The World Dueling Championship didn't begin with roaring crowds or dramatic spotlights; it began with nerves, quiet and persistent, settling into the body long before the first spell was cast.
Gilderoy felt them the moment he stepped onto the open grounds, a slight tightness coiling in his chest and a restless energy buzzing through his fingers. It wasn't fear exactly, but pressure—the kind that sharpened every sensation until he became hyper-aware of his breathing, the scrape of boots against stone, and the faint clicks of wand cores being checked and rechecked nearby.
So this is it, he thought. World level.
The qualifiers sprawled across the grounds in long partitions, each separated by stone markers and reinforced with shimmering magical barriers. At first glance, every arena looked identical, deliberately plain and functional.
Temporary stands ringed the perimeter, though most spectators were kept well back, as if the organizers wanted a clear reminder that this wasn't the real tournament yet.
This was the filtering stage—a week-long cull.
Participants were divided randomly, with no national brackets and no seeding to soften the blows. Names were drawn, numbers assigned, pairs formed, and duels fought until only the best advanced. One loss was enough to end everything, and there were no second chances waiting on the other side.
When his name was called, Gilderoy felt his nervousness spike sharply—only for it to vanish the instant his boots touched the marked stone of his assigned partition.
The duel itself turned out to be… easy.
Not because the opponent was weak—far from it. He was a compact, broad-shouldered wizard from Eastern Europe, quick on the draw and aggressive with his opening spells. But Gil read him almost immediately, faster than he expected to, catching patterns in stance and timing before the man could adapt.
A deflecting shield snapped into existence, rebounding the incoming spell back toward its caster. Without hesitation, Gil chained two spells in quick succession, finishing with a sharp flick that cleanly disarmed his opponent in a motion that felt almost lazy.
It was over in under a minute.
For a brief moment, there was silence, followed by a low ripple of murmurs spreading through the nearby stands.
Gil barely registered any of it. He nodded once to the referee, lowered his wand, and stepped out of the partition with steady hands and calm breathing, surprised by how grounded he felt.
Huh, he thought. Guess the nerves were just stage fright.
As he made his way toward the exit corridor reserved for those who had already qualified, he became aware of something else. People were watching him—not openly staring, but glancing sideways, cutting off whispers when he met their eyes. A few offered quiet smiles, and one wizard even gave him a subtle thumbs-up as he passed.
The corridors between partitions remained open, allowing glimpses into other duels, and Gil found himself slowing as he walked, drawn in by what he saw through the arches.
The variety was fascinating—different styles, different philosophies, magic shaped by culture as much as training.
One duel in particular made him stop entirely.
A tall black wizard stood without a wand, palms open, his movements long as spells flowed from his hands in continuous rhythm rather than distinct casts. There was no abruptness to it,—just seamless control, as though the magic itself was responding to his breathing.
Gil's eyebrows shot up as a grin tugged at his mouth.
Whoa..
I definitely need to learn more wandless magic.
He eventually resumed walking, his attention shifting to the badges pinned to competitors' robes—small metal plates engraved with country names.
Let's see who else made it.
France. Germany. Brazil. China. India.
Then—Britain.
Gil slowed as recognition settled in, because even before the duel began, the pose was unmistakable—reserved, precise, and carrying the quiet confidence of a noble.
Regulus Black.
Gil folded his arms as he watched, noting that Regulus didn't duel with flair or spectacle but dismantled his opponents methodically, letting them burn through their energy before ending things in three clean actions; when it was over, Regulus looked bored, as if the outcome had never been in doubt.
Of course. Black loves showing off.
Later, he waited near the exit where qualified participants filtered through. When Regulus emerged, adjusting his sleeve as he walked, he looked surprised for half a second seeing Lockhart there before smirking.
"Didn't know you'd be here," Regulus said.
Gil raised an eyebrow. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you."
Regulus's gaze flicked to him, unreadable. "Don't expect me to go easy."
Gil met his eyes steadily. "You're on, Black.I, Lockhart will not back away from a challenge"
They parted soon after, but Gil found his mood noticeably lighter as he headed back toward Place Cachée.
Being housed directly within the magical district had its perks, especially during an event like this. Every evening brought something new—pastries he couldn't pronounce, new cafés he stumbled into by accident, and flavors that lingered far longer than they should have.
