The sickly green Killing Curse struck Sterling's chest, instantly spreading outward in spiderweb-patterned cracks.
Vitam's eyes widened. She pulled from her chest a fingernail-sized crystal ball, pressing it disbelievingly before her eyes. The future—Sterling's death clearly didn't exist as an outcome!
Could her alchemical skill be insufficient, the future-predicting crystal ball malfunctioning? But how was that possible?
Sterling was Avalon's treasure...
A heavy voice sounded in everyone's ears, completely knocking Voldemort—who'd just forcibly released the Killing Curse despite his soul's tremors—to the ground, spitting black blood.
Harry and Ron, held firmly by Hermione from rushing out of the Invisibility Cloak, stared at the deep green... dragon scale rising from Sterling's body.
It was a diamond-shaped scale about as large as Sterling himself. Though bearing a color close to the Killing Curse, anyone could sense from it only vast life force, as if an entire forest slept within that dragon scale.
The sickly green spiderweb cracks symbolizing death transferred to this scale—no, not transferred. This scale had emerged from Sterling's chest. The Killing Curse had originally struck this scale directly.
Sterling hadn't lost consciousness. He clearly watched all this, also clearly sensing Maleficent's familiar aura.
Scorching yet warm, like the embrace he'd felt many years ago.
Beneath the smoky smell lurked fresh grass and wood fragrance.
But others present didn't share this sensation. They felt only the air turning terribly hot, as if they'd instantly arrived at a volcano's mouth. Every breath burned their windpipes...
McGonagall had already laid down a series of Freezing Charms with Vitam, including around Harry's trio's location. Even so, Ron sweated profusely, staring dumbfounded at the virtually unharmed Sterling.
"Harry... you seem not to be the only 'Boy Who Lived'... Sterling didn't even get a scar..."
Harry had no time to care. He stared straight at that gradually disintegrating scale. For reasons unknown, sorrow surged up within him.
He seemed to see a blurry female figure, her body also disintegrating this way...
Harry suddenly felt weight in his hand. Looking down, a gleaming golden longsword had fallen into his palm, a crimson ruby set in the hilt.
"A-Avada Kedavra!!!"
Voldemort, struck directly by the heat waves, widened his eyes. Ignoring his precarious state—soul nearly half-torn within his body and half-floating skyward—he forced out another Killing Curse from his soul, infusing it with a trace of Death Magic's aura. Sickly green tinged with grayish-white.
Had he been capable of casting a true Death Magic Killing Curse in such a deteriorated state—even if it meant draining his soul completely, burning away his very essence—he would have done so without hesitation.
He absolutely could not—must not—let this person—let Sterling Page—survive to reach his full potential!
Otherwise, even if he revived, it would all be meaningless. Even if he could revive countless times, the same fate awaited. Dumbledore, no wonder you dared leave Hogwarts so confidently... you've actually brought forth a force from within Avalon itself!
Voldemort sighed deeply. Strange to say, the more broken his soul became, the more his rationality approached that "Tom Riddle" who hadn't split many Horcruxes yet—the one who'd united nearly all pure-blood families through personal charisma alone.
He didn't know how Dumbledore had done it, nor whether Sterling came from Avalon or Dumbledore had given him something from Avalon...
He knew only one thing—that dragon scale.
He'd scoured Northern Europe relentlessly, finally piercing through Avalon's mist. In the Black Forest's tower ruins, he'd obtained the Death Magic engraving bestowed by that "source of Northern Europe's myriad curses," "Dragon of War and Hunt."
That dragon scale had the exact same magical signature as hers.
Voldemort would never forget that being's magical signature. He'd obtained Death Magic; he knew the truth—even possessing immortal Horcruxes—if he couldn't be called "one who escaped death," who had that right?!
He'd taken the name "Voldemort" afterward—she was one of the inspirations behind it. Why would her aura appear here, on this mere first-year wizard?
Voldemort seethed with rage. However, his desperate Killing Curse didn't obliterate Sterling from existence as he'd wished.
Deep green magical flames erupted from the scale completely crushed by the previous Killing Curse's "death." It slowly stretched massive wings, swallowing Voldemort's second Killing Curse in one bite, exhaling two scorching air streams from its nostrils.
