Legacy of the Basilisk

by wolf970

The Horcrux is destroyed in the chamber. Harry will find out about his family, his place in the magical world, and perhaps a family and love.

39. Chapter 39

Chapter 329 "Potter Takes Command"

Harry strode confidently into the volunteer company's camp, his assault armor gleaming under the winter sunlight. Behind him, 10 followed in her red Altara armor, her movements precise and disciplined. As they approached the command tent, Captain Longbottom and Lieutenants Sirius Black and Remus Lupin snapped to attention and saluted. Harry returned the gesture with a sharp salute, hand to heart, and intoned, "Strength and Honor."

The three officers exchanged glances of surprise before mirroring his response. "Strength and Honor," they echoed.

The tent contained maps and tactical plans across a central table. Harry wasted no time, turning to Captain Longbottom. "Are we prepared to move, Captain?"

"Yes, Tribune," Longbottom replied crisply. "We have 250 wizards and witches, all ready to deploy."

Harry nodded, his gaze firm. "Good. The portal will open soon."

Longbottom blinked. "Portal, sir? I assumed we'd be using portkeys."

Harry shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "No portkeys this time, Captain. A portal is more secure and allows for mass transport. One end will open here at Hogwarts, and the other behind the ICW forces' lines. We'll deploy as a single unit without splitting up or staggering arrivals."

Sirius leaned over the map, intrigued. "And who's opening this portal, Harry?"

Harry grinned. "You're looking at him."

Remus chuckled. "Of course. Nothing ordinary for you, is there?"

"Ordinary doesn't win wars," Harry replied, his tone light but persistent. He gestured to the table. "Finalize the formation for the Company's arrival. We'll be moving out within the hour."

The officers nodded and bent over the map, detailing positions and contingencies. Behind Harry, 10 stood silently, her presence a constant reminder of the battlefield waiting for them. Harry's gaze lingered for a moment on his Company, his will unwavering. The war against the undead awaited, and he was ready to lead.

A low, mournful horn echoed across the grounds of Hogwarts. Harry, Captain Longbottom, Sirius, and Remus stepped out of the command tent, their eyes turning toward the castle gates. The gates swung open slowly, revealing a disciplined column of soldiers marching in unison.

The 2nd Company of the Crows had arrived. Their black armor gleamed under the cold winter sun, each soldier bearing the insignia of the Crows—a Black raven clutching a sword—on their breastplates. Their banners fluttered in the wind, dark fabric emblazoned with silver runes that caught the light. At their head rode Captain Windweaver, his warhorse, an imposing beast with a dark mane and piercing eyes. Lieutenants Mitchell and Roberts were flanking him, each mounted and holding their reins with steady hands. The rhythmic clinking of armor and the synchronized marching of boots created a commanding sound.

The Company stopped before the command tent, their movements precise. Captain Windweaver dismounted, his heavy boots crunching against the frosted ground. He approached Harry. Behind him, the Lieutenants followed, their faces composed.

All three snapped their fists to their hearts in a salute. "Strength and Honor!" they said in unison, their voices strong and resonant.

Harry stepped forward, his fist meeting his chest. "Strength and Honor, Captain Windweaver."

Harry's brow raised. "I was not informed the Crows would join us."

The Captain chuckled. "Tribune, where you go, so too do the Crows. Regent Black has ordered the 2nd Company to serve as your Honor Guard. We stand ready to march."

Harry nodded, his smile growing. "Very well, Captain. Prepare your men. The portal opens soon."

Windweaver saluted again, turned sharply, and barked orders to his Company. The Crows moved with purpose.

The high-pitched wail of another horn pierced the crisp air, and the gates of Hogwarts creaked open once more. The sound of heavy, rhythmic pawfalls accompanied the opening gates, followed by the sight of 500 Felinari Battle Cat Cavalry. Riding atop massive feline mounts bred for war, the Felinari warriors entered with precision and grace. Their mounts, resembling a blend of predatory big cats and magical creatures, moved fluidly, their sleek muscles rippling under coats of fur in various shades of spotted patterns.

At the head of the cavalry was a striking figure that caught Harry's attention. He recognized Lieutenant Elysia, a Felinari warrior he had met at Heroes Hill, her golden hair shining brightly in the winter sun. However, the other leader commanded his focus—a figure of poise and strength. The Captain was unknown to him, but her presence exuded authority.

The Captain was clad in silver and black armor designed for speed and mobility. Her breastplate was adorned with intricate patterns of cheetah spots etched in enchanted silver, and a dark cape lined with fur from her clan's ceremonial hunts flowed behind her. Her legs were encased in segmented greaves that allowed for swift movements, and her boots were reinforced for battle. She carried a wickedly curved spear with a blade that shimmered faintly with magical energy, and a saber rested at her hip.

Her feline features were sharp and captivating. Golden fur, dotted with black spots, framed her angular face. Her emerald-green eyes scanned the crowd with a piercing intensity, taking in the scene with the measured calm of a seasoned warrior. A circlet rested on her brow, marking her rank among the Felinari.

As the cavalry halted before Harry, Captain Talyra dismounted in a single fluid motion, her spear planted firmly into the ground. With a flick of her tail, she stepped forward, her voice a low, commanding purr.

"Tribune Potter-Black," she said, her tone firm yet respectful. "The Felinari Cavalry answers the call. We ride where you lead."

Harry inclined his head, returning her steady gaze. "Your arrival honors us, Captain.

She placed a hand to her chest in salute, her eyes gleaming. "Strength and Honor, Tribune."

Harry returned the salute with a crisp "Strength and Honor." His sharp gaze shifted to the Captain, appraising her as he spoke. "I recognize Lieutenant Elysia, but I don't believe we've met before, Captain."

Standing tall, her tail swayed behind her as she snapped to attention. "Captain Talyra of the 1st Felinari Battle Cat Cavalry," she declared, her voice rich and steady.

Harry nodded, stepping forward. "Stand at ease, Captain. It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Tribune Hadrian Potter-Black." They clasped hands in the warrior's gesture, gripping each other's elbows with mutual respect.

Turning to Lieutenant Elysia, Harry gave her a warm nod. "Lieutenant Elysia, I see you bring orders with you."

"Yes, Tribune," Elysia said, retrieving a scroll from her satchel and handing it over. "These are from General Adarian. He received your correspondence."

Harry's lips quirked into a faint smile as he unfurled the parchment. "So, he's finally accepted the promotion," he mused, his tone laced with humor. "No elf has ever been a general in the Legion. It's about time."

"He was reluctant," Elysia admitted with a faint grin. "But he has earned it."

Harry scanned the orders, but the sound of blaring horns silenced the camp. The gates of Hogwarts creaked open once more, and all turned to look as the 9th and 2nd Elven Cohorts marched in.

Their segmented armor shimmered like a river of molten silver, etched with glowing runes of protection and fortitude. Resembling the classic style of Roman Legionnaires, the overlapping plates moved seamlessly, enhanced by magic to provide unparalleled flexibility and impenetrable defense. Each soldier bore a tall spear topped with a pennant that fluttered in the wind, and their polished shields reflected the light like mirrors, emblazoned with the Legion insignia—a Platinum Dragon on a field of Black.

At the head of the formation rode Major Romaelius, his ornate armor adorned with golden accents that denoted his rank. A crimson cape flowed behind him, and his braided moonlit hair framed his sharp, commanding features. His steely gaze swept the encampment with an air of composed authority.

As the Cohorts stopped, their synchronized movements conveyed a single, unified entity. He walked forward to Harry. He placed his fist over his heart in the Legion salute. "Tribune Potter-Black," he intoned, his voice resonating with confidence. The 9th and 2nd Elven Cohorts report as ordered."

Harry returned the salute. "Strength and Honor, Major Romaelius. Welcome to Hogwarts."

The murmurs of the gathered soldiers and students were interrupted by a long, mournful howl that echoed across the Hogwarts grounds. The sound was primal, reverberating like a call from an ancient era. It sent shivers down spines and silenced the crowd. Slowly, the great gates of Hogwarts creaked open once more, revealing a group of towering figures silhouetted against the morning light.

A hundred men and women entered, each cloaked in thick, heavy furs that barely concealed their broad shoulders and powerful frames. Their steps were steady and purposeful, boots crunching against the snow-covered ground. Their presence exuded raw strength, their eyes gleaming with the fierce intensity of hunters. Each carried weapons—massive axes, war hammers, and swords—hanging at their sides or strapped to their backs.

Harry stepped forward, his piercing green eyes scanning the group. He immediately recognized their kind: Lycans from the wild and untamed lands of Ulveland. At their head walked a man who towered over most of the crowd, standing at an imposing seven feet. His long black hair flowed freely, wild and unrestrained, matching the ferocity in his storm-gray eyes, and a black fur cloak hung from his shoulders. His rugged features were as hard as steel, and his presence alone commanded respect.

The man approached Harry with measured steps, his gaze unflinching. He stopped a few feet away and spoke with a deep, gravelly voice. "Tribune Potter-Black, my father, Loki Wolfbane, sends his regards. He asks that you accept my Warband to fight under your battle banner."

The crowd parted, watching the exchange with curiosity and awe. Harry studied the man before him, his sharp gaze flicking between the leader and his warriors. "And you are?" Harry asked.

"I am Ragnar Wolfbane," the man said, baring his sharp canine teeth in a predatory smile. "These are my brothers, Ivar and Sigurd." He gestured to two equally towering figures behind him, brimming with the same untamed energy.

Harry stepped closer, his presence no less commanding despite being physically dwarfed by the Lycans. "Ragnar," he said, his tone firm, "you and your Warband will fight under my banner, and you will follow my orders. No exceptions."

Ragnar's grin widened, his teeth glinting. "Your orders are my command, Tribune." He extended a massive hand, and Harry clasped it in the warrior fashion, gripping each other's forearms. The strength in Ragnar's grip was undeniable, but Harry's returned pressure conveyed his power.

"I know your brother, Bjorn," Harry said, releasing the handshake. "I consider him a friend and a battle brother."

Ragnar's smile softened slightly. "He speaks highly of you, Tribune. I look forward to seeing what has earned my brother's admiration."

Harry shook hands with Ivar and Sigurd, noting their firm but respectful demeanor.

Behind them, Dumbledore stood, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe as he observed. "I wasn't aware Hogwarts had become a military rallying point," he said with a wry smile.

Harry chuckled. "Nor was I, Headmaster. I'll make sure it doesn't turn into a camp."

"See that you don't," Dumbledore replied, blowing a ring of smoke.

Harry turned back to Ragnar. "Welcome to Hogwarts. Ready yourselves. We leave soon."

At Fort Griffon, General Adarian stood beside Captain Aelius of the Engineer Corps, his gaze fixed on the massive, rune-covered device humming with restrained power. "Is the portal device ready?" Adarian asked, his tone sharp but expectant.

Captain Aelius saluted crisply. "At your command, General."

Adarian nodded once. "Proceed."

The command was given, and the device roared to life. A cascade of energy erupted, tearing through the very fabric of the dimension. At Hogwarts, the air shimmered as a swirling blue portal burst into existence, the vortex glowing with an ethereal light. Gasps filled the air as everyone on the grounds turned to stare.

Dumbledore froze mid-step, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the phenomenon. "How is that possible?" he asked, his voice low but tinged with awe. "A portal opening within Hogwarts' wards? That should be impossible."

Standing with his Warband, Harry turned to the Headmaster and grinned, his emerald eyes gleaming with mischief. "It's a Potter trick, Headmaster."

Harry stepped forward without waiting for further questions, his Warband following closely behind. The Lycans, Felinari, Crows, and the 9th and 2nd Elven Cohorts moved in disciplined strides, disappearing into the shimmering blue light.

Professor McGonagall, watching the procession, shook her head in exasperation. "That young man is going to be the death of me," she muttered. "Him and his surprises. Our wards are supposed to be the strongest, yet he opens the Nexus first, and now he casually bypasses the wards as if they were parchment."

Dumbledore took a long pull from his pipe, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he exhaled a stream of smoke, shaping it into a ring that floated in the air, slowly turning into Hogwarts. "Let us count ourselves fortunate," he murmured, his tone wry. "He's on our side."

Chapter 330 "Raven Tower"

The drone of the scout's approach filled the air as he guided his Firebolt toward the ICW camp. Standing near the edge of the central command area, Lieutenant Brax immediately turned and made his way to the General's tent. "Sir, scout inbound at high speed," he announced, his voice urgent but steady.

General John Johnson, a seasoned veteran with a weathered face and commanding presence, emerged from his tent. His dark eyes narrowed as he gazed upward. Around him, officers and aides began to gather, sensing the significance of the scout's rapid return.

The scout dismounted swiftly, his boots hitting the ground with precision. He hurried toward the General, stopping to salute sharply. Johnson returned the salute, his gaze steady and expectant. "Report," he ordered.

"Sir," the scout began, his breath quick but controlled, "I was conducting a routine patrol behind our lines when I observed something unusual. A black tower now stands approximately five miles from here."

The murmurs among the gathered officers were immediate. Johnson's brows furrowed. "What do you mean, a black tower? There's no structure of that kind in that direction."

"There is now, sir," the scout replied. "It appeared recently, and it's flying battle flags. The emblem is...a dragon on a field of black."

Johnson's expression shifted from confusion to realization. He turned to Colonel Rylan, who stood nearby. "That's the battle standard of the Potters. If the tower bears that flag, it must belong to Tribune Potter-Black."

The officers exchanged glances, some whispering among themselves. Johnson nodded decisively. "Send word to all other armies. Tribune Potter-Black has arrived. Ensure the other commanders are aware—we'll convene a council immediately. This changes Everything."

The scout saluted again before racing off to relay the orders while Johnson and his officers began strategizing around this unexpected development.

The portal shimmered into existence just beyond the imposing black tower, a swirling nexus of magic that roared with barely contained energy. Harry emerged first, his assault armor gleaming in the dim light of the battlefield. Behind him marched his warband, an impressive array of wizards, witches, Lycans, Felinari cavalry, and the elite 2nd Company of the Crows. Their banners snapped sharply in the wind, bearing the insignias of their respective forces: the Potter crest, the Felinari battle sigil, and the fearsome Crow emblem.

As they formed, roaring engines shattered the air, drawing all eyes skyward. A massive black Thunderhawk streaked across the field, its engines screaming and its sleek hull emblazoned with the sigil of the Dark Templars—a Black cross. The transport slowed and descended, kicking up a cloud of dust as it landed roughly a hundred yards from Harry's newly established forces.

The ramp of the Thunderhawk lowered with a mechanical hiss, and the first figure to emerge was Captain Gravesender. Towering at seven feet tall, he cut an imposing figure in his intricately inscribed magical runic armor. The black and silver plates seemed alive with power, runes glowing faintly with protective wards and enhancement spells. His chainsword was strapped to his side, his Wand bolter was holstered on his left side, and his helm was under one arm, revealing a face marked by battle scars and piercing gray eyes that surveyed the field like a hawk.

Behind him, a heavily armored Dwarf stomped down the ramp, his Hammer held in one hand while his shield—embossed with the symbol of his ancient clan—was strapped securely to his back. His beard was braided and tucked neatly under his armor, and his fiery eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces.

A tall, broad-shouldered young man followed, his blonde hair intricately braided, a burgeoning beard framing his stern expression. He wore leather and fur armor that marked him as one of the Lycan warriors of Ulveland, though he exuded an unshakable confidence distinct even among his kind. Harry immediately recognized Bjorn Lonewolf.

Behind them came a knight clad in full plate armor, its polished surface reflecting the pale light. Two templars, their pristine white tabards adorned with crimson crosses, moved in unison. A Magi, her staff aglow with arcane energy, and a Cleric of the Burning Sun bearing a blazing holy symbol completed the formation.

Harry stepped forward, his lips curving into a smile. "Captain Gravesender," he called, his voice carrying across the field. "It's good to see you again."

The Captain saluted, fist to heart. "Tribune Potter-Black, you've been busy," he said, nodding toward the assembled warband.

Harry chuckled and extended his hand. "It seems you've brought company."

Gravesender glanced back at his companions. We heard you had arrived and wanted to welcome you to the battle.

Harry's smile widened as he took in the sight of his friends disembarking the Thunderhawk. Thunderbeard the Dwarf stomped onto the field, his Hammer resting on his shoulder, shield strapped firmly across his back. Bjorn, the towering Lycan, strode with his characteristic confidence, his braided blonde hair catching the sunlight. Sir Gavriel, clad in gleaming ceremonial armor, moved with the grace of a seasoned knight. Behind them followed the Templars Aldric and Arn, their movements synchronized like the elite soldiers they were. Two newcomers caught Harry's eye—a glowing mage emanating a bright blue aura of arcane power and a cleric dressed in the golden insignias of the Burning Sun.

Before Harry could greet them, a rumble filled the air. Turning his head, he spotted a goblin riding atop a massive wolf charging toward him. Dust kicked up in their wake as the wolf skidded to a halt, and the goblin rider raised a hand in greeting. "Rodnuk, Goblin Champion, has arrived!" he bellowed.

Harry chuckled. "Thrain Spellblade," Rodnuk teased, "I thought the war would be over before you arrived."

Thrain grinned. "Good to see you too, Rodnuk."

Sir Gavriel stepped forward to make introductions. "Tribune Potter-Black, meet Aeliana of the Magi, a renowned spellcaster whose aid has turned the tide of many battles, and Harper, a Battle Cleric from the Order of the Burning Sun."

Harry inclined his head respectfully. "It's an honor, Aeliana and Harper. Welcome."

Before he could say more, Harry turned to Gavriel, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Sir Gavriel, I've heard an intriguing tale about you involving a frog."

The group erupted in laughter as Sir Gavriel's face flushed red. "It wasn't a frog! It was a Slaad—a dimensional entity—and they are terrifying foes!" he protested.

Captain Gravesender smirked, arms crossed. "I was there. It looked an awful lot like a frog to me."

The laughter doubled, leaving Aeliana and Harper visibly perplexed. They had never witnessed such levity among warriors of the Adeptus Astartes. Harry, still chuckling, clapped Gavriel on the shoulder. "Fear not, Sir Gavriel. You will be my first call if I encounter a giant frog."

Gavriel groaned but eventually joined in the laughter.

Aeliana observed quietly, leaning toward Harper. "I've never seen the Adeptus Astartes joke before, let alone laugh like that," she said, watching the camaraderie unfold between the towering warriors and their leader. Harper nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. "It's strange. They seem to respect him as their commander already. Yet, I heard whispers—many were unhappy with his appointment to lead the Joint Forces against the undead."

Harry, standing at the center of the group, addressed his officers. "Make camp. See to it that the soldiers are fed and rested. Establish a watch—I want no surprises tonight." His tone was calm but commanding, his words leaving no room for question.

Captain Longbottom saluted sharply. "Sir, should we send word to the other commanders to inform them of our arrival?"

Harry smiled faintly, the expression at once reassuring and authoritative. "It's already done. I've sent messages requesting all generals meet here in the morning for our first—and final—meeting before the campaign begins."

The officers exchanged surprised glances when Longbottom mentioned a "final" meeting, but he quickly responded, "Understood, sir." Orders were given, and the Warband moved swiftly to set up camp, their efficiency a testament to their discipline.

As the preparations unfolded, Harry turned to his companions. "Come. Let's convene inside Raven Tower." His voice was warm, a leader bringing his inner circle together.

The group followed him toward the imposing Black Tower, now dominating the battlefield's edge. As they worked, the evening light glinted off the segmented magical armor of the Elven Cohorts and the runic plate of the Crows. Despite the tension of the coming battle, a strange sense of unity bound the assembled forces together under Harry's banner. It was clear they trusted him to lead them through the darkness ahead.

General Johnson was finishing his final orders of the night, surrounded by his staff and subordinate generals when a sudden gust of wind spiraled into the tent's center. The wind quickly coalesced into a small tornado, glowing faintly with a magical aura. Everyone froze, hands instinctively reaching for weapons, as a calm but commanding voice emanated from the vortex.

"Greetings, General Johnson. This is Tribune Potter-Black. There will be a General Assembly at 0800 hours tomorrow at the Black Tower located to your rear. Bring your generals promptly. That is all."

Before anyone could react, the vortex dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. General Johnson's expression hardened. "How did it bypass our wards?" he demanded, glancing around the tent. His officers exchanged uneasy glances, none having an answer.

Elsewhere, similar scenes unfolded. General Krumlok and Ironclaw leaped back at the Goblin Battalion's encampment, hefting their massive war axes as the elemental appeared in his command tent. It repeated the same message before vanishing. Krumlok growled, his yellow eyes narrowing. "Magic of this kind shouldn't have passed our defenses. Potter-Black must be more powerful than the rumors suggest."

Meanwhile, Commander Voss stood stoically in the Black Templar encampment as Colonel Ashborn paced the room, visibly agitated. "We detected a massive power spike earlier," Ashborn said, his voice laced with frustration. "It originated behind the ICW camp. This... apparition must have come from the same source."

The gathered officers fell silent as the air elemental appeared and relayed its message. "How did it bypass our warning wards?" Ashborn bellowed, slamming a fist onto the table.

"Calm yourself, Colonel," Voss replied coolly. "This is likely the work of Tribune Potter-Black, our new commander. Prepare your troops. We will leave at 0700 sharp for the Black Tower. Let us see if the rumors of his power hold merit."

Across the camps, the elementals' arrival left an impression: awe, curiosity, and a tinge of fear. By morning, every commander would be en route to the mysterious Black Tower, the meeting promising to set the course for the war ahead.

