Thousands of kilometers away, in the mist-covered Scottish Highlands, massive tanks rumbled across the muddy terrain—hundreds, even thousands of them. These tanks bore the insignia of the Half-Blood King, followed by a vast array of Muggle vehicles, from towering trucks to countless speeding motorcycles.
Atop the barrel of the leading giant tank sat a man, shouting at the top of his lungs, his face unnaturally flushed with both frenzy and fervor. One hand pointed toward the mist beyond Black Lake, while the other gestured at the legions of soldiers around him. With overwhelming desire and trembling screams, he roared:
"Why should they be the ones to use magic? Why did we lose our magic while they still have theirs? Why do those so-called wizards get their Hogwarts letters at eleven, while some people never even see the shadow of an owl in their entire lives? Tell me, is this fair?!"
"Unfair!!"
The Squibs in the cars and those riding motorcycles raised their hands in unison and shouted.
"Unfair!!"
"Unfair!!"
"Unfair!!"
"Why must house-elves be born to serve wizards? Why can they make Muggle-borns randomly appear among Muggle offspring? Why do pure-blood nobles stand above us all?! Why must dragons be locked away beneath Gringotts?! Brothers!! Is this fair?!"
Amidst these incendiary words, house-elves tumbled through the truck beds, somersaulting while screeching in their sharp voices:
"Unfair! Unfair!!"
The man on the barrel pounded his chest, his voice tearing through the air as he bellowed, his flushed face contorted with rage:
"Tell me, brothers! What is the root of all inequality in this world?!"
"Magic!!"
"Magic!!"
"Magic!!"
"Magic!!"
They shouted in unison.
"Destroy magic!"
"Destroy magic!!"
"Destroy magic!!"
"That's right! Destroy magic! The time is now!! The time is now!!"
Standing on the barrel of the massive tank, the Muggle soldier clutched a microphone and screamed with feverish intensity. He knelt on the turret, his eyes brimming with tears, his youthful passion burning wildly.
As his cries echoed through the air, countless turrets roared to life, unleashing a relentless barrage.
On this day in 1945, the very day the Dark Wizards of Germany had only just retreated, in the mid-20th century, under the shadow of wizardry and the patronage of the Half-Blood King, an unprecedented Squib revolution erupted in the magical world. The wizarding world had faced many crises before—giant wars, goblin rebellions, Dark Wizard invasions—but none had ever left a deeper impact than this war. None had posed a more direct or catastrophic threat to Hogwarts. Compared to this assault, the previous explosion at Hogwarts seemed like nothing more than an overture—a grand prelude heralding an era of radical change in thought and power.
And five years later, on this very day, with the King's schemes, the gods' machinations, and the chaotic tides of fate converging, the grand performance reached its climax.
The wizards who still had magic stormed out from the dense forests of Hogsmeade, mounted on warhorses and Hippogriffs, accompanied by a horde of magical creatures, charging ferociously at the colossal Squib battalion!
With merciless roars, Squib soldiers were torn apart, their throats ripped open. Yet more of them frantically raised their machine guns, turning them upon their former comrades and the magical beasts alike, unleashing a merciless storm of bullets.
Magical creatures and Squib soldiers alike were torn to shreds, plummeting from the skies. And as soon as they fell, the hooves of the wizards' warhorses trampled them into the mud.
At the forefront, a wizard rode his horse into battle, wielding both a wand and a massive iron sword. Enshrouded in a magical shield, he laughed wildly amid the cannon fire. Blood sprayed across his beard and face, and he roared with laughter.
Above, Muggle planes screamed through the sky, dropping bombs into the dense forests, sending warhorses and wizards flying in every direction. Inside the planes, Squib soldiers burst into laughter—only for a colossal fire dragon to soar from the woods below. With a single breath of searing flames, it incinerated the airborne Muggle aircraft, sending them exploding into oblivion.
Everything that had once defined the wizarding world was fading. The gentle veils, the peaceful routines, the charming magic—all vanished in this moment. Like the inevitable shift between day and night, the gentle moon had disappeared, and the blinding, scorching sun blazed at its zenith. Wizards of the magical world had become the most feral of beasts, baring their sharpest fangs and striking at one another without mercy.
