The Most Dangerous Dark Lord and the Greatest White Wizard

The dark-green crescent arc was sharper than any sword in the world. The city hanging over their heads was utterly helpless beneath its rampage; it even split sound itself in two, leaving chaos and clamor above, and absolute silence below.

But the edge of the crescent was not smooth like a blade. Every moment, it gnawed away at the boundary between the real world and Limbo, covering the shifting intersection where the two met with dense, random points. They writhed and expanded without pause, like a swarm of creatures gathered together, breeding endlessly, spreading in disorder.

Dumbledore's pupils contracted. The crescent reflected in his lenses looked even more condensed and terrifying. He had seen a similar sight before—a locust plague he had encountered while passing through a certain African country in his youth. They ate everything, destroyed everything, and wherever they passed, all that remained were farmers' wails and barren white earth.

A "leader"-like oppression burst outward from the edge that tore through everything. Before the progenitor of Dark Magic, anything that called itself evil would be unable to stop itself from groveling. The black curses that had splashed around the battlefield shrank and froze in midair, waiting for the crescent to sweep past them, open its hungry maw, and swallow them whole, turning them into insignificant nourishment for this spell of destruction. As for the spells that did not belong to the category of Dark Magic, they were annihilated the instant they collided with it—like mantises trying to stop a chariot, only after the locust swarm passed, not even ashes of their bones were left.

To Herpo the Foul's magic, these small-fry spells could only be called appetizers. In his eyes, there was only Nelson in the distance, wrapped in silver light. At some point, the silver rain that