Chapter 234 : The Battle Is Over
Dracula's fury boiled over.
"But you actually found this place, destroyed it, and killed her. That, Black, is unforgivable! Just because I've shown you some respect doesn't mean I'm weaker than you—or someone to be trifled with!"
As he finished speaking, Dracula vanished—and reappeared instantly beside Phineas, reaching out to tear him apart as he'd done to the werewolf wizards moments before.
Luckily, Phineas had anticipated such a move and layered several protective enchantments over his body, blocking the lethal strike.
Dracula hadn't used Apparition or any other spell; the area's enchantments still restricted such magic. No, he moved that fast. So fast the naked eye couldn't even register his departure or arrival.
In wizard duels, control is everything. Initiative isn't just about who casts first—but who commands the tempo, forcing their opponent into reaction.
The difference between wizards often lies not in raw magical power, but in finesse—perception, timing, and command of spells. With spells like the Killing Curse, even a less experienced wizard with enough magic power could kill a so-called legendary one. And there are more deadly spells beyond the Unforgivables.
Phineas, however, would not use the Killing Curse. While his Armor Charm gave him an opening to attack, that curse wasn't his weapon of choice.
All three Unforgivable Curses were created by the same dark wizard. Though easy to learn, their full potential demanded deep conviction. The Killing Curse, for example, required not just intent—but true desire to kill. The caster must revel in the enemy's death. Even hatred wasn't enough; only a twisted joy could make the spell truly effective.
And though Phineas did want Dracula dead, he avoided the curse for a different reason: its corrosive effect on the soul. Use it once, maybe twice—but repeated use damages the mind, emotions, and even personality. A true legendary wizard must remain inwardly pure.
So instead, Phineas cast a silent Stunning Spell. Silent spells are essential in real duels—not only are they quicker, but they give no clue to the opponent about what's coming. The enemy must guess, hesitate—buying the caster precious time.
Phineas knew the Stunning Spell wouldn't hit—not against someone as fast as Dracula. And even if it did, vampires had natural magical resistance. Not as much as giants or half-giants like Hagrid, but enough to shrug off many standard spells.
Still, the attack served its purpose.
As Dracula dodged, Phineas lifted his wand and traced a large circle above his head.
Stone erupted from the ground, forming a curved wall that rose into a complete circle around them—like a magical Colosseum. Dracula realized immediately: the first spell had just been a distraction.
The walls began to close overhead, forming a roof. Even if Dracula could fly, he was now trapped.
Enraged, Dracula lunged again. This time, he managed to shatter Phineas's Armor Charm, and Phineas had no time to recast it.
If this attack landed, Phineas would die.
Dracula appeared before him in a blink, his hand thrusting toward Phineas's heart—
—but just then, a flame burst to life between them.
It was the Fire Phoenix.
Phineas had previously sent it hurtling toward the castle in a suicide dive, setting off an explosion that wiped out scores of vampires—and seemingly destroying itself. At least, that's what Dracula had believed.
Now, the phoenix blocked his attack. Dracula was stunned.
Phineas wasn't. He knew the phoenix, born of flame, was immortal. As long as fire burned on the battlefield, it could return. And Phineas had made sure to trap a piece of burning wreckage from the castle within the Colosseum when he created it.
With Dracula momentarily confused, Phineas acted.
He slammed his wand downward, then yanked it up.
A massive stone hand burst from the ground, grabbing Dracula tightly.
The phoenix dove, flames roaring, but Dracula finally stopped holding back.
A wand appeared in his hand—crafted from bone, adorned with rubies and gleaming with blood-red metal.
Wind howled as he raised it. A storm barrier shot forward, blowing the phoenix backward.
Phineas rolled aside to avoid the blast himself, even as his wand danced again.
Stone statues began emerging from the earth—mythical beasts, warriors, monsters—all charging Dracula.
Phineas knew he couldn't match Dracula with brute force. Even if Dracula wasn't quite a legendary wizard, he was close—and vampires were naturally gifted in combat.
But Phineas had something Dracula didn't: Gryffindor's inheritance. His transformation magic and plastic evocation allowed him to fight creatively and efficiently—channeling raw materials into powerful constructs.
Now, he was doing exactly that.
The statues closed in. Dracula struck them down—but Phineas kept going. His wand plunged into the ground again.
This time, a massive hand—arm and all—rose from the ruins and seized Dracula in an unbreakable grip.
It wouldn't kill him—but it would hold him.
Now came the final move.
Phineas's wand transformed—wood turning to metal, reshaping into a sword.
He sprinted toward Dracula, raising his left hand. A staircase of earth formed beneath his feet, carrying him upward with every step.
At the apex, Phineas leapt.
Both hands on the hilt, he brought the sword down with all his might—straight at Dracula's neck.
Steel met flesh.
Dracula's head hit the ground.
The ancestor of vampires—once feared as nearly a legend—was dead.
He had died frustrated and bewildered. He should have used magic. Should have drawn his wand earlier. Shouldn't have relied on brute strength alone. He had access to the Killing Curse, the Cutting Curse, countless dark spells.
But he hadn't used any of them.
He chose close combat—and died by the sword.
He had trusted in his magic resistance—but forgot that Phineas, too, could fight with steel. Transfigured steel.
Phineas, breathing heavily, collapsed to the ground.
The fight had seemed simple from afar—Dracula attacked, Phineas defended, then retaliated and won.
But the truth was far more complex.
Throughout, Phineas had juggled multiple layers of transfiguration, plastic evocation, defensive enchantments, control spells—and even transformed his wand itself into a blade. The wand, a magical focus, was rarely the subject of magic itself. But Phineas had made it so.
And in doing so, he'd found the theme for his next research paper: The Application of Transfiguration on Wands—Theory and Necessity.
After resting and recovering some magical strength, Phineas dispersed the stone Colosseum.
Outside, Lisa had been on edge the entire time. When she saw Phineas trap himself with Dracula, her heart nearly stopped. She immediately rallied the surviving werewolf wizards to press the attack.
Without Dracula, the vampires crumbled. Lisa gave the order—no survivors.
When the vampires were defeated, and the Colosseum still hadn't opened, she set the others to work sorting the battlefield.
They gathered magical artifacts, books, treasure, and bodies into organized piles.
And then, the Colosseum finally crumbled.
Lisa raised her hand.
All the werewolf wizards pointed their wands at the opening—ready to strike if Dracula emerged.
But it wasn't Dracula.
It was Phineas.
He walked out, sword still in hand, tattered but alive.
The werewolf wizards erupted into cheers. If Phineas had fallen, they would've all died soon after.
None of them had his talent. His transfiguration alone surpassed most masters.
Lisa's reaction, however, was different.
Tears welled in her eyes. She didn't care about victory. She didn't care about the vampires.
She cared only about one thing: that Phineas had survived.
She didn't embrace him, though she wanted to. She knew her place. Phineas was her young master. Even if he married someday, it wouldn't be her. A scarred werewolf woman like her could never stand by his side.
But still—he was alive.
And that was everything.