Voldemort spoke as if he were a victor.
Do you know how long I've waited for this day?
His voice was soft and hoarse, "From the moment I saw you in Azkaban, I've been waiting. Waiting for an opportunity, a chance to deal with you myself." Grindelwald looked at him, his heterochromatic eyes swirling with complex emotions. There was no fear, no anger, only a faint, almost pitying calm. "You're still so cautious." His voice was hoarse and calm, "Even after sending out so many pawns, even after coming in person—it was only a Horcrux Clone came." Voldemort's smile froze for a moment.
Grindelwald continued, his tone still calm, as if recounting a story unrelated to himself. "Do you think I can't see it? This body—it's not your true self. Your true self is still hiding somewhere, still preparing something, still afraid of something. You've always been like this, Tom —from the Orphanage, to Hogwarts, to becoming the Dark Lord —you've never dared to face any real threat yourself. You always hide in the background, letting others die for you."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed slightly, his smile vanished, replaced by a cold, almost cruel calm.
"You're right." His voice was soft yet dangerous. "It's just an avatar. But it's enough—to deal with a severely injured, weakened Grindelwald whose cultivation has even plummeted. An avatar is more than enough." He stood up and took a step back. Tentacles extended from his body, swaying gently in the air, as if awaiting a command.
"Do you have any last words?" he asked.
Grindelwald looked at him, silent for a few seconds. Then, he sighed softly.
The sigh was soft and faint, yet it echoed across the silent hills, carrying an indescribable and complex emotion.
"It's a pity," his voice was hoarse but calm, "It's a pity that you only sent an avatar."
Voldemort frowned slightly. "What?"
Grindelwald didn't answer. He simply stood up slowly, the weariness and resentment vanishing from his heterochromatic eyes, replaced by a calm, almost composed understanding. Voldemort's Horcrux Clone stood opposite him, its three crimson eyes fixed on him, a cold, victorious smile playing on its lips. Its tentacles swayed gently behind him, and a dark red light flickered around him, enveloping him in an eerie glow.
" Grindelwald!"
His voice was soft yet dangerous. "What else can you do? Severely injured, weak, even your cultivation level has dropped. Dumbledore's fate is unknown, and that Raven is nowhere to be found. You alone, what makes you think you can fight me?" He spread his arms as if embracing the entire sky. Tentacles extended from his body, dancing wildly in the air like celebratory banners. "Your era ended long ago, Grindelwald. It ended fifty years ago. You are now just a wretched old man, a prisoner locked in the tower waiting to die. You couldn't even defeat a few useless trash I sent out, what right do you have to stand before me?"
Grindelwald didn't move. He simply stood there, looking at Voldemort, at that twisted, inhuman face. In those heterochromatic eyes, there was no anger, no fear, only a calm, almost serene indifference. "You're right!" he said, his voice hoarse and calm, "I alone really can't do anything to you."
Voldemort's smile deepened.
"But—" Grindelwald raised his hand and pulled out his ever-present wand from inside his robes. The wand looked ordinary, its shaft made of dark wood, devoid of any decoration, only bearing some fine, almost invisible scratches. But the moment Voldemort saw the wand, all three of his eyes lit up simultaneously—this was no ordinary wand; it was Grindelwald's wand, the scepter that had once made all of Europe tremble, the scepter belonging to the First Generation Dark Lord.
Grindelwald gripped his wand, its tip pointing towards the sky.
"I can find help."
He waved it gently.
A golden beam of light shot from the tip of the staff, soaring straight into the sky! The light wasn't intense or blinding, but it carried an indescribable warmth, like the dawn. It pierced through the still-churning black smoke and the dark red light, exploding in the sky and transforming into countless tiny, golden specks of light, like fireworks, like stars, like some ancient signal. Voldemort looked up at the golden specks of light, his brow furrowing slightly. "What are you doing?"
Grindelwald didn't answer. He simply stood there, wand in hand, gazing at the sky.
A few seconds passed. Ten seconds. Half a minute.
Nothing happened.
Voldemort's lips curled into a mocking smile again. "This is your helper? A signal? Grindelwald, you're more desperate than I thought." He didn't finish his sentence.
In the sky, those golden dots of light suddenly lit up. Not gradually, but like flames being ignited, they instantly emitted a dazzling light! The light dyed the entire sky into a golden sea, dispelling all the black smoke, the dark red light, and the shadows that shrouded the town!
Then he heard it.
A cry.
The sound was neither loud nor shrill, yet it clearly resonated throughout the hills, the town, and the ears of everyone. It was not the cry of an eagle, nor the cawing of a crow, but a purer, more ancient sound, like the first breeze at the dawn of the world, like the last sigh at the end of Destiny.
A Raven flew out from the golden light.
Its feathers were jet black, yet gleamed with a metallic sheen; its wings were broad and powerful, each flap creating a hurricane; its eyes were deep and unfathomable, gleaming with wisdom beyond the mundane. It swooped down from the sky with astonishing speed, like a black arrow, shooting straight towards the hill!
The stitched-together monster was the first to react. Its eyes widened simultaneously, emitting a blinding dark red light. Its body trembled violently, its twisted limbs crawling frantically on the ground, trying to retreat, trying to escape. " Raven..." Bellatrix's voice came from the fused face, filled with barely concealed terror, " The Raven is coming..." Selwyn's voice trembled as well. "Master... it's coming..."
Voldemort didn't move. He stood there, his three scarlet eyes fixed on the Raven descending from the sky, a sinister, excited smile slowly spreading across his lips. "Finally," he said, his voice soft yet dangerous. " Grindelwald, you haven't disappointed me."