Chapter 331 "Gifts"

The group entered Raven Tower, marveling at the architecture as they ascended the spiral staircase. From the outside, the tower appeared modest in size, but within, its vastness defied logic. The ceilings soared high, etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly. The walls seemed alive with faint images of battles and ravens taking flight as if the structure was observing and remembering its history.

Aeliana paused mid-step, her sharp eyes scanning the magical ambiance. "This is no ordinary wizard's tower, Tribune Potter-Black, " she remarked, her voice filled with awe and caution. "I've seen many enchanted structures, but this… does not follow modern spellcraft. It feels ancient, older than the ages, yet it moves as if alive."

Harry stopped to glance at her and gave a small shrug. "I didn't know it had such a reputation," he said. "I just call it Raven Tower. It serves its purpose."

They continued up the winding stairs, eventually entering a grand banquet hall. The room stretched wider than the tower's apparent dimensions, with an enormous wooden table at its center, large enough to seat dozens. The air was rich with the aroma of roasted meats, fresh bread, and exotic spices. The table was already laden with food and drink, and the chairs adjusted themselves to accommodate each guest's stature—shrinking for the dwarves and growing for the towering Templars and Lycans.

"Please, take a seat and eat," Harry gestured, his voice calm yet commanding. The group settled into their places, tentatively serving themselves. Harry filled a plate, raised his tankard high, and stood.

"To the veterans of Heroes' Hill, whose courage stood as a beacon against the darkness. And to my new comrades, who join me now to face what lies ahead, I salute you. It is an honor to fight alongside warriors of such skill and character. We will show the undead and their masters that life and light shall not falter. To victory—and the bonds forged in battle!"

A cheer echoed through the hall as tankards clinked together. At that moment, they were more than an assembly of warriors—they were a brotherhood united by purpose and honor.

Harry stood before his gathered warband, a mix of hardened warriors, magi, and allies. He turned to Bjorn, the tall Lycan whose eagerness to reunite with his brothers was evident. "Bjorn," Harry began, a smile tugging at his lips, "I see that fire in your eyes. You'll have time to join your brothers later tonight, but I have something for you now."

Bjorn stood slowly. Curiosity etched into his features as Harry gestured toward an open area in the room. A pop broke the quiet anticipation, and Kreacher and Dobby appeared, holding a gleaming set of armor and a massive rune-inscribed sword. The helmet, crafted to resemble a great wolf's head, radiated an aura of power. Runes carved into the armor shimmered faintly, casting a magical glow.

"This," Harry said, stepping closer, "now belongs to you, Bjorn."

The Lycan's expression turned to shock as he stared at the armor. "I cannot accept such a gift, Tribune," he said, his voice tinged with reverence.

Harry laughed warmly. "It's not a gift from Tribune to warrior, but from battle brother to battle brother. It's yours."

Harry handed him a rune. "Place this against your bare chest." Bjorn hesitated, then pressed the glowing symbol to his skin. He grimaced as a sharp burning sensation spread across his chest, but when he straightened, the rune had vanished, leaving only a faint warmth where it had been.

"Now," Harry said with a grin, "think of the armor on."

Bjorn closed his eyes, and in a flash, the armor materialized, fitting perfectly to his towering frame. The wolf-like helmet activated, displaying readings of everyone in the room, identifying weapons and potential threats. Bjorn flexed his fingers, testing the enhanced strength and speed coursing through him.

"Now, wolf out," Harry instructed.

Bjorn's deep voice rumbled through the helmet. "What do you mean?"

"Shift into your Lycan form," Harry clarified. Bjorn obeyed, his body expanding as his Lycan features emerged. The armor grew with him, adapting seamlessly to his new form. Now standing at an imposing 6'7", fully armored, and wielding the massive sword, he looked like a figure from myth.

Thunderbeard, the Dwarf, stepped closer, examining the armor with an expert's eye. "This isn't human craftsmanship," he said. "Where did you find such a piece?"

Harry smiled. "It's Dwarven, I believe. It belonged to Colonel Steinmann of the Immortals, an infamous figure who served under Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald."

A stunned silence filled the room. Everyone had heard of Steinmann, a name whispered with fear and awe. "I struck him down in the battle for Azkabane Island," Harry continued. "And I repurposed his armor and sword for you, Bjorn."

Bjorn gazed down at the armor, his voice reverberating with emotion. "I will wear it with honor, brother."

Harry clapped Bjorn on the shoulder. "Then let it remind you of our strength and the battles yet to come."

Harry confidently strode to Thunderbeard, gesturing for the Dwarf's legendary Hammer. "Your hammer, if you will," he said, his voice calm yet commanding. Thunderbeard hesitated momentarily, his grip tightening instinctively on the sacred weapon, but after a brief pause, he handed it over. "Careful with it, lad," he muttered, his tone tinged with curiosity and reverence.

Harry nodded and placed the Hammer gently on the table. From a small box, he retrieved what appeared to be a simple pen, its tip gleaming faintly with an eerie blue glow. Everyone watched in silence as Harry sat down and leaned over the Hammer. He began tracing intricate patterns across its surface, the pen glowing brighter with every stroke. It might have looked like aimless doodling to the untrained eye, but Aeliana, her mage's vision engaged, saw the truth.

Harry wasn't just adding runes—he was weaving magic into the Hammer's essence. Raw, unbridled energy poured from the pen's tip, binding itself to the Hammer's enchantments in ways Aeliana had never witnessed. The patterns he traced shimmered, their shapes shifting as though alive. The Hammer began to radiate a soft, golden light that grew steadily brighter, forcing some in the room to shield their eyes.

Harry worked in absolute silence for ten long minutes, his focus unbroken. Finally, he leaned back with a satisfied smile, placing the pen aside and gesturing toward the now-glowing Hammer. "There you go, Thunderbeard. Better than it was before," he said, as though he had merely sharpened a dull blade. "Why don't you test it out in the other room? When you throw it, think of lightning."

Thunderbeard, still skeptical, picked up the Hammer. He could feel the difference immediately—it was heavier, more potent, as though it contained a storm waiting to be unleashed. Without a word, he walked across the hall, the crowd following behind him like an awestruck tide.

The Dwarf faced the far wall, inhaled deeply, and hurled the Hammer with all his might. As it left his hands, the Hammer transformed mid-flight into a massive lightning bolt, brighter and more ferocious than any natural storm. Thunder roared through the hall, shaking the walls as the bolt struck explosively. For a moment, the light was so intense that no one could see, and then, just as quickly, the Hammer reappeared in Thunderbeard's hand as if it had never left.

"By the gods," Thunderbeard whispered, his voice trembling with awe. "What sorcery is this? How did you—?"

Before he could finish, Aeliana stepped forward, her face a mix of amazement and indignation. "You've broken the laws of enchantment," she said, her voice sharp. "You placed a new enchantment on an already enchanted item. That should have been impossible!"

Harry turned to her, his expression calm but resolute. "What laws are you talking about?" he asked, his tone carrying a weight that silenced the room. "Magic has no laws. The only limits are the ones you impose on yourself. What you call 'laws' are constructs, shackles you've placed on your imagination."

Aeliana stared at him, her mind racing to grasp what she had just seen. "But... it defies everything we know."

"Does it?" Harry replied, his gaze steady. "Or does it defy what you think you know?"

Harry turned his attention to Rodnuk, who stood nearby, observing the demonstrations with keen interest. Harry took Rodnuk's Hammer and began tracing intricate runes into its surface using the same glowing tool he had used earlier. The Hammer pulsed with energy as Harry worked, infusing it with new power. "All right, Rodnuk," Harry said as he handed the Hammer back to him. "Head to the other room and give it a swing."

Rodnuk didn't hesitate. He strode into the adjacent chamber, gripping the Hammer tightly. A loud crackle filled the air as he swung it at the dueling dummy, and the Hammer seemed to charge with an electric aura. When it connected with the dummy, the impact was catastrophic. A deafening thunderclap echoed through the room as the dummy exploded into splinters, lightning coursing through the air in dazzling arcs. Rodnuk stared at his weapon, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Harry grinned. "Congratulations, Rodnuk. You now wield a Thunder Hammer. Not only can you swing it one-handed, but it also has a double-force rune, meaning every hit delivers twice the impact of your strength."

Rodnuk bowed slightly, his voice filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Tribune. This is a weapon worthy of the battlefield."

Next, Harry turned to Sir Gavriel and the Templars, taking their holy swords and tracing similar runes onto their blades. The weapons gleamed with an intense, holy light that radiated divine power. "Try it," Harry said. Gavriel and his men extended their hands, and the swords appeared in their grips instantly, summoned as if by thought alone.

"How is this possible?" Gavriel asked in awe, inspecting the glowing blade in his hand.

"Runic magic," Harry replied with a knowing smile. "A little creativity can go a long way."

Finally, Harry addressed Harper and her mace. The weapon glowed with radiant holy light as he inscribed the final rune. "It should hit harder now," Harry explained. "It's especially effective against anything unholy."

Turning to Aeliana of the Magi, Harry tossed her a small rune stone. She caught it effortlessly, but it burned into her palm as it touched her skin. She gasped as an overwhelming surge of energy coursed through her, connecting her deeply to the magical weave of the universe. Her aura flared, and she could feel her magic capacity significantly amplified.

"You should now be able to channel twice the magic you could before," Harry said with a smile.

Harry turned to Captain Valimir Gravesender, his expression calm but his intent unmistakably serious. "Captain, I need you to trust me with this," Harry said, motioning to the large magical circle that had appeared on the ground, intricately etched with runes and interlocking triangles. Gravesender nodded, understanding the significance of what was about to happen. He removed his armor without hesitation, carefully placing each piece within the glowing circle. He added his chainsword and wand bolter to the designated triangles, their metallic forms gleaming under the magical light.

Harry stepped forward, pulling out several ingots of rare metals, their surfaces shimmering with ethereal energy. He placed the ingots around the circle, each one aligning perfectly with the runes. Stepping back, Harry raised his hands, his fingers tracing complex symbols in the air. The circle began to hum with power, the runes lighting up one by one as Harry channeled his magic into it. With a final touch of his palm to the circle, a bright flash erupted, forcing everyone to shield their eyes. When the light faded, the ingots were gone, and Gravesender's armor and weapons had undergone a profound transformation.

Harry turned to the Captain, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Your armor is now alchemical steel, far stronger and lighter than before. It will resist most forms of damage, magical or otherwise. The teeth on your chainsword have been reforged with Eog, making it capable of cutting through nearly anything. Your wand bolter magazines now hold three times their original capacity. Additionally, your pistol can transform into a heavy bolter rifle with just a thought."

Gravesender's eyes widened as Harry continued. "Your Kraken grenades have been enhanced as well. They now carry twice the explosive power, devastating larger groups of enemies or heavily fortified positions. Your armor also has a regenerating rune, which will gradually heal your wounds over time. It won't make you immortal, but it will stop you from bleeding out and ensure recovery from even severe injuries if given enough time."

Gravesender absorbed the information, his face a mixture of awe and gratitude. Tentatively, he concentrated, and with a mere thought, his armor materialized onto his body. The process was seamless as if the armor had always been a part of him. He held out his hand, and his chainsword and wand bolter appeared instantly, the weapons responding to his intent.

"This… this is beyond anything I could have imagined," Gravesender said, his voice filled with respect. "Thank you, Tribune."

Harry nodded. "Use it well, Captain. These enhancements aren't just gifts—they're tools for victory. You are a leader, and with these upgrades, you'll be even more formidable on the battlefield."

Gravesender saluted, his armor gleaming in the light. "Strength and honor, Tribune."

"Strength and honor," Harry replied, watching the newly empowered Captain return to admire his transformed gear.

Chapter 332 "The War Camp"

10 walked silently behind Harry as he made his way through the bustling camp, his eyes scanning the soldiers with pride and determination. He stopped frequently, engaging in brief conversations with soldiers of the Crows and the elves of the Cohorts, his words encouraging and his presence inspiring. His demeanor was calm, but his aura of command was impossible to ignore.

A familiar figure approached him as Harry paused near a gathering of Felinari scouts. It's good to see you again, Tribune, " Lt. Elysia said, her feline grace evident in every step.

Harry smiled warmly. ""Lieutenant Elysia. I trust your journey here was uneventful. Your mother, Captain Felinari, couldn't make it? "

Elysia laughed, her sharp eyes glinting with amusement. "She's been promoted to Colonel and now leads a full cohort of Felinari medium infantry. She's not too pleased about being left behind. If we remain here for long, you'll meet her—they're designated as the next reinforcements."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "A promotion well-earned. I look forward to seeing her again."

Before he could continue, Captain Talyra joined the conversation, her striking presence commanding attention. "You're very young to have such immense responsibility thrust upon you, Tribune," she said, her tone curious but not unkind. "I was under the impression that the battle at Heroes Hill was an anomaly, not something that would become a pattern until you were of age."

Harry chuckled, his emerald eyes sparkling with humor. "It seems my life has other plans. Danger and responsibility appear to be constant companions. Heroes Hill wasn't the beginning—it was simply the first time the world took notice."

Talyra tilted her head, intrigued. "And yet you bear it so naturally. It's admirable."

Harry shrugged. "It's not about bearing it—it's about having the right people beside me. People like you." He nodded to both Talyra and Elysia. "Together, we'll face whatever comes."

The two Felinari officers exchanged glances, their respect for the young Tribune evident. "Strength and honor, Tribune," Talyra said, saluting.

"Strength and honor," Harry replied with a smile, continuing his walk through the camp, 10 close behind, ever watchful.

Bjorn strode confidently into his brothers' camp, his boots crunching on the snow-dusted ground. The warmth of a roaring fire greeted him as he approached the central gathering area, where his brothers sat around a massive spit. The aroma of slow-cooking beef filled the air, and his kin's occasional laugh or grunt punctuated the crackle of flames.

Ragnar, the eldest, was the first to notice him. Rising to his full, towering height, his fur cloak draped over his broad shoulders, he let out a booming laugh. "About time, little brother!" Ragnar said, his steel-gray eyes gleaming in the firelight. "I thought you might've forgotten about the blood that binds us, with all the time you've spent with Tribune Potter-Black and his lot."

Bjorn smirked and stepped forward, clasping Ragnar's forearm in the warrior's greeting. "As if I could forget you, brother. But some of us are busy ensuring the battle plans are solid rather than sitting around a fire eating an entire cow."

Ivar, lounging lazily by the fire with a tankard of mead in hand, chuckled and leaned back against a log. His sharp features and the ever-present mischief in his golden eyes made him the most unpredictable of the brothers. "Too busy breaking bread with the Tribune and his fancy friends, eh? You've changed, Bjorn. Once upon a time, you'd have been elbow-deep in meat and mead."

Bjorn snorted. "The Tribune has earned my respect, and soon he'll earn yours. But don't worry, I haven't changed so much that I can't remind you who the strongest is." He playfully punched Ivar's shoulder, making him spill some of his drink, much to everyone's amusement.

Sigurd, the youngest, stood and crossed the camp to embrace Bjorn. His amber eyes shimmered warmly, and his braided golden hair caught the firelight. "It's good to see you, brother," Sigurd said, his voice softer than the others but no less steady. "Our sister sends her love."

Bjorn's grin faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of thoughtfulness. "Freyja always has a way with words. Did she have one of her visions?"

Sigurd nodded, his expression growing more somber. "She said you still walk in the shadow of death. Whatever that means. You know her—it's all riddles and cryptic warnings."

Bjorn sighed and shook his head. "Freyja sees more than most, but I don't have time for riddles. Tomorrow, we fight, and I'll face whatever shadows come my way."

Ragnar laughed and slapped Bjorn on the back, nearly making him stumble. "Spoken like a true wolf. Come, little brother, eat and drink. Tonight, we feast, and tomorrow, we show the undead what it means to face the blood of Ulveland!"

Bjorn chuckled, finally sitting beside his brothers as a large tankard of mead was thrust into his hand. The fire crackled as the four shared stories and laughter.

Harry approached the command tent, where Captain Longbottom, Sirius, and Lupin were seated around a table. Their faces were illuminated by the flickering light of a campfire. They turned as he entered, each greeting him warmly.

"It's good to see you, Harry, " Sirius said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. The seriousness of the situation slightly muted his trademark mischievous grin, but his energy was as infectious as ever.

Captain Longbottom nodded. "Everything is set, Tribune. The guards are posted, and the troops are eating and resting. Morale seems strong. "

Harry smiled, pulling up a chair. "Good. We'll need them ready. Tomorrow, the real fun begins. "

Sirius leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "What's the plan, Harry? Could you give us a sneak peek? "

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Not giving too much away before tomorrow's meeting, Sirius. But here's a bit to tide you over: the main attack will happen Friday if all goes according to plan. I've already ordered the 2nd and the 9th and their artillery units to move south of the main army. "

Longbottom raised an eyebrow. "The South? Bold. Who's supporting them?""

"The 1st Felinari Battle Cat Cavalry will be attacking with them, " Harry replied. "They're perfectly suited for flanking maneuvers. By tomorrow evening, we'll have shuffled our forces into position. The first stage of the operation will commence Friday morning. Precision is Everything."

Lupin stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Sounds like you've got it all planned out, Harry. You're keeping us in suspense, though."

Harry smirked. "Can't give away all my secrets just yet. You'll learn the rest at tomorrow's meeting." He rose from his chair, his demeanor calm but commanding. "Get some rest tonight, gentlemen. You'll need it."

By the first light of dawn, the leaders of all the allied armies had gathered at the base of Raven Tower. The structure loomed high above them, its black, shimmering stone radiating an air of mystery and power. Among the gathered generals was the Goblin leader, General Grimback, his sharp eyes scanning the tower with wariness and grudging admiration.

"A wizard's tower, " he muttered under his breath, his gruff voice barely audible over the murmurs of the assembled officers. "And it moves. I've heard tales but never seen one in my centuries of command. " His growl lingered as he adjusted his ceremonial armor, polished but still scarred from countless battles.

The massive double doors of Raven Tower creaked open, and the generals, colonels, and captains filed inside. They entered a grand hall, its arched ceilings impossibly high and adorned with glowing runes that pulsed faintly as if alive. A massive circular table dominated the room, carved from dark wood and inset with silver and gold. Above it hovered a three-dimensional projection of the battlefield, a living map that shifted and shimmered, showing every detail in stunning clarity. Terrain features rose and fell in real-time, and glowing markers represented their forces and the enemy's positions.

The generals murmured amongst themselves, impressed by the precision of the magical display. Colonel Ashborn of the Inquisition leaned toward General Johnson and muttered, "It's as if the battlefield breathes. The amount of magic required to sustain this… astounding."

General Grimback remained silent, his sharp eyes fixed on the spiral staircase descending from the tower's upper levels. All conversation stopped as the sound of boots echoed down the stone steps.

Harry Potter-Black appeared at the top of the stairs, his presence commanding and composed. He was dressed in assault armor, the black and silver plates polished to a sheen, and his family crest emblazoned on his chest. His green eyes, calculating and sharp, scanned the room as he descended. Behind him, 10 followed, her movements precise, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword.

The assembled leaders watched in silence, their eyes tracking his every step. He carried no visible weapon, yet his aura of authority was palpable, filling the room with a quiet intensity. As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he paused, his gaze sweeping across the gathered commanders.

"Welcome to Raven Tower," he said, his voice steady and firm and effortlessly carried across the hall. We have much to discuss and little time to waste. Let's begin." With a gesture, he moved to the head of the table, and the leaders took their places around the map, ready to hear the strategy that would shape the coming battle.

Harry stood at the head of the table, his posture commanding but calm, as he addressed the gathered generals and officers. The glow of the magical map reflected off his armor, highlighting the intricate runes engraved on the chest plate. His voice carried across the room.

"I know many of you have your strategies in mind to break this stalemate," he began, his emerald eyes scanning the faces around the table. "But we don't have the luxury of time, nor can we afford the infighting that would come from favoring one plan over another. I have been placed in overall command and intend to make decisions based on the best information and tactics available. What you see here is an up-to-date map of the battlefield, provided by air elementals I tasked with scouting the undead and war troll positions."

The commanders leaned in closer, studying the detailed projection. Markers representing enemy forces moved across the map, clearly showing their formations and activities.

Harry continued, pointing to a cluster of glowing icons representing undead spearmen. "The Lich King has begun bringing spearmen to counter the Templar charges. Their purpose is clear—to stop the momentum of our heavy cavalry and lock us into a prolonged melee. I am reassigning the Mounted Templars to the southern flank to counter this. There, they will fight alongside the 1st Felinari Battle Cat Cavalry. Combined, their speed and ferocity will disrupt the enemy's formations and create openings." The 2nd and 9th Elven Cohorts will exploit those openings.

Sir Aldric and Arn exchanged glances before nodding in agreement. We'll see it done, Tribune, " Aldric said.

Harry turned his focus to the rest of the room. "I want all artillery moved forward. Hold nothing in reserve. We will begin a sustained bombardment of the enemy's forward positions on Friday at noon. We will shake their formations and weaken their will before our main assault. "

General Johnson frowned and raised his hand slightly. "Tribune Potter-Black, we've already attempted bombardments, " he said, his tone measured but skeptical. "The Lich King clouds the sky each time, blocking the sun and enabling his forces to bring out their full numbers under darkness. This tactic doesn't separate his undead from the war troll hordes—it only strengthens their union. "

Harry nodded, acknowledging the concern. "You're right, General, but this time will be different. I have a plan to deal with that cursed cloud cover." His voice held a quiet confidence that made the gathered leaders lean in. "This isn't a repeat of past attempts. Trust me, by the time we begin our assault, the battlefield will be ours to command. Their cohesion will crumble."

