Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
The god's soul trembled perceptibly, sending ripples through the dimensional void.
In an ordinary being, such minute vibrations might have gone unnoticed. But within such a colossal entity, these tremors manifested with unmistakable magnitude—like earthquakes across a cosmic landscape. Even the slightest movement in something so vast created waves that could be felt by all attuned to mystical energies.
Despite these internal convulsions, the nascent deity's soul maintained its position, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to influence the ferocious battle raging among the sorcerers. The massive entity continued its gradual awakening, oblivious to the chaos it had sparked.
The conflict had escalated to unprecedented levels of brutality.
A Master of Kamar-Taj would cast an intricate spell, only to have a fallen sorcerer counter with several devastating enchantments that not only neutralized the initial attack but provided enough residual energy to launch an immediate counteroffensive.
Not to be outdone, other Kamar-Taj defenders responded with their own rapid-fire spellwork, their hands blurring with the speed of their gestures as they channeled mystical energies.
Both factions had abandoned any pretense of caution, resorting to increasingly aggressive and destructive magical techniques. Death had become commonplace on the mystical battlefield, each fallen comrade only intensifying the survivors' determination and fury.
Perhaps due to their rigorous training and extensive combat experience, or possibly because of their unified purpose under the Ancient One's guidance, the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj demonstrated remarkable resilience. Conversely, the alliance of fallen sorcerers—hastily formed and lacking true cohesion—showed signs of strategic weakness. Those recruited by Grindelwald and Strange clustered together defensively, possibly employing clandestine tactics unknown to their adversaries.
Whatever the reasons, the disparity in casualties was becoming increasingly apparent. The fallen sorcerers suffered numerous deaths, while Kamar-Taj's defenders typically managed to retreat after sustaining serious injuries rather than perishing outright.
This imbalance placed tremendous pressure on the fallen sorcerers, though their immediate prospects remained uncertain. Their hopes rested primarily with their two most powerful allies—Mephisto and Dormammu, cosmic entities whose power dwarfed that of even the most accomplished human sorcerers.
Mephisto, with his preternatural awareness, had not failed to observe the destination of the released spirits after each sorcerer's death. With cold calculation, he watched as each fragmented true spirit and soul merged into the forehead of the nascent god.
Even the dullest intellect might have recognized something amiss in this pattern. For Mephisto—a master of souls whose expertise in spiritual matters stretched across millennia—the implications were unmistakable.
"Lockhart," he called out, his voice dripping with sarcastic admiration, "your heart truly harbors exquisite venom!"
His eyes narrowed as he continued: "You dare sacrifice the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj themselves? Are you not concerned about the Supreme Sorcerer's judgment?"
Mephisto's smile widened, revealing teeth too sharp to be human. "If the Ancient One discovered you were using her own disciples as sacrificial pawns, as mere consumables in your grand design..."
He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. "Tsk, tsk, tsk..."
"Mephisto," Lockhart responded evenly, his composure unshaken, "has anyone ever informed you that your words reek of sulfur and deceit?"
The wizard adjusted his grip on his wand, his movements precise and deliberate. "With that darkness-rotted mind of yours, I fear you'll never comprehend the concept of voluntary sacrifice embraced by the Masters of Kamar-Taj."
With that declaration, Lockhart raised his wand with ceremonial precision, each word that followed resonating with power: "Let your essence serve as the finest tribute to our fallen Masters of Kamar-Taj."
His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried across the dimensional battlefield: "Crucio... crush the heart... gouge out the bones!"
In an instant, a dark crimson beam—the distinctive signature of the Cruciatus Curse—erupted from Lockhart's wand. The forbidden spell, designed to inflict unendurable agony, streaked toward Mephisto's form with unerring accuracy.
Whoosh!
Simultaneously, Mephisto stepped forward with subtle grace, his movement barely perceptible. In the span of a heartbeat, three identical phantoms manifested around him—to his left, right, and behind.
Each duplicate was indistinguishable from the original, each radiating the unmistakable aura of Hell's dominion. To any observer, it was impossible to determine which represented the true Mephisto and which were mere projections.
BOOM!
The dark crimson Cruciatus Curse passed through what appeared to be Mephisto's central form with a thunderous impact, the figure dissipating like smoke in a strong wind.
Yet in the same instant, all remaining versions of Mephisto winced in synchronized pain, their expressions contorting into grimaces.
Lockhart's Cruciatus Curse was no ordinary implementation of the Unforgivable Curse. He had methodically enhanced it with elements of binding curses, fate manipulation, and other arcane factors that effectively locked onto their target's essence.
Even if the physical form could be evaded, the victim would still bear a portion of the spell's effects. Though Mephisto had successfully diffused much of the curse's power through his phantasmal duplicates, he could not entirely escape the pain it inflicted.
The agony was merely reduced, not eliminated.
"Impressive technique!" Mephisto acknowledged, rapidly regaining his composure. As Lord of Hell, he was intimately familiar with countless methods of torture. The pain inflicted by Lockhart's enhanced spell, while significant, was merely one variant among the infinite forms of suffering he had witnessed—and often administered—throughout his existence.
"Now sample my... Soul Whipping!" he countered.
Whoosh!
At Mephisto's command, multiple crimson whips materialized in the void surrounding Lockhart. These were no ordinary weapons—each was studded with barbed spikes that gleamed with unnatural sharpness, and each trailed wisps of sulfurous smoke that hinted at their infernal origin.
