Hermione didn't even consider that the standing figure in the distance might be Lucius.
She was having too much fun.
She saw someone still upright, lifted her wand, and casually tossed a Carian Phalanx in that direction—an elegant spell compared to the clumsy forty-meter sweep.
A dozen normal-sized Carian "light swords" shot forward in a tight formation, flying straight at the target.
This spell was far easier than Carian Greatsword, and Hermione had already mastered it well.
Which meant those swords weren't blunt "energy clubs."
They were fully edged, clean and lethal.
"FXCK!"
Lucius Malfoy—who treated aristocratic composure like a religion—shouted profanity out loud for perhaps the first time in his life.
And that single outburst saved him.
Because Hermione heard it.
And as the blades closed in, their glow flashed across the man's face—
just enough for her to recognize him as Draco's father.
Her expression didn't change, but her control did.
At the last instant, she adjusted the swords' trajectories.
They shaved past Lucius's cloak, sliced fabric at the edges, and flew harmlessly behind him.
Lucius's mind worked at the speed of survival.
He understood immediately:
She recognized him.
She was sparing him.
So he did the only intelligent thing a "loyal" Death Eater could do in that situation—
he made himself look injured anyway.
He drew a knife, slashed a few cuts across his own body, let blood stain his clothes, and collapsed dramatically onto the ground.
Then he resumed his most important duty:
professional-level "spectator mode."
Not far away, Wormtail also decided "spectator mode" was the correct lifestyle choice.
Still in rat form, he wedged himself into a corner and stayed perfectly still, praying Hermione wouldn't notice him.
Unfortunately for him, Hermione's spirit sense made that rat silhouette crystal clear.
She simply couldn't be bothered.
If he wasn't coming out to play, she wasn't wasting time hunting him.
She turned and walked toward Voldemort again.
It was late.
She wanted this finished.
She was hungry.
And the moment she reached Voldemort's side of the battlefield, she saw something that made her wince.
The rune robot—Ranni's construct—had been smashed into scraps.
What happened was obvious:
The robot's power core had been firing at maximum output for too long.
It ran dry, went limp, and in that vulnerable downtime Voldemort finally tore it apart.
Hermione held her head, groaning.
"Great… how am I supposed to explain this to Ranni?"
Voldemort, having just freed up some breathing room, was about to assess how his followers were doing—
when he heard her complain.
He turned.
And saw what remained of his "elite" support.
Bodies everywhere.
Not one of them standing.
He spat one word, venomous and shaking:
"Waste."
Then he struck first—again—trying to take advantage before Hermione re-established control.
But Hermione was no longer in the mood for games.
She'd already lost a construct.
She'd already wasted time.
So she stopped playing "British dueling club."
No more polite incantations.
No more traditional spell cadence.
She switched to the stuff Arthur had drilled into her:
Lands Between sorcery—fast, brutal, and spam-friendly.
Her wand snapped like a conductor's baton.
Glintstone shards.
Crystals.
Meteor bursts.
Projectile after projectile—coming from angles that didn't even feel legal.
At the same time, she re-formed a Carian Greatsword and started hacking at him like a battle priestess.
This wasn't "efficient."
This was rage-casting.
The kind of attack pattern that says: I don't care what it costs, I just want you to stop existing.
Voldemort's defense collapsed into constant retreat.
Block the front—get hit from behind.
Guard the left—catch a strike from the right.
Dodge the spell—almost eat the sword.
Handle the sword—get sniped by the Golden Order Greatsword's sneak attacks.
He didn't even have time to process the most terrifying detail:
Why aren't her spells requiring spoken incantations?!
He couldn't think.
He could only survive.
Back in the stadium, the crowd collectively inhaled.
Watching Hermione fight like this—wand in one hand, sword-magic in the other, moving like a Valkyrie—made half the students start mentally reviewing their entire school history:
Have I ever offended Hermione Granger?
Do I need to apologize right now, immediately, before the universe punishes me?