Harry continued, his emerald eyes scanning the room. "Your airships will remain out of range of the enemy artillery. Do not engage directly until their artillery is destroyed. Once it is safe to advance, focus your firepower on the Black Temple they are constructing. Concentrate your bombardment on its upper sections. We need to destroy its structural integrity before it becomes fully operational. Until then, they relied solely on missile strikes to weaken their defenses. Maintain distance and keep your ships secure."

Draconis's steel-gray eyes gleamed with determination. "Understood, Tribune.

The room fell silent momentarily as the generals and colonels processed his words. Harry's calm confidence inspired cautious optimism, even among the most skeptical. Slowly, heads began to nod in agreement.

"Let's move forward," Harry concluded. "There's no turning back now."

Harry turned his attention to the rest of the commanders, his voice rising with conviction. "Once I give the order, we will charge. There will be no hesitation, no mercy. We fly the Black Flag, and every enemy before us will meet the sword. This is not a battle for diplomacy or surrender. This is a war of survival, and we will win."

Some generals exchanged uneasy glances at the mention of the Black Flag—a banner signaling no quarter. Still, none voiced their objections. They could see the fire in Harry's eyes and hear the power in his voice.

Harry took a final look around the room. "Prepare Everything. Tomorrow at noon, the bombardment begins. Ensure your forces are ready. This is where we turn the tide."

The commanders saluted and began issuing their orders, the tension in the room palpable. War was coming, and Harry Potter-Black would lead them into the fray.

Chapter 333 "The Battle Begins"

The Greenskin army watched the enemy forces reposition throughout the night, their movements calculated. The hulking figure of General Kragnar, a towering war troll with jagged armor adorned in crude, spiked iron plates, stood near the central war camp. His glowing amber eyes scanned the battlefield, noting every shift in the enemy's formations. The heavy air of impending battle seemed to thrum in his veins.

Kragnar growled low, his voice like grinding stones. "They think they're clever, " he muttered, his tusks gleaming in the dim light of their war camp's fires. Turning to a wiry goblin runner at his side, he barked an order. ""Fetch the Lich. Tell him we'll need his powers when the sun rises. The fools are planning an all-out assault. They aim for the brightest time of day—noon. Our forces won't stand a chance without his magic to blot out the sun."

The goblin nodded hastily, his head bobbing as he sprinted into the shadows, disappearing toward the Lich's domain. Kragnar turned back to the battlefield, his massive clawed hand gripping the hilt of his War Hammer. "They think daylight will save them," he growled under his breath. "They'll choke on their arrogance."

In the Black pyramid that served as his lair, the Lich King reclined on his throne, a skeletal figure wreathed in sickly green light. His hollow eyes glowed with malice as the goblin delivered the war troll's message. A raspy chuckle echoed in the chamber, reverberating through the bones of his minions.

"Fools," the Lich King hissed, his voice a whisper of death itself. "They believe my power weakens under the sun. How naïve. At noon, I will unleash the full extent of my darkness. I will cloak the skies in shadow, and their precious sunlight will abandon them. Their blood will soak the earth. Their cries will fuel my ascension."

He rose from his throne and levitated to the top of the black pyramid. His bony fingers traced the runes carved into his staff. As he began to chant, a low hum of dark magic filled the air. The necrotic energy pulsed outward, seeping into the land like an infection, ready to respond to his call at dawn.

In the Greenskin camp, Kragnar felt the change. The air became heavier, the temperature colder, as though the Lich's power was already stretching across the battlefield. A cruel grin split his face. "Let them come," he rumbled. "The sun will betray them, and we will feast on their corpses."

The night deepened, and with it, the sense of dread. Both sides prepared for the inevitable clash, the war drums of the Greenskins pounding in ominous rhythm as the darkness loomed ever closer.

Harry glanced up at the sky, which should have been clear and bright under the midday sun. Instead, an unnatural twilight loomed, the sunlight dimming with every passing moment. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, and a chill seemed to seep into the air. Despite the ominous change, Harry's lips curled into a faint smile. The Lich was doing exactly what he anticipated.

Far across the battlefield, atop the towering black temple that rose ever so slowly toward completion, the Lich King stood at its apex, his skeletal form wreathed in a vortex of dark energy. Each rise of the temple brought him closer to his ultimate goal, and each moment of exertion weighed heavily upon him. His bony fingers tightened around his rune-etched staff, crackling with evil power.

His hollow eyes scanned the horizon, narrowing as he sensed resistance to his spell. Somewhere, another wizard was daring to challenge him, attempting to hold back the shroud of darkness he was summoning. The Lich's skeletal mouth twisted into a sneer of contempt.

"Foolish mortal," he rasped, his voice carried on the cold winds that swept the battlefield. "You think you can oppose me? I will show you true power."

The Lich raised his staff high, channeling an even greater necrotic energy into his spell. His temple trembled with the force, black tendrils of shadow pouring from its peak and spreading across the sky like ink in water. Twilight faded rapidly to near-complete darkness, an oppressive gloom that blanketed the battlefield.

Even as his skeletal form shook under the strain, the Lich King laughed, the sound echoing with cruel triumph. "Let them see," he hissed. "Let them cower in the dark. The light is mine to extinguish, and their doom approaches."

From his position, Harry stood unshaken. The Lich's arrogance had played right into his hands. Now, it was time to spring his trap.

Harry's voice rang out across the battlefield, sharp and commanding. "Fire at will! Light up the sky!"

The order rippled through the ranks, and every piece of artillery came to life within seconds. Magical cannons erupted with bursts of arcane energy, hurling glowing bolts across the battlefield. Ballistae and trebuchets followed, launching flaming projectiles that arced through the darkened sky like meteors, slamming into the enemy defenses with deafening explosions. The night came alive with a deadly light show as the barrage descended on the War Troll forces.

The initial impacts shook the ground, but the shimmering ward lines erected by the enemy flickered stubbornly, absorbing the worst of the assault. General Kragnar bellowed to his subordinates, his towering form silhouetted against the infernal glow. His voice carried over the chaos, rough and commanding.

"Bring the Shamans forward! Strengthen those wards now!"

From behind the troll lines, goblin shamans emerged, clad in ragged robes adorned with bones and feathers, their faces painted with symbols of their chaotic magic. They began their ritual, moving in a wild, frenzied dance, their guttural chants blending with the hum of magical energy. Totems were slammed into the earth, crackling with dark power, as the shamans poured their strength into bolstering the flickering wards.

Meanwhile, Kragnar's sharp eyes swept across the battlefield, focusing on the movements of his allies. In the distance, the earth seemed to shift unnaturally, and the general grunted in approval as undead soldiers began to claw their way out of shallow graves and camouflaged pits. Trolls in heavy armor stood ready, their massive clubs glinting faintly in the eerie light.

"Good," Kragnar growled, a cruel smile splitting his ferocious face. "Let the dead rise. They will drown those fools in darkness and blood."

But as the artillery barrage intensified, shaking even the most fortified positions, Kragnar couldn't shake a nagging thought. This assault felt too precise, too calculated. He narrowed his eyes and gripped his massive Warhammer tighter. Somewhere out there, his enemy was planning something far more devastating.

The air was thick with the thunderous roar of artillery as Harry stood atop Raven Tower, surveying the battlefield with a calculated smile. The relentless barrage from magical cannons and siege engines created a symphony of chaos. Each shot rang out with an almost musical rhythm. The horizon ahead was ablaze with a cacophony of light and destruction.

The trebuchets launched massive flaming boulders, their trails glowing orange-red as they streaked through the darkened sky like fiery comets. Each projectile hit the ward line with a thunderous impact, sending shockwaves across the battlefield. Magical cannons fired bursts of raw energy, their beams slicing through the darkness and slamming into the shimmering ward lines, causing ripples to cascade across the protective barrier. The sounds of explosions echoed like a drumbeat of war.

Harry's sharp gaze followed the action. Where the wards faltered, the devastation was immediate. One colossal flaming boulder crashed into a section of the ward line already weakened by repeated strikes. The shimmering barrier sparked violently before shattering with a deafening crack. The resulting shockwave rippled outward, consuming the orcs and goblins near the collapsing wards.

Harry watched as orcs screamed in panic, their crude shields and armor offering no protection against the firestorm. Some were incinerated instantly as magical energy surged through the gap, while others were hurled through the air like ragdolls, their bodies slamming into jagged rocks or collapsing fortifications. Explosions sent showers of earth and stone raining down, burying many of the enemy where they stood.

The undead fared no better. A cluster of skeletal warriors advanced, their bony frames illuminated by the glow of the burning battlefield. A direct hit from a magical cannon obliterated their ranks, sending bones and cursed fragments flying in every direction. A moment later, a volley of bolts from the ballistae struck nearby, piercing the grotesque flesh of the zombies and pinning them to the ground in grotesque stillness.

Another trebuchet hurled a glowing boulder with arcane energy, its trajectory perfectly calculated. It landed squarely in the midst of an orc command post. The resulting explosion engulfed the structure, obliterating it in a brilliant light. Orcs scattered like ants. Many were engulfed in flames as their cries of agony were drowned out by the roar of the barrage.

Harry's smile widened as more sections of the ward lines began to crumble, one after another. The once-impenetrable barrier was disintegrating under the relentless assault, exposing the enemy forces to the full might of the artillery. Each collapse sent a wave of panic rippling through the orc and undead ranks, their formations breaking as they scrambled for cover that no longer existed.

Harry clenched his fists, his voice calm but filled with authority. "Good," he murmured to himself. "Keep pushing. Break them."

The battlefield roared with the relentless fury of the Elven bombardment. Captain Cassian of the 2nd Cohort stood tall on the rise, his cloak whipping in the wind as he shouted commands to his crew. His voice boomed like thunder over the chaos, guiding the precision fire of the magical ballistae. The great war machines, intricately carved with ancient Elven runes, gleamed under the dim sky, their arcane energy humming with power. The ballistae unleashed devastating lightning bolts as Cassian roared the order to fire.

The air crackled and burned as the brilliant energy streaks approached the orc fortifications. The first bolt struck a wooden watchtower, shattering it into a storm of splinters and fire. Another bolt ripped through a defensive trench, obliterating goblins and orcs alike in a blinding flash of light. The ground quaked with each impact, throwing debris and bodies high. The screams of the wounded mingled with the relentless hum of the ballistae recharging for their next strike.

On the opposite flank, Captain Aelia of the 9th Cohort directed her catapults with practiced precision. She stood on the front line, her sharp eyes scanning the battlefield as her arm dropped in a decisive signal. The "Mules," massive catapults adorned with glowing sigils, responded immediately. Each fired immense spheres of magical fire that streaked through the sky like miniature suns, leaving blazing trails in their wake.

The fireballs descended with terrifying accuracy, crashing into the orc trenches with explosive force. The ground trembled as the fiery blasts consumed Everything in their path. Orcs and goblins screamed as the flames engulfed them, their bodies disintegrating into ash. The trench systems, once formidable, were reduced to smoldering craters, the acrid smell of burning flesh and earth filling the air.

Captain Cassian's voice cut through the chaos as he signaled his crew to adjust their aim. The ballistae recalibrated, targeting the orc fortifications' remaining defensive structures. The next volley of lightning bolts struck with pinpoint accuracy, tearing through barricades of dirt and wood. Explosions sent debris hurtling skyward, raining destruction on the orc forces scrambling for cover.

Aelia smiled grimly as another volley of fireballs lit up the horizon, the brilliant explosions illuminating the chaos of the battlefield. "Keep firing, "He commanded, his voice steady despite the carnage. "We'll break them before they have a chance to retaliate."

Together, the 2nd and 9th Cohorts rained devastation upon the orc fortifications, their unrelenting assault tearing through defenses and striking fear into the hearts of their enemies. The precise coordination of lightning and fire was a testament to the discipline and skill of the Elven forces, which, combined, might push the enemy forces closer to total collapse.

The goblin runner stumbled into the command tent, breathless and wide-eyed, barely able to speak. "General Kragnar! We've spotted new battle flags on the enemy lines! A dragon on a black field—and every unit raises a black flag!"

General Kragnar, towering over the goblin with his massive, scarred frame, turned his molten-gold eyes toward the message bearer. His brow furrowed, and his jagged teeth showed in a grimace. "A black flag?" he growled, his deep voice rumbling like thunder.

His orc general, Grashnak Ironjaw, stepped forward, his heavy armor clinking with each step. "It seems the humans are finally done with their cowardice," Grashnak snarled, his tusks glinting in the firelight. "Raising the black flag—they're declaring no quarter, no mercy. They mean to wipe us out."

Kragnar growled deep in his throat and slammed his massive fist onto the wooden table, splintering it slightly. The maps and markers trembled with the force. "This attack is no mere raid. They've finally found a leader—someone to unite their squabbling tribes into a single army. And he means to make a statement."

The air in the tent grew heavy as Kragnar's sharp, battle-hardened instincts took over. His gaze turned to the battlefield beyond the tent flaps. He could feel the shift—an almost tangible presence of death looming over the landscape, shadowing the sunlight that barely pierced through the dark clouds summoned by their lich ally. It sent a chill up his spine, though he would never admit it aloud.

He turned sharply toward Grashnak. "Pull all reserves forward! Bring everyone to the front line—ogres, goblins, trolls—no one is to hold back. We will meet them with Everything we have, force on force! Their black flag is a bluff. Humans cannot stomach the kind of losses we will force on them. If we push hard enough, they will break."

Grashnak saluted, pounding his chest with a mailed fist, and barked orders to the waiting lieutenants. The camp erupted into a flurry of movement as the War Troll army began to mobilize. Kragnar stood tall, gripping his massive war axe, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Let them come," he muttered. "We will show them what it means to face the might of Kragnar and his hordes."

Captain Octavius Draconis stood on the bridge of the Hammer of Righteousness, his figure clad in polished ceremonial armor gleaming under the command deck's dim blue light. The rune-inscribed controls before him hummed with energy, their ancient engravings glowing faintly as his crew moved with precision. Outside the reinforced viewport, the battlefield stretched into the distance, the rising black pyramid of the enemy looming ominously amidst the haze of artillery fire and explosions.

"Bring us into range," Draconis commanded, his deep voice resonating with authority. "Prepare to fire missiles at the top of the pyramid."

The Hammer of Righteousness banked slightly, its powerful engines roaring as it adjusted course. The ship's sensor officer leaned forward, his hands gliding over the glowing runic panel. "Target acquired, sir. The apex of the pyramid is locked."

Draconis nodded, his cold, piercing eyes fixed on the pyramid. "Weapons officer, status?"

The weapons officer's fingers danced across his station as sigils of power flared under his touch. "Missiles locked, sir. Awaiting your command."

Draconis turned to the communications officer. "Open a line to the fleet."

The officer touched a glowing rune, and the air crackled with magic as the fleet-wide channel activated. "Channel open, sir."

Draconis's voice carried the weight of command as it resonated across the magical comms. "This is Captain Octavius Draconis of the Hammer of Righteousness. All ships move into the battle line and prepare for coordinated fire. Circular fire order. Only missiles for now—do not close within range of their magical artillery."

A chorus of affirmatives rang out as the other ships in the fleet adjusted their formation. To the port side, the Sword of Dorn, sleek and deadly with its reinforced prow designed for ramming, veered into position. Its Captain, a stoic veteran with a reputation for unmatched precision, relayed his readiness.

The Shield of Faith, a larger vessel bristling with defensive wards and countermeasure launchers, adjusted its trajectory to the starboard. Its calm and calculating tactician captain reported the ship's systems primed for support fire.

Trailing slightly behind was the Hammer of Justice, a brutal warship built for devastating missile barrages. Its bold and fearless leader's Captain called in, "Justice standing by, ready to light them up!"

Draconis allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction as his fleet formed a perfect attack line. The Hammer of Righteousness's engines roared as it took its position at the head of the line, its gleaming hull reflecting the distant flashes of battle below.

"Missile bays one through six, open and load," Draconis commanded. The deck rumbled slightly as the ship's missile hatches slid open, revealing rows of glistening, rune-inscribed projectiles.

"Weapons locked and ready, sir," the weapons officer confirmed.

"Fleet, commence fire on my mark," Draconis said into the comms. "Three… two… one… Fire!"

The Hammer launched a salvo of missiles, the projectiles streaking through the sky, leaving glowing magic trails in their wake. The other ships followed in perfect synchronization, their missiles tearing through the air toward the pyramid's peak. The sky was lit with the brilliance of magical energy as the missiles detonated on impact, sending shockwaves through the air and causing chunks of the pyramid to crumble.

Draconis watched the destruction with satisfaction. "Maintain the barrage. We'll show them the strength of the Eternal Fleet."

At the apex of the rising black pyramid, Number 13, the self-proclaimed Lich King, stood imperious, his skeletal visage twisted in concentration as he fed his power into the swirling vortex of darkness above. The unholy energy pulsed around him, black tendrils writhing like living things in the dense, shadowed air. Suddenly, a shrieking sound pierced the unnatural gloom, and his glowing, hollow eyes turned skyward. He had never encountered the tools of war wielded by the Eternal Church.

From the heavens, glowing projectiles descended like falling stars, leaving trails of fire and magic. The first impact rocked the wards surrounding the pyramid, sending ripples of golden resistance through the air. The Lich King sneered, confident in the strength of his defenses. But then the second wave came, followed by a third, each salvo more devastating than the last. The explosions crescendoed, battering the wards until they cracked and shattered like glass under relentless pressure.

The first missile struck the apex, its explosion ripping through the black stone. A massive shockwave tore across the tower, hurling Number 13 backward. For the first time in centuries, he felt something foreign and unwelcome—pain. His bony form collided with the jagged edges of the stone staircase, tumbling down in a cascade of black granite. Large chunks of debris rained around him, crushing Everything in their path.

Coughing out a sickly mist, the Lich King raised his staff, summoning a shimmering dome of dark energy just as a massive granite block hurtled toward him. The dome held though the impact sent cracks rippling through its surface. He snarled in frustration and leaped to the side, vaulting over the edge of the broken staircase. The void-like shadows of his tattered robes flared around him as he plummeted twenty stories. Moments before hitting the ground, his levitation spell snapped into effect, halting his descent inches above the blood-slicked floor.

His landing was swift, but his steps were erratic. For the first time in over a thousand years, he felt fear gnawing at his psyche, threatening to unmake his carefully constructed aura of invincibility. Running down his crumbling sanctuary's dark corridors, his glowing staff illuminated his path, casting flickering shadows on the damp stone walls. Each step reverberated with anger and desperation as he muttered ancient incantations, seeking to regain control. The pain searing through his undead body was alien, almost intoxicating in its strangeness.

"I will not fall to them," he hissed, his hollow voice echoing. But deep within, the Lich King knew his enemies were unlike any he had faced.

"Sir, the pyramid's apex is gone!" the sensor officer exclaimed, his hands moving deftly over the glowing runic interface. The observation screens displayed a smoldering ruin where the pyramid's apex had once stood, black smoke spiraling into the darkened sky. The sight of shattered stone and the flickering magical residue was a testament to the relentless barrage of missiles.

Captain Draconis, seated on the command throne of the Hammer of Righteousness, leaned forward, his armored gauntlet resting on the edge of the console. "Excellent," he said, his voice resonant with authority. "Switch to secondary targets. Prioritize their artillery positions and the casters reinforcing their defenses. I want no quarter given."

The weapons officer acknowledged with a sharp nod. "Targeting parameters updated, sir. Secondary targets locked: enemy trebuchets, magical artillery arrays, and identified spellcasters." The tactical map lit up with glowing red markers as the targeting systems adjusted.

"Signal the fleet. Ensure they understand the change of targets," Draconis commanded. The comm officer relayed the order, and within moments, acknowledgment signals blinked across the display. The Sword of Dorn, Shield of Faith, and Hammer of Justice fell into precise formation, aligning their missile systems with deadly accuracy.

Draconis stood, his cloak billowing slightly as he pointed forward. "Fire as we bear."

A mechanical hum followed the command as the missile tubes aligned, their runic engravings glowing faintly. The ship shuddered as dozens of missiles launched in rapid succession, leaving fiery trails across the darkened sky. The thunderous roar of the engines reverberated through the Hammer of Righteousness, a battle hymn sung in fire and steel.

The missiles arced downward, streaking toward the entrenched enemy positions. Explosions erupted along the battlefield. The magical artillery emplacements shattered in stone showers and glowing debris. Once hurling flaming projectiles toward the allied lines, the trebuchets were obliterated, their wooden frames splintering into toothpicks under the relentless assault. Spellcasters caught in the blasts were incinerated, their enchantments snuffed out like candles in a storm.

"Secondary targets neutralized," the sensor officer confirmed, his voice steady but laced with awe. Captain Draconis allowed a rare smile to cross his face. "Well done. Maintain position. Keep us out of their effective range and prepare for the next phase."

As the fleet adjusted its positions, the battlefield below was thrown into chaos. The carefully coordinated enemy defenses were now splintered and burning. The Eternal Church's fleet stood as an unyielding force, raining devastation on the forces of darkness.

General Johnson leaned over the map table in his command tent, the sounds of distant artillery punctuating the tense air. His face tightened as an elemental air materialized beside him in a swirl of shimmering wind, its ethereal voice conveying urgency.

"General," the elemental whispered, its voice like the rustle of leaves in a storm. "The artillery reports ten minutes of ammunition remaining before complete depletion."

Johnson's jaw clenched as the elemental vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. He shook his head in disbelief. The fact that Tribune Potter-Black could command air elementals with such power still amazed him. Their ethereal presence had been a vital asset on the battlefield, and now it seemed that Potter had another move planned.