With a sound like tearing silk, the whips converged on Lockhart from all directions simultaneously, leaving no apparent avenue of escape.
Facing this overwhelming assault, Lockhart's expression remained impassive, betraying neither fear nor concern. With a casual gesture—as though merely brushing aside an annoying insect—he raised his hand and made a gentle pushing motion toward both sides.
Instantly, a dazzling prismatic ripple expanded outward from his position, rapidly encompassing the surrounding area. Within seconds, a kaleidoscopic barrier had formed around him—a realm of dreams that shimmered with colors no mortal eye was meant to perceive.
The moment this chromatic domain established itself, Mephisto's spiked whips froze in mid-motion, as though time itself had ceased to flow within their specific coordinates. They hung suspended in the dimensional void, their deadly potential temporarily neutralized.
In the next moment, Lockhart executed another elegant gesture, his hand moving with the precision of a conductor leading an orchestra.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Accompanied by a series of sharp, crystalline sounds, the crimson whips shattered one by one, fragmenting into countless glittering particles. These remnants briefly illuminated the surrounding space with blood-red light before gradually fading into nothingness.
Mephisto observed this effortless display with narrowed eyes, his ancient mind recalculating his assessment of his opponent.
Lockhart's power had grown at an alarming rate since their last encounter. The ease with which he had neutralized an attack that would have obliterated lesser beings spoke volumes about his progression.
Even as these thoughts formed, Mephisto initiated his counter-response. Behind him, vast waves of ebony mist began to propagate outward, rapidly expanding to encompass the surrounding dimensional space.
This was no ordinary fog—it carried the unmistakable sulfurous odor of Hell's chaotic essence, laden with the accumulated suffering of countless tortured souls. The air itself seemed to grow heavier within its reach, reality becoming more malleable and responsive to Mephisto's will.
Domain against domain—a battle of realities.
Hiss! Hiss! Hiss!
Within heartbeats, Lockhart's dream realm and Mephisto's infernal domain collided along their boundaries. The meeting of these incompatible realities generated continuous sizzling sounds, like water droplets on superheated metal.
As their respective fields of influence expanded, the distance between the two beings steadily diminished. Within their overlapping territories, manifestations of their power engaged in proxy combat—prismatic dream-creatures battling obsidian hellspawn in an ever-shifting conflict.
Thought-forms collided with physical manifestations; chromatic spiritual storms crashed against ebon spears of death. To the observer, this confrontation rivaled the intensity of the main sorcerer battlefield nearby, though on a more conceptual level.
Witnessing this magnificent display of power, Thor—the God of Thunder—felt his warrior's blood surge with excitement. While he occasionally regarded sorcerers with mild disdain for their preference for ranged combat and indirect approaches, he could not deny the visceral thrill of witnessing two cosmic powers collide directly.
As the confrontation escalated, the thunder god's battle-lust overcame his restraint. Without hesitation, he raised mighty Mjölnir overhead, channeling the primordial power of storms through his divine form. With a battle cry that shook the dimensional void, he launched himself toward Dormammu, his hammer crackling with lightning that could shatter mountains.
Dormammu, for his part, displayed no interest in engaging Thor directly. The Dread Lord of the Dark Dimension had no desire to wage a war of attrition against the Asgardian—a fighter whose legendary endurance had been forged in countless battles across the Nine Realms.
Moreover, Dormammu needed to preserve this particular incarnation for the subsequent confrontation he anticipated. With casual indifference, he waved one hand, unleashing waves of dark magic that rapidly coalesced around him.
This sorcery formed a disorienting realm of pure darkness that expanded outward, engulfing everything in its path. Within this absolute void, all visual perception was nullified, all bearings lost.
Even Thor, with his divine senses, found himself momentarily blinded.
"Dormammu!" Thor bellowed into the impenetrable darkness, his voice thunderous with frustration. "You bear the title of God of Darkness, yet you behave as a coward!"
When no response came, Thor tightened his grip on Mjölnir. In an instant, a magnificent deluge of lightning erupted from his divine form, radiating outward to dispel the surrounding darkness. The brilliant azure light of Asgardian thunder magic pushed back against the unnatural void, creating a sphere of visibility around the thunder god.
Yet as the darkness retreated, Thor discovered that Dormammu was nowhere to be found within the radius of his lightning's illumination.
"Thor," Dormammu's disembodied voice resonated from somewhere beyond the light, his tone simultaneously calm and dismissive, "I harbor no interest in trivial combat with you."
The darkness seemed to whisper around Thor as Dormammu continued: "Were I confronting your father, I might approach the matter with appropriate gravity."
A faint shimmer in the void suggested Dormammu's actual location, though it vanished before Thor could target it. "Conserve your strength rather than allowing Lockhart to exploit you as a mere weapon in his elaborate scheme."
The voice grew closer, then more distant, impossible to pinpoint as it echoed: "Observe with discernment—despite the apparent ferocity of their combat, both Lockhart and Mephisto carefully preserve their true power."
A chuckle emanated from the darkness, hollow and cold. "At most, they expend trivial portions of their magical reserves. Neither has sustained even the slightest injury."
Dormammu's voice took on a colder edge: "The only casualties are those expendable sorcerers—the pawns in this cosmic game."
A final whisper brushed past Thor's ear: "Engage your intellect, Odinson. This is not yet the moment for our decisive confrontation."
The darkness swirled around Thor once more, testing the boundaries of his lightning shield as the thunder god considered Dormammu's words with growing suspicion.