I've probably eaten enough sugar this week to become diabetic—still worth it
Indulgence aside, he wasn't idle
Between official matches, Gil sought out unofficial duels in empty courtyards and quiet corners, pushing his reflexes and testing his instincts without spectators or pressure.
Just experience—earned the hard way.
One afternoon, as he turned a corner too quickly, something small collided with his legs, knocking the breath out of them both.
"Oof—!"
A silver-haired child bounced back, wide-eyed, staring up at him in shock.
"Je suis désolée!" she blurted.
Gil blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Uh… Hello?"
The girl flushed crimson, clearly mortified by the encounter.
"I—sorry," Gil added quickly as he crouched slightly to her level. "I don't know French, but it's fine, little lady." He steadied her gently smiling at her, and she nodded, still embarrassed, before her attention snapped to two adults hurrying toward them—clearly her parents.
"Fleur, why did you run off? Did you apologise to monsieur for bumping into him?" came a soft, ethereal voice.
Gilderoy turned toward the speaker and froze for a heartbeat as his brain struggled to reboot, the interruption hitting harder than the collision itself.
This woman is beautiful.
What snapped his thoughts back into place was the name she had spoken—Fleur—and the realisation followed immediately after.
So this is little Fleur Delacour.
"Ah, no worries, mademoiselle," Gilderoy said easily, waving it off as he ruffled Fleur's silvery hair. "All kids are like that. No need to reprimand her."
He reached into his bag, pulled out a chocolate, and held it out to her. "Here, a chocolate for a pretty little lady."
Fleur blushed even harder, accepted it with both hands, and promptly turned to hide her face against her mother's side.
The woman thanked him warmly, and Gil merely smiled, nodded once, and stepped aside to let them pass.
As they disappeared into the crowd, he turned and continued on his way.
Right…
I really should learn languages.
Later that day, someone approached him directly.
"Can you do an unofficial duel with me?"
Gil turned toward the voice and found himself facing a young woman about his age.
She was striking in a sharp, understated way, with black hair tied neatly back and straight brows framing almond-shaped eyes that assessed him openly without hesitation. High cheekbones and a smooth complexion gave her features a refined balance, while her calm, composed presence made her attention feel deliberate rather than curious.
The badge pinned to her robes read China.
"Lei Ling," she said, introducing herself. "I've been watching you duel others. You are good."
Gil smiled, meeting her gaze. "I'm Gilderoy Lockhart. Sure. Let's duel."
They found an empty space near the outer wall, far from the main flow of people, with no referees and no rules beyond mutual consent.
Gilderoy took his place opposite her, summoned his wand from his holster, and bowed, waiting for her to draw hers—but she didn't. Instead, she bowed in return and raised her open palms, steady and prepared, clearly waiting for him to make the first move.
Wandless? Damn.
The duel that followed was intense.
Lei Ling moved like water—fast, fluid, and adaptive—her spellcasting seamless and relentless as she launched a constant barrage without a wand, forcing Gil onto the defensive almost immediately. He pushed himself harder than he had all week, focusing more on survival than counterattacks as he blocked, redirected, and repositioned under the pressure.
By sheer fluke, one of his spells slipped through her offence.
It vanished the moment it reached her, dispersing against a faint, shimmering barrier of wind that coated her body just long enough to nullify the impact.
That's… strange. What kind of technique is that?
But Moments later, it was over.
He lost—cleanly.
Gil lowered his wand slowly, staring at her in disbelief before letting out a breath. "Your skills are terrifying."
Lei Ling smiled, clearly amused by his reaction. "Thank you for the compliment."
He shook his head in amazement. "If we meet on stage, I'm probably doomed."
She laughed softly. "You are good too. You just lack experience. You should duel more."
As they parted ways, a brief but genuine sense of mutual respect lingered between them.
That night, as Gilderoy returned to his hotel, exhausted yet exhilarated, one thought settled firmly in his mind as he replayed the day's events.
This tournament wasn't just a competition.
It was a crucible—and he was exactly where he needed to be.
---
I did not release the additional chapter last week as Stones did not surpass even 50. I will release a chapter if stones surpass 60.
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