In his previous life, Abel had learned something crucial from watching Voldemort and Dumbledore battle: high-level Transfiguration could animate inanimate objects, giving them a kind of spiritual awareness. A conjured serpent made of flame wasn't just fire—it moved with predatory intelligence, adapted in real time, understood its own nature in ways ordinary magic never could.
That was advanced magic. Master-level magic. The kind of thing that separated truly powerful wizards from everyone else.
Abel's Fiery Crow wasn't quite at that level—not yet at least. In his previous life, he'd been able to channel 100% of his power into such complexe creations. Now, with his magical core still rebuilting and still developing, the best he could manage was approximately 40 to 50% of what he used to be capable of.
But 40 to 50% of Voldemort-level magic was still devastating and an improvement compared to his level when first awakened in the Marvel universe.
Even though he still had so much te relearns regarding the fact that the universe he was in was far more dangerous than its previous ones.
The dimensional pocket began to normalize.
Three passages materialized before Abel. The first led clearly to the outside—he could sense the village air flowing beyond it. The second rippled with dark energy so overwhelming that Abel started to feel sick. The presence of something vast and ancient beyond it. That would be the dimensional crack, and beyond it, Dormammu himself lurking in the darkness.
The third passage carried a familiar magical signature. Victor.
Abel made his choice immediately.
Going to the dimensional crack without backup would be suicide. If he encountered Dormammu directly, if he faced that ancient entity alone, there was no scenario where he survived except complete capitulation. And besides—Victor was trapped and might be still fighting the cultists.
Victor needed help.
"Quattuor punctum Victor!" Abel whispered, raising his wand like a compass, focusing his intent on the Four-Point Spell to figure out if Victor was really there or if it was just another trap.
The wand started spining easily before finally landing on pointed unerringly toward the third passage. Abel didn't waste time questioning the decision the result of the spell. He held the wand in reverse grip and moved quickly through the passage.
He arrived at an enchanted barrier, a specific kind of distortion designed so that those inside couldn't see the exit, couldn't navigate out even if they wanted to. The boundary rippled with dark energy layered underneath the spatial distortion.
Abel backed up four meters and raised his wand.
He began casting Diffindo in rapid succession. Blue and white sparks erupted from his wand's tip like light-threaded silk, bombarding the barrier relentlessly. The explosions were continuous and violent—the curse striking again and again, tearing at the enchantment's structure.
Under the sustained assault, a gap not larger than the size of a person began to open in the barrier.
But it was already healing. Abel could see the magic attempting to seal itself, to regenerate. He'd only get one chance.
Don't think. Move.
Abel contracted his body and dove through the crack. He felt the barrier trying to close around him, trying to seal him back outside, but momentum carried him through. He tumbled into the space beyond and immediately pushed himself upright.
Victor was there.
Victor was in serious trouble. Three Dark Church cultists surrounded him. Abel could say in the corner of is eyes two corpes meaning that Victor had more enemys to deal with then me. And while Victor was clearly skilled—electricity flickering between his hands, the strain of constant casting to defend against the onslaught was exhausting him. Fast.
His movements were slower. His defenses were tightening, becoming more conservative.
Victor had spent significant power earlier. He didn't have much left.
Two of them earlier. Three now. He's been fighting continuously.
Abel made an instant decision. "Caecus"
Invisibility enveloped him completely. His figure vanished from sight, though his presence remained in the world. He moved forward silently, carefully, positioning himself.
Victor was too focused on his opponents to notice the breach in the barrier. The three cultists were similarly committed to their assault. None of them sensed what was coming.
Abel chose the cultist closest to him and reached out with magic that was its opposite—the darkest black magic he could cast without speaking, without light, without sound. Not even sparks. Just intent and will and power channeled through his wand.
It was a severing spell, one of the easiest spells in its arsenal. But when you add more power to it, it could become a pure and absolute assassination spell.
A thin red line appeared on the cultist's neck.
His head dropped to the ground. Blood fountained upward. The body collapsed without ever understanding what had killed it.
Abel's invisibility dropped.
He stepped into Victor's line of sight, and for just a moment, he saw the shock on his new friend's face. Then clarity replaced it.
"Victor," Abel said, already moving toward the remaining two cultists, "you deal with one. I deal with the other!"
"Got it!" Victor replied, no time for questions or relief. He immediately released twin flames of lava-like intensity, driving one of the cultists backward and opening space for Abel to engage the other.
Abel waved his wand, and gravel from the floor spiraled upward, accelerating into projectiles. He released them in rapid-fire succession.
The projectiles shot outward like an enormous shotgun blast, each one moving at lethal velocity. The Dark Church cultist tried to defend, to shield itself, but there were too many impacts coming too fast. It was driven backward, forced to release a massive black aura in desperation—a wave of dark energy meant to disrupt Abel's magic and create space.
But Abel had learned from Dumbledore himself. He raised his wand and released a water spell—not simple liquid, but water infused with Transfiguration properties, given a kind of spiritual awareness and control. The water erupted from his wand like a wave, spiraling outward with its own intelligence.
The water and the dark aura collided, and the water adapted. It wrapped around the cultist, constantly rotating, creating a sphere of movement that trapped the cultist inside a prison of flowing liquid. The cultist struggled against the confinement, floated suspended within the water sphere, unable to break free.
At the same moment, Victor executed his finishing move. Both hands came together, and lava-like fire materialized between them—pure heat in concentrated form. He carved through his opponent's neck with both hands as if wielding twin blades.
The cultist's head separated from its body.
Immediately, Victor began chanting and released his strongest spell: lightning. Thunder manifested above, and two bolts of electricity crashed down directly into Abel's water prison.
The electricity conducted through the water with perfect efficiency. The confined cultist's body locked rigid as the current ran through him. Abel could see the flesh char, see smoke rise.
END CHAPTER 31