Chapter 329: Fight in Azkaban
But Grindelwald was different.
His soul was that of an ordinary man—nothing extraordinary when compared to Cyrus or Voldemort.
One misstep, and Morgana's power would destroy him.
Yet Cyrus didn't say a single word of warning.
He knew it would be pointless. From the moment Dumbledore died, Grindelwald had already resolved himself to death. Now, the only thing keeping him alive was his thirst for vengeance.
Death?
What was there to fear?
It was nothing more than the destruction of the flesh.
Under the watch of such overwhelming magical power, even the threads of fate could not escape Grindelwald's magical eye.
Those interwoven silver strands formed a vast web of destiny—and in that moment, he caught a glimpse of something divine.
Towering gray-white spires, like gravestones rising across a barren wilderness, shadows and death encroaching once again… spirits drifting through the air!
Soon, the magic surrounding Grindelwald receded like the tide.
He looked exhausted, suddenly drained of energy—but the fury and murderous intent in his eyes burned even hotter!
"He's in Azkaban," he said.
There was no need for further explanation. Cyrus simply nodded solemnly.
Then, the two of them vanished at the same time.
Only a faint echo lingered in the air.
...
North of the North Sea.
Azkaban.
It was as dark as ever here, like a bottomless abyss. Light from the outside world couldn't reach this place. Thick, oppressive clouds hung in the air like spilled ink that refused to disperse.
Dementors floated like wraiths through the sky. Unlike before, they no longer drifted aimlessly—instead, they huddled together in fear, as if some terrifying monster were controlling them.
There was no need to guess who it was.
Cyrus once again stepped onto this gray land. With November approaching, Azkaban was bitterly cold. The sea spray felt like icy shards, making one instinctively shrink back.
Of course, neither Cyrus nor Grindelwald felt the cold.
Their powers had long rendered them immune to heat and frost alike.
"He's made himself king here," Grindelwald remarked, noting the strange behavior of the Dementors—along with the figure standing atop the tower, who had sacrificed the lives of all Azkaban's prisoners.
The so-called "Death."
"Death" clearly noticed them too.
He raised the Elder Wand in his hand, but didn't cast any spells. Instead, he sounded a silent call to arms—and in the next instant, the sky filled with Dementors surging toward them like a swarm of locusts!
In the blink of an eye, the frigid air froze the entire sea.
Cyrus and Grindelwald now seemed like lone intruders caught in the heart of an Antarctic blizzard.
The icy wind sliced at their skin like blades; even the jagged rocks along the coast were chipped and reshaped by its force.
"Looks like we'll have to deal with these things first," Cyrus said.
He exchanged a glance with Grindelwald—and in the next moment, Cyrus transformed into a golden Thunderbird!
The instant the great bird spread its wings and let out a piercing cry, golden lightning struck down with unstoppable force.
BOOM!!!
In a flash, the thunderbolts scorched a massive swarm of Dementors into charred husks—Cyrus had long since mastered ancient magic, and by fusing the silver light of his Patronus with his Animagus form, he had created one of the most effective weapons against such creatures of darkness!
Grindelwald was not about to be outdone.
In the past, he might have struggled against these creatures—but with Morgana's power now coursing through him, things were different.
Morgana's magical legacy was born of shadowy emotions, and Dementors were among the darkest entities in existence. They were created from the overwhelming pain and hatred of Muggles tortured to death, and they craved beauty, joy, and happiness only to consume them—desperate to fill their hollow, empty cores.
Now, Grindelwald used a completely opposite method to fight them.
Unlike the Patronus Charm, he unleashed an even more terrifying wraith—an infernal, black-and-crimson dragon that erupted from the depths of hell. The moment it emerged, it extended its claws, seizing Dementors in its grip—it was utterly rabid, hunting them down and devouring them alive!
Despair consuming despair—pure darkness feeding on even darker shadows.
Even Cyrus couldn't help but cast a sidelong glance at the terrifying spectacle.
It certainly looked like Grindelwald had gone mad—no sane person would have done what he just did.
After all, every Dementor was born from the desperate scream of a helpless soul at the moment of death.
To consume such pure, terrifying despair as nourishment was to create something monstrously uncontrollable.
In other words—if Grindelwald lost control, the power of that black dragon would immediately consume him. He would become the vilest thing in the world, utterly corrupted, with not even his soul remaining.
