In the distance, a group of wizards were brewing a bizarre potion in a massive cauldron, using all manner of strange and outlandish ingredients.
Watching them from nearby, the military commander's face darkened. He turned to his adjutant and asked, grimly:
"Are we sure these things actually work?. Are those people not just a bunch of lunatics?"
The adjutant glanced down at the list of ingredients in his hands—then fell silent.
Twelve-year-aged unicorn-lizard tails, black swan vocal cords, cow tears, the urine of a three-month-old infant...
From seemingly deranged materials to outright toxic substances, the list made no sense whatsoever.
After a long pause, the adjutant replied, not at all confidently,
"It… probably should work... I guess?"
At that moment, a calm voice interrupted them. A figure appeared beside them, speaking in a firm, assured tone:
"Don't worry. It'll work."
The commander looked over at Grindelwald's confident expression and responded with a cold snort:
"It better."
He didn't like this sudden arrival. There was no intel on him, no records, no history.
All he knew was that Grindelwald and the people he led were part of some group calling themselves wizards.
Other than a handful of them who seemed relatively normal, the majority acted like superstitious lunatics, constantly muttering incoherent nonsense.
Truthfully—
If these people hadn't demonstrated some undeniably supernatural abilities in public, the commander would've ignored orders from higher up and arrested them all on the spot as frauds.
Despite the clear tension, Grindelwald didn't waste his breath arguing.
The atmosphere between the two parties fell into a heavy silence.
"Dumbledore… If you hadn't stopped me all those years ago, even if we wizards didn't conquer the world, we could have at least stood openly before it—claimed our rightful place and earned the status we deserve. Instead, we've been reduced to hiding like rats, clinging to the fading glory of our ancient past, buried in the pocket realms of the Magical World…"
A trace of melancholy flashed in Grindelwald's eyes.
As a reformist, he had long foreseen the inevitable—one day, mortals would come into direct contact with the wizarding world.
And when that happened, for the conservative, stubborn, rule-bound wizarding community, it would be nothing short of a catastrophe.
That was why he had tried to seize the opportunity during the world wars—to drag his fellow wizards out of their safe little bubble and force them to face the real world.
Even if it meant mass casualties, he believed it was a price worth paying.
All for the sake of giving wizards a broader future.
But his friend, Dumbledore, believed his methods were far too extreme. Too many lives would be lost. So, he stopped him.
'Every time the world enters an era of change, transformation is always forged in blood and fire.
Only when the old is broken can the new be born.'
With that thought, Grindelwald's gaze turned toward Orsaga's direction.
They had never spoken directly, but he had a rough idea of what Orsaga was trying to do.
Compared to Grindelwald's past ambitions—
Orsaga was undoubtedly more direct, more brutal, more selfish.
He wanted to overthrow the existing world order all on his own and build a world to his liking—without caring what others thought, or what consequences they'd suffer.
"The world should revolve around me."
That, in Grindelwald's eyes, was probably Orsaga's philosophy.
A dangerous mindset.
And worse still—Orsaga had the power to make it reality.
If not for Dumbledore, Grindelwald wouldn't have bothered getting involved.
His era had already ended. Dumbledore had put an end to his ambitions, and with them, any real contribution he could make to the Magical World.
Victory or defeat no longer lay in his hands.
---
Nearby, the wizards were still diligently brewing their specialized potions, unaware that their leader was reflecting on the course of his life.
If they didn't have these custom-crafted magical brews…
Sending this army to confront Orsaga would just repeat the disasters of previous engagements.
Just one Fiendfyre Curse could wipe them all out.
As a master-level practitioner of Fiendfyre himself, Grindelwald knew all too well what that spell was capable of.
And someone who could summon and command hundreds—thousands—of Fiendfyre beasts at will...
Was nothing short of a nightmare for ordinary people.
They couldn't be blocked. They couldn't be harmed.
So Grindelwald needed to use potions to enchant and reinforce the army in advance.
---
As time ticked by, nearly ten hours passed.
And just a few hours before Orsaga's next livestream—
All preparations were finally complete.
Tens of thousands of elite troops, hastily assembled from nations around the globe, began marching in force toward Orsaga's position.
Alongside them came waves of air force squadrons, naval fleets, and long-range artillery units—all converging on the same target.
Further afield, countless missile systems were locked and loaded, ready to launch.
This operation represented the collective resolve of much of the world.
Even if it meant reducing all of London to ashes, they were prepared.
If this battle succeeded, life could go on.
But if it failed… many were already preparing to surrender, or at least switch to guerrilla tactics. After all, with losses mounting and no hope in sight, no one wanted to go down fighting for nothing.
---
As the army advanced, even the wizards still working on the Temptation Tower could feel the shift in the air.
And of course, Orsaga noticed too. He could clearly sense the malice approaching from all across the globe.
From the land.
From the sea.
From the sky.
Enemies were closing in from every direction.
He chuckled softly, picked up his wand, and in an instant—
Countless Fiendfyre beasts surged forth, splitting into three great forces and charging toward their approaching foes.
Orsaga muttered to himself:
"Eighty days left. That should be enough…"
---
Sensing the incoming magical pressure, Grindelwald's hair stood on end.
As someone intimately familiar with Fiendfyre, he could feel the savage will radiating from those distant beasts.
They weren't just spells. They felt alive—and not in a good way.
The violent, destructive aura they gave off was more intense than anything even the fiercest magical creatures could muster.
Grindelwald didn't hesitate.
He immediately ordered the thousand-plus wizards around him to raise their wands and begin preparing counterspells specifically designed to combat the Fiendfyre Curse.
And then it happened.
Before the stunned eyes of every witness—
Hundreds of massive Fiendfyre dragons broke through the clouds at twice the speed of sound, diving like gigantic fighter jets from the sky.
Each one a blazing inferno, their flames so bright they lit the sky like torches the size of airships.
Together, they turned the skies a deep, ominous red.
The commander calculated the distance, then bellowed:
"Fuel-air bombs—launch!"
In the next moment, dozens of missiles ignited, screaming into the sky from mobile launchers—heading straight for the swarm of Fiendfyre dragons.
Thunderous explosions rocked the heavens.
Dozens of cloud-like fireballs bloomed across the sky.
Due to the nature of fuel-air bombs, the entire area was instantly robbed of oxygen and combustible material.
A massive vacuum formed in the air.
For a fire-based creature like Fiendfyre—
this was, in theory, an ideal counter.
The fire couldn't burn without fuel.
But as everyone stared at the smoldering skies, hoping for a miracle—
Five thunderous roars split the air.
And then—
Five colossal heads emerged from the explosion zone.
The hundreds of smaller Fiendfyre dragons were gone.
In their place now stood a five-headed, city-sized fire dragon, easily several hundred meters long.
The beast inhaled deeply, and all of the residual fire from the explosions vanished—sucked into its blazing core.
Its scales sharpened and darkened, becoming more defined—its body pulsing with renewed life.
The flames along its body surged higher and hotter.
Just by existing in the sky, it radiated a light and heat so intense—
It was as if a second sun had risen over the battlefield.
_____
T/N:
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