At last, it was my turn to take the stage?
Listening to the sound echoing between the walls and floor, Harry turned to Albert. "It's your turn." Albert smiled. "Well? Are you afraid?"
"To be honest, a little."
Harry could already face death calmly. "That's perfectly normal. If they had a choice, who would want to die?"
"Let's go."
Harry released his tightly clenched hand, left the Resurrection Stone on the desk, and headed out of the Headmaster's office. "Are you planning to walk there like that?" Albert called after Harry in disbelief.
"What else?"
They all looked toward the ancient castle before them, and an inexplicable chill rose in their hearts. No, it was not merely several hundred people. Only this handful remained on the entire battlefield.
After Voldemort's declaration, the fighting throughout the castle had largely subsided. Everyone was gathering at the castle gates to witness the legendary final battle that would decide the outcome of the Wizarding War.
Albert's pupils narrowed into two thin slits, and his skin grew paler. Harry Potter's words had clearly shaken him.
Some Dark Wizards who sensed that something was wrong tried to find an opportunity to leave this cursed place. Where had all the Werewolves gone?
Albert examined the boy standing before him again. His lipless mouth twisted into a strange, gloomy smile.
If this continued, they would sooner or later lose their lives here.
Under countless gazes, Harry stepped out from the parted crowd. Once, they had been brimming with confidence, determined to conquer that ancient castle completely, yet in less than an hour, their forces had dwindled to less than a third of their original number.
Yes, no one believed Harry could defeat Albert in a duel.
They had joined Albert's ranks not to become cannon fodder and die.