Without delay, Johnson dispatched one of his elementals to Harry. In Raven Tower, Harry stood in the war room, surrounded by maps and advisors, when the air around him shimmered. The translucent figure of an air elemental formed, carrying Johnson's message.

"Tribune Potter-Black, the artillery will exhaust its ammunition in ten minutes," the elemental reported.

Harry's lips curved into a confident smile. He reached into a small leather pouch at his side, pulling out a silver coin etched with intricate runes. Holding the coin aloft, he closed his eyes and whispered an incantation. The coin began to glow faintly before vanishing in a pulse of magic.

"It's time," Harry murmured to no one in particular. Then, raising his voice, he issued a single, firm order through his enchanted communication network. "All forces, do not engage the beings emerging from the air portals. Repeat, do not engage."

The message rippled through the ranks like wildfire. Goblin General Grimback received the directive while inspecting the front lines. His expression darkened in confusion as he relayed the order to his subordinates. Moments later, a swirling portal opened in the heart of his camp, its edges crackling with blue and gold energy. Grimback instinctively reached for his axe but froze as armored figures stepped through the portal.

The Goblin King Ragnuck emerged first, clad in glorious black and gold plate armor adorned with glowing runes. Behind him marched two hundred of the elite King's Guard, their wickedly sharp weapons and impenetrable shields gleaming with magic. The ground seemed to quake under their synchronized steps.

"Greetings, General Grimback," Ragnuck said, his deep voice commanding attention. "I have decided to join the battle personally."

Grimback bowed low, overwhelmed by the honor of the King's presence. "Your Majesty, your arrival is most timely. Tribune Potter-Black has used our artillery to collapse the enemy's ward lines."

Ragnuck surveyed the battlefield, his sharp eyes taking in the chaos and the smoldering remains of enemy defenses. "I see the young Tribune knows the art of war. And what is this I hear about his orders not to engage?"

Grimback straightened, his confusion apparent. "Yes, Majesty. He issued the command moments ago, just as these portals began to open. The only allied forces in the air are the Eternal Fleet."

Ragnuck's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Then trust the Tribune. He is a Potter, after all. Whatever is coming, it will shift the tide."

Chapter 334 "The Dragon Cabal Has Arrived"

The Hammer of Rightness rocked slightly as Captain Draconis stood firm on the bridge, his piercing gaze locked on the swirling portals forming in the sky. The sensor officer's voice trembled, and he barely kept his composure.

"Portals opening, sir. Multiple portals," the officer reported.

Draconis barked, "Hold fire! Do not engage. Ensure the fleet understands we are not to target them!"

But then the officer screamed, his eyes wide with terror. "Sir, oh—oh no. Dragons, sir! Lots and lots of dragons!"

Draconis and the rest of the bridge crew snapped their eyes to the massive windows. What they saw made even the most seasoned among them falter. Three organized flights of dragons emerged from the portals, their enormous wings blotting out the darkened sky. Each flight consisted of twelve magnificent creatures, their scales gleaming with raw elemental power. One flight of red dragons roared as their fiery breath lit up the battlefield. The second flight of black dragons snarled, their acidic mist already corroding the earth below them. The third flight, blue dragons, streaked lightning from their maws, their bolts crackling with terrifying precision.

The dragons descended like a storm upon the undead ranks and the Greenskin hordes, their presence alone causing chaos among the enemy forces. Rows of orcs broke formation, their guttural cries of fear mingling with the undead's haunting wails. The first line of dragons struck hard. The reds released torrents of flame that incinerated hundreds of orcs and goblins, the intense heat melting armor and weapons as though they were paper. Orc war drums fell silent as entire regiments were turned to ash in seconds.

The black dragons followed suit, diving low over the battlefield. Their acidic breath corroded armor and flesh, leaving nothing but steaming puddles of green sludge where the Greenskin warriors once stood. Shields and weapons dissolved in their wake, rendering the survivors defenseless against the oncoming onslaught.

The blue dragons bided their time above, gathering their elemental fury. Then, with an earth-shaking roar, their leader descended. It was Tiamat herself, riding a massive elder blue dragon, her presence radiating unparalleled power. The battlefield fell silent momentarily, the enemy forces frozen in terror.

Tiamat blue dragon opened its massive maw and unleashed a lightning bolt aimed directly at General Kragnar and his guard. The bolt streaked across the battlefield like a spear of divine judgment, striking Kragnar's position with pinpoint accuracy. The impact was catastrophic. Kragnar's guards were disintegrated instantly, their armor and weapons exploding into fragments as the lightning coursed through them.

Kragnar was thrown back, his massive Warhammer flying from his grasp as the bolt ripped through his body. His armor melted, the runes etched into it shattering under the sheer force of the attack. The once-mighty War Troll General fell to his knees, smoke rising from his charred form, his cries of agony audible even over the roar of the dragons.

Above, Tiamat's voice boomed, commanding her kin to press the assault. The dragons surged forward with renewed fury, decimating the remaining undead and Green skin forces. The enemy ranks crumbled under their relentless assault. The dragons' roars drowned out their screams and the thunder of their attacks.

Onboard the Hammer of Rightness, Captain Draconis watched in awe.

The red dragons turned toward the undead, their fiery breath washing over the skeletal infantry and decaying corpses below. Entire undead companies were engulfed in flames, their brittle bones snapping and splintering under the intense heat. The ground glowed molten where the fire lingered, turning the battlefield into a sea of searing destruction. Burning zombies collapsed in heaps, their unnatural movements reduced to writhing in the inferno. Charred skeletal archers fell in droves as the red dragons unleashed firestorms with surgical precision.

The black dragons followed, their acidic breath dissolving the necrotic magic that held the undead together. Streams of corrosive liquid rained down upon the horde, causing skeletal warriors to disintegrate into puddles of sludge. Wizards and necromancers who attempted to shield their forces with dark magic screamed as the acid breached their wards, reducing them to steaming piles of flesh and bone. Even the enchanted armaments carried by the undead corroded, their once-deadly edges rendered useless.

Then, the blue dragons descended, their elemental fury unmatched. Bolts of lightning erupted from their mouths, streaking across the battlefield and striking clusters of undead. The lightning shattered them, sending limbs and bone fragments flying everywhere. Necromantic constructs, massive golems of bone and sinew, crumbled as the electricity surged through them, disrupting the dark magic that animated their hulking forms.

At the center of the undead ranks, a towering death knight, its armor blackened and adorned with glowing runes, raised its massive sword to challenge the dragons. A blue dragon answered the challenge, diving low and firing a concentrated lightning bolt directly at the knight. The runes on the death knight's armor flared, but they were no match for the dragon's power. The bolt struck, and the knight exploded in a shower of necrotic energy, leaving a crater where it once stood.

The undead forces, though vast, began to falter. The relentless onslaught of the dragons disrupted their coordination, leaving them vulnerable. Even the liches commanding the horde struggled to maintain control as their undead legions were torn apart. One of the necromancers raised its skeletal hand, attempting to cast a spell to banish the dragons, but a red dragon swooped down, its claws raking through the necromancer's bony frame, scattering its remains.

From above, Tiamat, perched on her elder blue dragon, surveyed the chaos. With a deafening roar that echoed across the battlefield, she signaled the dragons to press their attack further. The remaining undead forces, though unyielding, could not match the raw power and fury of the draconic assault.

Once a bleak and cursed land, the battlefield was now illuminated by fire, lightning, and acid. The undead horde, which had terrorized countless armies before, was reduced to scattered remnants, unable to regroup under the relentless and coordinated attack of the dragons. As the dragons continued their assault, it was clear that the undead were being purged from the battlefield, their dark dominion shattered by the wrath of the skies.

From above, Tiamat, perched on her elder blue dragon, surveyed the chaos. With a deafening roar that echoed across the battlefield, she signaled the withdrawal of the dragons.

As the dragons soared into the sky, their massive forms disappearing into the blue portals that shimmered with an otherworldly glow, the battlefield fell momentarily silent. Then Harry's voice, amplified by magic, echoed across the field, carrying the weight of command.

"All artillery units, commence firing! Use every last round!"

The order rippled through the ranks, and the artillery crews sprang into action. Cannon crews loaded their enchanted ordnance with frantic precision, catapult teams heaved massive fire-laden projectiles into their launchers, and ballista operators cranked their deadly machines into firing positions. The night sky lit up as the combined barrage rained on enemy forces.

Magical shells slammed into the undead hordes clustered near the pyramid, tearing apart their ranks and obliterating their crude barricades. Flaming boulders catapulted through the air, crashing into the fortified trenches that the greenskins had hastily constructed, reducing them to smoldering craters. Bolts of lightning from enchanted ballistae struck necromancers and shamans attempting to hold the lines, leaving nothing but smoking ash in their wake.

Overhead, Captain Draconis's airship fleet joined the assault. The Hammer of Righteousness led the charge, unleashing its payload of missiles at the undead forces surrounding the pyramid. Explosions rippled across the field, sending shockwaves through the enemy ranks. The Sword of Dorn and the Shield of Faith followed suit, their precision strikes hammering the orc war machines and scattering their crews. The airships' sheer firepower overwhelmed the enemy's defenses, rendering their artillery positions ineffective.

Harry stood tall on the command platform as the last artillery piece fell silent, his emerald eyes blazing with determination. Raising his wand, he gave the final order. "All forces, attack! Leave none of them alive!"

The call to arms echoed through the ranks, and the united army surged. Soldiers, lycans, elves, goblins, and templars charged as one, their battle cries resounding like thunder. Swords glinted, shields raised, and magic flared as they descended upon the enemy forces in an overwhelming tide of fury and vengeance. The final phase of the battle had begun, and there would be no retreat.

Chapter 335 "The Charge"

Commander Voss raised his massive power sword, its blade glowing faintly with runes of divine might, and his voice boomed across the battlefield. "All units, forward! Show them no mercy! For the All-Father!"

The Dark and Black Templars surged forward like an unstoppable tide, their chain swords roaring to life and wand bolters crackling with arcs of magical energy. The disciplined warriors moved in unison, a wall of steel and fury bearing down on the disorganized orc and goblin mob. The cacophony of war erupted as the templars met their foes, their chain weapons grinding through flesh and bone with an unrelenting ferocity.

At the forefront of the charge was Captain Valimir Gravesender, eager to test the enhancements to his Eog chainsword and wand bolter. He swung the chainsword with deadly precision, the enchanted teeth of the blade glowing faintly as they ripped through the chest of a hulking orc, spraying blood and gore. The orc barely had time to scream before Gravesender pivoted, his blade finding another target. The Eog material proved its worth, cutting through even the crude steel of an enemy shield as though it were paper.

Gravesender's wand bolter barked a series of rapid-fire magical bolts, each round exploding with devastating effect. One bolt struck a goblin, aiming a crude crossbow, reducing it to a charred corpse. Another round detonated amidst a cluster of goblins, scattering their shredded bodies across the blood-soaked earth. When a towering ogre lumbered into view, Gravesender raised his weapon, mentally shifting it into heavy bolter mode. The resulting explosive rounds tore through the beast's thick hide, leaving it to collapse with a guttural roar.

All around him, the templars fought with ruthless efficiency. Chainswords revved, cutting a bloody path through the enemy, while wand bolters erupted with spellfire, reducing orcish barricades to smoldering ruins. The orc and goblin forces, already disorganized from the artillery barrage, began to falter under the sheer ferocity of the templar assault.

Gravesender stood amidst the carnage. His armor splattered with the blood of his enemies, his glowing chainsword humming in his hand. He grinned beneath his helm and bellowed, "For the All-Father! For victory!" The templars roared their agreement, pressing their attack with renewed vigor as they cut deeper into the enemy lines.

Captain Valimir Gravesender surged forward through the chaos of battle, his armor shimmering faintly with the enchantments woven into its steel. The thunderous roar of a giant bellowing above the din caught his attention. The towering brute swung a massive club, scattering orcs and goblins in its path as it walked toward the templar lines. Gravesender's glowing chainsword revved to life as he sprinted toward the beast.

With a mighty leap, Gravesender vaulted into the air, the teeth of his enchanted Eog chainsword spinning furiously. The blade struck the giant's arm just below the shoulder, biting deep into its flesh and severing the limb with a sickening crunch. The severed arm fell to the ground like a fallen tree, blood gushing from the wound as the giant howled in agony.

Landing deftly, Gravesender spun to the side as the giant staggered, using its remaining arm to clutch at its bleeding stump. Seizing the opening, he drove his chainsword into the back of the giant's knee. The weapon roared as it shredded through sinew and bone, forcing the massive creature to collapse forward, shaking the earth as it fell.

Gravesender didn't hesitate. He stepped around the writhing beast, calmly raising his wand bolter. A single shot erupted from the barrel, a crackling bolt of energy piercing the giant's eye and exploding inside its skull. The creature's thrashing ceased instantly, its massive body going still.

Without missing a beat, Gravesender turned, his glowing chainsword humming with latent energy. He charged back into the fray, leaving the fallen giant behind as a testament to the wrath of the Dark Templars. "Forward!" he bellowed, his voice echoing over the battlefield as the templars continued their relentless assault.

The Goblin General, clad in blackened steel, raised his massive battle axe high, his guttural roar carrying across the battlefield. "For the Goblin Nation! For Gringotts!" His cry echoed like thunder, and the assembled goblin forces erupted in a unified scream, their battle cry shaking the air. Their ranks surged forward like a green tide, each goblin clutching a deadly poleaxe, sword, or spear.

Their charge slammed into the undead horde's flanks with an earth-shaking impact. The goblins moved brutally, their poleaxes cleaving through rotting flesh and brittle bone. Zombies fell in waves, unable to withstand the disciplined and relentless assault. The goblins pushed forward as one, their ranks tightening with every step, leaving piles of dismembered corpses in their wake.

From the distance, the high-pitched shrieks of ghouls echoed as hundreds of the agile creatures leaped into the fray. They bounded high into the air, aiming to descend upon the goblins like wolves among sheep. But the goblin front lines anticipated their move. Rows of sharp spears appeared as if by magic, bristling upward like a deadly hedge. The ghouls fell onto the spears, impaled mid-leap, their clawed hands reaching futilely for their prey.

Screams of the dying ghouls filled the air as goblin swordsmen surged forward from behind the spears, hacking the writhing creatures to pieces. Their curved blades flashed in the dim light, severing limbs and splitting skulls with precision and ferocity. Blood sprayed across the battlefield as the goblins maintained their momentum, their smaller size making them swift and agile as they outmaneuvered the undead.

"For Gringotts!" they screamed again, driving deeper into the undead lines. The goblin warband moved like a living weapon, their discipline and savagery carving a bloody swath through the endless horde.

The Goblin King, Ragnuk, roared as he met the charging Rock Troll, his bellow a declaration of dominance that echoed across the battlefield. His elite guard flanked him, their shields and blades moving in unison to fend off any undead that dared encroach. But Ragnuk's eyes were locked on his foe—a towering Rock Troll, its skin a rugged, stone-like texture, its eyes burning with primal rage.

The troll swung its massive sword with bone-crushing force, aiming to halve the king. Ragnuk raised his enchanted axe, its rune-covered blade glowing faintly, and met the troll's blade mid-swing. Sparks flew as metal clashed against metal, the impact reverberating like a thunderclap. With surprising agility, the Goblin King twisted under the troll's arm, his movements fluid. His axe fell in an arc, slashing deep into the troll's leg. The blade bit through the stone-like hide as though it were soft clay, and black, tar-like blood gushed from the wound.

The troll roared in agony, staggering as its injured leg faltered. Desperate, it swung its massive left hand down like a hammer, catching Ragnuk on the side of his helmet. The impact was brutal, spinning the king around and nearly knocking him off balance. But Ragnuk used the momentum of the blow to fuel his spin, pivoting on his heel to come full circle. His axe arced low as he turned and slashed the troll's other leg. The enchanted blade tore through tendon and muscle, sending the troll to its knees with a ground-shaking crash.

Now bellowing in desperation, the Rock Troll dropped its sword and reached out with both hands to grab the Goblin King. Ragnuk leaped back in time, his elite guards moving in to fend off smaller foes that dared to exploit the chaos. Ragnuk surged forward again, his axe glowing brighter with each strike. He dodged the troll's desperate swipes and delivered a devastating horizontal slash across its chest. The blade carved through stone and sinew, leaving a deep, jagged gash.

The troll's movements slowed, its strength waning as blood pooled around its massive frame. Ragnuk seized the moment, letting out a final roar as he leaped high. With both hands gripping his axe, he brought it down with all his might, aiming for the troll's exposed neck. The enchanted blade struck true, severing the troll's head in a decisive blow.

The massive body collapsed to the ground with a resounding thud, shaking the battlefield. Ragnuk stood atop the fallen beast, his axe dripping with black blood, and roared triumphantly. His elite guard echoed his cry. Their shields raised high as they formed an impenetrable wall around their king.

"For Gringotts!" Ragnuk bellowed, his voice a rallying cry for his forces. The goblin army surged forward with renewed vigor, cutting a relentless path through the undead horde.

The air was alive with the pounding of hooves on the earth and the guttural roars of the orc horde. Sir Arn's lance gleamed, its tip enchanted to pierce even the toughest hides, while Sir Aldric's warhorse snorted, its breath misting in the cool air as they surged forward. The Templars' voices rose in unison and screamed their ancient war cry, "Deus Vault," it bolstered their spirits and sent tremors of unease through their foes.

The first wave of orcs stood their ground, bracing with shields and crude spears, but it was futile. The Templar lances struck like the wrath of a vengeful god, punching through shields, armor, and flesh with devastating precision. Orcs were impaled, their bodies hurled backward with the force of the impact, creating gaps in the horde's lines.

As their lances splintered and shattered from the unrelenting charge, Sir Arn and Sir Aldric drew their swords in one fluid motion, the blades shining with consecrated light. They pressed on, their warhorses trampling over fallen enemies. Sir Arn's sword cleaved through an orc's neck, the red blood a stark contrast against his pure white surcoat, while Sir Aldric struck down another with a downward slash that left the creature crumpled in the dirt.

Behind them, the Templars followed, an unyielding tide of steel. Orcs scattered, their ranks breaking under the relentless advance of faith-forged warriors. With each stride, the Templars pushed deeper into the horde, a shining beacon of order and righteousness in the chaos of battle.

The orcs braced themselves for the impact, raising crude shields and weapons. But nothing could prepare them for the sheer ferocity of the charge. The Templars' lances struck first, the long, enchanted poles ripping through shields and torsos alike, unyielding in their divine purpose. Orcs screamed as they were impaled, their formations shattering under the devastating momentum. The battle cats followed, their massive paws tearing into the ranks of goblins and orcs, their fangs ripping through armor and flesh. The cavalry smashed through the enemy line, leaving chaos in their wake. Trampled bodies littered the ground, and the survivors scrambled to regroup, their cohesion shattered.

Captain Talyra raised her sword high, her voice carrying over the din of battle as she cried, "For Ulthara and the Felinari! Charge!" Her cheetah-like battle cat, a sleek and powerful beast named Nyxa, let out a ferocious roar that echoed across the battlefield, rallying the ranks of Felinari cavalry behind her. Their mounts, a mix of cheetah-like sprinters and heavier panther-like bruisers, roared and snarled, creating a chilling symphony of impending doom for their enemies.

The Felinari surged forward, their formation disciplined yet fluid, adapting to the battlefield as only they could. Their armor, designed for mobility, shimmered with runes of protection and speed, and their curved swords gleamed with a magical edge. As the ground quaked under the combined weight of charging battle cats and their riders, the orc and goblin front lines turned to meet the onslaught. Their defenses were ill-prepared for the speed and ferocity of the Felinari.

Nyxa leaped into the fray with unparalleled grace, her claws raking through an orc's chest as Talyra's blade descended, slicing another foe's neck cleanly. The captain twisted in her saddle, deflecting a crude goblin spear with her shield before driving her sword into the attacker's exposed flank. All around her, the Felinari cavalry tore into the enemy, their mounts slashing with claws or tearing goblins apart with powerful jaws.

The line of orcs and goblins wavered, their ranks breaking under the relentless assault. Talyra spotted the Templars charging from the opposite flank, their shining armor contrasting with the chaotic battlefield. With a triumphant roar, she directed her forces to meet them. The Felinari and Templars converged, their combined might shattering the orc horde. Blood and dust filled the air as the Felinari drove the enemy back, leaving only destruction in their wake.

From the rear, the horns of the 2nd and 9th Cohorts blared, their deep, resonant tones echoing across the battlefield. The elven soldiers began their march, their movements precise and disciplined. Shields locked and spears raised, they moved forward in perfect formation, a living wall of glimmering segmented armor and enchanted weaponry. Their march was steady and deliberate, with each step a calculated measure of their advance.

The orcs and goblins, recovering from the cavalry's devastating charge, surged forward to meet the elven infantry. But as they came within range, the front lines of the cohorts halted. The elves released their pilum in a perfectly synchronized volley at the sound of a single sharp whistle. Nine hundred spears rose into the sky, glittering in the fading light. As they descended, the air itself seemed to hum with power.

The pilum transformed mid-flight in unison, each spear crackling with elemental fury. Lightning bolts rained down upon the enemy ranks, striking with devastating precision. The battlefield erupted in a blinding storm of light and sound. Orcs and goblins were incinerated where they stood, their crude armor offering no protection against the magical onslaught. Those who survived the initial strike were thrown into disarray, their formations crumbling under the sheer force of the attack.

The elven cohorts raised their shields, their spears at the ready, and charged as one. Their war cries pierced the air as they surged forward, their polished blades and enchanted weapons cutting through the panicked enemy. The disciplined, relentless advance of the elves drove the orcs and goblins back, their lines folding under the combined pressure of superior tactics and devastating magic.

