconveniences.

Meanwhile, the Hellfire flickered.

What once burned the insects with ease now struggled.

Tom Riddle’s soul wavered.

Then—

A subtle ripple of soul energy emerged.

The Flaming Skull’s gaze sharpened.

Without hesitation, the flaming longsword fragmented, transforming into multiple infernal daggers.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Each dagger found its mark, piercing Voldemort’s form—head, shoulders, limbs…

For the first time, Voldemort froze.

Tom’s hollow sockets gleamed.

Victory was within reach.

But then…

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

The blood-red mist behind Voldemort surged forward—as if enraged.

Chapter 545

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

A faint, unsettling buzzing sound filled the air, growing louder and louder with each passing second.

The blood-red humanoid phantom trembled violently, its form rippling as if struggling against some unseen force. At the same time, the Hellfire-forged blades embedded in its body began to dim, their once fierce glow fading at a visible rate.

They were being consumed.

Devoured.

Tom Riddle stood a short distance away, his expression unreadable as he observed the battle unfold. Deep within him, he could feel the shifting emotions of Hellfire—a burning hunger, an insatiable thirst for destruction.

Yet, something was wrong.

The flames, once an all-consuming force, were dwindling, being siphoned away at an alarming pace.

It was the Blood Abyss Insects—those infernal, parasitic creatures. Their ravenous instincts were wild, irrational, driven solely by an overwhelming desire to consume and evolve.

And yet…

Instead of fear or concern, a strange gleam flickered in Tom Riddle’s eyes. A thought, dangerous and reckless, had taken root in his mind.

A mad idea.

For days, he had been desperate to escape from Lockhart’s grasp, to break free of the binding shackles of Hellfire.

But Hellfire could not be extinguished.

It was a judgmental force, an executioner’s blade, one that burned endlessly without yielding.

Yet, now, before his very eyes, he saw tiny, insignificant blood-red insects devouring it without hesitation.

They were still dying in the process, yes, but they were adapting.

Given enough time, they would undoubtedly overcome Hellfire completely.

And that meant…

They were the natural counter to Hellfire.

A weakness to a power that was supposed to be unbreakable.

For the first time in a long while, Tom Riddle felt hope.

He had spent countless resources, experimented with endless dark rituals, and endured the torment of Hellfire, all in a fruitless attempt to break free.

But now…

Now he had seen a path.

Yet, as he locked eyes with Voldemort, the glint in his opponent’s gaze made it clear—

The feeling was mutual.

He would never help Tom.

If anything, Voldemort wanted the same thing—to consume him, to absorb his power, to devour everything.

And Tom couldn’t even blame him for it.

If their roles were reversed, he would do the exact same thing.

Click! Click! Click!

The sharp sound of cracking bones echoed ominously.

In just seconds, Voldemort broke free from his restraints.

His blood-red form pulsed with an eerie vitality, his sinister eyes locking onto Tom.

"Tom, what exactly are you planning?" Voldemort's voice was cold, wary.

He knew something was off.

There was no way Tom had simply let him go.

Some hidden scheme was at play.

And yet, for the first time, Voldemort felt a subtle unease creeping into his mind.

Tread. Tread. Tread.

Tom did not answer.

Instead, he took a single step forward, lifting his right hand—a flaming whip materializing in his grasp.

Whoosh!

The fiery weapon cracked through the air, slicing through Voldemort’s body with a thunderous bang!

And yet…

The whip passed straight through.

Tom’s eyes flickered in surprise, but he did not hesitate.

Without missing a beat, his left hand, wrapped in Hellfire, shot forward, aiming directly for Voldemort’s heart.

Whoosh!

The flames flared violently, as if responding to some unknown fuel.

But once again—

His attack passed through without resistance.

Voldemort simply stood there.

And then—

He smiled.

A slow, twisted, bloodthirsty grin.

Buzz!

The moment Tom made contact, a deafening buzzing sound erupted.

The Blood Abyss Mist surrounding Voldemort lunged forward, surging toward Tom like a living tide, coiling around his arms and legs.

Tom immediately moved to retreat, but an overwhelming force gripped him tightly, locking him in place.