The Raven landed on the hill, between Grindelwald and Voldemort. Its wings were folded, and its black feathers gleamed metallically in the sunlight. It tilted its head, its dark eyes fixed on Voldemort for a long time. Then, it began to change.
It wasn't Transfiguration, nor an illusion, but a more fundamental and natural change. Its body stretched and expanded, feathers became robes, wings became arms, and claws became feet. A black-haired boy stood on the hill, hands in his pockets, tilting his head to look at Voldemort, a faint smile on his lips.
Ian Prince.
Twelve-year-old Ian Prince.
He was dressed in ordinary dark clothes, with delicate features and black hair that fluttered gently in the wind. His eyes were dark and deep, like a bottomless pool. He stood there, looking no different from any other ordinary twelve-year-old child.
But Voldemort knew he wasn't.
Voldemort looked at Ian, his three scarlet eyes swirling with complex emotions—excitement, greed, and a barely concealed apprehension. " Raven," his voice was soft yet dangerous, "We've finally met."
Ian looked at him, his deep eyes showing no fear, no anger, only a faint, almost calm understanding. "You've been looking for me," he said, his voice calm and composed. "Now you've found me."
Voldemort's lips curled into a grotesque grin. "Yes, found it." He took a step forward, his tentacles flailing wildly behind him. "Do you know how long I've waited for this day? From Azkaban, from the moment you stood on the reef looking at me—I've been waiting. Waiting for an opportunity, a chance to finish you off with my own hands." He raised his hand, palm facing Ian. Crimson light coalesced in his palm, forming a swirling, living sphere of light. "You think you can escape? You think you can hide in the shadows, watching my every move, and do nothing? You're wrong, Raven. Today—this is your burial ground." Ian looked at him, his smile deepening.
"Are you sure?" His voice was calm and composed.
Voldemort's smile froze for a moment. "What?"
Ian didn't answer. He simply raised his hand, and an ordinary-looking wand slid out of his sleeve and into his palm. The wand was thin and light, made of light-colored wood with no decorations, only some fine, almost invisible patterns.
He gripped his wand, the tip pointing at Voldemort.
"Give it a try."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't attack immediately, but looked at Ian, at those deep eyes, at that ordinary wand, at that calm, smiling face. Then, he smiled.
"Okay," he said, his voice soft yet dangerous.
He raised a finger—not a wand, but just a finger covered in black scales, its tip a sharp barb. Dark red light gathered at his fingertip, growing brighter and more intense, until it finally transformed into a thin, needle-like beam of light.
"Let me see just how powerful the legendary Raven really is."
He suddenly pointed forward!
The beam of light shot out from his fingertip with astonishing speed, aiming straight for Ian's chest! Wherever it passed, the air was torn apart, space was distorted, and a deep, smoking trench was left in the ground! Ian did not dodge. He simply raised his wand and waved it lightly.
A silvery-white light shot out from the tip of the staff and collided violently with the dark red beam in mid-air! There was no explosion, no roar—the two beams collided and silently annihilated, turning into countless tiny, shimmering points of light, like shattered stars, slowly drifting down.
Voldemort's pupils contracted slightly.
Ian looked at him, the smile on his lips unchanged.
"Again."
Voldemort's face darkened. He no longer used a single finger, but raised both hands, all ten fingers pointing at Ian simultaneously! Ten dark red beams of light shot out from his fingertips, from different directions and angles, all aimed at Ian at the same time! They intertwined, entangled, and split in the air, transforming into an impenetrable net of death!
Ian's figure began to move. Not running, not jumping, but walking. He strolled leisurely through the gaps in the web of death, as if taking a walk in his own backyard. Every sidestep, every turn, every step he took, perfectly dodged the deadly attacks. The beams of light grazed his body, some striking the ground and blasting open bottomless craters; some hitting the rocks and shattering boulders into fragments; some flying into the sky and disappearing into the horizon.
Voldemort's attacks grew increasingly intense and frenzied. The beams of light poured down like a torrential rain, covering everything without leaving any blind spots! The ground was blasted into countless holes, rocks were reduced to dust, and the air was filled with the smell of gunpowder and burning.
But Ian still wasn't hit.
His steps were light and unhurried, as if he were dancing a silent dance. The beams of light swept past him, flew over his head, and passed beneath his feet, but none of them touched his body. Voldemort's expression grew increasingly grim. He increased his power, and the beams became thicker, more intense, and faster. But Ian continued to dodge, continued to move, and was still not hit. "Is all you can do?" Voldemort roared, his voice tinged with annoyance.
Ian stopped and stood in a clearing that had been bombed beyond recognition. He looked at Voldemort, his smile unchanged.
"No," he said, "I'm just waiting."
"Wait for what?"
Ian didn't answer. He simply looked up at the sky.
In the sky, the golden specks of light hadn't completely dissipated. They drifted down slowly, like snowflakes, like stars, like some ancient Prophecy. Voldemort followed his gaze, his brow furrowing slightly. He didn't understand what Ian was waiting for, but he had a bad feeling. Without hesitation, he raised his hands, gathering all his strength in his palms. The dark red light grew larger, brighter, and more intense, finally transforming into a huge, constantly rotating sphere of light. Within that sphere, countless tiny, vein-like tendrils wriggled, each pulsation carrying an eerie, life-like rhythm. "Die!" he shoved forward violently!
The ball of light hurtled towards Ian!
Wherever he passed, layers of rock were ripped up from the ground, the air was torn into fragments, and space itself was distorted and cracked! That was his strongest attack, enough to level an entire hill!
Ian watched the sphere of light draw ever closer and raised his wand.
A silvery-white light shot out from the tip of the staff, not a beam or a pillar, but a thin, thread-like ray. The light looked very thin and weak, as if it might break at any moment. But the instant it struck the huge sphere of light—the sphere stopped.