"Maleficent?"
Sterling extended his hand, but the green dragon didn't look back. It propelled its body—composed entirely of magical flames—forward, charging at Voldemort as fast as the flames themselves.
Maleficent's words rose in Sterling's memories, along with her firm, unwavering eyes.
"I bestow you my scale—it will protect you in the present world I cannot reach."
"Don't be afraid, Sterling. Though you'll go to the magical world we cannot yet understand—I promise you, I pledge to you, no matter what situation you're in, you'll have ample time to call upon Avalon, beginning your second life there."
"By then, Vivian and I will let you know that even a scratch will be nearly impossible to obtain."
Sterling blinked. He remembered this from those days just after receiving his acceptance letter.
Back then, he'd only needed to speak Avalon's secret to completely leave the present world for Avalon.
So that's it... The scale could die once in his place, and the magical dragon of flames dwelling within it—even against peak-condition great wizards—was sufficient to buy Sterling ample time to trigger Avalon's rules.
And against an extremely weakened great wizard like the current Voldemort... it could even strike back lethally.
Voldemort wanted to curse.
Cursing naturally wasn't gentlemanly or aristocratic—but it was very fitting for his Wool's Orphanage identity.
But he wanted to curse yet had no time—this bizarre magic was more evil than Fiendfyre. Fiendfyre at least had counter-curses; if not, a strong Finite Incantatem could extinguish it. But this fire... even Voldemort, a Dark Magic master, had never encountered it. Counter-curses? None existed.
He also briefly tried Finite Incantatem, but unfortunately, with his current broken, nearly destroyed body, he simply couldn't manage it.
So he could only desperately flee, occasionally using profound Dark Magic to repel one or two fire tongues that pressed too close—keeping his soul constantly trembling, like his head had been placed in a tumble dryer, occasionally dizzy with blackening vision.
He knew this body—no, this soul—was marching toward death.
Voldemort had thought he'd prepared to do everything to snuff out Sterling, this "Dumbledore's successor." But now he understood—that was only because death hadn't yet sent him an invitation. Now truly standing at death's cliff edge, he could be certain—he still feared death this much.
Can't die, can't die, can't die...
Voldemort's completely torn-apart soul lost his originally fairly clear mind. Now, muddled, he remembered only this phrase.
Perhaps once Sterling grew up, he'd surpass Dumbledore. Voldemort reviving once would mean being crushed once—but that was still "perhaps," wasn't it?
Voldemort couldn't be ruthless enough. Facing death, his courage wasn't as brave as a muggle first-grader's.
So in one moment when the giant dragon's claw swiped, Voldemort's body thunderously broke in two. The separated upper and lower halves both instantly regenerated the other half. One body rushed toward Sterling, waving dangerous curses. The other rapidly rushed toward Harry and the professors, wanting to use their bodies as shields to dodge the dragon's attacks—Sterling surely couldn't attack Voldemort if they stood in the same direction.
Otherwise, whether he died was unknown, but these professors would definitely perish.
In his chaos, Voldemort didn't discover Harry's trio hidden under the Invisibility Cloak.
Sterling didn't control the magical dragon. At his level, he currently couldn't drive such large-magnitude life flames. This dragon acted entirely according to the action logic Maleficent had preset—namely, attacking anyone holding malice toward Sterling.
Because it lacked proper enemy-identification ability, the dragon didn't distinguish between professors and threats—a convenient matter—one mouthful of lava-hot breath swept toward both McGonagall and Voldemort's direction.
Voldemort immediately tried flying toward the Forbidden Forest's depths, using the dense forest to evade the dragon, letting his soul—even just half of it—escape with life.
McGonagall and Vitam quickly pulled up the young wizards under the Invisibility Cloak, leaving their original spot. Thanks to magical gadgets Vitam pulled from her backpack, their speed wasn't much slower than Voldemort's, naturally also avoiding the breath's burning.
But McGonagall's face suddenly paled. She tremblingly touched the heads under the Invisibility Cloak... One, two... wrong again, one, two... oh dear, truly getting old, can't even count properly. One, two—
Unable to deceive herself anymore, McGonagall lifted the Invisibility Cloak, nearly unable to catch her breath, her distress preceding even Dumbledore's arrival.
