The sky above the Białowieża forest did not merely rain spellfire; it bled.
The unstable ritual basin in the center of the camp shattered with a sickening, wet roar.
The crimson sacrifice—a volatile cocktail of innocent blood, dark ancient runes, and raw, holy unicorn magic—did not absorb seamlessly into Garrik Vane’s body.
It saturated him.
It infected him.
Garrik shrieked, a sound that ceased to be human as his spine snapped backward at an impossible angle.
The black, pulsing veins on his face and neck expanded, tearing through his skin like writhing obsidian roots.
His muscles surged, swelling beneath his charred dragon-hide coat as his eyes melted into twin pools of blinding, violet fire.
His aura exploded outward—a toxic wave of raw, corrupted magic that blew tents, iron cages, and wooden totems into splinters.
He had become a walking magical monstrosity, drunk on stolen life, entirely consumed by berserk, unadulterated madness.
“KILL!” Garrik bellowed, his voice echoing as a double-layered howl that shook the very earth.
He backhanded three descending Aurors with a single sweep of his arm, launching a wave of dark, corrupted energy that sheared the tops off three massive pine trees.
Leon stood at the edge of the clearing, his feet rooted to the trembling ground, his mind working at blistering speed.
He didn’t need a single calculation to see the truth.
‘He’s a dead man walking,’ Leon thought, his sharp blue eyes tracking the erratic, uncontrolled bursts of magic leaking from Garrik’s skin.
‘The vessel cannot contain the energy.
It’s a magical meltdown.’
“Vanya! Finn!” Leon’s voice cut through the thunderous noise of battle.
Vanya glided to his side, her dark trench-coat snapping in the gale, her hazel eyes wide with a mixture of thrill and disgust at the carnage.
Finn landed his broom nearby, his wand sparking as he deflected a stray curse.
“Vane is done,” Leon ordered, leaning close so only they could hear.
“The camp is falling. Gather the salvageable ones—Bram, Kaelen, Robert, Olivia, and the dozen others who aren’t fanatical enough to die for a corpse. Get them out of the Auror encirclement now. Move to the secondary rally point in the mountains.”
“What about you?” Vanya demanded, her hand tightening around her dual-bladed dagger, her eyes flashing with sudden concern.
“I’m staying,” Leon said smoothly, his wand slipping into his hand with practiced ease.
“I need to ensure Vane draws every single Auror’s attention while you slip through the perimeter. Go. Now!”
Vanya stared at him for a fraction of a second, her jaw tightening, before she gave a sharp nod.
“Don’t you dare die on me, Leon.”
“Move!” Finn barked, already turning to rally Bram and the others.
Leon watched them sprint into the chaos before turning his full attention back to the nightmare unfolding around him.
The camp was a vision of absolute hell.
Tents burned with bright green and violet flames, casting long, twisting shadows across the mud.
Spells of every color—scarlet Disarming Charms, emerald Killing Curses, silver shields, and golden shockwaves—crisscrossed the air like a lethal web.
Screams of dying poachers mingled with the authoritative shouts of the ICW strike force.
As Vanya and Finn shepherded the group of nearly fifteen Wyrm-Breakers through the chaotic western flank, avoiding the main body of Aurors, Finn suddenly halted in his tracks.
“Finn, keep moving!” Bram hissed, ducking beneath a stray blasting curse that shattered a nearby supply crate.
Finn didn’t hear him.
His eyes were locked on a stocky, bearded poacher who was frantically trying to pry open an iron chest amidst the burning ruins of a supply tent.
Jad.
The man who had dragged him into this nightmare years ago.
The man who had beaten him, starved him, and treated him like livestock.
A cold, primal stillness washed over Finn’s face.
He didn’t call out.
He didn’t shout an insult.
With a single, fluid motion born of two years of brutal training under Leon’s guidance, Finn stepped out of the smoke, raised his wand, and roared:
“AVADA KEDAVRA!”
A blinding jet of vivid green light slashed through the dark haze, striking Jad squarely in the chest before the brutal poacher could even turn his head.
The light extinguished the life in his eyes instantly.
Jad collapsed like a felled tree into the burning canvas of the tent, dead before he hit the earth.
Finn lowered his wand, the green glare fading from his eyes as a long, ragged breath escaped his lips.
Years of buried terror, pain, and resentment melted away in the cold autumn air.
He stared at the lifeless body for a solitary second, ensuring the nightmare was truly over, before turning his back without a word.
“Finn! Come on!” Vanya snapped, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him back toward the shadow of the treeline.
Without another look, the fleeing group melted into the dark forest, vanishing past the weakened Auror flank.
In the center of the camp, the battle had reached a fever pitch.
Garrik was a hurricane of destruction.