And on the fringes of war, in a secluded encampment untouched by the madness and slaughter, an old man with spectacles and a floral-patterned beard paced in restless circles, clad in white robes.
"Albus!!"
A wizard pushed aside the tent flap and entered, shouting, "Aberforth—Aberforth led the magical creatures into battle!"
Dumbledore pressed his fingers against his temple in pain, covering his nose with his long fingers. The crooked bend at its bridge seemed to proclaim his brother's inherently fiery temper.
"How many did he take?!"
Albus shouted.
"More than half!! Many Beauxbatons wizards were inspired by him and rushed out too—we couldn't stop them!!"
"Damn it!!" The ever-gentle Albus Dumbledore, in a rare outburst, cursed. "Damn it! Damn it!!"
Maxime, a Beauxbatons wizard seated within the tent, rose and said, "Albus, if your plan still isn't ready, we may have no choice but to send the remaining Beauxbatons wizards into battle as well. Pardon my bluntness, but at this point, we might need something stronger. Your approach is too mild."
The words had barely left his lips—
The ground trembled violently.
Boom!!
Boom!!
Boom!!
A relentless barrage of artillery shells rained fire upon the castle.
Beyond the castle walls, in the wizards' encampment, they had erected a massive shield charm over Hogwarts.
Dust cascaded from above as Albus Dumbledore abruptly turned, his voice ringing out toward a plump wizard seated in the tent.
"Slughorn, is the Forgetfulness Potion ready?!"
"The quantity is massive—it's not ready yet! We need more time, just a little longer!" The walrus-like wizard anxiously wiped the sweat beading on his nose and forehead.
At that moment, another wizard burst through the tent flap, shouting, "Albus! Our shield won't hold much longer!"
"Hold on just a little more!!"
Albus spoke as he paced anxiously in front of the bubbling cauldron of potion, his face full of worry. "Any news of Hoffa?" he asked.
"None," replied the wizard who had just entered, his eyes dark and somber.
"We should tend to the shield."
A towering young witch stood up—it was Olim from Beauxbatons. "He will come back. Hoffa Bach said he would return to fight alongside us. He is not the kind of man who would flee from battle!"
With that, she led a group of Beauxbatons wizards out of the tent.
Just as Olim left, the tent's curtain was lifted again, and another wizard hurried in, shouting, "The Durmstrang wizards are here!"
Dumbledore's eyes lit up with joy. "Quick! Take me to them!"
A group of them rushed to the edge of the Black Lake, where a massive shield loomed over the water.
On the shore beneath the shield stood Durmstrang's headmistress, Osivia Normanova, leading a contingent of wizards. Her expression was complicated as she gazed at the immense, transparent membrane overhead. Above them, countless aircraft roared through the sky, relentlessly dropping bombs onto the castle below. The explosions sent ripples spreading across the shield, undulating like water.
Once, this place had been protected in the same way. But this time, the boy at the center of the shield was nowhere to be seen. Where was he now?
In the desert sky, the unnaturally young Sylby wielded a magical light blade, blocking Hoffa's heavy strike. His face continuously shifted, at times old, at times young, as countless green light particles surged into his body, sustaining his super-accelerated state to counter Hoffa's terrifying time-stopping power.
Clang!
A deafening sound rang out.
Hoffa and Sylby were forced back a dozen steps midair.
On the ground in Cairo, more and more people perished under the green glow, their throats shriveling before they could even scream. They clutched at their rapidly withering necks, turning into dried corpses, lifeless and silent in the raging wind.
Wrapped in green light, Sylby spoke, "We could fight like this forever. There are plenty of cities in this world for us to consume. Perhaps it's for the best—let these worthless beings serve as fuel for a legendary wizard's battle. I'm sure they'd feel honored. Don't you think?"
Unlike in his second year, Hoffa was no longer hysterical. He ceased his retreat, stopping his time magic as he silently observed Sylby.
For a brief moment, Sylby was caught off guard. His arms flailed wildly in the air—a countermeasure designed to resist Hoffa's time-stopping ability, still in effect.
