Chapter 556
BOOM!
The storm clouds gathered above, plunging the world into darkness as though night had fallen prematurely. Thunder roared, its echoes rolling across the Scottish highlands, seeming to freeze time itself. The air crackled with magical tension so thick it could almost be tasted.
Turan, King of the Goblins, stood his ground as the tempest raged above him. His cloak, a treasured heirloom of the goblin nation dating back to the Founders' era, billowed around his diminutive yet powerful form. The ancient fabric, woven with protective enchantments, sensed the imminent threat and began to radiate an ethereal sapphire glow. Within seconds, an impenetrable shield of magic enveloped Turan, King of the Goblins.
Inside his magical cocoon, Turan felt the soul-crushing aura weaken, allowing him to draw a ragged breath. The pressure was immense—unlike anything he had encountered in his three hundred years of life. The very air seemed to compress around him, making each breath a struggle. More troubling still, he found himself unable to draw upon the ambient magic that normally saturated the world around him.
"It's as though the world itself has rejected me," he muttered, his gravelly voice barely audible above the storm.
When he attempted to forcibly channel the surrounding magical energies, his body convulsed in agony as the magic rebounded violently within him. Turan grimaced, sharp teeth clenched behind thin lips. He was now limited to the magical reserves within his body and the enchanted treasures accumulated over centuries by the goblin nation.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Thunder crashed overhead as waves of midnight-blue lightning struck the shield protecting Turan. The bolts skittered across the dome's surface, dispersing their energy without causing meaningful damage. The ease with which the Goblin King deflected these initial strikes seemed to infuriate the storm—or whatever intelligence directed it.
A deafening roar echoed across the landscape as a sphere of concentrated blue-white lightning, pulsing with raw magical energy, materialized overhead. It hovered for a moment, as if taking aim, before hurtling directly at Turan.
CRASH!
The lightning sphere collided with the shield, which flashed frantically as it struggled to absorb the impact. The two magical forces—one ancient goblin craft, the other seemingly the wrath of nature itself—warred against each other in a blinding display of power. For an instant, everything was consumed by a violent white light, accompanied by a sound like the world splitting apart.
When visibility returned, Turan's once-impenetrable shield was covered in a web of fine cracks, the magic barely holding together. The cloak around his shoulders smoldered, its enchantments taxed nearly to breaking point.
The electrical discharge left Turan momentarily paralyzed, his muscles locked and unresponsive. Gradually, feeling returned to his limbs as the shield slowly began to repair itself. Even so, the Goblin King knew with grim certainty that it could not withstand another attack of equal magnitude.
With a fluid motion born of decades of combat experience, Turan raised a gnarled hand. A purple cloak materialized above him, shimmering with protective runes that glowed like distant stars. It settled over the damaged blue shield, reinforcing it with a multicolored barrier of magic.
"Another ancestral treasure used," he thought grimly. "Not how I had planned to use my arsenal today."
As King of the Goblins, Turan's greatest weapon had always been his wealth—specifically, the magical artifacts and treasures hoarded by his people over centuries. He had brought many such items today, anticipating a confrontation with Grindelwald. Instead, he found himself caught in an elaborate trap, fighting for his very existence against powers beyond his comprehension.
Still, his preparation had bought him precious time. While the storm continued to rage, Turan closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for magical traces within his body. A less experienced wizard might have continued blindly fighting against the heavenly assault, but Turan's centuries of experience told him that he needed to address the root cause—to understand why the world itself seemed intent on his destruction.
"What did Grindelwald do to me?" he pondered, his mind racing through possibilities. "What magic could turn the very elements against a single being?"
He knew that even if he survived this onslaught, his troubles were far from over. Somewhere nearby, three wizards were watching, waiting. He could sense their presence, though they remained hidden from view. If he could locate them, he would gladly take them with him to the afterlife. But first, he needed to understand what was happening to him.
Turan methodically examined himself. His internal magic seemed unchanged, albeit chaotic from the repeated assaults. His physical form appeared normal. There were no foreign objects attached to him, no pulling sensations that might indicate a tracking or binding charm.
"What could it be?" he wondered frantically.
Suddenly, the storm clouds overhead began to part, as though the elements had recognized the futility of their lightning attacks against the Goblin King's defenses. Through the gap in the clouds emerged not the expected patch of blue sky, but an ominous crimson light—not the gentle glow of a sunset, but something far more malevolent.
