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Apex Wizard?
Audiences around the world rolled the title around in their minds, and most agreed that it fit perfectly.
In the wizarding world, dragons were synonymous with overwhelming power. It usually took ten well-trained wizards working together to subdue a rampaging dragon. Even professional dragonologists needed a five-person team.
Simply put, dragons sat at the top of the food chain. If a wizard could bring down a powerful dragon, they would generally be recognized as one of the world's top wizards, or, as Tom decided to call them these days, Apex Wizards.
...
Unlike the Second Task, where everyone managed to clear their challenge even though some champions struggled more than others, things were completely different this time.
Back then, those dragons had been guarding eggs. Their attention was divided, and the champions hadn't needed to defeat them. They only had to complete their objectives.
What the professors faced now was entirely different. This was a head-on clash.
A contest where the stronger side prevailed.
Not only did they need to be stronger than the dragon itself, they had to overpower it, suppress it, and force a raging beast into submission.
Anyone capable of accomplishing that alone would be a wizard far beyond the ordinary.
But there was one problem... Was Riddle's dragon even a normal dragon anymore?
At that moment, the broadcast Lume-Lens conveniently switched to a close-up of the dragon making its entrance.
The savage, predatory aura unique to dragons surged through the screen. Even separated by a magical mirror, viewers could feel the crushing pressure and instinctive fear it inspired.
At the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary, a group of dragonologists had gathered to watch the tournament.
"Gulp..."
The instant the Hungarian Horntail appeared, more than a dozen dragonologists, including Charlie Weasley, swallowed hard in unison.
"No way..." one wizard muttered in disbelief. "Can a Hungarian Horntail really get that big? Even the old Ukrainian Ironbellys in the mountains aren't this ridiculous."
A normal Horntail usually grew to around fifteen meters in length.
Exceptional specimens might exceed the average by a few meters. Once a dragon passed twenty meters, it could already be considered a king among its kind.
But the Horntail prowling through the canyon now was nearly thirty meters long.
And that wasn't all. From the perspective of professional dragonologists, the thickness of its scales, the sharpness of its claws, and the size of its fangs all far surpassed those of ordinary Horntails.
A burly wizard whose face was marked by scars and burn wounds glanced at Charlie and the others, "Charlie, think our five-man team could handle that thing?"
"Stop joking around, Morpheus." One of the nearby dragonologists, Smith, immediately waved his hands in protest. "Five people? Forget five. Even if you gave me fifteen, I'd have to seriously reconsider my career choices. I'd rather not have my daughter grow up without a father."
"Hahaha!" another dragonologist chimed in. "Don't worry, Smith. If anything happens to you, I'll take good care of your wife and daughter. I swear I'll give your wife all the love you no longer can."
"Get lost!" Smith snapped. "Damn it, were you actually eyeing my wife this whole time?"
At that moment, Smith genuinely wanted to fire a Killing Curse at his so-called friend.
"Jokes aside," another dragonologist interrupted, his expression turning serious, "I think that giant dragon might actually kill someone. Honestly, I can't think of anyone besides Dumbledore or Grindelwald who could reliably take that thing down."
After a brief pause, he added, "Of course, Newt Scamander might have a way too. That man's a living legend among magizoologists."
"Whatever." Smith shook his head and looked back toward the arena. "Let's just watch. I'm very happy I'm not one of the professors dealing with this thing."
...
..
"Riddle, are you trying to send all of us to our graves?"
Inside the Dream Arena, Snape's face was as cold as ice.
He desperately searched his memory for every insult he had ever learned. To his sorrow, he discovered that even combining all of them wouldn't be enough to express his current affection for Riddle.
Flitwick said nothing, but his expression was equally grim.
His fighting style excelled against other wizards. Against a gigantic magical beast like this, however, he held no particular advantage.
"Professors, can't you try looking on the bright side for once?" After finishing the explanation of the rules, Tom drifted gracefully down onto the platform.
The contrast between him and the competing professors could not have been more obvious.
Tom looked positively radiant.
And Snape understood exactly why.
After all, if he were watching a group of people who were about to have an absolutely miserable time, he'd probably be smiling just as broadly.
"Ordinary dragons don't really show the gap in skill levels, nor do they demonstrate just how powerful our esteemed professors are."
"If the trials were too easy, what would be the point?"
"Please rest assured. Every dragon appearing today has undergone rigorous training. Even if one goes berserk, it'll do its best to leave behind a recognizable corpse."
The professors' eyelids twitched violently at Tom's thoughtful reassurance.
Unfortunately, there was no backing out now. If they withdrew at this point, both they and their schools would be nailed to the wall of shame for years to come.
Even if they failed, they had to push forward.
At the very least, they needed to give it everything they had and avoid making a complete spectacle of themselves.
"I've always been a firm believer in America first. So, Professor Joseph, how about we begin with you?" Tom said, turning to Ilvermorny's representative.
After the Arcane Wizard assessment, Headmaster Fontaine and the others had already learned how brutal Tom's examinations could be. They understood that sending ordinary accompanying professors into the competition would most likely end in disaster.
As a result, schools like Ilvermorny and Beauxbatons had pulled out all the stops for this round. They had summoned the strongest professors they could find.
Some had even brought retired veterans back into service.
Professor Joseph was one such example. He had been Robert's predecessor, serving as Ilvermorny's Defense Against the Dark Arts department head thirty years ago. During his time as an Auror, he had personally apprehended more than fifty criminals.
Not quite on Moody's level, but still an impressive record by Auror standards.
Then there was Beauxbatons' representative: an elderly man with a flowing white beard named Guillaume Moreau.
He belonged to the same generation as Newt. Back in the day, he had even crossed wands with Grindelwald.
Specifically, he had challenged Grindelwald during the Paris incident... and spent the next ten years confined to a hospital bed.
It sounded rather pathetic when put that way. But surviving a solo challenge against Grindelwald was itself proof of extraordinary strength.
Ever since arriving today, the old wizard's eyes had barely left the box containing Grindelwald.
Judging by that look... He was probably interested in spending another few decades in bed.
Tom couldn't help admiring old Grindy in a certain respect.
The man had enemies everywhere. Pick any country at random, and you could probably find several highly influential wizards who hated him with a burning passion.
In that regard, Grindelwald wasn't as thorough as Voldemort. Given the chance, Voldemort would have killed every single person who opposed him.
Unfortunately for him, he had run into Harry, whom Tom privately referred to as a human cheat code for the plot. Normal rules simply didn't seem to apply to the Boy Who Lived.
Speaking of which, Tom had once considered creating a spell to inspect or manipulate luck, but he had never succeeded in doing so. Even Morgan and Ravenclaw knew nothing useful on the subject.
Morgan didn't care about the idea at all and dismissed it as useless, while Tom suspected luck was precisely what had allowed Merlin to surpass her in the first place. Ravenclaw, on the other hand, outright denied that luck even truly existed.
The only known figure to have seriously explored the field seemed to be Zygmunt Budge, a wizard who called himself the greatest potion-maker who had ever lived. Arrogant as that title sounded, he might have deserved it after all—who else could create something like Felix Felicis?
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.
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