I became Voldemort

Chapter 262: What’s the most important thing in life?

Grindelwald loathed nothing more than recalling that prophecy.

Raising his wand with an expression of pure disdain, he cast a spell at the Dementors:

"Expecto Patronum!"

A silvery light burst forth, bright as moonlight, rippling like waves across a dark sea. The luminous energy radiated outward, layer by layer, circle by circle, driving the Dementors back.

The light seemed soft and gentle, yet it carried an overwhelming force, forcing the vile creatures to retreat. Like waves crashing against the shore, it relentlessly pushed them further and further away.

Cyrus glanced at the glowing wand in Grindelwald's hand for a few seconds, but he couldn't discern what form his Patronus had taken.

Grindelwald's spell didn't fully manifest. Not because he lacked the ability—after all, dealing with a few Dementors was well within his power—but simply because he didn't see the need to exert himself.

Cyrus, however, wasn't as lenient.

He unleashed an ancient magic. Instead of forming an aura or taking the shape of a Thunderbird, his Patronus became a silver lightning spear.

Raising his arm high, like Zeus himself, Cyrus hurled the brilliant spear of lightning!

Thunder! Crackle!

In an instant, the silver light pierced through the chest of a Dementor. Then, the energy within the lightning spear erupted, spreading outward like the rapid growth of ancient trees, their branches sprawling out as if centuries had passed in a single moment.

The spreading branches, sharp like thorns and resembling Devil's Snare, impaled dozens of Dementors in the vicinity.

The horrifying creatures fell to the ground like torn rags, their bodies crashing down like crows that had collided with an airplane and plummeted lifelessly.

The "unkillable" Dementors had been slain!

In that moment, the faceless Dementors, who seemingly knew no fear, almost shat their pants. Their blank faces turned toward Cyrus as if etched with terror.

The remaining Dementors hesitated, then decisively retreated through the shattered opening, backing away from the battlefield.

Before leaving, they cast a lingering glance at Cyrus, as if engraving his visage into their very essence.

What kind of monster is this? Best not to provoke it…

It had to be said: Cyrus's display was nothing short of dazzling.

While he had previously demonstrated his Animagus-like abilities with magical creatures in North America, few in the British wizarding world were aware of this. And as for his ability to kill Dementors? That was practically unheard of!

Of course, Dementors weren't particularly formidable in the grand scheme of things—their weaknesses were too glaring. Whether or not they could be killed wasn't seen as especially consequential.

Grindelwald, for his part, didn't believe Cyrus's feat stemmed solely from overwhelming magical power. At most, he thought Cyrus had invented a new spell, nothing more.

This reasoning left him feeling just a little indignant. With a slight twitch of his mustache, he thought to himself:

It's just a spell you made up. What's the big deal? As if I haven't invented my fair share of spells!

Grindelwald moved with elegant precision, stepping lightly as though performing a ballet. As he spun, he conjured the familiar Protego Diabolica spell that Cyrus had used countless times before.

The ghostly blue flames flared to life, blooming like a massive, fiery hydrangea. The fire undulated like waves crashing against the shore.

No matter how many times he witnessed it, Cyrus had to admit that the Flame Shield was an exceptionally versatile spell. A perfect blend of offense and defense, it even came equipped with a friend-or-foe identification system.

It could launch a devastating assault capable of razing cities like Paris, or it could provide defense against nearly every curse imaginable, with the exception of the Killing Curse. And even then, unless it was cast with the sheer intensity of Voldemort's magic, this Flame Shield might very well hold its ground.

In the Quidditch stadium, Fudge was utterly dumbfounded as he watched the scene unfold.

If Grindelwald were to unleash the full force of Protego Diabolica, wouldn't the Ministry of Magic be obliterated entirely?

What ten underground levels? More like a single, massive underground flat in no time!

His face, bloated and pig-like, was drenched in sweat. Each bead of sweat glistened under the sunlight, oily and rainbow-hued like polluted water.

"We're doomed, doomed! Where's Dumbledore? Hurry up and save the day!" he cried in a panic.

Unfortunately, Dumbledore was still on the seventh floor.

On the screen, Grindelwald had already raised his arm high, the ghostly blue flames surging forward like a tidal wave, crashing down on Cyrus's seemingly insignificant figure with terrifying force.

BOOM!!!

The screen, while silent, was engulfed in blue flames. For a few seconds, the entire display was consumed by the fire. Then came the telltale "sizzle" of damage, and the image dissolved into gray and white static.

"It appears the Charm has malfunctioned," Babajide said, frowning slightly.

"It's over, the Ministry of Magic is done for!" Fudge wailed, jumping up in despair. He paced back and forth on the stands, attempting to use his bulky body to block everyone's view.

Professor McGonagall frowned slightly, her lips pressed together in disapproval. "Minister Fudge, you'd better sit down!"

In truth, it wasn't just Fudge who was worried.

But most of the spectators were deeply concerned for Cyrus. While Cyrus and Ilvermorny had shown a rather antagonistic demeanor throughout the tournament, the opponent he now faced was Grindelwald.

The wizards who had once suffered under the atrocities of the Grindelwald regime, those who had been swept up in the fires of war, harbored a hatred for him far deeper than anyone could imagine.

And conveniently, this match was being broadcast live across the entire wizarding world.

Those who wanted Cyrus dead were far outnumbered by those who desperately wanted to see Grindelwald fall.

Of course, none of this mattered to Cyrus in the slightest. At this moment, he stood amidst the blue flames, which should have consumed him entirely but failed to harm him in the least!

It was as though the fire wasn't fire at all, but instead a clear, soothing hot spring.

"Are you immortal?" Grindelwald's face was filled with shock, even fear. His gaze at Cyrus was utterly incredulous.

He couldn't comprehend how a spell powerful enough to destroy Paris could have no effect on Cyrus.

Immune to fire and water?

That didn't seem quite right.

Could it be that his magical resistance was so powerful that even my Protego Diabolica couldn't harm him in the slightest?

Hearing this, Cyrus merely smiled.

"How could I possibly be immortal?" he said softly, even extending his hand into the scorching flames, as casually as if plucking a flower from a garden.

The blue flames withered in his hand.

"Grindelwald, do you know what the most important thing is in life?"

"What?" Grindelwald was momentarily taken aback by Cyrus's seemingly random question, unable to come up with an answer.

The most important thing in life?

Ambition? Courage? Loyalty? Or perhaps wisdom?

Or—could it be strength?

As he pondered, he saw Cyrus shake his head. Cyrus brought the dark green wand to his lips and softly uttered a few words: "Of course, it's control!"

At that moment, beneath Cyrus's feet, crimson flames as vivid as blood ignited.

The blazing inferno of hell!

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