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The not-yet-cooled black armor clashed against the newly-formed claws. Iron-grey lightning tore through the black flames cloaking the Black Emperor's surface. Amid the tooth-grinding screech of rending metal, the once-indestructible armor was shredded—ten deep claw marks were forever etched into the black iron giant's frame.
The violent destruction of the alchemical array would be a tragedy for any alchemist to witness—but Harry felt no remorse whatsoever.
All he wanted now was to tear open this iron giant, crush that damned bastard Tom in his palm, and then incinerate both his body and soul with all-consuming hellfire—banishing him to eternal damnation, never to reincarnate!
Though the thick armor kept Tom's expression hidden, Harry was certain of one thing: whatever face he wore now, it definitely wasn't smiling.
Perhaps he had smiled before, at some point—but not anymore. Not now.
Harry's long, serpentine form had transformed into a bipedal draconic humanoid, complete with limbs that allowed him to stand upright. The two pairs of scaled wings, once torn apart, had already begun to regenerate. But instead of returning to their light and graceful forms, the new wings had fused into one pair—thicker, more powerful, covered in razor-sharp, blade-like scales.
Traces of the Thunderstorm Dragon could still be seen in Harry's form, but only in essence, not in appearance. This was a specialized combat-focused evolution—far beyond the kind of transformation seen in something like Tiga's red-and-blue form swaps. It was more extreme, more complete.
His thick, powerful tail swept across the floor, now drenched in pools of glowing red molten metal, sending a cascade of iron sparks into the air. But no one watched. No one cheered.
The tension between the two titanic beasts had reached its peak.
Then—BOOM!
The steel floor suddenly collapsed inward, and the dragonkin left a deep claw-shaped crater where it had stood. In the blink of an eye, it vanished. The ferocity behind its movement was so intense that the naked eye could barely track it. Power and speed were twin forces that amplified each other, and Harry now possessed both in terrifying measure.
Tom, on the other hand, had never been a close-combat genius. His brilliance lay in dark magic and curses—not in melee combat, which European wizards generally avoided altogether.
Previously, Tom had been able to overpower Harry thanks to the Black Emperor's brute strength and Harry's own inability to effectively wield his thunder dragon form in melee combat. But now that weakness was gone—and what was once an advantage had flipped into a fatal liability.
What followed was a gruesome scene.
The Black Emperor was being dismantled—systematically dismembered by razor-sharp claws, torn apart piece by piece. Despite its desperate resistance, the hulking giant was far too slow and clumsy to mount an effective defense.
It was like an adult toying with a child—only easier. A complete domination.
Fifteen seconds.
That was all it took.
In just fifteen seconds, the Black Emperor had been decapitated and dismembered, its limbs torn from its body. All that remained was a shattered torso crashing heavily to the ground, utterly powerless.
Harry's long, sharpened claws sliced down from the neck. The Black Emperor's chest was split open, revealing a dazzling array of arcane magical engravings—its power core exposed. The core itself was nearly the size of a three-story mansion, an astonishingly compact powerhouse considering the Black Emperor's height rivaled a skyscraper.
This refinement was alchemical craftsmanship at its peak—undoubtedly the work of an awakened alchemist-wizard, someone who not only mastered alchemy but wielded the innate ability to create miracles with their bare hands. Compared to ordinary wizards, Awakened ones were born with divine-like potential for creation.
Even someone like Nicolas Flamel, the famed creator of the Philosopher's Stone, could barely keep pace with such a "false god." The Philosopher's Stone wasn't weak—in fact, it was terrifyingly powerful. As the pinnacle of alchemy, it embodied the power of "eternal transmutation." Though its "eternity" was only symbolic, that illusion of immortality still surpassed the natural lifespan of nearly all creatures in the world.
After Harry carefully pried out the power core—an artifact worth billions—and set it aside, the cockpit was finally laid bare.
A swirl of black mist darted silently and swiftly through the shadows. Had it been any ordinary person watching, they would never have noticed Tom's fleeing silhouette.
But Tom's magical energy betrayed him. Harry could see it with his naked eye—he could see magic itself.
"Trying to run now? Don't you think it's a little late for that, Tom?"
Though he had taken on a dragonkin form, Harry still hadn't learned to speak human language with this body. All that came out of his maw was an unintelligible dragon's roar—which, ironically, only made Tom flee faster and more desperately.
"Then let me put your hopes to rest."
Harry didn't bother playing any kind of cat-and-mouse game. There was simply no need.
In his draconic form, the amount of magic he could output per unit of time was far greater than in human form. After all, the flow of magic through his body had changed, and his sheer size now enhanced the speed of his energy release.
[Yol — Fire. Toor — Inferno. Shul — Sun.]
With a single deep breath, Harry drained all the ambient magic in the vicinity. A scorching stream of dragonfire erupted from his mouth, lined with rows of jagged fangs. This was no ordinary flame—it was not just Balefire, which could burn away both matter and soul—but something even fiercer, yet still under control: Hellfire.
Within seconds, his breath ignited the entire underground chamber.
The walls, the ceiling, even the very air were now ablaze—bathed in gold-tinged, black-streaked flames that twisted with an unnatural fury. Whether heavenward or earthbound, all paths were cut off. Nothing could pass through the blaze.
Harry didn't forget the third living soul down here—the old man who had done nothing the entire time, huddled and shivering in a far corner. Harry had no intention of harming him. He wasn't one to kill without reason. Yes, his hands were stained with the blood and souls of countless victims—but every life he had taken, he believed, had a reason that justified it.
Only madmen kill without cause. And Harry had no desire to be a madman. He had his limits—even if those limits were very, very low.
Somewhere within the hellfire-engulfed depths, a violent burst of black mist erupted. Tom had no intention of waiting to die. He was doing everything in his power to resist the flames. While Hellfire couldn't kill him instantly, Harry had time to spare. He simply needed to block the exits—and wait.
This was nothing more than closing the door and beating a trapped dog.
Another reason Tom couldn't escape was that the anti-Apparition wards Harry had cast were still in effect. Tom might have been able to use "Fiendfyre-All's-End" tier spells to break the seal, but Harry wasn't about to give him the chance. The moment one barrier fell, he instantly reinforced it with another. These magic walls, reinforced with the strength of an Awakened one's mana, weren't easily destroyed. The dark violet flames could melt them, yes—but it still took time.
This was a tug-of-war. A drawn-out battle filled with dead time. Harry had no intention of clashing directly with Tom spell for spell. Not when the advantage was his. After all, going head-to-head against a former Dark Lord in his prime? That was still dangerous. Tom, right now, was just a hair weaker than Dumbledore without his obsession with the Resurrection Stone—and even stronger than the Dumbledore who hadn't let that obsession go.
Time crept forward. The Hellfire only grew more intense.
Tom, who refused to face Harry directly, now found himself being slowly worn down. The younger man's endurance was his greatest advantage—Harry could afford to wait.
As the minutes passed, Tom's resistance began to weaken. Finally, with one last frustrated, enraged scream, a lick of hellfire caught the edge of the black mist. It surged forward, engulfing him—consuming his body and tearing apart his already fractured soul. Inch by inch, he was reduced to ashes, to dust that would never live again.
The prophecy, once thought severed and broken, had finally reached its destined end. They were each other's sworn nemesis. Between the two, only one could survive.
(End of Chapter)