"Buzz, buzz..."
"Enemy attack!"
"Enemy attack!"
Alarms blared throughout the former headquarters of the Magical Congress, now the base of the Saints. The sharp, urgent warning signals echoed repeatedly as amplification spells magnified the alerts, ensuring that every wizard within the stronghold heard them.
Almost instantly, wizards clad in black robes stormed out of the building, their wands at the ready. The Saints reacted swiftly, not out of panic but out of preparedness. They had long anticipated an attack from the remnants of the Magical Congress.
However, this particular assault was both expected and unexpected.
Most had assumed that the Magical Congress (MAC) would employ subterfuge, setting traps to lure the Saints out rather than launching a full-scale assault. After all, attacking a heavily fortified stronghold head-on would undoubtedly come at a steep price.
Some believed that if an attack were to occur, it would be directed at Ilvermorny, the former magical school that now served as the Saints' central headquarters—where their leader, Gellert Grindelwald, resided. A surprise assault on Ilvermorny could potentially end the battle in a single decisive strike.
Yet, contrary to these expectations, the Magical Congress had chosen a direct assault on this base instead.
This move puzzled many within the Saints. Unlike Ilvermorny, which had transformed into the heart of their operations, this base was a strategic stronghold, boasting defensive enchantments just as formidable—if not more so—than those of the school.
From a tactical perspective, attacking here seemed counterproductive. The Magical Congress would only suffer greater casualties without significantly weakening the Saints' foundation. Some among them had theorized this possibility, but it was widely regarded as a less likely scenario. Consequently, while they had made certain preparations, they had not fully fortified themselves for an all-out siege.
But now, the battle was upon them.
And there was no choice but to meet it head-on.
Footsteps echoed through the stone corridors.
Grindelwald's most trusted elite, the feared Elend, also known as the "Shadow One," strode forward. His steps were slow, deliberate, almost unbothered by the chaos unfolding around him.
Compared to the wizards rushing past him—some eager for battle, others struggling to contain their panic—his presence was strikingly calm.
Even amidst the urgent cries of war, Elend exuded confidence.
He was a man with thick black hair, deep-set eyes that shimmered with a dangerous intellect, a sharply defined nose, and a firm, resolute chin. He wore the traditional black robe of the Saints, but unlike the others, his was adorned with a silver embroidery of a cheetah—a mark of distinction. Above his chest gleamed the unmistakable silver emblem of the Saints.
Yet, it was the scar on his left cheek—a square-shaped mark—that often drew the most attention.
Even now, under attack, he remained composed, moving with a calculated elegance. However, despite his placid demeanor, a subtle aura of ruthlessness radiated from his otherwise expressionless face, leaving those around him uneasy.
His movements were unhurried, yet before anyone could register it, he had already reached the outer perimeter.
Boom!
Crackle!
Roar!
The deafening sounds of battle erupted as Elend stepped into the open.
A vast, pale golden defensive shield shimmered in the air, surrounding the Saints' base. It pulsed with raw magic, holding strong against the relentless assault of the Magical Congress.
Inside the shield, wizards raised their wands, launching counterattacks while reinforcing their defenses. Deadly curses, sharp as blades, shot through the barrier, striking at the enemy forces beyond.
Outside, an array of magical onslaughts battered the shield—fireballs, bolts of lightning, gales of wind, and even poisonous frost twisted together in a deadly storm, illuminating the battlefield with flashes of color. The furious attack rained down mercilessly, each strike attempting to shatter the golden barrier.
The resistance was fierce.
Every few seconds, the defensive shield flared brightly as it absorbed each devastating blow. The protective runes etched into the fortress' walls glowed with pulsating energy, constantly drawing and channeling magic to reinforce the barrier.
It was a brutal contest of endurance.
Yet, Elend merely watched.
His sharp gaze swept across the battlefield, noting the mixture of emotions in the air—excitement, fear, determination, and dread. He could almost smell it.
And for the first time in a long while, a cruel smile curled on his lips.
This was war.
Not the secret skirmishes in dark alleys. Not the political games played behind closed doors.
This was an all-out magical war.
He had fought alongside Grindelwald during World War I, enduring countless battles, but even among them, conflicts of this scale and intensity were rare.
And to be honest?
He wasn't worried in the slightest.
If anything, he was thrilled.
His dark eyes flickered, shifting to a faint golden hue, his pupils subtly expanding as a rush of energy coursed through him.
Then, something caught his attention.
His amusement vanished.
His pupils shrank.
Beyond the golden barrier, standing amidst the enemy ranks, a figure was watching him—an old man, with a kind yet piercing gaze, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
Beside him, clad in resplendent golden armor, stood a smaller but no less imposing figure—an elf.
Dumbledore.
The Goblin King.
In an instant, Elend snapped his eyes shut, severing the connection.
Powerful wizards, particularly those like Dumbledore, could use mere eye contact to trace, attack, or even curse an opponent.
He wasn't foolish enough to let the battle be decided before it even began.
BOOM!
Another wave of fireballs and magical blasts rained down, shaking the very ground.
The golden defensive shield flickered under the relentless pressure.
A sharp crackling noise filled the air.
Cracks began to spread across the protective dome.
The expressions of the Saints turned grim. They had focused on trying to eliminate the enemy from behind the safety of the barrier, but the opposition had maintained their distance—equipped with goblin-forged defenses, making direct attacks nearly ineffective.
All they had managed to do was slowly drain the enemy's magic reserves.
On the other side of the battlefield, Dumbledore and the Goblin King, Tunan, gazed upon the weakening barrier.
Dumbledore's face remained calm, unchanging as ever.
But beside him, Tunan's lips curled in satisfaction.
The morale among the wizards and goblins surged as they raised their weapons, eager for the final push.
Then, in a commanding voice, an amplified order rang out:
"All forces, prepare for the final assault! Groups one, three, five, and seven—attack the eastern gate with lightning, fire, and wind spells! The remaining forces, conserve your magic for the next phase!"
A commander wizard barked out the orders, his excitement barely concealed. Victory seemed imminent.
BOOM!
The Goblin King raised his scepter, directing an attack blessed with the power of destiny. The fate-weaving magic intertwined with the coordinated spell barrage, doubling the impact.
The golden shield trembled—
Crack! Crack! Crack!
And then, with a deafening shatter, it collapsed.
At that moment, Elend raised his wand high.
His voice, cold and unwavering, echoed across the battlefield.
"Everyone, listen to my command—cast the Killing Curse!"
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