Because Voldemort—the so-called Dark Lord—was getting beaten into something that looked less like "terror" and more like…
well.
A pig-snake.
And that's when it got worse for him.
Under the pressure, Voldemort couldn't even maintain his human transfiguration.
His pig snout and snake lower body slipped back into view.
Ironically, that snake body made him more agile—more flexible—so he could slither-dodge more cleanly.
It was a small mercy.
But not enough.
He tried to play the long game—wait for her to drain her magic, then strike.
A classic predator's patience.
Except his calculation was wrong.
Hermione's bombardment continued for half an hour without stopping.
In that time, back at Hogwarts, Arthur literally pulled out a table and food, sat down with Ranni, and calmly ate dinner while watching the "live stream."
The smell drifted through the stands.
People started swallowing nervously.
Some professors wanted to ask for food too—but pride held them hostage.
The Weasley twins, however, saw a business opportunity so bright it practically printed money.
They flew to the kitchens, had the house-elves mass-produce boxed meals, stuffed everything into the Sumeru ring, and returned selling lunchboxes at one silver sickle per portion.
No ingredient costs.
No overhead.
Pure profit.
That's why Arthur invested in them.
They could smell cash in the air like trained hounds.
Eventually, Hermione's output began to slow.
Her magic was finally hitting the bottom.
Normally she would've crashed earlier—except the elf aura had been quietly refilling her, keeping her going far past normal limits.
Voldemort sensed the change and sneered:
"Running out of magic? When your magic is gone—so are you."
Hermione was this close to pausing and deciding whether to retreat or call for help—
and then that line hit her.
She smiled.
A very calm smile.
And decided she still wasn't done having fun.
She reached into her Sumeru ring and pulled out a pile of egg-sized crystals.
Then she started throwing them like she was feeding chickens.
They were Arthur's old invention:
magic grenades.
He made them in bulk, in countless variants, modeled after Muggle explosives, because they were easy to mass-produce.
Which meant Hermione could throw them without mercy.
Boom after boom after boom.
Voldemort's feet never stopped moving.
And for a horrible moment, he remembered first-year Hogwarts—Quirrell's night—when Hermione had already done something similar.
The difference now?
The grenades were stronger.
More diverse.
More refined.
Because Arthur's R&D never stopped.
Then Hermione "accidentally" tossed a few special grenades.
The kind Arthur only made occasionally.
The moment those detonated, the graveyard turned into a cursed laboratory.
Time power hit first—slowing Voldemort's local time flow, making his movements drag.
That meant he couldn't dodge the next effects in time:
Death power gnawed into his vitality, shriveling flesh.
Blood power tore open wounds and made them pour.
Curse power slammed his state with weakening debuffs.
Arthur had deliberately avoided putting "Scarlet Rot" into grenade form because it was too corrosive and uncontrollable.
Otherwise Voldemort would've been suffering a fourth nightmare.
In only a few seconds, Voldemort looked like he'd stepped halfway into the grave.
He reacted fast—turning into black mist and fleeing out of the blast zone.
He re-formed at a distance.
His left arm looked half-dead, dry and withered.
Blood ran down his body.
His posture was tight, tense, and shaky—nothing like the arrogant monster who'd just revived.
But he'd achieved one thing:
Hermione's grenade pile was finally running low.
When she stopped pulling out crystals, Voldemort didn't immediately taunt.
This time, he was cautious.
He measured every breath.
He said, carefully:
"Any other tricks… use them."
He was already braced to run at any moment.
Because he was a villain, not a hero.
He didn't owe anyone dignity.
He wanted to flee.
But he also couldn't let go of the urge to kill her.
Because in his mind, Hermione was already this strong—right now.
If he allowed her to walk away, grow further…
the next time they met, he might be the one who couldn't win.
And now?
She looked drained.
Tools spent.
Magic low.
A perfect opening.
So Voldemort hovered on the edge of a decision—
escape and live,
or risk everything to end her here and now.
Advance Chapters Available on Patreon
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