#73

In the dimly lit street corner, Harry sprinted frantically, his breath ragged as he repeatedly glanced over his shoulder.

His heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of fear and frustration gripping him.

No matter how fast he ran, the three figures in black robes remained right behind him, closing in with relentless precision.

His mind raced.

He should have taken his portal training at Kamar-Taj more seriously.

If only he could open one fast enough, he might have had a chance to escape this nightmare.

But now, there was no time for regrets.

He was being pursued by demon hunters—feared entities whispered about in hushed tones throughout the magical world.

His only chance of survival was to find a way out.

What Harry didn't know was that even if he had mastered portal magic, it wouldn't have helped.

Opening a gateway in New York without the right frame of mind is difficult, even for the most seasoned sorcerers of the New York Sanctum.

His pulse spiked as he skidded to a halt. 

Dead end.

 A brick wall loomed ahead, cutting off any chance of escape. 

His stomach churned as he turned to face his pursuers. 

The three figures in black had already encircled him, their presence suffocating.

Just as despair threatened to consume him, an immense surge of magical energy filled the air. 

The bustling noises of the city faded, replaced by an eerie silence. 

The very fabric of reality around them shimmered unnaturally.

"A mirror dimension!" Harry gasped, eyes widening. 

A flicker of hope reignited in his chest. 

The sudden activation of such immense magic could only mean one thing—the New York Sanctum had taken notice. 

If he could hold on just a little longer, help would arrive.

His pursuers exchanged uneasy glances. 

They, too, understood the implications of this change. 

Their mission had just become far riskier.

Taking advantage of their hesitation, Harry crouched low and quickly enchanted his shoes. 

With a single push, he launched himself up the wall, defying gravity as he sprinted skyward.

 If he could make it to the rooftop, he might be visible enough for a rescue.

The hesitation of his enemies didn't last long. 

Realizing his plan, they lunged forward, their hesitation replaced by cold determination.

 From experience, they knew it would take the temple's guardians some time to intervene—just enough time to finish off this fledgling sorcerer.

Harry barely made it to the rooftop before a sharp force struck his back. 

He tumbled forward, hitting the concrete hard. 

A moment later, a robed figure loomed over him, a wicked, curved dagger glinting in the dim light.

"Your soul belongs to me," the figure sneered, raising the blade.

A thunderous roar echoed through the night, growing louder with each passing second. 

The air vibrated with raw energy, the sound unmistakable—an engine.

The black-robed figure hesitated, their enhanced senses detecting the deep rumble of a powerful vehicle.

"A car?" they muttered, confused. "From this high up? That's impossible."

Their comrades remained impatient. "You're imagining things. We're twenty floors up—where would a car even come from? Now hurry before—"

Before they could finish, a flaming, skeletal vehicle erupted from below, soaring through the air and crashing onto the rooftop. 

The black-robed figures had no time to react. 

The hellish vehicle smashed through two of them, sending their bodies flying as the vehicle skidded to a stop in a blaze of fire and smoke.

From inside the roaring inferno, a voice muttered, "Did I just hit something?"

Behind the wheel, Ethan barely caught a glimpse of the impact. 

A flicker of movement, a scream, then silence.

"Eh, no big deal," Ghost Rider replied nonchalantly as he stepped out of the flaming vehicle, his skeletal form wreathed in hellfire.

The last remaining robed figure trembled, still clutching their dagger. 

"Who... who are you?" they stammered, their voice barely a whisper.

They had expected the sanctum's guardians to arrive, but this? 

A burning skeleton with an equally hellish car? 

Nope, hell nah...

No matter who they were, it was obvious that these intruders meant trouble. 

One of the black-robed figures hesitated for only a moment before deciding to grab Harry, but before he could make his move, a razor-sharp gust of wind sliced through the air. 

His robe was torn open, and a thin line of blood appeared on his cheek.

"Try that again, and I'll take off your hands and feet next," Ethan said, stepping out of the shadows, lazily toying with the swirling air at his fingertips. 

His black hair shifted slightly in the wind, his cold gaze locked on his targets.

"Damn it, that hurts!" One of the men who had been hit by Ghost Rider's flaming chopper groaned, barely lifting his head from the ground. 

He was lucky—or unlucky—enough to still be alive, though the hellfire consuming his body suggested his time was running out.

Despite the searing agony, his eyes remained locked on Ghost Rider. "How the hell... did you even drive that thing up here?"

Considering they were on at least the 30th floor, getting run over by a motorcycle was not something he had expected.

Ghost Rider turned his flaming skull toward the man, his voice a low, menacing growl. "When I start the engine, everything is a road—except the air."

Daniel stepped forward, his expression hard as ice. "Are you demon hunters? Tell me how many of you there are and what you're planning. Now."

The injured man sneered despite the pain. 

"Why the hell would we tell you?"

By now, the hoods of the three intruders had fallen away, revealing their twisted forms. 

The two men who had been hit by the chopper were skeletal, their shriveled skin making them look like the walking dead.

 The woman, however, was a stark contrast—tall, curvaceous, with golden hair and striking features. 