Whoosh!

With a mere thought, the Hellfire around his body erupted, expanding in a violent blaze.

But…

It was too late.

The Blood Abyss Insects had already adapted.

The flames, which once reduced them to ashes, now barely scorched their flesh.

Instead of incinerating them, it merely released a burnt, sickly scent—the smell of charred corpses.

Voldemort’s eyes flickered with intrigue.

Why wasn’t Tom resisting?

No, he was resisting, but… not entirely.

It was as if he was waiting for something.

And that made Voldemort uneasy.

The Hellfire continued to burn.

The Blood Abyss Insects continued to devour it.

At first, the flames had been an all-powerful force, a divine punishment beyond mortal comprehension.

But now…

Now, they were simply flames.

Still hot.

Still painful.

But no longer lethal.

Voldemort could feel the Hellfire inside him beginning to decay, its power slowly withering away.

A triumphant gleam flashed in Tom’s eyes.

Without hesitation, he pushed further, stimulating the Hellfire’s last remnants.

He no longer defended himself.

Instead, he surrendered to the flames completely, allowing them to burn freely across his body.

This was a gamble.

A reckless, desperate gamble.

But if it worked—

If he survived—

He would be free.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Voldemort hesitated.

Something wasn’t right.

Tom Riddle was not a man who sought death.

He would never willingly give up.

Even in hopeless situations, he always found a way to survive.

So then—

Why was he letting this happen?

Voldemort shook the thought away, his hands tightening as he commanded the Blood Abyss Insects to continue devouring.

Burn it all.

Consume everything.

If Tom Riddle’s body was stripped of Hellfire, then he would be defenseless.

Nothing more than meat for the taking.

And Voldemort intended to feast.

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

The maddening buzz filled the air, forcing the Death Eaters to cover their ears, their faces twisted in horror.

Their invincible master—

The one who ruled with an iron fist—

Now stood, ensnared, restrained, his once-blazing Hellfire dimming to embers.

And then—

Their pupils shrunk in shock.

From above, descending like divine judgment, a thin, colorful arm pierced through the sky—

And grabbed Tom Riddle.

In an instant, he was torn free from the blood-red mist.

The colorful hand held nothing but bone, wrapped in the final wisps of Hellfire.

For a split second—

Tom Riddle regretted everything.

The Hellfire had been so close to being completely consumed.

If only he had a few more seconds…

But Lockhart had intervened.

And now—

The chance was gone.

What a pity.

What a damn pity.

He had been so close—just one step away from breaking free of Lockhart’s grasp, from severing the chains of Hellfire and seizing true freedom.

But fate had intervened.

At that moment, Voldemort returned to his original form, his twisted, blood-drenched visage fading into the familiar pale features.

His expression was dark, twisted with fury, as he glared at the colorful figure standing opposite him.

"Lockhart!"

Voldemort's voice was thick with venom as he gritted out the name, every syllable laced with resentment.

He had been played—manipulated like a puppet, forced into a desperate struggle against Hellfire, only for Lockhart to appear at the final moment and steal everything.

Had he not reacted in time, had he failed to resist—he would have been nothing more than a puppet, a tool, just another piece in Lockhart’s grand game.

He had died once at Lockhart’s hands.

And if not for his resurrection ritual, that would have been the end of him.

The end of the Dark Lord.

Whoosh!

Lockhart raised his wand with a lazy flick, and the glowing, colorful arm holding Tom Riddle dissolved into tiny points of light, vanishing instantly.

Tom’s body floated down gently, landing next to Lockhart.

Lockhart’s expression remained unbothered, indifferent, as if Voldemort’s rage was nothing more than an insect buzzing in his ear.

"Voldemort, you recovered quite quickly." His voice was calm, almost amused.

In the darkness, colorful lights flickered in Lockhart’s eyes, shifting as he searched through the tangled web of Voldemort’s fate.

He was running out of time.

World consciousness was frantically searching for him, tracking his existence, tracing his every move.

If he lingered too long, he would be forced to leave, his connection to this world severed once more.

But before that happened—

He had loose ends to tie up.

And Voldemort was the first.