He took three direct Stupefy Maxima blasts from ICW Aurors without even flinching, the spells dissipating against the thick, corrupt purple barrier pulsing around his flesh.
With a roar, Garrik whipped his wand, unleashing a torrent of black, corroding fire that sent four Aurors diving for cover behind a raised earthwork.
“Hold the line!
Concentrate your fire on his head!” Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody shouted, his magical blue eye spinning wildly as his wooden leg thudded heavily into the mud.
He slashed his wand upward, raising a massive stone wall to block a wave of kinetic force launched by the monstrosity.
“He’s unstable! Don’t let him breach the perimeter!”
Suddenly, a sharp, precise jet of icy-blue light pierced through the smoke, striking Garrik precisely at the juncture of his neck and shoulder—the exact point where his magical veins were bulging highest.
Garrik howled in genuine pain, his dark fire faltering for a crucial second.
Moody’s magical eye snapped toward the source of the spell.
A young man—no older than fifteen, with broad shoulders, dark dragon-hide armor, and striking blue eyes—was moving through the chaos with terrifying composure.
Leon didn’t cast wildly.
Every twitch of his wand was calculated, intercepting stray curses aimed at wounded Aurors, deflecting debris with razor-thin shields, and targeting the precise structural weaknesses in Garrik’s expanding magical form.
‘His magic is leaking through the sternum,’ Leon observed instantly, his eyes reading the rhythmic, violent surges beneath Garrik’s skin like a map of cracked glass.
‘He can’t hold the charge.’
“Vane! Over here, you wretched beast!” Leon called out, his voice calm, ringing clear over the roar of flames.
Garrik turned his monstrous, glowing face toward Leon, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat.
“TRAITOR!”
Garrik unleashed a barrage of jagged lightning.
Leon didn’t try to overpower it.
With lightning-fast spatial awareness, he swept his wand in a concise arc, altering the ground beneath the bolts to redirect the electrical current safely into the damp earth.
“Now, Aurors! His chest!” Leon shouted to the surrounding strike team.
Moody didn’t hesitate.
“YOU HEARD THE LAD! FIRE!”
A dozen Aurors unleashed a synchronized volley of heavy stunners and blasting charms straight at the point Leon had exposed.
The combined force struck Garrik square in the chest, forcing the behemoth back three steps, his dark shield cracking like glass.
For ten grueling minutes, the battle raged.
Garrik grew impossibly stronger with every passing second as the dark ritual continued to burn through his life force, but his sanity was completely gone.
He smashed through stone shields, ripped the earth apart, and swatted away spells like flies.
The remaining loyalist poachers were cut down around him until only Garrik remained standing amidst the burning ash and bodies of his band.
“He’s not stopping!” an Auror yelled, bleeding from a deep gash on his forehead.
“Our spells aren’t penetrating!”
“Stand your ground!” Moody growled, his wand raised, though sweat beaded on his scarred forehead.
Leon stepped alongside Moody, his wand raised in a steady guard, his eyes locked on Garrik’s swelling form.
‘It’s over,’ Leon realized, sensing the critical mass reached within Garrik’s magic.
“Get down!” Leon barked, throwing himself toward a low stone ridge and pulling two nearby injured Aurors behind him.
“COVER!”
Garrik Vane froze in the center of the ruined camp.
His body inflated, his skin turning almost translucent as blinding, violet light erupted from his eyes, his mouth, and every pore of his flesh.
“I AM… A GOD—!”
BOOM!
The explosion was deafening.
A massive, dome-shaped shockwave of pure, unrefined magic violently expanded outward from Garrik’s center.
The blast pulverized the wooden structures, tore ancient pine trees out by their roots, and sent a wall of dirt, fire, and heat screaming across the clearing.
Leon slammed his wand into the earth, raising a sloped, reinforced Protego to shield himself and the wounded men behind him.
The shockwave slammed into his barrier like a runaway train, vibrating down his arm and forcing his knees deep into the dirt.
Around them, several Aurors who failed to take cover in time were lifted off their feet and hurled dozens of yards into the forest.
Then, silence descended upon Białowieża.
The thick, acrid smoke gradually drifted away on the cold autumn wind.
Where the center of the Wyrm-Breakers’ camp had stood, there was now only a massive, scorched crater.
Of Garrik Vane, nothing remained—dissolved into raw energy by his own hubris.
The battle was over.
Across the ruined glade, surviving Aurors groaned as they pulled themselves from the debris, immediately tending to their wounded and securing the perimeter.
Leon stood up slowly, brushing ash and dirt from his dark coat.
His mind remained razor-sharp, his photographic memory scanning the battlefield with methodical precision.
He walked among the burning wreckage, his boots crunching on embers and broken wands.
He stopped beside the fallen body of Torstein, the Norwegian lieutenant lying dead amidst a pile of shattered timber.