The ground beneath the elven charge was littered with the broken bodies of their foes, a testament to their power of the coordinated assault. The orcs and goblins, battered and demoralized, struggled to regroup, their will to fight rapidly waning under the relentless onslaught. The battle had begun, and it was clear who held the upper hand.

The battlefield was a chaotic maelstrom of steel, magic, and blood. The elven cohorts slammed into the orc front lines, their disciplined ranks breaking through the disorganized mob like a tidal wave. Meanwhile, the cavalry wheeled around for another devastating charge. The Templars drove into the left flank, their warhorses trampling goblins and orcs alike, while the Felinari Battle Cats, sleek and ferocious, tore into the right flank. Their claws and fangs quickly ripped through armor and flesh, leaving devastation in their wake.

At the heart of the enemy forces, the massive Ogre Commander bellowed orders, his voice booming above the din of battle. His yellow eyes scanned the battlefield, widening in rage as he watched his forces crumble before his eyes. His fury was interrupted by a high-pitched screech that cut through the chaos. He turned just in time to see a battle cat racing toward him at full speed, its rider a blur of deadly precision.

Lt. Elysia's blade, gleaming in the fading light, leaned low in the saddle as her mount closed the distance. With a ferocious roar, she swung her sword in a wide arc, the blade biting deep into the Ogre Commander's chest. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, but his heavy metal armor absorbed most of the blow. Rising to his feet, the ogre slammed his massive sword against his chest plate and snarled, "Come get me, you cat bitch!"

Elysia's eyes narrowed, and she leaped from her saddle without hesitation. Her feet connected with the ogre's chest in a powerful dropkick, the force of the blow sending him staggering ten feet back. She landed in a crouch, sword ready, and spun into action. Her blade flashed as it cleaved through three of the ogre's bodyguards quickly, their lifeless forms crumpling to the ground.

The Ogre Commander roared in frustration and rose to his feet, his massive sword raised high. "You are mine, you cat bitch!" he bellowed as he charged, swinging his blade in a deadly arc meant to cleave Elysia in two.

Elysia leaped high into the air, narrowly avoiding the strike, and landed gracefully to his side. Her sword moved with the speed of a striking serpent, slicing into the ogre's side and drawing a spray of dark blood. The Ogre Commander howled in pain but retaliated with a brutal backhand. His enormous fist caught Elysia across the face, sending her sprawling several feet away.

She rolled with the impact, rising to her feet with feline agility. Blood trickled from her lip, but her expression remained fierce. The ogre laughed cruelly, pounding his chest again as he charged her.

Elysia sidestepped his next swing, her sword flashing in a deadly counterattack that left a deep gash across his thigh. The Ogre Commander faltered, his movements slowing as his injuries began to take their toll. Elysia pressed her advantage, her strikes becoming a blur of precision and power.

With a final, upward slash, her blade found its mark, slicing through the ogre's neck. The massive body wavered for a moment before toppling to the ground, lifeless. Elysia stood over him, her chest heaving, her sword dripping with blood. The battlefield roared around her, but she remained focused, ready for the next threat.

Ragnar turned to his brothers, Ivar and Sigurd, their fierce gazes matching his own. His voice boomed like thunder across the field, "Brothers! Clanmates! Let us show these creatures how Ulvland fights! For honor, for our people, for blood!" With a deep growl, Ragnar morphed into his towering lycan form, his massive frame covered in thick, dark fur. His brothers followed suit, their transformations sending ripples of primal energy across the battlefield. The warriors of their clan roared in unison, their voices a symphony of howls that echoed across the plains and struck terror into the hearts of their foes.

With claws extending and weapons gripped tightly, the Lycans surged forward as one, a force of nature unleashed. Their charge shook the ground, their powerful legs propelling them toward the undead lines with terrifying speed. The air seemed to crackle with raw energy as they howled their challenge, their cries resonating with a primal promise of destruction.

The first clash was devastating. Ragnar led the charge, his massive claws ripping through the rotting torsos of the undead as though they were paper. His brothers were no less ferocious—Sigurd's battle axe cleaved through undead ranks in wide, devastating arcs, while Ivar's hammer smashed bones and shattered skulls with every swing.

The clan followed, and their combined might overwhelm the undead horde. Swords slashed through decayed limbs, and axes buried themselves into undead skulls with sickening finality. Clawed hands tore through the ranks, ripping torsos apart and scattering limbs as the lycans pushed deeper into the enemy lines.

Despite the undead's relentless numbers, they were no match for the raw power and fury of the lycan warriors. The undead ranks wavered, unable to withstand the sheer brutality of the assault. The Lycans pressed on, their roars of triumph mingling with the groans of their enemies as the battlefield turned into a storm of blood and carnage.

Ragnar's voice cut through the chaos, roaring commands to his warriors. "Push forward! Leave none standing!" They obeyed, their relentless assault breaking the undead line as if it were made of brittle glass. The Lycans left nothing but destruction in their wake, their charge a force of nature that could not be stopped.

Harry stood amidst the chaos of the battlefield, his eyes gleaming with determination and a flicker of mischief. He nodded to his companions, signaling them forward, and bellowed, "For the Light!" With a flick of his wrists, glowing green orbs of arcane energy materialized, each pulsing with raw, destructive power. With a thought, Harry sent them streaking into the enemy ranks. The orbs detonated on impact, ripping apart the lines of orcs in explosions of light and magical force, leaving charred bodies and smoldering craters in their wake. Without missing a beat, Harry drew his wands and charged, his movements fluid and precise, carving a path of devastation through the chaos.

Ragnar was a whirlwind of fury, his new sword glowing faintly with runic power as he cleaved through orcs like they were made of parchment. Each swing was deadly accurate, dismembering limbs, splitting shields, and severing heads with ease. His Lycan form towered over the greenskins, his growls a primal soundtrack to the carnage. Ragnar's blade glinted as it caught the dim light of the battlefield, its edge wet with the blood of his enemies.

Thunderbeard reveled in the chaos, his enchanted lightning hammer a weapon of pure destruction. He brought it down on an orc with bone-shattering force, the weapon discharging arcs of electricity that leaped to nearby enemies, electrocuting them where they stood. "It's been too long since I've had the pleasure of killing greenskins!" Thunderbeard roared, his laughter booming as he waded through the horde, a dwarf possessed by the thrill of combat.

Nearby, Bjorn was already in his Lycan form, a living nightmare for the orcs. He howled a deafening challenge that sent ripples of fear through the enemy ranks. With his massive sword, he smashed through a black orc's shield, shattering it like glass, before kicking the stunned creature back. Bjorn's blade flashed in the air, finding its mark and ending the black orc's life with a decisive thrust. "You're falling behind, Thunderbeard!" Bjorn taunted, his voice a guttural growl. "I just felled a black orc!"

Thunderbeard snorted and hurled his hammer with all his might. As it left his hands, the hammer transformed into a bolt of pure lightning, streaking through the air and slamming into a hulking hill giant. The giant's chest caved under the impact and toppled with a thunderous crash. "Bah! A black orc?" Thunderbeard retorted, retrieving his hammer as it reappeared in his hand. "I just struck down a hill giant! You're the one falling behind!" "I have a giant to measure against these damn orcs!"

Rodnuk bellowed with laughter as he swung his massive thunder hammer into the ground. The impact sent a wave of electricity rippling outward, grounding itself into the surrounding orcs. Ten greenskins dropped lifeless to the ground, their bodies smoking as arcs of lightning continued to dance across the scorched earth. "Bah, you fools argue over scraps!" Rodnuk declared, his grin feral. "I have numbers,

Harry moved like a storm through the chaos of the battlefield, his every step deliberate yet fluid. He spun through the ranks of the orc horde, his twin wands firing in perfect synchronization. Arcane bolts crackled with raw energy, slamming into the chests of orcs and goblins, leaving charred, lifeless bodies in their wake. Fireballs exploded in blinding flashes, consuming groups of enemies in a fiery inferno. The screams of the fallen mixed with the cacophony of clashing weapons and the roar of war, but Harry remained focused, his face a mask of determination.

Each movement was a blend of precision and power. An orc lunged at him, its crude axe descending in a deadly arc. Harry sidestepped effortlessly, raising his wand to unleash a blast of concussive force that sent the creature hurtling backward, bones shattering on impact. Another goblin rushed him from the side, but Harry turned, releasing a torrent of fire that engulfed the attacker, reducing it to ashes.

Behind him, 10 moved with deadly grace. Her sword gleamed with green flames, cutting through the enemy ranks like a hot knife through butter. She ducked under an orc's wild swing, her blade flashing upward to slice through its torso. Blood sprayed, painting her armor as she twisted to meet the next foe. A goblin charged, snarling, but 10 stepped inside its guard, her blade a blur as she severed its head in one fluid motion.

She was relentless, her movements almost too fast to track. Goblins and orcs fell in droves around her, their weapons unable to find purchase against her near-supernatural reflexes. Together, Harry and 10 carved a path of destruction through the horde, a whirlwind of magic and steel that left no enemy standing in their wake. They were an unstoppable force, the embodiment of wrath unleashed.

Harry's eyes locked onto the towering form of the war troll commanding the orc horde and standing over 10 feet tall.

Summoning his elemental magic, he pulled the air beneath him, feeling the rush of wind gather and propel him upward. In a motion blur, Harry launched himself through the air like a lightning bolt aimed straight at the troll. Sparks of magic surrounded him, glowing brighter as he prepared his assault mid-flight.

Below, ten looked up and spotted her lord soaring toward the battlefield's monstrous center. Her sharp gaze assessed the situation in an instant. With a cry that echoed with resolve, she redoubled her attacks, her enchanted blade carving a brutal path through the orc ranks.

The enemies that stood before her were nothing more than obstacles to overcome. Goblins screamed as her sword cleaved through them with lethal precision, and orcs fell like wheat before a scythe. The determination in her every strike burned with an intensity born of her unshakable duty: to reach Harry before he faced the troll alone.

Chapter 336 "The Duel of Harry and Kragnar"

Harry landed with a deafening thud, the arcane energy coursing through his veins, lighting him up like a star amidst the chaos. The glowing sword in his hand shimmered with a strange, almost sentient light as if alive with its power. War Troll General Kragnar stood towering over the battlefield, his massive Warhammer resting in his hands like a toy, a cruel smile spread across his grotesque face. Dark and full of malice, his eyes locked onto Harry with predatory intent.

"So, the little wizard comes to die," Kragnar growled, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to shake the ground.

Harry tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, its radiant glow reflecting in his determined gaze. "You're welcome to try," he replied, his voice steady but defiant.

Kragnar roared, his Warhammer raised high as he charged, shaking the earth with sheer weight. Harry didn't wait; he moved with the fluidity of a master duelist, weaving arcs of fire and streaks of lightning with his free hand. Explosions erupted around the charging war troll, scorching his thick hide and throwing up clouds of dirt and debris.

The troll roared in pain but pushed forward, swinging his massive hammer in a wide arc to crush Harry where he stood. Harry leaped high into the air, the hammer slamming into the ground with enough force to create a crater, sending shards of earth flying like shrapnel. Harry twisted midair, launching a searing fireball at Kragnar's face. The troll raised his arm to block, and the flames exploded harmlessly against his thick, rock-like skin.

As Harry landed, he sprinted to the left, avoiding another crushing blow from the hammer. The troll was fast for his size, his swings creating a whirlwind of destruction as he tried to corner the elusive wizard. Harry ducked and rolled, coming up with his sword ready. He slashed upward, the glowing blade finding a weak spot under Kragnar's arm. A spurt of black ichor gushed out, and Kragnar howled in rage and pain.

"You will regret that, worm!" Kragnar bellowed, spinning with surprising speed and swinging his hammer horizontally. Harry barely managed to conjure a shimmering shield of magic in time. The hammer collided with the barrier, the impact throwing Harry backward like a ragdoll. He crashed into the ground, skidding several feet before regaining his footing.

Kragnar pressed the advantage, stomping toward Harry with relentless fury. Harry planted his feet, summoning a wall of arcane energy that erupted from the ground in a blinding flash. The troll smashed through it with brute force, magic shards dissipating into the air as he roared and swung again. Harry sidestepped the blow this time, his glowing sword slicing across the troll's thigh, severing muscle and tendons. Kragnar stumbled but didn't fall.

"You fight well, wizard," Kragnar snarled, gripping his Warhammer with both hands. "But strength will always prevail over tricks!"

Harry smirked. "Then let's see how you handle this." With a flick of his wrist, he sent a concentrated blast of arcane energy straight at Kragnar's chest. The troll braced himself, but the force of the explosion pushed him back several steps, his massive feet digging into the earth to keep him upright.

Harry darted forward, his sword a blur of light. He struck at Kragnar's legs, sides, arms—anywhere he could find a weakness. The troll roared and swung wildly, his hammer narrowly missing Harry repeatedly. But each of Harry's strikes, while small, added up, wearing the troll down little by little.

Kragnar, realizing the tide was turning, let out a guttural roar. Dark energy began to swirl around his hammer as he raised it high. "Enough! I will crush you with my full power!"

Harry's eyes narrowed as he felt the malevolent energy gathering. He didn't wait to see what the troll was planning. He charged, his glowing sword aimed straight for Kragnar's heart. The troll brought his hammer down in a devastating blow, the dark energy erupting in a shockwave that blasted Harry backward again. The force slammed him into a boulder, cracking it in half this time.

Dazed but not defeated, Harry climbed to his feet. His sword still glowed brightly, unwavering in its power. "Impressive," Harry said, wiping blood from his mouth. "But not enough."

Harry sprinted forward with a burst of speed, his wands in his free hand firing bolts of lightning and fire that struck Kragnar repeatedly, each blast staggering the troll. Harry closed the distance, dodging one final hammer swing before leaping to the side of Kragnar's massive arm. Harry's sword trailed glowing arcs as it slashed across Kragnars elbow, severing it with the swing.

Kragnar roared in pain. Harry plunged the glowing sword deep into Kragnar's throat. The troll let out a choking roar, his hammer falling from his grasp as he clutched at the blade embedded in his flesh. Harry twisted the sword, the light intensifying as it unleashed a burst of energy that erupted from Kragnar's back.

The war troll collapsed to his knees, his massive frame shaking the ground. Harry jumped clear, landing gracefully as Kragnar fell face-first into the dirt, the glow of Harry's sword extinguished. The battlefield fell silent momentarily, the sight of the fallen War Troll General sending waves of fear through the remaining orcs.

Harry stood tall, his breathing heavy. With a flick of his hand, he called his sword back to him, its glow reigniting as it rested in his grasp. He turned to his allies and raised the blade high. "For the light!" he shouted, rallying the troops for the final push.

Chapter 337 "The Battle Continues"

The British Volunteer Company surged forward, their cries echoing across the battlefield as they followed Harry's orders to charge. Sirius Black felt his heart pounding like a war drum. Each beat is a reminder of the thrill and terror of battle. It had been years since he had fought, indeed fought, with his life and those of his comrades hanging in the balance. His memories of skirmishes against Death Eaters flickered briefly in his mind, but this was different. There were no moral constraints here, no holding back for capture or trial. This was war, pure and unrestrained.

Sirius Black's chest heaved with exhilaration as the adrenaline surged. He unleashed another black fireball that exploded into the charging orcs like a cannon blast, sending bodies flying and igniting those unlucky enough to be caught in the inferno. He could feel his grandfather, Arcturus, in his blood—this was the battle the Blacks were meant to fight, not constrained by the chains of mercy or capture but fully unleashed upon the enemy.

Beside him, Remus Lupin moved with calculated precision, his wand slashing through the air. "Fulgura Mortis!" he roared, sending deadly arcs of white lightning that cut into the orcs' ranks like a scythe through wheat. Lupin's usually calm demeanor was replaced by a cold fury from years of protecting his friends. An orc captain lunged at him with a jagged axe, but Lupin sidestepped fluidly, his wand glowing faintly. "Confringo!" The axe-wielding brute detonated in a burst of blood and gore.

Frank Longbottom led the charge at the center of the volunteer company. "Hold the line!" he bellowed, his voice carrying above the chaos of clashing steel and screams. He ducked an orc's spear thrust and countered with a cutting curse, slicing the creature's chest open in a spray of black blood. His soldiers followed in disciplined waves, shields, and wands at the ready. "Wands up! Volley fire on my mark!"

"NOW!"

A synchronized burst of spells erupted from the British company, fireballs, cutting charms, and blasting curses raining down upon the orcs and undead. The front line of the enemy forces staggered, broken, as ash and smoke filled the air.

Sirius charged forward with the recklessness of a man reborn on the battlefield. He hurled a jet of black lightning that struck an orc shaman mid-chant, frying the creature's body until it crumpled to the ground in a smoking heap. He spun and blocked an orc's downward sword strike with a shield charm, then instantly retaliated with a wave of fire that engulfed five more orcs. His lips curled into a wolfish grin.

"This is how it's done, Moony!" he called over his shoulder, sending another orc sprawling with a blasting curse.

Remus smirked despite the carnage. "Try not to get yourself killed before lunch, Padfoot." He thrust his wand at a wave of charging undead, the skeletal soldiers crumbling to dust as his magic stripped them of their cursed essence.

Frank Longbottom was a whirlwind of leadership, directing squads as the ground beneath them shook with the volunteer company's advance momentum. "Shields up! Hold the formation!" His voice rang out as he fired a Bombarda Maxima, sending a cluster of ghouls flying like ragdolls.

The British volunteers fought like men possessed, inspired by the unrelenting ferocity of their commanders. They pressed forward, cutting through orcs and undead alike, the line of green-skinned foes breaking and falling back under the onslaught.

Sirius paused briefly, his wand raising as he surveyed the carnage. His godson, Harry, was tearing through the battlefield in the distance like a storm of vengeance. A renewed sense of pride filled Sirius's chest.

"For the British Volunteers!" he roared, his voice echoing over the battlefield. The men answered with a cry of their own, surging forward, unrelenting and unstoppable.

The command rang out across the battlefield like thunder, and the Crows moved as one. "Charge!" Captain Dorian Windweaver's unwavering and determined voice carried across the lines. At his side, Lieutenants Mitchell and Roberts echoed the order, their voices sharp and decisive.

A roar erupted from the Crow ranks—battle cries fierce and guttural, a sound that sent shivers down the enemy's spines. Clad in dark, reinforced armor lined with silver runes, the Crows advanced in perfect unison, a living tide of discipline and death. Their wands moved as extensions of their bodies, aimed with practiced precision.

"First rank, FIRE!"

The front row raised their wands instantly, and a synchronized volley of blasting curses burst forth. The spells streaked through the air like bolts of crimson lightning, slamming into the oncoming orcs. Explosions erupted as bodies were torn apart, limbs and weapons sent flying. Before the smoke cleared, the second rank had already stepped forward.

"Second rank, FIRE!"

The next wave of spells cut through the chaos, hammering the enemy with relentless fury. The Crows did not stop to cheer or celebrate their kills. They were a machine of war—unyielding, coordinated, deadly. As they advanced, their movements were precise, every step calculated.

"Keep the pace!" Lieutenant Mitchell shouted, his wand blazing as he launched a slicing hex that tore through three orcs simultaneously. His voice cut through the noise of battle, steady and sharp.

Orcish arrows and crude magical projectiles began to rain down, but the Crows were ready. "Shields!" Captain Windweaver bellowed. Instantly, shimmering barriers sprang to life across their ranks, blue and silver shields absorbing the attacks like a tide breaking against the stone.

"Hold! Hold! FIRE!"

The shields dropped, and another wave of blasting curses erupted from their wands, mowing down the advancing orcs with ruthless precision. The enemy lines faltered as the disciplined volley of fire shattered their momentum.

Captain Windweaver was a force of nature. His wand sent explosive curses that obliterated entire pockets of orcs. He moved with the confidence of a veteran, his voice booming above the din. "Stay in formation! Push forward!"

Lieutenant Roberts led the right flank, his spells striking with pinpoint accuracy. Every orc that broke through the center line found his wand waiting. "Close the gap!" he roared, his magic slamming an orc chieftain into the ground with enough force to shatter bones.

On the left flank, Lieutenant Mitchell directed his unit like a conductor leading an orchestra of death. "No mercy! Keep them pinned!" His men moved flawlessly under his orders, spellfire forming a constant, deadly barrage.

The Crows advanced step by step, shields flashing and wands roaring. Their volley fire never slowed. Even when orcs charged into melee range, they switched seamlessly to close-quarters combat. Blades enchanted with runes flashed in the sunlight, cutting through flesh and armor alike. Orcs fell screaming, unable to breach the disciplined wall of the Crow formation.

"We are the Crows!" Captain Windweaver shouted as he cut down an orc lieutenant with a flash of silver light. His men echoed his cry, their voices rising in unison. "Strength and Honor!"

An orc war machine launched a fireball toward the advancing Crows, but Windweaver's voice rang out again. "Deflect!" The front-row wizards snapped their wands forward, combining their magic to form a massive reflective shield. The fireball struck it and rebounded, exploding back into the enemy ranks with devastating results.

"Break their center!" Lieutenant Roberts cried, rallying his men forward. The Crows surged as one, their spells converging on a massive orc brute leading the horde. The creature was struck by a barrage of curses that shattered its armor and sent it crashing to the ground.

With every step, the battlefield fell silent behind the Crows as they advanced. They left nothing but ruin in their wake—blackened earth, smoking bodies, and the silence of an enemy crushed by their might.

"Forward!" Windweaver called, his voice unwavering as the unit moved deeper into the chaos. "For the Crows, for the Legion!"