This madman, once a cunning and brilliant Dark Lord, had unknowingly become a puppet of world consciousness.

His rage, his hatred, his very existence now revolved around one goal—revenge.

Against Lockhart.

Against Kamar-Taj.

And while Lockhart would be forced to leave this time, he couldn’t risk Voldemort gaining power unchecked.

He didn’t even know when he would be able to return.

Perhaps in the Marvel world, a year would pass, while in the Harry Potter world, a hundred years would go by.

Or perhaps the opposite—

Time was chaotic.

Without an anchor, without a fixed point, everything could be thrown out of sync.

Lockhart had no control over it, no say in how the threads of fate unraveled.

But one thing was certain.

Before he left—

Voldemort had to be dealt with.

For good.

His gaze sharpened as he traced the strands of Voldemort’s destiny, searching for the medium through which Voldemort’s resurrection was tied.

But before he could find it—

Voldemort moved.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Blood-red mist erupted, spreading outward like a storm of death.

At the same time, a portion of the crimson mist flowed back into Voldemort’s body.

His form shifted, the blood-red armor of the Blood Abyss enveloping him once more.

Tread. Tread. Tread.

With each step, his presence grew heavier, the buzzing of the Blood Abyss Insects mingling with the sound of his footsteps.

He was coming.

Lockhart remained expressionless, his wand rising ever so slightly.

Buzz!

A chilling aura swept through the air as countless ice spears formed behind him.

Their tips glowed with a faint, colorful shimmer, their presence both beautiful and deadly.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Without hesitation, Lockhart flicked his wand forward, and the ice spears shot through the air like a barrage of bullets.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

But—

Voldemort barely reacted.

With a mere twist of his wand, the blood-red mist expanded, swirling into a vortex of destruction.

The Blood Abyss Insects surged forward, devouring the ice spears whole.

Every last one vanished, consumed like a mere snack.

Voldemort smirked, his crimson eyes flashing with triumph.

He stared at Lockhart, searching his face, waiting—hoping—to find a trace of fear, of concern, of panic.

But Lockhart remained calm. Unmoved.

As if none of this mattered in the slightest.

Tch.

A low chuckle escaped from behind Tom Riddle.

"Lockhart," Tom whispered, his voice carefully measured. "How about I take my leave? I wouldn’t want to interfere with your battle."

Lockhart turned to him, smiling faintly, his gaze piercing.

Tom froze.

Had Lockhart read his thoughts?

No, that was impossible—wasn’t it?

But that half-smile, that knowing look—it was suffocating.

"No, Tom."

Lockhart’s voice was soft, yet it rang with finality.

"Today, Voldemort will repent. In eternal death."

His tone was absolute.

There would be no mercy.

No escape.

Tom swallowed, forcing a neutral expression onto his face.

"Very well," he murmured. "If you require my assistance, do let me know."

Lockhart gave a single nod, but his attention was already shifting back to Voldemort.

Time was slipping away.

The blood-red mist continued to churn, its presence now thick, suffocating.

Voldemort smiled—a feral, twisted grin.

Then—

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Colorful beams of light erupted into existence.

They shot toward Voldemort, painting the battlefield in hues of brilliance and destruction.

Voldemort’s face paled.

He recognized this attack.

He had died to this very power before.

And now, it was happening again.

Almost instinctively, he leapt backward, his palms slamming together as he commanded the blood-red mist to surge forward, intercepting the beams.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The mist wrapped around the beams, attempting to absorb them.

But it wasn’t enough.

The beams pierced through, shooting straight for Voldemort’s retreating form.

Yet—

Lockhart wasn’t done.

His palm lowered slightly.

And then—

BOOM!

A colossal force descended from the heavens.

A massive, colorful palm materialized in the sky, crashing down with overwhelming power.

Voldemort was crushed beneath it.

He struggled, fought, commanded the Blood Abyss Insects to assist him—

But it was futile.

When the colorful palm connected with the earth, it solidified—

Transforming into a mountain.

Golden runes flickered into existence across its surface, glowing with an undeniable, inescapable power.

At its base, a line of words—etched into the stone by Lockhart’s will—shone brightly