Hermione and Ron showed her awkward smiles. And Harry... had disappeared.
Vitam peeking over also felt she needed blood pressure medication. But the immediate priority was—
"Professor McGonagall, look clearly. Harry wasn't vaporized by dragon breath—though this flame's temperature is extreme, it wouldn't make Harry vanish without a trace, right?"
McGonagall, receiving this reassurance from Vitam, finally rid herself of her dizziness. She adjusted her glasses. No need to ask Hermione and Ron. Relying on her understanding of Gryffindor, of James and Lily's child, she instantly located Harry's position—then her vision darkened further.
Harry, hiding in bushes, held his breath, waiting for that speeding figure to come closer, closer...
When Voldemort had rushed toward them, he'd felt an inexplicable premonition. Driven by this premonition, he'd left the Invisibility Cloak, hiding alone in bushes near the Forbidden Forest's edge.
Then he'd truly waited for Voldemort running toward his direction!
Harry couldn't care now about "Can I beat him?" or "Will there be danger?" When he'd associated that scale with his mother, his mind retained only one simple thought.
Revenge.
This was his most basic right as a person. Tooth for tooth, eye for eye.
Without even himself noticing, the lightning-shaped small sword at his scar glowed golden.
An "aura" unfolded around him. His physical condition began climbing steadily, magic power also expanding violently...
Conversely, fleeing Voldemort's already inch-by-inch crumbling body accelerated its destruction. His soul's grasp over his body also declined, so that the closer he got to the Forbidden Forest, the slower his flying speed became, finally not much different from walking pace.
Hero's Heart—overcoming the strong with weakness.
Just as Voldemort passed the bushes, hearing a loud shout, he bewilderedly twisted his head, seeing a black curly-haired figure leap from the bushes, raising high a radiant sword. The hilt's ruby still emitted dazzling light even at dusk, nearly blinding Voldemort's eyes.
Even so, Voldemort still instinctively turned his body. Harry's sword, carrying all his strength, swung empty, the blade digging deep into soil, momentarily difficult to extract.
Harry simply abandoned this sword. His right hand trembled—another golden light bundle gathered in his palm.
But Voldemort wouldn't just stand waiting for death—even weakened to this extent, he still retained Auror-level combat ability. He absolutely wouldn't fall to being humiliated by Harry Potter, a mere first-year young wizard!
He waved both hands—three poisonous curses rushed toward Harry.
Fortunately, with Hero Magic's continuous strengthening, Harry dodged in panic but still inevitably interrupted his hand's Magic Power Shaping.
Seeing Voldemort wouldn't give him time to condense another sword, looking at Voldemort's inch-by-inch crumbling body, sensing his own surging physical condition...
Harry crushed the golden light in his hand, closing in.
Not having used his body to fight for long, he subconsciously clenched both fists, solidly hitting Voldemort's face.
Voldemort produced exceptionally miserable sounds. Where Harry struck him nearly burned. Such burning was far more terrifying than Vitam's cannon targeting the mummy curse. Voldemort felt pain not just in his body—even his soul burned blazingly.
Harry, seeing the significant effects, no longer spoke, just continuously threw punches.
Even Sterling and Professor McGonagall gathered over, watching Harry punch by punch beat Voldemort's body into layers of broken fragments, like boiled dumpling wrappers.
Sterling pondered. This scene... why is it so similar to the scene he'd "seen" when Origin Magic awakened?
Thinking carefully, that scene had just looked like a dim environment, which he'd subconsciously defined as a "chamber." Actually, the dusk Forbidden Forest edge also fits these conditions.
An abnormally short, still-burning pitch-black spirit escaped from the charred corpse Harry had completely blasted apart. It looked around resentfully and then fled toward the distance.
Whether Sterling or Vitam had methods for dealing with spirits, before they could act, crimson flames appeared. An aged yet powerful palm extending from the fire tightly gripped Voldemort.
Dumbledore smiled, stepping from the flames.
"Tom, if your soul was slightly more complete, I might truly have been unable to imprison it."
"But look how excellent my students are, Tom. This semester's final dance of yours—I'm afraid I can only give you a 'P'."