The Crows answered with a roar, their shields shimmering and wands blazing as they moved forward—a relentless, unstoppable force on the battlefield.

Bjorn, Thunderbeard, and Rodnuck continued their charge, an unstoppable trio cutting a path of destruction through what remained of the battered Orc army. Their banter carried above the screams of dying enemies as if they were enjoying the slaughter like a long-awaited feast.

"Is that all you've got, greenskins?" Bjorn bellowed, his voice carrying like a war horn as his massive sword cleaved through an orc's chest and sent another flying. Already in his hulking Lycan form, his armor was streaked with black blood, his claws glinting in the midday light. "Come! Fight me, cowards!"

Thunderbeard swung his enchanted lightning hammer in a wide arc, the weapon crackling violently. It struck the ground, sending a lightning pulse outward, vaporizing a group of goblins who had been foolish enough to charge him. He laughed heartily, his beard singed but his spirit unbroken. "These orcs are like gnats compared to the hill giants I crushed! Bjorn, you're slowing down—do I need to carry you?"

Rodnuck, riding atop his massive dire wolf, grinned wickedly as his thunder hammer obliterated an entire line of goblins. With every strike, lightning arced from his hammer into the bodies of the fallen, dancing between them as it leaped toward new victims. "Behind, am I? That hill giant doesn't count! He was asleep when you hit him, Thunderbeard!"

Bjorn growled in mock irritation as he kicked an orc into a pack of the undead, then cut a ghoul cleanly in half with one swing. "Let's see you keep count when I reach a thousand, you noisy dwarf!"

Their momentum carried them forward, their war cries shaking the hearts of their enemies. They pressed on through shattered orc ranks, where bodies littered the ground, smoking and broken from the earlier dragon assault. The sky above was still streaked with smoke and fire, a canvas of destruction painted by the unleashed might of dragons and artillery.

As they surged onward, they caught sight of Harry. The young Tribune was a whirlwind of destruction in the distance, his wands unleashing a torrent of fireballs and arcane bolts. He moved with the deadly grace of a predator, spinning through the air and decimating entire squads of orcs and undead that dared to stand in his way.

Then, the battlefield seemed to pause as all eyes turned to Harry and the towering figure of the War Troll General Kragnar. The colossal war troll raised his massive hammer, his roar echoing across the plain as he prepared to crush the lone wizard. Harry launched himself into the air, propelled by currents of air magic, and struck like a falling comet.

The clash was brief but brutal. Spells erupted in brilliant arcs of light, and in the end, Kragnar fell to his knees. The battlefield grew silent as Harry raised his wands and struck the final blow. A wave of magic surged forth, enveloping the War Troll in radiant energy, and in a flash, Kragnar and his mighty Warhammer vanished.

For a breathless moment, the battlefield held its silence. Then Harry raised his wands high and shot a magic beam into the sky. Above the battlefield, the magic exploded into a shimmering form—the image of a mighty platinum dragon roaring triumphantly as its ethereal light bathed the armies below.

An answering roar from the allied forces met the roar of the dragon. Soldiers from every corner of the battlefield cheered, raising their weapons as they surged forward with renewed fury. Orcs scattered, undead faltered, and the enemy's black tide began to crumble beneath the overwhelming charge.

Bjorn raised his sword high, his voice booming. "For Harry! For the Legion!"

Thunderbeard and Rodnuck echoed the cry, their voices carried by thousands of warriors surging forward to finish the fight.

Harry, meanwhile, turned his gaze to the dark heart of the enemy—the black pyramid. Clouds swirled and gathered beneath his feet as he summoned the power of the elements. A storm surged to life, lightning dancing wildly through the air. Slowly, Harry rose into the sky atop a cloud of swirling energy, his form wreathed in arcane light.

From the cloud, lightning bolts began to rain down, striking the orcs and undead below with devastating accuracy. Each strike sent dozens flying, reduced to charred husks as the ground itself trembled beneath the onslaught.

Harry rose higher, his silhouette framed against the storm as he streaked toward the black pyramid, the stormcloud beneath him howling with fury. The battlefield erupted in chaos and awe as warriors cheered their Tribune, their will unshakable. The final battle had begun, and Harry Potter-Black would see it ended.

Sir Gavriel spurred his warhorse through the roiling chaos of the orc line, the thundering of hooves, and the cries of the dying blending into a symphony of war. His armor glistened beneath the dim light, gold and silver runes flaring like beacons of hope amidst the darkness. The Holy Avenger, his ancient sword, rested at his side, its radiant blade humming softly in anticipation of the battle.

Suddenly, the battlefield stilled.

Chapter 338 " Battle Between Light And Shadow"

Across the blood-soaked earth, a figure emerged—a towering and malevolent Dread Lord. Shrouded in blackened armor that oozed dark energy, the creature's presence seemed to smother the air. Its serrated monstrosity blade pulsed with an unnatural glow, and each step it took left scorched earth in its wake. A vile aura surrounded the Dread Lord like a fog of despair rolling forward.

Gavriel pulled his steed to a halt, his gauntleted hand tightening around the reins. The great warhorse snorted, its breath misting in the chill air, yet even the mighty beast shifted uneasily under the Dread Lord's withering gaze. Gavriel patted its flank gently, his calm voice soothing. "Steady, Brave Heart. You have done your part."

Dismounting, Gavriel landed lightly on the ground, his polished boots sinking into the mud and ash. His steps were measured and deliberate as he approached the center of this unholy encounter. Without hesitation, he unsheathed his sword, the sound of steel ringing like a choir of bells. The Holy Avenger flared to life, a luminous glow coursing along the blade that seemed to push back the darkness creeping toward him.

Before facing his foe, Sir Gavriel dropped to one knee, reverently planting the sword's tip into the earth. He closed his eyes with his head bowed and his free hand resting upon the pommel. The battlefield seemed to quiet for a heartbeat, as if time paused to hear his words.

"All-Father, Eternal Watcher of the Light, I kneel before You in this hour of need. In Your name, I face the shadow. In Your name, I wield the sword that cuts through the darkness. Please grant me the strength to hold the line where others might falter, the courage to stand when all seems lost. Let Your radiance flow through me as a vessel, that my blade may shine as Your will manifest. Shield my body, fortify my spirit, and guide my strikes to pierce the heart of this foul abomination. Should I fall, let my soul ascend to Your halls, carried by honor and valor. But should I prevail, let my victory echo as a hymn to Your glory? All-Father, I stand as Your knight, champion, and son. By Your light, I fight. By Your grace, I endure. And by Your justice, this evil shall be defeated. So I swear, so it shall be done."

As the final words left his lips, a sudden wave of divine energy rippled outward from the blade, a shockwave of light that swept over the ground, pushing back the foul aura of the Dread Lord. Runes along Gavriel's armor blazed to life, symbols of ancient power interwoven with his unshakable faith.

The Dread Lord halted mid-step, the searing brilliance causing him to recoil slightly. His blackened sword hissed as it touched the holy glow. "Prayers will not save you, paladin," the Dread Lord sneered, his voice a guttural hiss, ancient and full of hate.

Gavriel stood, his gaze calm yet resolute. "It is not my salvation I pray for, creature. It is your reckoning."

The Holy Avenger now gleamed like a shard of the sun, its radiance unwavering against the encroaching darkness. Gavriel stepped forward, his movements purposeful, each stride carrying the weight of his faith and the certainty of his mission.

The Dread Lord roared, dark power erupting around him as he charged, his massive sword swinging in an arc that sought to cleave Gavriel in two. But the paladin was ready.

"For the All-Father!" Gavriel bellowed his voice, a rallying cry that echoed across the battlefield. He surged forward, his blade singing as it met the oncoming darkness.

Light and shadow clashed, and the duel began.

The Dread Lord snarled an inhuman growl that resonated deep within his helmet, like stones grinding in a pit. He lifted his massive sword, the dark mist trailing like smoke, and pointed it at Gavriel.

"Paladin," the Dread Lord hissed, his voice dripping with malice. "Your faith will crumble, and your light will die in my shadow."

He charged, the ground shaking with every thundering step. Gavriel surged forward, his sword glowing brighter with each stride. When it came, the clash was like a thunderstorm meeting the earth. Sir Gavriel unleashed his Holy power of smite through his blade. The Holy Avenger smashed into the Dread Lord's blade with a deafening clang, sending ripples of light and darkness exploding outward.

Gavriel pushed hard, muscles straining as the force of the Dread Lord's swing pressed against him. "You will not win!" Gavriel shouted, gritting his teeth. With a grunt of effort, he shoved the Dread Lord's blade aside and struck low. The Holy Avenger sang as it sliced through the air, its edge grazing the Dread Lord's black armor and leaving a line of sizzling light that hissed like water on hot iron.

The Dread Lord roared in fury and retaliated. He swung his blade in a wide arc, dark magic trailing behind it like a shadowy ribbon. Gavriel raised his shield just in time, the dark blade crashing into the metal with such force that sparks erupted. Gavriel staggered back, his shield glowing with dark runes from the impact, but he did not falter.

The Dread Lord pressed the attack, his strikes relentless and furious. Gavriel parried and sidestepped, his movements measured and precise. Where the Dread Lord's swings were fueled by rage, Gavriel's counters were driven by faith. He ducked under a crushing blow, his Holy Avenger flashing as it scored another mark across the Dread Lord's armored thigh, the blade cutting through the dark steel-like cloth.

Enraged, the Dread Lord unleashed a blast of dark magic from his free hand, its force smashing into Gavriel's chest and sending him skidding across the ground. Gavriel coughed, blood staining his lips as he staggered to his feet. The Dread Lord strode forward, confident in his impending victory.

The Dread Lord's blade struck like a viper, each blow resonating with dark power. A slash tore through Sir Gavriel's side, blackened steel searing flesh beneath his armor. Another strike cracked against his shoulder, denting the sacred runes on his plate. Gavriel staggered, blood seeping through silver lines, yet his grip on the Holy Avenger never faltered.

"See how the light falters," the Dread Lord mocked, his blade raised high. "Kneel, and I shall make your end swift."

Gritting his teeth, Sir Gavriel planted his sword into the ground, and golden light flared around him. "All-Father, mend this vessel!" he roared—divine energy coursed through his wounds, knitting flesh and restoring his strength. The light flared, blinding the Dread Lord as Gavriel stood tall again, unbroken.

Gavriel planted his feet and steadied his sword, its light unyielding despite the dark magic coursing through the air. "The light does not falter," he declared, his voice calm and steady. "It endures."

With a shout, Gavriel charged once more. The Dread Lord swung his massive blade downward, aiming to cleave Gavriel in two, but the paladin sidestepped at the last moment. The black sword smashed into the ground, leaving a crater, and in that instant, Gavriel struck.

He pivoted and brought the Holy Avenger down with all his strength. The blade ignited in radiant light, its brilliance blinding, and sank deep into the Dread Lord's side. The creature howled an unearthly sound that echoed across the battlefield, his armor cracking and shattering as the holy energy surged through him.

The Dread Lord roared in fury as the Holy Avenger's blade bit deep into his cursed flesh, light searing through his shadowed form. Snarling, he swung a gauntleted backhand with monstrous strength, catching Sir Gavriel under the chin. The impact cracked like thunder, launching the paladin backward, armor scraping as he tumbled, dazed but unbowed.

The Dread Lord stumbled, dark mist pouring from his wounds like blood. "This… cannot be…" he groaned, his voice fading as the divine magic consumed him.

With one final roar, Gavriel charged. He channeled Holy Smite through his blade and drove his sword through the Dread Lord's chest, the Holy Avenger piercing the creature's black heart. The ground trembled as a shockwave of light burst outward, erasing the shadows that clung to the battlefield. The Dread Lord's body disintegrated into ash, his dark armor collapsing to the ground, empty and broken.

Gavriel knelt once more, pressing his forehead to the hilt of his sword. "Thank you, All-Father," he whispered. "The shadow has been banished."

Around him, the battlefield seemed quieter, as though the very earth had sighed in relief. His brothers-in-arms raised their weapons and cheered, their voices ringing in celebration. Gavriel rose, his armor streaked with ash and blood, his Holy Avenger still glowing brightly in his hand. He turned his gaze to the black pyramid in the distance, knowing the fight was far from over.

A triumphant grin spread across his battle-worn face. "They shall not call me Frog Slayer anymore," he muttered. With a fluid motion, he mounted Brave Heart, the warhorse rearing as they charged back into the raging fray."Forward!" he roared, his voice carrying like a clarion call. "For the light! For victory!" his sword blazing like a star against the darkness.

10 moved like a specter of death, her blade singing as it cleaved through the final orcs standing between her and the platform. Blood stained the ground in her wake, bodies crumpled in lifeless heaps as she paused at the edge, chest heaving from exertion. She looked up just in time to see her lord soaring across the sky on a storm cloud, lightning exploding downward in furious strikes of destruction. Harry's figure grew smaller as he moved toward the ominous black pyramid, a beacon of power and malevolence that loomed over the battlefield.

10's hand shot to her belt, and she uncorked a vial filled with shimmering blue liquid—a Potter Special, the alchemical marvel of her master. She drained it smoothly, feeling its magic surge through her veins. Her torn flesh knit together, bruises faded, and the ache in her limbs evaporated. Her strength returned sharper and more focused. The faint hum of renewed power radiated off her as she turned just in time to see Bjorn, Thunderbeard, and Rodnuk clamber onto the platform.

Thunderbeard barked a rough laugh, his hammer resting lazily on his shoulder. "The Tribune has style, I'll give him that. Who else flies into battle on a cloud of damnation and destruction?"

Bjorn cracked his neck, the faint growl of his Lycan form rumbling from deep within. "We'd best get moving to that pyramid. The Tribune will claim all the glory if we don't hurry."

Thunderbeard snorted, the edges of his beard twitching as he grinned. "Aye, that's true. That lad waits for no one when it comes to striking down his enemies."

Rodnuk grinned, his tusks gleaming under the battlefield's chaotic light. "Of course not. You'd expect no less from someone trained by the finest—the Goblin Nation of Gringotts!" He thumped his chest proudly, eliciting a round of laughter from the trio.

10 turned sharply, her sharp eyes narrowing at their momentary pause. "If you are done," she snapped, voice edged with steel, "heal yourselves. My lord may need us, and your cackling will not delay us."

The command silenced the banter. With knowing looks, the three warriors quickly drained their own Potter Specials from their belts. Thunderbeard burped loudly, wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. "By the stones, the lad knows how to brew a potion," he muttered.

Before anyone could respond, 10 launched herself from the platform, descending like a whirlwind of fury. Her blade twirled in a deadly arc, slicing through five orcs in a blink. They fell in gruesome pieces as she darted forward, relentless in her charge toward the pyramid.

Bjorn growled, eyes alight with predatory fire. "Well, we'd best get at it before that girl outdoes all of us!"

With a deafening howl, he leaped high into the air. The ground trembled as he landed, his massive Lycan form crashing like a meteor. A shockwave erupted outward, sending goblins and orcs flying into the air with screams of terror.

Thunderbeard grinned, slamming his hammer into the ground and sending a pulse of crackling energy forward. "For the light and the thrill of it!" he roared, charging into the fray, his war cry echoing through the smoke-filled battlefield.

Rodnuk followed, his massive thunder hammer swinging in devastating arcs as he bellowed in the guttural tongue of the Goblin Nation. The three warriors tore after 10, their attacks spreading chaos and destruction through the enemy lines.

Captain Gravesender marched with grim purpose, his heavy boots crushing bone and debris underfoot as he advanced toward the final fortification. His heavy wand bolter—transformed into its devastating automatic configuration—roared to life, sending out bursts of enchanted rounds. Each shot screamed like a thunderclap, tearing into the orcs manning the makeshift barricade. Green-skinned brutes were shredded where they stood, their bodies crumpling into smoking heaps of gore as Gravesender's firepower reduced their ranks with terrifying precision.

Suddenly, a guttural roar echoed across the battlefield. A hulking ogre mage lumbered into view, its massive form draped in crude red robes barely covering its bulk. The beast's twisted staff crackled with dark energy, flames swirling around its tip. With a snarl, the ogre thrust the staff forward, unleashing a volley of searing fire bolts. They screamed through the air like fiery meteors and struck three of Gravesender's battle brothers. The men cried out as the bolts detonated on impact, flames consuming their armor and knocking them to the ground. Their pained groans cut through the cacophony of battle.

Captain Gravesender's helmet visor flashed with runic targeting data as he swung his heavy bolter toward the ogre mage. His finger squeezed the trigger, and a deafening storm of rounds erupted. The enchanted bullets tore through the air, slamming into the ogre's position with earth-shattering force. Dirt and debris flew in every direction as the ground around the mage exploded in geysers of shrapnel.

But the ogre mage was ready. With a deep, guttural chant, it raised its twisted staff and conjured a shield of dark energy. The shimmering barrier crackled as it absorbed Gravesender's relentless volley, deflecting the rounds harmlessly into the air. The ogre's laughter rumbled like an avalanche, mocking the captain's attack.

Gravesender snarled, the frustration fueling his next move. "Hold fire!" he barked to his remaining brothers, his voice amplified by his helmet's vox. His mind raced as he analyzed the ogre mage's magic. The shield shimmered unevenly at its edges, the dark energy struggling to remain stable under the weight of the captain's earlier barrage.

Gravesender's eyes narrowed. "Overload it," he growled to himself.

He steadied his heavy bolter and flipped a rune on its side. A faint hum reverberated through the weapon as it switched into high-explosive mode. His feet planted firmly, Gravesender unleashed another volley. Each round now detonated with a concussive blast as it struck the shield, pounding the barrier relentlessly. The ogre mage's smug laughter faltered, replaced by a look of strained concentration. The shield rippled violently under the barrage, cracks of energy splintering across its surface.

The ogre bellowed in defiance, its massive muscles tensing as it poured more magic into the shield. But Gravesender's onslaught was unrelenting. "Brothers, focus fire on that beast!" he commanded, and the fallen soldiers, now recovering, rose to their feet. They joined in, their bolters singing in unison as they unleashed their combined firepower.

The shield's cracks deepened, the magical barrier flickering like a dying flame. The ogre mage's eyes widened with rage and panic. "No!" it roared, but it was too late.

With a final volley, Gravesender's bolter rounds pierced the shield. The barrier shattered with an earsplitting crack, shards of dark energy exploding outward like glass. The ogre staggered, stunned by the collapse of its defenses. Gravesender didn't hesitate. He rushed forward, activating the Eog chainsword. The blade roared to life, its teeth glowing with a faint, bluish hue as it began to spin.

The ogre mage raised its staff desperately, but Gravesender moved like a battering ram. He drove the chainsword into the mage's midsection with a feral roar. The blade bit deep, tearing through flesh, bone, and sinew with a horrific screech. Black blood erupted in a torrent as the ogre howled in agony. Gravesender twisted the blade, ensuring it dug deeper, then ripped it free in a shower of gore.

The ogre mage staggered backward, its staff falling from its slackening fingers. It collapsed to its knees, gasping, as blood pooled around it. Gravesender stood over the dying beast, his chainsword dripping. With a grim finality, he swung the blade in a wide arc, decapitating the creature in one clean stroke. The ogre's head hit the ground with a heavy thud, its lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void.

Gravesender turned to his brothers. His armor was spattered with black blood. "The path is clear!" he bellowed. His soldiers let out a cheer, their morale surging as they surged forward toward the final fortification. Gravesender reloaded his bolter, the weapon humming as it primed itself for the next challenge. "Onward, brothers! Victory awaits!"

Chapter 339 "Drazarith the Fencer, Demon of the Eternal Blade"

Harry floated silently down the dimly lit corridor, the ethereal cloud beneath his feet dissipating into wisps of green energy as it brushed the stone floor. The silence around him was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of dark magic that seemed to emanate from the very walls. Harry's eyes, enhanced by his arcane sight, scanned every inch of the hallway, searching for the source of the sinister energy.

Descending a spiraling flight of stairs, he moved deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels. The air grew colder, the weight of dark magic pressing against his senses like an invisible tide. Finally, he halted. Just ten feet ahead, a faintly glowing runic line stretched across the floor, running from wall to ceiling. The intricate symbols pulsed faintly, radiating an aura of containment—a barrier. Harry studied the line intently, his fingers twitching as he considered his options.

Before he could act, a hidden panel in the stone wall slid open with a soft grind, revealing a figure who stepped out with a calculated, almost theatrical air. Harry's gaze snapped to the stranger, his body tensing as the figure emerged fully into the corridor.

The being stood at least six feet tall, his presence as striking as his appearance. Skin as black as polished obsidian seemed to absorb the dim light, his angular features sharply defined under his wide-brimmed hat. A long, elegant phoenix feather adorned the hat, its fiery plume adding a touch of surreal beauty. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, like embers smoldering beneath a thin veil of ash, and his goatee and mustache were immaculately groomed.

His clothing was equally ornate. He wore a tailored doublet in rich purple and blue, its elaborate embroidery glinting faintly as he moved. Over the doublet, a flowing tabard of deep blue and black hung regally, its edges trimmed in silver thread. Breeches fastened neatly below the knee paired with tall, polished black leather boots that gleamed even in the dim corridor. Draped over his shoulder was a flowing cape, its dark fabric shifting like a liquid shadow.

A finely crafted sword hung at his side, the hilt wrapped in ornate silver filigree that shimmered faintly with magical energy. The stranger inclined his head, piercing red eyes locking onto Harry's with an unnerving calm. A faint, knowing smile played on his lips as he spoke, his voice smooth and deep, carrying an undertone of menace.

"Greetings, young warrior," he said, his words laced with an air of refinement and danger. "You walk into shadow unbidden. Tell me—what brings you to my domain?"