But the scales on her neck and the reptilian slits of her pupils gave away her inhuman nature.

"That's right," the woman said with a shaky voice. 

"Unless you let us go, we won't say a damn thing."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Seems like you don't understand your situation. If you won't talk, we'll just get the information another way." He turned to Ghost Rider. 

"Do your thing."

"Gladly," Ghost Rider rasped, stepping toward the dying man. 

His fiery eyes burned even brighter. "Let's take a look at your sins, shall we?"

The air grew thick with heat as Ghost Rider activated his Penance Stare, locking eyes with the dark sorcerer. 

Instantly, the man let out a bloodcurdling scream, his body convulsing as he relived every atrocity he had ever committed.

"My judgment is—you're guilty!" Ghost Rider declared.

The sorcerer's screams turned to choking gasps, his soul seared from the inside out.

Ethan watched with mild interest before turning back to the woman. 

"I'll give you one chance. Start talking."

Terror flashed across her face as she heard her companion's soul being burned away. "D-Don't do this to me! I'm not like them! I was tricked!"

Ethan's expression didn't change. "Then prove it. What's going on here?"

The woman swallowed hard. "There's someone—someone powerful. A sorcerer. No one knows who he really is. He operates in the shadows, strong enough to block even the Order of the Mystic Arts' detection. 

He's obsessed with collecting sorcerers' souls, both light and dark. If we bring him what he wants, he rewards us with powerful magic."

Jarrett narrowed his eyes. "Why would he need the souls of sorcerers?"

"I don't know!" she insisted, her voice trembling. 

"All we know is that he's already gathered dozens. He makes us hunt each other, forcing us into battles just to collect more."

Ethan exhaled, already sensing the trouble this would bring. 

"If that's the case, catching this guy is going to be a pain."

Ghost Rider suddenly lifted his head, the flames around him flaring. 

"Maybe not. Maybe he's not as hidden as he thinks."

His hollow eyes burned brighter as he turned toward the distance. 

"I just caught a whiff of something familiar. Something rotten."

Pangborn was humming a tune, lost in the rhythm as he worked on a car part in his small auto repair shop. 

Life was good. 

Ever since he had regained the ability to walk after learning magic at Kamar-Taj, he had learned to appreciate the simple things. 

He had no interest in chasing power or becoming a master like some of the others. 

Instead, he had chosen an ordinary life, running this little shop and enjoying the peace it brought.

The only real ripple in his calm existence was the memory of the injured doctor who had once come to him searching for answers. 

That same doctor had not only entered Kamar-Taj but had surpassed them all, taking the mantle of the new Sorcerer Supreme. 

Pangborn had heard the news through his magical connections, but to him, it only meant he'd have a good story to share over drinks with old friends.

As he worked, the sound of footsteps echoed from outside the garage. 

He didn't bother looking up.

 "What do you need?" he asked, still focused on his task.

A voice responded, smooth yet firm. "I heard that they carried you to Kamar-Taj when you were broken. But things have changed."

Pangborn stiffened slightly before turning around.

 Standing before him was a man draped in dark robes, his face all too familiar. "Mordo."

Karl Mordo, once the most devoted student of the Ancient One, now stood before him with an unreadable expression.

"You vanished after the battle with Dormammu," Pangborn said cautiously. 

"And now you suddenly come looking for me? What do you want?"

Mordo ignored the question, instead speaking as if to himself. 

"I've traveled far. For a long time, I searched for an answer to something that has troubled me." His voice carried an unsettling calm. 

"Then I met a man—an old, wise man—who finally gave me clarity."

Pangborn felt a sense of unease creeping in. 

"And what exactly was this great question?" he asked, his grip tightening around a wrench.

Mordo smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. 

"What is the true purpose of a sorcerer?" He let the words hang in the air before continuing. 

"The Ancient One taught us that sorcerers are meant to observe the natural order, understand the laws of reality, and draw power from other dimensions to protect it. But this old man showed me the truth. 

The real nature of sorcery is thievery. Sorcerers don't maintain balance—they distort it. They twist reality and steal magic from forces beyond their understanding. They break the natural order."

Pangborn tensed. "I didn't steal anything. The power I have is mine."

Mordo's eyes darkened. "That's what all thieves say."

In a blur, Mordo moved. 

Before Pangborn could react, Mordo's hand lashed out, clawing at his abdomen. 

A sharp, burning pain shot through him as golden energy was forcibly ripped from his body.

Pangborn screamed, collapsing to the ground. 

He felt it instantly—the magic that had kept him whole was gone. 

He tried to move his legs, but they remained lifeless. 

He was paralyzed again. Just like before.

Mordo held the swirling energy in his hand, watching it with cold detachment. 

"Look at this. The power you stole from the world. Now, I'm taking it back."

Pangborn's breaths were ragged, his voice filled with fury. "Why are you doing this?"

Mordo crouched down, his gaze unwavering. "Because I finally understand what's wrong with this world. There are too many sorcerers. 

Too many reckless fools bending reality to their will. The world needs balance. And I will be its protector—and the necessasry hunter who will bring it back on track."

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Word count: 1946

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