An oppressive heat began to radiate from above, and Turan raised his eyes skyward. His expression shifted from concentration to horror as the clouds fully dispersed to reveal a massive fireball plummeting toward the earth—toward him—from an incalculable height.
"A meteor strike?" Turan hissed, rage and fear mingling in his voice. "Damn it all! I just need more time!"
He was close—so close—to discovering the root of his predicament. Given a few more minutes, he could have identified the magic affecting him and countered it. But the universe, it seemed, had run out of patience with the Goblin King.
*
Not far away, concealed by powerful Disillusionment Charms, three wizards observed the unfolding spectacle with a mixture of scientific detachment and genuine awe.
"Remarkable," whispered Gellert Grindelwald, his mismatched eyes reflecting the glow of the approaching meteor. "If it were one of us facing such an assault..."
"We would have fled long ago," completed Gilderoy Lockhart, unusually solemn. His typically demeanor was subdued in the face of such raw power.
The third observer, Albus Dumbledore, remained silent, his blue eyes calculating behind half-moon spectacles.
They knew Turan could not escape. They had methodically sealed off all potential avenues of retreat—disrupting the surrounding space to prevent Apparition or portkey travel, setting aerial traps to thwart flight attempts, and establishing anti-tunneling wards to block subterranean escape. The Goblin King, their unwitting experimental subject, was trapped.
"Now we shall see what happens when world consciousness truly manifests," murmured Grindelwald, a hint of eagerness in his voice.
*
The meteor descended with frightening speed, carving a blazing white trail across the darkened sky. To observers miles away, it appeared as though a second sun was falling to earth. The air around it superheated, creating rolling pressure waves that flattened the grass for miles in every direction.
Standing at ground zero, Turan remained immobile, his armor straining against the crushing atmospheric pressure. The signs of the meteor's approach had spread panic for miles around. Both Ministry wizards and representatives from the International Confederation, who had been investigating reports of unusual magical activity in the area, were now fleeing in terror. The storm had frightened them; the meteor sent them into a panicked retreat.
Faced with imminent annihilation, Turan the Thirteenth, King of the Goblins, closed his yellow eyes and brought his hands together in a complex gesture. Above his head materialized a golden-red disk—the ancient goblin artifact known as the Wheel of Fate. It began to rotate slowly, sending rivulets of golden-red light cascading over the Goblin King's form.
His outline began to shimmer and blur, his very existence becoming uncertain. His magical signature faded, becoming ethereal and diffuse—seemingly present one moment, absent the next, like a radio signal fading in and out of tune. He was initiating the most desperate protective measure known to his kind: temporal self-sealing, removing himself partially from the flow of time.
The meteor, however, could not be halted. Its trajectory was fixed, its purpose determined. The world consciousness had committed to this course of action, and there was no power that could intervene.
BOOM!
The meteor struck with apocalyptic force. A blinding flash of light erupted at the point of impact, followed by a mushroom cloud of dust and debris that billowed upward into the sky. The shockwave rippled outward, leveling trees and shattering windows in villages miles distant. For several terrifying seconds, it seemed as though the world itself had ended.
Gradually, the light dimmed and the dust began to settle, revealing a vast crater carved into the earth where Turan had stood. And there, floating above the center of the depression, was the translucent figure of the Goblin King, hands still clasped in his sealing gesture, eyes closed in concentration. His chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly—he lived still, though barely.
The world consciousness, perceiving Turan as neutralized if not destroyed, gradually withdrew its fury. The unnatural winds subsided, and no new assault materialized.
Grindelwald was the first to approach, leaping gracefully into the crater and landing near the suspended goblin. Turan's form was ghostly and transparent, the swirling dust passing through him without disturbance, as though he existed partially in another dimension.
"Impressive," Grindelwald remarked, circling the floating figure. "Worthy of a king indeed. His mind works quickly—to conceive of such a deception under pressure."
"He used the same technique I once employed," Dumbledore said, joining him beside the crater. "But the price..."
They both gazed at Turan, trapped in his self-imposed stasis between dimensions, sealed away from normal space and time.