Harry tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk curling the edges of his lips as he regarded the flamboyant figure before him. "I'm here in search of the Lich who fancies himself a king," Harry said, his voice calm but carrying a note of quiet power.

The being burst into laughter, his voice echoing off the stone walls like the peal of a bell laced with mockery. "Oh, you mean good old Number 13 from the esteemed Council of Thirteen?" He exaggerated a mocking bow, his hat sweeping low with exaggerated flair. "Ah, yes, a lich's lich, if you catch my drift. No sense of humor, no honor—though, to be fair, being humorless and lacking honor are practically prerequisites for lichdom. Comes with the job description, you see."

Straightening, the being sighed dramatically, his crimson eyes alight with amusement. "But tell me, young one, why in the name of all things foolish would you march willingly into what will surely be your death? You're still young, a sapling yet to bloom, and though I can see you're strong, you've more pressing matters than being squashed by an overzealous bag of bones."

Harry's smirk deepened. "I may be young," he replied, his tone as steady as the magic crackling faintly around him, "but that doesn't mean I'm weak. Besides, I've got a knack for upsetting those who think themselves invincible."

The being raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, intrigued. "Bold words, I'll give you that. But forgive my poor manners—allow me to introduce myself." He swept into a low, theatrical bow, the feather on his hat dipping nearly to the floor. "I am Drazarith the Fencer, Demon of the Eternal Blade, at your service. Well," he amended with a sly grin, "not exactly at your service. Thanks to that blasted necromancer who summoned me, I'm technically bound here, like some second-rate hound. Imagine the indignity! A sword demon—a battle connoisseur, a maestro of the blade—reduced to playing guard dog for an upstart lich."

Harry chuckled, amused despite himself. "A sword demon, you say? You don't seem too pleased with your arrangement."

Drazarith groaned theatrically, one hand to his chest as though the very memory pained him. "Pleased? I'd sooner let a goblin forge my blade and call it art. That skeletal dullard trapped me here to keep intruders away. Me! Drazarith, the Deadly Duellist, the Saber Sovereign!" He gestured to the glowing runic line on the floor. "And this ridiculous barrier? It's not even my style. Too gaudy, no finesse. But alas, here I am."

Harry tilted his head. "You don't seem very invested in stopping me."

Drazarith straightened, brushing invisible dust from his tabard. "Well, I'm bound to try—terms of the summoning and all. But frankly, I wouldn't mind watching you wipe the smug grin off Number 13's skull. So, let's dance, shall we? A bit of blade work before you move along. Show me if you're as strong as you claim, young wizard."

Harry tilted his head slightly, his wands disappearing with a flick of his fingers as he took a small step forward, his movements relaxed but calculated. "Perhaps," he began, his tone almost conversational, "we could discuss an alternative arrangement before we meet blade to blade. I can't imagine you're thrilled about being stuck here, playing the role of a glorified watchman for a skeleton with delusions of grandeur."

Drazarith raised an amused brow, but Harry continued, pulling a small coin from his pocket and holding it up for the demon to see. The coin glinted faintly in the dim light, emblazoned with the unmistakable mark of the Club of Purgatory.

Harry smirked. "Instead of crossing blades, I could free you from this tedious prison and let you return wherever you truly belong. Half a drink on me, even," he added with a cheeky grin, shaking the coin slightly for emphasis.

Drazarith's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the corridor. "A member of Purgatory, are you?" He clapped his gloved hands together, the gesture almost mocking yet tinged with genuine amusement. "Well, now! This changes things. You're no ordinary boy, no simple wizard stumbling where he shouldn't. No, no—this makes things far more interesting. I must admit, young warrior, you've surprised me. I must know your name."

Harry gave him an innocent shrug, slipping the coin back into his pocket. "It seems my manners have been somewhat lacking. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Harry Potter."

Drazarith stilled for a moment as if tasting the name in the air. Then his sharp grin returned, his crimson eyes narrowing. "Harry Potter. Yes, a name that is yours… but not your true name."

Harry's smirk widened. "You're not wrong. A wizard doesn't go tossing around his true name in the presence of a demon—no offense—especially not one who's been trapped in a place like this. Call it a survival instinct."

Drazarith let out another booming laugh, clapping his hands together once more. "Ah, the young have finally learned some caution! A refreshing change. You've tricked me again, young Harry Potter. Wise beyond your years, indeed." His grin sharpened, revealing perfectly white teeth, which seemed more predatory than human. "And now, not only do you show restraint, but you flash the coin of Purgatory in my face and propose… an accord?"

Harry inclined his head slightly. "That's the gist of it. No tricks. No traps. I release you, and you can go about your business."

Drazarith's eyes glimmered with amusement and, for the first time, perhaps respect. "To be freed from this dull, soul-sucking chore of a posting? It's tempting. Very tempting. But humor me—what's the catch? Surely you want something in return."

Harry chuckled. "No catch. Consider it a gesture of goodwill. Everyone, even a sword demon, deserves the chance to choose their path."

Drazarith studied him for a long moment, then gave a low, theatrical bow. "Very well, Harry Potter. You have my attention. Let's make this 'accord' of yours."

Harry's grin widened as he extended his arm, gesturing toward the glowing runes that kept Drazarith tethered to his unwilling servitude. "Now we're talking," he said, his tone conversational but carrying an unmistakable edge of confidence. "Here's the deal: I break this summoning line and the binding spell that shackles you to that pompous bag of bones. You'll be free to go without obligation to him or anyone else."

Drazarith's crimson eyes narrowed thoughtfully, a sharp gleam of suspicion mixed with intrigue. "And in return?"

Harry raised a single finger. "In return, you give me your word of honor as a demon—assuming that's worth anything—that you will not attack me or anyone from my army. Simple as that."

Drazarith raised a brow, smirking. "Honor among demons? A bold wager, Potter. But go on…"

Harry's grin turned roguish as he flicked his fingers, and one, two, three, then a fourth coin bearing the mark of Purgatory shimmered into existence in his palm. The sight made Drazarith's smirk falter, his expression shifting to one of genuine surprise.

"This," Harry continued, holding up the first coin, "will take you straight to Purgatory. Tell Lilith to set you up with proper attire for the establishment. A room, on me, of course," he added, raising the second coin. "The third? That's for food and drink—"

"Ah, and the pleasures of the flesh," Drazarith interjected, his grin returning razor-sharp.

"—And the pleasures of the flesh," Harry confirmed, raising the fourth coin. "Everything you'll need to unwind after your long stint as a glorified guard dog."

For a moment, Drazarith said nothing, his glowing red eyes fixed on the coins. Then, slowly, he began to laugh—a deep, rumbling sound that echoed through the corridor. "Wait," he said, his laughter subsiding into a wry chuckle. "You know Lilith?"

Harry tilted his head innocently. "You could say we've crossed paths. She's the Matron Dé at Purgatory, and… let's say we're acquainted."

At that, Drazarith doubled over, laughing so hard that he nearly stumbled back against the wall. "Oh, this is too rich! You know Lilith, the Matron Dé of Purgatory?" He straightened up, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "Oh, fate truly has a wicked sense of humor."

"Something I'm missing?" Harry asked, raising a brow.

Drazarith's smile grew more expansive and genuine as he leaned closer. "She's my sister, Potter."

Harry blinked, then blinked again. "Wait—Lilith is your sister?"

"Of course!" Drazarith said, gesturing grandly with his free hand. "You didn't notice the family resemblance? She's the elder sibling, the ever-charming. I would love to hear how she became the Matron De of Purgatory. I haven't seen her in a thousand years—or maybe a thousand and a half, give or take a few centuries. Time gets fuzzy when you're stuck in one dreary dimension."

Harry let out a low whistle. "Well, how about that? You're going to have a reunion on me."

Drazarith's smile softened, something almost wistful flickering in his eyes. "That," he said, his voice quieter now, "might make this whole ordeal worth it."

You have your accord, Harry Potter, Drazarith replied. "I want to see how you break the king of bones runic line."

Harry knelt before the glowing runic line, his hands pressed against the cold stone floor as he began to chant. His voice carried a rhythm, low and commanding, the ancient words rolling off his tongue with surprising ease. Across from him, Drazarith watched intently, his usual smirk fading as the first flash of magic rippled through the barrier. By the second pulse, the demon's expression had turned downright somber.

On the third and final surge, the barrier collapsed with a resounding crack that echoed through the hallway. The oppressive magical field dissipated, leaving only silence and a faint trace of shimmering light where the barrier once stood.

Drazarith shook his head slowly, his crimson eyes narrowing. "You… know Elvish?" he asked, his voice filled with incredulity and something close to suspicion.

Harry glanced up at him, brushing the dust from his hands. "What are you on about now? I don't speak Elvish. I was chanting to break the spell."

Drazarith stepped forward, gesturing animatedly. "Oh, but you were, young Potter. Those weren't just words; that was true, Elvish. And might I add, true Elvish cannot be spoken by anyone but an elf. It's in their blood."

Harry frowned, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Look, I don't even know what true Elvish is. I was reciting the words I needed to break the line."

Drazarith tilted his head, his glowing eyes studying Harry as if seeing him for the first time. Then, without warning, the demon leaned in closer, his fingers pinching at the edges of Harry's ears. "Hmm. Slightly pointy. Not very, but pointy enough."

Harry swatted Drazarith's hand away, stepping back. "Oi! Hands off the merchandise."

But the demon wasn't done. He stepped back, mimicking Harry's face with exaggerated movements, pulling the corners of his eyes upward into a slant. "And those eyes of yours—slightly tilted, aren't they? A touch of the exotic. Could be elven."

Harry crossed his arms, his patience wearing thin. "You've got to be joking. I'm human—very human.

Drazarith straightened up, tapping a clawed finger against his chin. "Ah, but therein lies the problem. Elves haven't been in this realm for over three millennia since the great retreat to their plane. They shut themselves away when your kind—humans—won their freedom from the snakes. Only a madman or a fool would dare to enter their realm."

"Well, I'm not a madman," Harry quipped, rolling his eyes.

Drazarith arched a brow. "That's debatable."

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So, what are you saying? That I'm some kind of… elf hybrid?"

Drazarith's grin returned wide and mischievous. "Oh, I'm not saying anything, dear Harry. But if you're suddenly craving moonlight and poetry, maybe don't ignore the signs." He gave an exaggerated wink.

Harry groaned. "I break your chains, and this is the thanks I get? Elvish conspiracy theories?"

Drazarith laughed heartily, bowing mockingly. "Well, you did free me, Potter. Consider this insight into your mysterious past a bonus."

Harry crossed his arms, still trying to process Drazarith's ramblings about elves. " I might have slightly pointy ears, but I'm not an elf. And for the record, I am not a house-elf," he said firmly, glaring at the demon.

Drazarith burst into deep, rumbling laughter that echoed through the corridor. He clutched his stomach, his crimson eyes glowing brighter with mirth. "Oh, Potter, no! By the Abyss, no! You are not one of those elves." He paused, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "House-elves! What a cursed fate they suffer. You think you're one of those pitiful creatures?"

Harry tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean by 'cursed fate'? Aren't house-elves just... house-elves? Magic and tea towels?"

Drazarith's expression turned more serious as he leaned closer, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "Ah, but here is where mortal ignorance shines brightest. The creatures you call 'house elves' are not what they once were. No, Potter. Long ago, they were true elves—proud, powerful, and graceful."

Harry blinked. "Wait… what? You're saying house elves used to be like the elves in those old myths?"

"Exactly," Drazarith said, pointing a clawed finger. "When the true elves fled this realm to their plane of existence, not all of their kind went with them. Some stayed behind. Some, driven by fear or ambition, turned their backs on their kin and refused the call to retreat. They allied themselves with humanity—or sought power for themselves. But betrayal comes at a price."

Harry frowned. "A price?"

Drazarith nodded, his voice grim now. "The retreating elves cursed those who remained behind. Their bodies were twisted, their power diminished, and their stature reduced until they became the creatures you call house elves. Their servitude to wizards and witches? That's not tradition, Potter. That's part of the curse—an eternal penance for their betrayal."

Harry's stomach churned at the thought. "That's... horrifying."

"Oh, quite," Drazarith said with a nod, his grin returning. "But don't pity them too much. Despite their plight, they retain a fraction of their old magic, stronger in many ways than most wizards realize. But you? You are far from a house-elf, my dear Potter."

Harry snorted. "Good to know. I'd hate to start craving tea towels."

Drazarith chuckled again, his mood lightening. "No, Potter, you're something far more intriguing. And the fact that you can speak Elvish? Well, let's say that your mystery grows ever deeper."

Harry sighed, shaking his head. "Great. Another thing to add to my list of unanswered questions."

"Indeed!" Drazarith said, his smile sharp and mischievous. "But let's focus on the task at hand, shall we? The Lich awaits, and I would hate for you to be late to such a meeting."

But before you go, I think I shall give you a gift so you can return it to the Great king of bones. He motioned for Harry to follow him, and as he walked into the room, Drazarith's grin widened. He gestured toward the weapon mounted on an ornate pedestal in the center of the room. "There it is, young Potter—my spoils from a rather stubborn foe who thought his fancy sword would be enough to beat me. Foolish, but his loss is now your gain."

Harry stepped forward, his breath hitching as he focused on the sword. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, radiating an aura of grace and lethal power. The blade was a slender and elegant masterpiece forged from a gleaming metal that seemed to shimmer like liquid moonlight. Tiny veins of multicolored energy pulsed beneath the surface, giving it a living quality as though the sword held a heartbeat.

The blade's edge was impossibly sharp, tapering to a fine point. Arcane runes ran along the blade's flat, glowing faintly with hues that shifted between blue, green, red, and white, each representing the elemental planes. The colors danced together in a mesmerizing, ever-changing pattern, as though the sword was alive with the raw power of nature itself.

Its hilt was equally striking. Crafted from an unknown dark metal, it was wrapped in leather as soft as silk yet firm enough to offer an unyielding grip. The pommel was adorned with a single gemstone—a large, flawless opal—that seemed to hold the essence of a storm. Flashes of lightning and swirling clouds appeared when Harry tilted it ever so slightly.

The guard flared out with intricate filigree resembling an ancient tree's branches. Each branch was tipped with a tiny glowing rune. The design blended seamlessly into the weapon's elegance, showcasing beauty and functionality. The blade had unmistakable elven craftsmanship as if it had been forged by the hands of an ancient artisan whose work transcended time.

Drazarith's voice broke the silence. "This is no ordinary sword, Potter. It was forged millennia ago for an elven Bladesinger, imbued with the power of all four elemental planes. It strikes with the fury of fire, the earth's strength, the air's swiftness, and the water's flow. Its edge is honed to perfection, its balance flawless, and it can deflect even the most potent spells against its wielder. A true work of art—and, might I add, a weapon worthy of someone like you."

Harry reached out, his hand hovering over the hilt. The air around the sword seemed to hum with energy, making the hair on his arms stand on end. Finally, his fingers closed around the grip, and a surge of power coursed through him, warm and familiar, as though the sword recognized him.

"It's... alive," Harry murmured, marveling at the weapon.

"In a way, yes," Drazarith said, folding his arms. "It is tied to its wielder's will, amplifying their strength and magic in ways you'll soon discover. Now, go on—give it a swing."

Harry raised the sword, feeling its perfect balance in his hand. With a single slash, arcs of elemental energy crackled through the air, leaving a trail of sparks that faded like embers. The room seemed to hum in response, silently acknowledging the sword's immense power.

Harry turned to Drazarith, his voice firm. "This will do nicely."

Harry stared at Drazarith, gripping the sword tightly in his hand. "Why would you give me such a weapon? Why not keep it for yourself?"

The sword demon laughed, a rich, rolling sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Oh, young Potter, you think I am so foolish as to wield a cursed blade?" He gestured grandly at the sword. "This magnificent weapon, for all its beauty and power, comes with a... how shall we say... quirk. Only one with elven blood can wield it without suffering its wrath. It would burden me with a dull edge, slower tricks, and a frustrating lack of harmony. No, my talents are better served with less finicky tools."

Harry frowned, his brow knitting in confusion. "But I'm not an elf. My parents are both human. How could I possibly have elven blood?"

Drazarith raised a sharp eyebrow, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. "Are you so sure of that? Humans are so delightfully ignorant of their histories. Elves were not always as absent from your world as they are now. Bloodlines mingle, secrets are kept, and legacies get... complicated." He waved a hand as if brushing off Harry's concern. "Besides, do you look entirely human to you? Those slightly pointed ears, those angled eyes? They don't exactly scream pure human lineage."

Harry instinctively reached up and touched his ears, his mind spinning. "You're joking. My parents are both human—Lily and James Potter, nothing mysterious about them."

Drazarith laughed harder, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "Oh, young one, humans see what they wish to see. Your lineage is your mystery to unravel, not mine. But the sword recognizes its own, and clearly, it has decided you are worthy."

Harry glanced at the sword, the runes along its blade glowing softly as if in agreement. "So, you're saying I'm... part elf?"

Drazarith leaned forward, his grin widening, showing rows of razor-sharp teeth. "I'm saying, Harry Potter, that you are more than you believe yourself to be. You're a mystery, even to me—and that, my dear warrior, makes you so intriguing."

Harry narrowed his eyes at the demon. "And the champion you defeated? The Lich's chosen one? What happened to him?"

Drazarith smirked, his voice dripping with mock pity. "Ah, yes. The poor fool thought wielding a cursed blade against me would be his trump card. Instead, it was his undoing. It dulled in his hand, his swings grew sluggish, and he fell under my blade like a sack of potatoes. A cautionary tale, wouldn't you say?"

Harry shook his head, amused and baffled by the demon's theatrics. "And our Accord? Is it done?"

Drazarith's grin softened into something almost sincere. "We'd like to believe it is, wouldn't we? But I suspect our paths will cross again. Call my name if you ever need me, Potter. I will come—not out of obligation, but out of curiosity. After all, you're far too interesting to ignore."

"Harry, if you survive your little meeting with the King of Bones, touch his throne, and follow the stairwell down, you will see four large rooms. You will see what the Bone King used to help power him." Drazarith said, bowed low, and disappeared into the shadows with a cape flourish, leaving Harry standing in the chamber, the weight of his new weapon and his unanswered questions pressing.

Chapter 340 "Number 13"

Number 13 burst into his chamber, his heavy black robes trailing behind him as he slammed the iron doors shut. The chamber was dimly lit, the only source of light radiating from the massive crystal screen set atop a black stone pedestal. His skeletal hands trembled as he activated the device, a dark pulse of energy surging through the room before the crystal shimmered to life.

The eerie, shadowy visages of the Council of the Dead—known across forbidden circles as the Council of Thirteen—appeared before him. Thirteen cloaked figures, each emanating a presence that could freeze the marrow of the living, sat in their spectral seats. Number 1 loomed larger than the rest at the head, a formless shroud of swirling darkness. Number 5, his most vocal critic, leaned forward, his crimson eyes narrowing with contempt.

"Greetings, Thirteen. You look troubled," Number 1's voice resonated, deep and resonant, a sound like tombstones grinding together. "Is there something amiss?"

Number 13's red eyes burned with panic. "Something has gone wrong," he said, his voice rasping. The room felt colder as the council collectively focused their gaze on him.

"Explain yourself," Number 5 sneered, his disdain dripping like venom. "You have the War Troll General and his horde. You have the undead I bestowed upon you. You have the forces we agreed to send, legions more than sufficient to destroy a mortal rabble."

Number 13 shook his head violently, his hood slipping back to reveal the desiccated remains of his face. "It's over. The wards have fallen, the armies are in chaos, and—and—" he hesitated as if uttering the words would make them all the more real.

"Speak!" Number 1's voice cracked like a thunderclap, shaking the walls.

"They have dragons," Number 13 choked out.

The council fell into stunned silence. Even through their spectral projections, the weight of their disbelief was palpable. "Dragons?" Number 1's form writhed with sudden agitation, the shadows swirling faster around him. "Impossible. Dragons have not been seen on the battlefield in centuries."

"And yet they are here," Number 13 cried, his skeletal jaw clenched. "Flights of them—reds, blacks, blues—laying waste to my forces. The wards that should have held against mortal weapons are crumbling under their might. Fire rains from the sky. The ground trembles beneath their fury."

"Dragons?" Number 5's voice was barely above a whisper, his façade of confidence cracking. "How? Where did they come from?"

"It matters not where!" Number 1 roared, his form swelling with power and anger. "What matters is your failure, Thirteen. How could you allow this to happen? Did you not foresee this? Did you not prepare?"

"I could not foresee it," Number 13 hissed. "This is no mortal army—they are being led by something... someone far more dangerous. He bypassed the wards and brought dragons, and his forces fought precisely and purposefully. This is not a rabble. This is a reckoning."

The crystal projection flared violently as Number 1's presence rippled with fury, the shadows coiling tighter around his massive silhouette. His voice, a deep and resonant growl, filled the chamber like thunder rolling across a barren wasteland.

"We warned you, Thirteen!" Number 1 roared, his spectral form twisting in anger. "You were told! You were warned not to invade the lands of the living! The balance would tip, and the consequences would fall upon you. You have undone centuries of careful fear—our fear—that held the living in thrall. Now look at what you have wrought!"

The other council members murmured darkly, their forms flickering with agitation. Shadows stretched and warped along the chamber walls as their collective anger weighed heavy on Number 13's withered shoulders.

"I had no choice!" Number 13 bellowed back, his frustration and panic boiling over. "This is not the doing of the masses! They were broken! They were cowering! It was him. Two days ago, someone appeared on the battlefield—a warrior with war banners flying over his forces. A Platinum Dragon emblazoned on a field of black!"