Resting against Torstein’s chest was Liliana’s family heirloom, the bastard sword, its steel tarnished with ash but intact.
Leon leaned down, picked up the heavy blade, and slid it safely into the expanded leather sheath strapped to his back.
‘I’ll return this to her,’ he noted silently.
As his eyes continued to map the fallen, he registered a glaring anomaly.
There were forty poachers dead or captured in the glade.
But as Leon cross-referenced the bodies with his mental roster of the cartel, he realized several key figures were missing.
‘Silas Vance isn’t here,’ Leon observed, his gaze narrowing slightly.
‘Neither are three of his senior logistics men.
Silas fled before the battle even reached its peak.’
“You’ve got sharp eyes for a lad who just survived an apocalypse.”
A heavy, thudding footstep sounded behind him.
Leon turned smoothly to see Alastor Moody limping toward him through the haze.
The legendary Auror’s single good eye was narrowed in intense scrutiny, while his electric-blue magical eye whirled around, taking in Leon’s posture, his dragon-hide armor, and his lack of panic.
“Alastor Moody,” the veteran Auror introduced himself roughly, his voice like grinding stones.
“ICW Strike Command. You move like a duelliste and you shield like a veteran, boy. Care to tell me who you are and what a kid your age is doing in the middle of Europe’s most dangerous poacher organisation?”
Leon met Moody’s intense, dual-eyed glare without flinching.
His posture remained grounded, his tone calm and unshakeable.
“My name is Leon,” he replied smoothly, holding Moody’s gaze.
“I was captured by these monsters when they raided a sanctuary. I survived by keeping my head down, waiting for an opportunity to strike back. When Vane lost his mind and started slaughtering innocents, I fought to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves, and to see Vane answer for what he did.”
Moody stared at him for a long, heavy moment.
His magical eye whirled, probing Leon’s face, but Leon’s Occlumency shields were seamless, presenting a picture of quiet, grim determination.
“A captive, eh?” Moody grunted, a faint, gruff huff escaping his lips.
He glanced at the scorched crater where Garrik had exploded, then back at Leon.
“You guided my men’s fire. You saved three of my Aurors from that shockwave. Bad timing for a holiday, but good fighting.” Moody pointed his wand at a pair of approaching Mediwitches.
“Get this lad checked out. We’ll take your full statement when we clear the area.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Leon said politely.
He knew that in the days to come, the ICW would conduct a thorough investigation.
But he also knew that Liliana’s upcoming testimony to the international authorities—detailing how a brave young man had protected her, saved her people, and fought the gang from within—would completely validate his story, turning him into a recognized survivor and hero in the eyes of the law.
One week later.
London.
The rain drizzled soft and steady over the gray rooftops of the city.
Deep within a quiet, upscale residential district, Leon stepped out of the shadows of a quiet alley, his long blue-night coat dry beneath a subtle Impervius charm.
He walked up the stone steps of a discreet townhouse, pulled a brass key from his pocket, and unlocked the heavy oak door.
As he pushed the door open, the warm light and gentle hum of voices from inside spilled into the entryway.
Sitting around a long, wooden table in the spacious living room was his new inner circle.
Vanya was lounging gracefully in an armchair, a glass of dark wine in her hand, her hazel eyes lighting up the second Leon walked through the door.
Finn was laughing near the hearth, sharing a joke with Bram, Kaelen, and the couple, Robert and Olivia, alongside the dozen former Wyrm-Breakers Leon had saved from the camp.
In the corner of the room stood Liliana, her silver hair gleaming softly in the lamplight.
Beside her was an elder from her tribe.
When her emerald eyes caught Leon’s entrance, a breathtaking, radiant smile broke across her face.
Leon stood in the doorway for a quiet second, taking in the scene.
The Wyrm-Breakers were dead and buried in the frozen mud of Białowieża.
The poachers, the cages, and Garrik Vane’s madness were history.
A slow, confident smile touched Leon’s lips as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
This was no longer Garrik’s crew.
This was his.
The era of the Wyrm-Breakers had ended.
His era had just begun.
This concludes the first arc, “The Wyrm-Breakers.” I hope you enjoyed it.
Don’t worry, we’ll meet again tomorrow for the start of arc 2, “Foundations of the Empire.” I’ve already finished writing it.
As you may have noticed, the first arc was quite fast-paced, with many large time skips.
It will be somewhat similar with the second, although the time skips will be shorter.
But the third arc, which I’ve just started writing, should have a slower pace and be longer.
It’s also in the third arc that we catch up with the beginning of the Harry Potter book story.
Anyway, feel free to leave a comment to tell me what you thought of this fanfiction so far.
It’s my first time writing, so I welcome all feedback, good or bad.
See you tomorrow!