Hoffa raised an arm. Above him, thick storm clouds churned, electricity crackling within. Energy gathered at his fingertips, illuminating his arm with an intense white glow, revealing every bone and blood vessel.
For a full ten minutes, Sylby flailed before he finally came to a stop.
And the moment he did—
Hoffa pointed.
BOOM!!!
A supercharged chain lightning strike, condensed over ten minutes, crashed into Sylby. The blinding white light shattered every pane of glass in Cairo with an earth-shaking explosion.
Sylby was blasted backward, his body trailing black smoke as he slammed heavily into the Great Pyramid of Khufu, carving a massive ten-meter-wide crater into its surface.
Hoffa spread his wings and slowly descended, hovering before the enormous crater.
In just ten minutes, Sylby had grown even younger, now appearing as a mere five- or six-year-old child. But this child, now blackened from the lightning strike, lay motionless in the pit, a stone hand perched atop his head, his entire body still crackling with residual electricity.
"Don't play dead. Let's continue," Hoffa said flatly.
The charred Sylby slowly lifted his head, his eyes carrying an oppressive force so powerful that even the surrounding clouds seemed to freeze.
"You've given up using time magic?"
The childlike Sylby muttered in disbelief, "You think you can defeat me with just Transfiguration and Thunderbird magic?"
Hoffa tilted his head slightly, offering no reply.
A sinister grin crept onto Sylby's young face. "Then you're asking for death!!"
He raised a hand toward Hoffa. "Dragon Finger of the Summer Night!"
In an instant, the once-clear sky turned pitch black. The clouds were torn apart, revealing the transparent night sky beyond. Several stars suddenly gleamed with eerie brightness, connecting to form the shape of a dragon with its claw raised. The celestial formation pulsed with a chilling aura of death.
Hoffa dared not hesitate. Activating both Ghost Step and Thunderbird Flight, he ascended several kilometers into the air in mere seconds.
The celestial dragon's claw moved in sync with Sylby's finger. The clouds vanished entirely, the sea split apart, water evaporated, the atmosphere melted—true vacuum descended. An overwhelming energy, guided by unparalleled mental force, was unleashed upon the world.
Yet, this power bore no form, nor did it make a sound.
Birds that touched it turned to ash in an instant. Planes disintegrated in the sky without a whisper, their passengers vanishing into dust as if they had never existed. Everything within a one-kilometer radius, with Sylby's fingertip as the epicenter, silently crumbled into nothingness.
That night, astronomers observed an inexplicable cosmic phenomenon through their telescopes. The night sky was clearer than ever before.
And that same night, Hoffa felt closer than ever to escaping fate.
He climbed with all his might, finally breaking into the thin vacuum just as Ghost Step wore off. Here, there was no magic, only relentless cosmic radiation.
But in the single second between the end of Ghost Step and his next move—
Sylby appeared soundlessly behind him, ten thousand meters above the ground.
Seizing Hoffa's golden wings, he stepped on his back and whispered a spell:
"Magical Rupture!"
With a light stomp—
Hoffa's prized wings were torn from his body. Golden blood gushed wildly as he plummeted like a cannonball, crossing over ten kilometers in an instant. Like a meteor, he crashed from the top of the Great Pyramid straight to its depths, shaking the earth as he slammed into the tomb's sandy floor.
Dust billowed madly.
Hoffa lay on his back amid a pile of mummies, his shattered spine screaming in agony, the torn remains of his wings sending waves of searing pain through his body. A scarab beetle crawled lazily across his nose. His face betrayed no emotion.
Above, Sylby descended slowly, tossing Hoffa's bloody wings onto the sand.
In just a few minutes, he had grown a few years older again. The scorched layer of his skin peeled away, revealing fresh, unblemished flesh beneath. Though visibly fatigued from unleashing two devastating attacks in a row, his exhaustion did nothing to suppress the unbridled fury on his face.
"You think this can kill me? What a joke!"
Sylby glared at Hoffa in disbelief. "You're still trying to protect those Muggles while fighting me? Do you think so little of me? Do you think the Half-Blood King isn't worthy of being your opponent?!"
(End of Chapter)
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