Lockhart approached, wand already drawn, muttering intricate spells to record the goblin's condition for later study. Turan, facing extinction, had employed every resource at his disposal, including ancient goblin magic rarely witnessed by wizardkind. The self-sealing spell had saved him from immediate death but at a terrible cost—he was now trapped in a state of suspended animation, unable to return to normal existence without external aid.
It was unclear how long the sealing would last—perhaps days, perhaps centuries, perhaps forever. But it had been his only choice in the face of certain death.
"Lockhart," Grindelwald said, eyes never leaving the suspended goblin, "perhaps we should help our friend Turan break free of his seal? If we cannot continue today's work, we might at least prepare for the next phase of testing."
There was no compassion in his voice—only the cold calculation of a researcher unwilling to lose a valuable subject. Grindelwald would soon venture to a new world, and every bit of knowledge about how world consciousness manifested and could be countered was essential.
Dumbledore nodded silently in agreement. The world consciousness, vast and diffuse, might overlook Turan's desperate gambit, but the three wizards, observing at close range, had missed nothing. Allowing the King of a hostile race to perish seemed the most prudent course of action.
Lockhart raised his wand, directing it at the translucent figure. Magic surged from the tip, coalescing into a complex array of glowing runes that surrounded Turan. The symbols—representing dream magic, fate, time, and space—poured into the ghostly form, passing through it before arranging themselves in a counterclockwise rotation.
Like a film playing in reverse, Turan's transparent form began to solidify. His golden armor, purple cloak, and ornate black-and-gold scepter materialized one by one, becoming increasingly substantial with each passing second.
*
Within the void of his sealed consciousness, Turan floated in nothingness, devoid of thought or sensation. This was the nature of the seal—a complete suspension of being.
Gradually, however, pinpricks of light began to penetrate the void. Ethereal tendrils reached for him from all directions, pulling him from nonexistence back into reality.
"This could be a rescue," his fragmented consciousness suggested hopefully. But deeper instincts warned otherwise. Something felt wrong. The return was happening too quickly, too forcefully. His mind, his magic, his very being needed time to transition properly back to normal existence.
Light flooded in, dispelling the protective nothingness. Turan's consciousness struggled to reassemble itself, memories trickling back in disjointed fragments.
He remembered the danger, the sky's wrath, his desperate gambit...
When he finally opened his eyes, three familiar faces swam into focus. Horror and despair flashed across his features before settling into resigned acceptance.
"I have long suspected I could not escape this fate," Turan said, his voice hollow with the certainty of his doom. After the initial shock passed, only calm acceptance remained.
He understood now what awaited him, but one final concern weighed on his mind.
"Dumbledore," the Goblin King asked quietly, "what will become of my people after I am gone?"
His tone was measured, a flicker of hope mingling with his resignation. Even in his final moments, his thoughts were for his subjects.
Dumbledore did not immediately reply. His expression changed subtly as he appeared to perceive something beyond ordinary senses. The world's consciousness, it seemed, had noticed Turan's return and was communicating its fury, its demand for finality.
"Do not worry," Dumbledore finally answered, his voice gentle with false compassion. "The goblin nation will not perish. They will have a new beginning."
Then, without further preamble, he raised his wand.
Avada Kedavra!
A jet of sickly green light erupted from the wand's tip, striking Turan squarely in the chest. The Goblin King collapsed, his life extinguished in an instant.
The moment Turan fell, thunder crashed from the clear sky, a final acknowledgment from the world consciousness.
Miles away, in a secret chamber beneath Gringotts Bank, an elaborate ritual circle prepared by Turan for his possible resurrection shattered spontaneously, the carefully arranged artifacts crumbling to dust. The world consciousness had ensured there would be no return—his death was absolute and final.
Dumbledore closed his eyes as new information flooded his mind, accompanied by the distinct sensation of fate's hand upon his shoulder. He understood now the full measure of Turan's demise and his own role in it. Once again, he had received the world's favor for eliminating one who had attempted to steal from it.
His heart was conflicted, yet he could not deny a certain satisfaction. The world consciousness was immensely powerful, yet not entirely rational—capable of being deceived, capable of bestowing rewards for service.
Opening his eyes, Dumbledore regarded Lockhart and Grindelwald solemnly.
"Everything has proceeded as anticipated," he said quietly. "What comes next is in your hands."
Above them, the sky cleared completely, sunshine spilling across the devastated landscape as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.
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Marvel x Star Wars: Avengers in the Clone Wars
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