Vinda gazed up at the sky, her voice a low murmur. "The new master of the Acolytes... and those fated to fall beneath his heel."
Her words hung in the air like a curse, freezing everyone in place—Ministry officials, pure-blood nobles, even the Acolytes themselves.
The new master of the Acolytes.
They all knew what that title meant. In Germany, the Acolytes weren't just a faction; they embodied an entire era of unchallenged dominance. Real power.
Thorfinn Rowle stood at the head of the Auror line, staring at Erwin hovering above. He swallowed hard. The new master? He hadn't seen that coming—not on Erwin's first trip to German soil. But if Erwin could truly harness the Acolytes' might... those warnings he'd issued might become reality.
No one understood the Acolytes' legacy like these Aurors. They'd been raised on tales of their terror, the raw force that had reshaped wizarding Europe.
Rowle's eyes narrowed on the Ministry's Auror director ahead of him. He hated anyone blocking his path.
The Acolytes' eyes locked on the aerial duel, uncertainty rippling through their ranks. Who was Vinda calling the new master? Both combatants radiated power. And coming from her lips? That meant Grindelwald's silent endorsement.
The more fervent Acolytes stirred with anticipation. They'd endured too much silence, this stifling peace. Especially lately, with Grindelwald locked away in his tower, their influence had waned. Lesser families had clambered up the ranks, swelling the pure-blood elite. Grindelwald's shadow still deterred outright attacks, but the Acolytes' edge had dulled. Many longed for the old days of supremacy.
High above, Erwin and Soren clashed without mercy.
Erwin's Killing Curse, amplified by layered spells, shattered into violet streaks like falling stars, hurtling toward Soren.
Soren sneered. Ancient Magic's shield was impenetrable; no single curse could breach it.
But then, the impossible.
The violet arcs scattered just before impact, skirting the shield to slam into Soren's form.
His face twisted in shock. He whipped his wand in a frantic arc. Black mist erupted from his body, coiling like living smoke.
The curses collided with it in a thunderous barrage of explosions.
Soren stumbled back, the mist swirling protectively.
Erwin eyed the shroud, brow creasing. As it thinned, Soren's voice cut through: "Erwin, I never imagined you'd wield such twisted tricks. I underestimated you."
Erwin blinked. What was that mist? It had absorbed direct hits from Killing Curses. That defied every rule he knew.
"But if that's your best," Soren snarled, raising his wand for a counterstrike, "then you're done."
Erwin smirked. As if he'd let him regroup in a fight to the death. He flicked his wand faster, channeling Arcane without a thought for his draining reserves. Infinite Killing Curses splintered endlessly, a relentless storm crashing toward Soren.
If that mist was his shell, Erwin would hammer it until it cracked. How long could it hold?
From below, the onslaught left spectators gaping. Spells erupted from Erwin's wand like machine-gun fire, a glowing torrent that even swept toward the massive dragon in the distance.
Soren vanished in a haze of purple light, no room to fight back. Even Hogwarts' Slytherins knew better than to toy with foes— a tactic Erwin himself had drilled into them. But here, he outdid a dozen of them alone.
The curses wove into a solid beam, unyielding.
Soren's expression darkened. He thrust his wand forward, sustaining the black mist barrier.
"Blast it all—how does he have endless magic? No backlash? No one endures this level of casting for so long!"
The mist flickered, thinning under the assault. Soren's face hardened, but counterattacks were impossible amid the barrage.
Seconds stretched into minutes under Erwin's unceasing fire.
His own grim realization dawned. This defense was tougher than dragon hide. What sorcery was it? His Arcane was fading fast—thirty minutes gone in a flash.
He'd banked on ending it swiftly. Even Dumbledore couldn't shrug off this. Over a thousand Killing Curses in half an hour? Yet Soren had weathered them all with that mist.
It finally dispersed. Soren emerged pale, trembling faintly.
Erwin sensed it immediately, his frown deepening. No magic drain? Impossible. That mist didn't sap power?
Did that make him untouchable?
Then, a voice echoed in Erwin's mind—Ravenclaw's. "Boy, I've felt that before. Divine power."
Erwin reeled inwardly. "Divine power?"
"Your style's already unnatural—splitting curses without losing potency, firing without burnout. I've never seen it. But for that mist to repel you? Its essence must outstrip magic entirely. Divine power's the only answer."
...
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