Clearly, he had fully committed to sacrificing everything if it meant killing that murderer.
Now, the black dragon and the golden Thunderbird circled the gray-white tower, which stood like it had been forged from bone.
At the top stood the figure holding the Elder Wand—the one who looked exactly like Cyrus—or no, his appearance had already changed. In an instant, it was as if a thousand years had been carved from his flesh. His cheeks were sunken, his body hunched and withered.
"Ahh~ Welcome, my offerings," he said gleefully as he saw Cyrus and Grindelwald arrive, like a predator delighted to see prey step willingly into his trap.
"You, and you," he pointed at Cyrus and Grindelwald, "your souls belong to me!" He spread his arms wide and shouted, "To the great and mighty Death!"
"And your life," Grindelwald snarled, "belongs to me!"
And with that, the brutal battle erupted in full.
Neither Cyrus nor Grindelwald had any intention of exchanging words with the self-proclaimed "Death." If he wasn't truly Death, there was nothing to say—and if he was, there was even less reason to speak.
Grindelwald immediately fired a spell. Now, though they weren't casting the Killing Curse, every spell they unleashed carried tremendous force—each one deadly in its own right!
Cyrus's lightning pierced through the frozen sea. He reverted to human form, and the Serpent wood wand in his hand was nearly pushed to its limits by the overwhelming flow of magic!
The wand was screaming in protest.
But he had no time to care—he could only keep fighting!
He summoned fire, and the raging flames nearly scorched the coast surrounding Azkaban. Scalding steam surged into the low-hanging sky, only to fall moments later as boiling, searing rain.
Grindelwald once again recalled the black dragon into his body. His aging frame couldn't withstand such intense combat; only that dark, devouring magic allowed him to keep going!
The black dragon had devoured so many Dementors that it could no longer even digest them. From its body, countless faceless, screaming souls writhed to break free. Along its inky wings, a forest of skeletal hands stretched outward—like corpses trapped in a swamp, unable to escape.
Only the so-called "Death" stood untouched. He had nothing—nothing but the unbeatable Elder Wand.
Yet even so, he was able to hold his own against both Cyrus and Grindelwald.
With the faintest lift of his arm, the towering white spire rose from the ground and launched forward like a spear of stone, hurling toward Cyrus and Grindelwald!
"Confringo!"
Grindelwald didn't even speak the incantation aloud. With just a glance, the towering white structure—dozens of meters tall—was instantly blasted to dust, disintegrating into ash before it could strike.
With that, Azkaban was no more.
Next, Cyrus plunged his wand into the rocky ground of the island. In the blink of an eye, the land seemed to come alive—heaving and writhing, transforming into a towering creature that rose from the earth, reaching out to drag the tiny "Death" into a bottomless hell.
But "Death" was still Death.
With a mere tap of the Elder Wand, the monstrous form created from the island lost all vitality.
Even the island itself ceased to exist.
It shattered into countless black fragments that sank into the sea, swept away by the surging ocean currents.
The place once known as Azkaban has now vanished completely.
"Death" hovered in midair, looking down on Cyrus and Grindelwald, who also stood suspended above the ocean.
"How pitiful. Did you truly think you could be a match for me?" he said, his gaze filled with pity.
"What's so impossible about that?" Cyrus shot back, his body wrapped in magic as he rose to meet the figure at equal height. "You call yourself Death? But in my eyes, there's nothing special about you at all."
His voice dripped with scorn.
"You borrow the name of Death, yet every move you make is laughably pitiful."
Ambushing Dumbledore was just one part of it. After killing him, the man before them had taken the Elder Wand. Clearly, he lacked confidence in his own strength—otherwise, he wouldn't have needed to do any of that.
After all, if Death truly existed, then the so-called Elder Wand would be nothing more than a twig snapped off a tree. Would a god really care about something like that?
"You think you're powerful, but in reality, you're all bluster and no substance. You're afraid… afraid of being defeated by us," Cyrus said. "And you really thought that by borrowing Death's name and using Voldemort's body, I wouldn't know who you really are?"
"What?" The self-proclaimed "Death" visibly froze upon hearing Cyrus's words, surprise and confusion flashing in his eyes.
"You say you know who I am?" he asked.
Even Grindelwald paused in surprise.
"You're just like Voldemort—pitiful," Cyrus said coldly. "That body can't contain two souls, can it… despicable Herpo the Foul?"
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