The council went still. For the first time, silence reigned in the chamber. Number 1 slowly leaned back in his grand chair of ethereal smoke and bone, the swirling shadows calming ever so slightly.

"What did you say?" Number 1's voice was low now, a dangerous whisper that carried across the room like the hiss of a blade unsheathing.

"A Platinum Dragon!" Number 13 cried, his skeletal hand pointing accusingly at the crystal as though it were a witness to his plight. "A banner unlike anything I have seen—a symbol of power and legacy. He rallied them to his cause. And now the skies are filled with fire and dragons. Tiamat's dragons fight alongside his forces!"

The council erupted in murmurs, a cacophony of disbelief and concern. Number 5 was the first to regain his voice. "Impossible! Tiamat would never—could never—ally with the Platinum Dragon's kin!"

"It is true!" Number 13 screamed, his red eyes blazing like dying coals. "I saw it with my own eyes. Black, red, and blue dragons unleashed fury upon my armies. My wards crumbled, my undead were incinerated, and even the war trolls fell like chaff before the harvest. This is no coincidence!"

Number 1's glowing eyes narrowed, his form growing darker as he considered the implications. "The Potter standard," he muttered, almost to himself. "The Platinum Dragon… Bahamut's heraldry. And yet Tiamat's dragons… This is a paradox." He leaned forward again, his voice as cold as the grave. "The Potters are not mere mortals. They are a bloodline steeped in legend, their lineage old as time. Bahamut's protection has always loomed over their kind. But Tiamat's dragons fighting at their side…"

"Why?" Number 5 asked, his voice betraying unease. "Why would Tiamat's children turn their strength to this battle?"

Number 1 shook his head, his voice grim. "I do not yet know. But this is no accident, and no mere mortal led this charge. The Potters have always defied fate, bending it to their will, and now it seems they have drawn forces of unimaginable power to their banner."

"They will have no fear now!" Number 13 snarled, his voice hoarse with rage and terror. "The living will no longer tremble at our names whispered in the dark! They will rise against us!"

"Yes," Number 1 agreed solemnly. "And that is on you, Number 13. You have brought ruin to our council. But this… this changes everything."

The council sat silently, the weight of Number 1's words hanging heavy in the air. Number 13 slumped in defeat, his bony fists clenching as he turned to stare at the image on the crystal screen. The battlefield was still alive with fire and fury. Dragons wheeled through the darkened skies, their roars echoing across the ruins of his armies.

As the flames reflected in his crimson eyes, Number 13 whispered bitterly, "The Potters… and their damned dragons…"

Number 1, his form still shrouded in thought, hissed quietly, "This is far from over."

Chapter 341 "The Death of an Immortal"

The chamber shook as the heavy wooden doors exploded inward, shards of splintered wood scattering across the darkened floor like jagged shrapnel. The force of the blast hurled Number 13 off his feet, slamming him hard against the cold stone wall with a sickening thud. Dust and smoke hung in the air as the echoes of the explosion died down, and from the shadows, a figure stepped through with an undeniable presence.

It was Harry. His green eyes glowed faintly, brimming with power, and his movements were calm and deliberate, as though he had walked into the heart of death and found it wanting. In his right hand, the midnight-dark wand Aetherium Eclipsa pulsed with shadows, absorbing the room's dim light. In his left, the radiant Astrium Solaris shone like a shard of sunlight, golden threads of energy spiraling up its length, bathing the chamber in ethereal brilliance.

"I hope I'm not interrupting your little council," Harry said, his voice edged with quiet steel, "but I believe the Lich King and I have unfinished business to settle." His wands hummed with latent magic, crackling like a storm held at bay.

Number 13 sprang to his feet, rage twisting his skeletal features. His crimson eyes flared with malice. "You dare!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderous roar of hatred. Without hesitation, he raised his staff and fired—a volley of five sickly green Killing Curses, streaking toward Harry with blinding speed. The curses hissed and crackled through the air, promising death with every pulse of their sickly glow.

But Harry was ready.

Five small metallic spheres shot out like bullets from his belt, whirring to intercept the curses mid-flight. Each orb collided with a curse, erupting in searing light and sending shockwaves through the room. The Killing Curses dissipated in green flames, leaving Harry untouched as he stepped forward, his calm unbroken.

"You'll have to try harder," Harry said, his lips curling into a faint smile.

Number 13 growled, raising his staff to conjure a shimmering dark energy barrier as Harry lashed out with both wands. Aetherium Eclipsa spat streams of shadowy bolts while Astrium Solaris unleashed searing arcane light, the two opposing forces dancing and spiraling together as they hurtled toward the Lich King.

The arcane blasts collided with the shield, and the dark barrier flared violently, straining under the assault. Cracks of light spiderwebbed across its surface as the relentless bolts smashed into it, each impact sending shockwaves that rattled the walls. Number 13 snarled, his bony fingers gripping his staff tightly, sweat—or something akin to it—beading on his decayed brow.

The shield held, but only barely, flickering with desperation as its edges began to warp and distort. Number 13's eyes narrowed in disbelief as Harry advanced steadily, his wands glowing brighter with each step.

"Is this the best the Council of the Dead can muster?" Harry asked, his tone mocking but deadly serious. "You've had your time. Now it's over."

The Lich King's shield flared one final time as the cracks widened, and the force of Harry's magic pushed it to the brink.

Then, with a final deafening crack, it shattered.

Number 13 twisted to the side with an unnatural grace, his tattered robes swirling like shadows as he raised his staff. A cluster of black bolts erupted from its tip, each one shrieking through the air like the cries of the damned. Harry barely moved, his movements fluid and precise as he sidestepped each attack calmly. The bolts slammed into the far stone wall, exploding on impact with a roar, black fire licking outward and leaving charred craters in their wake.

Unfazed, Harry retaliated. With a flick of his right wand, Aetherium Eclipsa, a stream of crackling lightning erupted, jagged and feral, streaking across the chamber toward the Lich King. Number 13 snarled and spun his staff, summoning a barrier of shadow. The shield flared to life, dark and crackling, absorbing the force of the bolts. The impact echoed like a thunderclap, the shield shuddering violently under the relentless assault. Lightning crackled and danced across its surface. Each burst to carve fractures into the shadowy construct. The air filled with the acrid scent of ozone and burning magic.

"You'll break, sooner or later," Harry said, his voice steady, his green eyes locked on the lich.

Number 13 bared his teeth, spinning his staff above his head. "Burn!" he roared, slamming the staff into the stone floor. A wave of black fire erupted forward, screeching as it surged toward Harry, a malevolent tide devouring everything in its path. The flames roared, twisting like serpents, their black tendrils promising agony.

Harry stood firm, his expression unshaken. With a sharp motion, he brought both wands down in unison, slashing through the air. The ground trembled as a pulse of energy rippled outward. The wave of black fire split in two, the flames curving away from him as though forced by an invisible blade. They passed harmlessly on either side of him, charring the floor and walls in their wake.

Harry stood untouched in its aftermath when the fire died, his wands still aglow with power.

"Is that it?" he taunted, his lips curling into a confident smirk.

Number 13's red eyes flared with anger, the faintest hint of doubt flickering across his skeletal face as Harry began to step forward, power humming through the air with every stride.

Number 13 hissed through his skeletal teeth, his glowing crimson eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "You mock me, child!" he snarled, his voice layered with malice and an echo of centuries-long arrogance. With a sharp jab of his staff, tendrils of darkness erupted from the ground, twisting and writhing like serpents. They slithered forward, snapping at Harry's feet, striking with razor-sharp precision.

Harry's wands moved in a blur. With Aetherium Eclipsa in his right hand, he conjured radiant silver barriers, shimmering into place just in time to intercept the lunging tendrils. They collided with bursts of energy, the barriers holding firm but flickering under the strain. At the same time, Harry flicked his wrist with Astrium Solaris in his left hand, summoning arcs of radiant gold light. They crackled through the air, slicing cleanly through the dark tendrils, severing them and turning them to ash.

"You'll have to do better than that," Harry taunted, stepping forward, his wands glowing brighter with each passing moment.

Number 13 growled, slamming his staff onto the ground. The floor beneath them trembled as jagged spikes of obsidian erupted, launching toward Harry like spears. Harry leaped back, twisting mid-air to avoid the deadly shards. His cloak whipped around him as he landed in a crouch, one wand aimed forward.

"Tempestum Arcana!" he roared.

A cyclone of blue lightning exploded from his wand, the magic spiraling outward in a furious storm. The crackling energy engulfed the obsidian spikes, shattering them into splinters before hurling itself toward Number 13. The lich spun his staff again, summoning another shield of shadow to intercept the attack. The lightning smashed into the barrier with deafening force, and cracks spiderwebbed across the shield's surface.

Harry didn't let up. He raised Astrium Solaris and released a beam of molten light, its brilliance blinding. The beam slammed into the shield, which began to splinter further. Number 13 roared, sweat—if he could sweat—dripping from his form as his shield flickered violently under the combined onslaught. Finally, with a resounding crack, the barrier shattered into pieces, the remnants dissipating into smoke.

Harry was already moving before the lich could recover, his speed inhuman. He closed the distance between them in seconds, his wands poised like daggers. Number 13 snarled and swung his staff like a club, aiming for Harry's side. Harry ducked low, sliding beneath the strike, and as he passed, he lashed out with Aetherium Eclipsa, leaving a glowing silver slash across Number 13's robes. Black ichor hissed and burned where the magic touched.

"Enough of this!" Number 13 roared, his skeletal fingers twisting. The air turned heavy and cold, and the room darkened. From his staff, a black vortex spiraled upward, pulling the shadows of the chamber toward him. The vortex expanded, a swirling mass of malevolence. "Despair, mortal! For I am eternal!"

Harry felt the vortex's pull, the magic trying to drag him into its consuming void. He planted his feet, channeling his power. Aetherium Eclipsa glowed a bright silver-blue, and Astrium Solaris blazed gold like the sun.

"Not today," Harry said firmly. He crossed his wands over his chest and, with a shout, unleashed a blast of radiant energy. A sphere of silver and gold light erupted from him, pushing outward with unstoppable force. The light struck the vortex, and a deep rumbling filled the chamber as the two powers clashed.

The shadows screamed as they were burned away, and Number 13 staggered back, shielding his face as the light seared into him. His robes smoldered, and the dark energy around him began to unravel. Harry pressed his advantage, striding forward through the dying vortex, his wands still blazing.

"This ends now!" Harry declared, his voice echoing through the chamber.

Harry's wands vanished in a burst of silver and gold light, and in their place, the Bladesinger's Sword appeared in his hands. Harry's right arm was burning with the power of the reaper. The weapon hummed with a vibrant energy, its elven steel shimmering with an ethereal glow. Runes along the blade flared to life, pulsing with power drawn from the elemental planes, channeling fire, frost, lightning, and wind into its edge.

Number 13, sensing the power shift, growled with fury. "You think a blade will save you?" he sneered, raising his skeletal arm. His remaining magic surged violently through his broken form, a green glow forming at his fingertips. "Avada Kedavra!" he screamed, launching the Killing Curse with desperate finality.

Harry was already moving. The blade in his hands spun like liquid light as he stepped to the side, the deadly green magic flashing past him, crashing harmlessly against the wall and leaving a scorch mark in its wake. Harry's spin continued, fluid as a dance, and the sword came alive in his hands—a weapon born for elegance and destruction. Its edge sang through the air with a faint whistle.

With one swift stroke, the blade severed both of the Lich King's hands at the wrists. The skeletal appendages fell to the ground, the staff still clutched tightly in their bony grip. Number 13's crimson eyes widened in shock as the magical power coursing through his staff sputtered and died. Black ichor seeped from the wounds, hissing as it evaporated into foul smoke.

"You—" Number 13 choked, stumbling back, but Harry prevented him from recovering. Completing his spin, Harry could feel the power of the Repear infuse his elven sword. Harry brought the Bladesinger's Sword in a downward arc. The blade flared brighter, igniting with elemental fury. It bit into Number 13's back, slicing from the base of his neck through his spine and down to his lower back. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the chamber, and a surge of radiant energy exploded from the point of impact, engulfing the lich in holy light.

Number 13 staggered forward, his skeletal arms flailing helplessly. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground, his movements jerky and unnatural. A haunting groan escaped him as the magic holding his body together unraveled. His chest glowed violently as his Soul Gem—hidden where a heart would have been—shattered with a deafening crack. The gemstone exploded, fragments of black crystal scattering across the floor, releasing a shadowy essence that screeched as it rose like dark smoke.

The room grew impossibly cold as the Grim Reaper appeared, its hooded figure towering silently over the fallen lich. The scythe in its skeletal hands gleamed, its curved blade reflecting the ethereal glow of Number 13's escaping essence. The remaining council members froze in terror, their forms trembling, as they watched from their Hidden fortress the fate of one of their own.

Number 13's hollow gaze lifted to the Reaper. For the first time in centuries, fear consumed him. "No... I am eternal!" he screamed, his voice breaking, his body trembling as if held together by sheer force of will.

Harry stepped forward, his expression calm, his blade still pulsing with light. He circled the kneeling lich, his boots echoing in the silent chamber. Stopping before him, Harry met the lich's burning eyes with his steely gaze.

"You should not have attacked the land of the living," Harry said, his voice low, final.

With a single, swift stroke, the Bladesinger's Sword descended. The blade cleaved cleanly through the lich's neck, and Number 13's head tumbled to the ground with a dull thud. Black essence exploded upward, a dark, swirling mass shrieking in despair as it tried to escape.

The Grim Reaper tilted its head slightly, a ghostly smile stretching across its unseen face. The Reaper swung its scythe through the black essence, severing it from this realm. The shadowy screams echoed for a heartbeat before fading into nothing, consumed by the Reaper's unrelenting judgment.

As the room fell into silence, Number 13's decapitated body crumpled to the ground, the last remnants of his power dissipating like smoke in the wind. Harry lowered his sword, the light along its edge slowly dimming as the battle's fury receded. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The Grim Reaper turned its hollow gaze toward Harry, giving him a slow, approving nod before vanishing into shadow, leaving nothing but a chill in the air. Harry stared at Number 13's fallen remains momentarily, then smiled faintly.

"It's over," he whispered, sheathing the Bladesinger's Sword across his back. He turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, the weight of the battle behind him and victory lighting his path forward.

The remaining council members were too afraid to move as the legend of Harry Potter carved its place again in history.

Harry extended his hand, his magic swirling like a controlled storm. A capture spell erupted from his fingertips, latching onto the remains of Number 13. The Lich's shattered body, along with his obsidian staff still clutched in severed skeletal hands, was engulfed in a glowing sphere of energy. With a sharp twist of Harry's wrist, the sphere shimmered and vanished, taking the remains of Number 13 with it.

Satisfied, Harry exhaled and straightened, gazing at the crystal screen dominating the far wall. Only now did he realize it was active, and twelve figures' cold, piercing stares met his own. Dark silhouettes shrouded in shadow, their forms wavered as if their presence distorted reality. Their crimson eyes glowed ominously from beneath hoods or crowns, fixated on the young wizard who had just reduced their council to twelve.

Harry tilted his head, smiling faintly. "Ah, you must be the esteemed Council of Twelve," he said, calm but edged with confidence. "My apologies—well, not really—for reducing your numbers. I suppose lucky Number 13 wasn't so lucky after all."

The council leader, seated on an elaborate black throne, leaned forward. The glow of his eyes intensified, and his deep, hollow voice reverberated through the chamber. "Who are you, mortal, to challenge the Council of the Dead?"

Harry returned the stare without flinching. His sharp and purposeful smile widened. "I am the Lord of Death, though I prefer Harry Potter, thank you very much." He stepped closer to the screen, his magic still crackling faintly around him like residual lightning. "And this is the second time I've had to clean up after an undead uprising. I don't want to deal with a third."

A ripple of unease spread through the council, though most tried to mask it. The leader's expression remained unreadable, but his voice carried a dangerous calm. "What would you ask of us?"

"Simple." Harry spread his arms, palms open. "Stay out of the invasion business. Stop attacking the land of the living. You've always lurked in the shadows, pulling strings quietly and keeping to your twisted corners of the world. But this?" Harry gestured to the now-empty chamber where Number 13 had fallen. "This was an army. A full-scale invasion. And you failed miserably."

Another figure, perhaps Number 5, scoffed from his seat. "We had no part in this folly! Number 13 acted on his own. He defied us and thought himself untouchable." He sneered. "He was a fool."

Harry's emerald eyes glinted as he fixed the council with an unrelenting stare. "Then let his failure serve as a lesson. If I hear any of you—any whisper, any movement—attempting another invasion, I will hunt every one of you down. You've seen what I can do. I've developed a particular skill set for tracking and eliminating your kind."

A heavy silence fell over the room, the council absorbing his words. Harry's tone never faltered, steady as steel. "And don't think to come after me or mine. My friends, my family—harm so much as a hair on their heads, and I promise you, the hunt will begin immediately." He smirked. "And I believe I have allies who'd love to join me in bringing down the lot of you."

Number 1, the apparent leader, sat back on his throne, fingers steepled as he considered the young wizard. Finally, his lips curled into a smile, though there was no warmth behind it—only acknowledgment of power. "You are a bold one, Lord of Death. Perhaps… even capable of more than we gave you credit for."

"Flattery won't save you," Harry replied coolly. "Do we have an accord?"

The council exchanged silent glances, their glowing eyes flickering in the shadows. Number 1 inclined his head. "Very well. The council will stay out of the affairs of the living. We will ensure no other fool attempts what Number 13 did."

Harry nodded, satisfied. "Good choice. You'll find it's much safer that way."

The crystal screen shimmered as the council's image faded, but not before Number 1's voice echoed one last time. "We will remember this meeting, Harry Potter. And we will watch."

Harry watched the screen darken and crossed his arms, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Feel free to watch all you want," he muttered. "Just stay out of my way."

Chapter 342 "Harry Meets the Potter Elves"

Harry stood in the now silent throne room, his green eyes sweeping the space. Books and ancient manuscripts lined the tables. Their bindings cracked with age and power. Several ornate chests engraved with runes rested against the back wall like sentinels guarding a treasure trove of secrets. The crystal screen still sat atop its pedestal, now dark and lifeless. Waving his wand, Harry cast his capture spell in measured arcs, the shimmering light pulling artifacts and books individually. Each time the spell touched an object, it vanished, safely transported to his vault.

The room grew emptier until only the throne remained.

Harry stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the gem embedded at the throne's apex, just as Drazarith had instructed. Tentatively, he placed his hand upon it. The gem pulsed with a faint blue glow, and the ground beneath him trembled. Slowly, a section of the floor opened, stairs spiraling downward, and Harry cautiously descended. His breath caught in his throat as his boots touched the last step.

The sight before him was staggering.

Four massive rooms stretched out in all directions, each filled to the ceiling with gold—mountains of coins stacked high, the reflective shine of treasure creating waves of light that danced along the walls. The air seemed to hum with energy, and Harry could feel it—magic infused into every coin, every nugget, amplifying the latent power within the pyramid. The wealth stretched so far that Harry couldn't see the end, the sheer enormity of it leaving him momentarily speechless.

He checked again for traps, his wand flicking through careful arcs of detection spells. Nothing. No wards, no curses—just gold upon gold.

"Dobby! Kreacher!" Harry called, and with two soft pops, his loyal elves appeared.

"Master survived the ugly Bone King!" Kreacher declared proudly, his voice crackling with loyalty. "Kreacher knew you would prevail."

Dobby nodded fervently, his eyes shining. "Dobby is ready to help Master Harry Potter in any way!"

Harry smiled, his earlier tension easing slightly. "I need your help. Call forth our friends—the ones we've been helping escape. Ask them if they will aid me in emptying these four rooms. I want the treasure safely moved to Fort Freedom. Also, have them count everything that's here."

The elves exchanged a glance and nodded eagerly. Dobby raised his hand, and suddenly, the air was filled with hundreds of pops. Over two hundred elves materialized, but they were different—taller, stronger, and no longer resembling the frail creatures enslaved for centuries. Standing nearly five feet, the elves were clad in fitted tunics and simple armor, their grey skin glowing faintly as if kissed by arcane energy. Their eyes shone with brilliance—blue, gold, violet—each radiating power. Their muscles rippled beneath their sleeves, a testament to their training alongside the Potter Legion elves.

Harry blinked in surprise as one of them, a commanding figure with a sharp jawline and bright amber eyes, stepped forward. He bowed with grace. "Great Harry Potter, we are here to serve."

Harry tilted his head. "I don't believe we've met before."

The elf smiled, his aura calm and confident. "I am Thalorin, chosen as the leader of the new Potter Elves. We have accepted your bond and are no longer what we once were. Your magic has freed us, elevated us, and we will call for more of our kind."

Harry was stunned. The realization settled in as he looked around at the elves, each radiating newfound strength and purpose. They had chosen him. They were no longer enslaved or broken—they were free, powerful, and willing to follow him willingly.

"Thank you," Harry said sincerely, his voice heavy with gratitude. "Your help means more than you know. We'll talk soon, Thalorin."

Thalorin bowed once more. "We live to aid the legacy of the Potter name, Master Harry. This task shall be done."

With a single motion, the elves spread out through the gold-filled rooms, their hands glowing as they channeled arcane energy to levitate vast quantities of treasure. Harry watched in awe as the newly reborn Potter Elves moved with precision and focus, weaving magic like artists at work, transferring the treasure into portals bound for Fort Freedom.

Harry smiled, his heart swelling. The elves were not what they used to be—and neither was he. The legacy of the Potters was changing and growing stronger, and as he watched his allies work, he knew this was just the beginning.