The first cultist came at me like he'd been personally offended by my existence, which was honestly relatable because I'm pretty sure reality itself felt that way half the time. The corridor outside the ritual chamber was cramped, candlelit, and thick with incense that smelled like someone tried to hide rot with perfume. Shadows jittered on the walls from the windstorm outside, but in here the air was weirdly still, like the church was holding its breath.
Victor didn't.
He moved with that sharp, terrifying efficiency that made it obvious he'd been rehearsing violence in his head long before he ever had permission to use it. His hand flashed behind his back and came away with a telescopic baton. I didn't even see him extend it; one moment it was a short rod, the next it was a full-length weapon singing through the air. The baton cracked against a Dark Church believer's skull with a sound that was half impact, half wet punctuation.
BOOM.
The cultist dropped instantly, face-first onto stone, blood spreading like a bad abstract painting.
At the same time, another believer lunged for me with a fist wrapped in cheap cloth and cheaper faith. I caught his wrist mid-swing, and for a second I felt the wrongness in his skin—like his bones didn't sit right in his body anymore, like something else had started renovating him from the inside. He was stronger than a normal person should've been, but strength without technique is just enthusiasm.
I yanked him forward, stole his balance, and drove my elbow into his abdomen hard enough that his breath left him in one ugly cough. When he doubled over, I followed up with an uppercut to the chin. His jaw snapped shut with a hollow click, his eyes rolled back, and he crumpled like a sack of potatoes before he even hit the ground.
Close-quarters still works, even on powered cultists.
Good to know. Comforting, in a deeply unsettling way.
Victor turned, probably expecting to see me flailing around like a stereotypical "wizard" who thought cardio was illegal. Instead, he found me standing over a groaning pile of robes, rolling my shoulder like I'd just finished a warm-up round at a boxing gym.
He raised an eyebrow, and for the first time since we met, his expression softened into something almost human. "I assumed you were the kind of mage who relies purely on magical power," he said, voice low and controlled, like even his compliments had to pass inspection first. "It seems you have proficient fighting skills as well."
I shrugged, because admitting I took pride in it felt like inviting the universe to humble me immediately. "No one says a wizard has to stand still and spam spells," I said. "Well—unless you're the Ancient One or Agatha. Then, sure, you can basically delete people with hand gestures and smugness."
I gestured to myself, then to the corridor full of enemies. "Me, though? Combining magic with physical skill is more practical. Especially since my magic reserves are still recovering. I can't afford to waste power on every single idiot in a robe."
Victor's pride clearly didn't allow him to agree too enthusiastically, but I saw it in his eyes—the recognition. The same tactical instinct. The same understanding that magic wasn't a replacement for discipline; it was another weapon, and a weapon was only as good as the person holding it.
For someone who looked like he'd never had a friend his own age—isolated by genius, circumstance, and the general bad luck of being born in Latveria—Victor seemed to develop a trace of appreciation toward me. Not warmth exactly. More like… a private note written in a ledger: Abel. Useful. Potential.
Which was both flattering and mildly terrifying, considering the guy's future résumé.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, barely a smile, and he nodded once. "Then we proceed."
And we did.
We surged forward like a two-man disaster response team, except the disaster was us. The Dark Church believers came in waves—some with knives, some with clubs, some with bare hands and that feverish look in their eyes that said they'd gladly die if it meant their evil god noticed them for half a second.
Victor's magic was mostly illusion-based. He'd twist light and perception so enemies swung at phantoms, stumbled into walls, or froze mid-step as their minds tried to process a corridor that suddenly seemed to bend the wrong way. It was elegant, surgical magic—less "fireball," more "I have rewritten your senses and now you are my problem to solve."
I backed him up with wandless casting when I could, because it was faster and didn't advertise my full capabilities yet. A quick Stupefy to drop someone before they shouted. Petrificus Totalus when a fighter got too close and I didn't want to play fair. Expelliarmus when somebody drew a weapon like they thought this was a medieval reenactment. It felt, in a weird way, like fighting Death Eaters again—except with worse fashion sense and none of the dramatic monologues about blood purity.
We didn't need to talk much. Victor would glance, and I'd already know where he wanted pressure. I'd shift, he'd exploit. I'd stun, he'd move in and end the threat. It was disturbingly smooth for two people who'd met, like, an hour ago.
Then the air changed.
It wasn't just incense and sweat anymore. Something heavier seeped into the corridor, like a cold fog that didn't touch your skin so much as your soul. The candle flames guttered, leaning away from a point ahead as if afraid. My wand hand went tight without me meaning it to.
Victor slowed too, baton held low, eyes narrowing.
A believer stood in the middle of the passageway, alone, like he'd been waiting for us. His robe was darker than the others—less "peasant cultist" and more "middle management in hell." On his forehead, a symbol glowed red, pulsing like a second heartbeat. His eyes looked burned at the edges, cracked like old glass, and a faint aura of black energy licked around him, not quite smoke, not quite shadow.
That symbol was the proof.
He'd absorbed Dark Dimension power.
My stomach dipped, remembering Amonsha—how that fanatic had moved, how his magic had felt like a hook in reality. This guy's aura was thicker. Cleaner. Like he'd had more time to drink from the same poison.
Victor didn't hesitate. He clasped his hands together and began to chant under his breath, the language sharp and unfamiliar. Heat built between his palms. He dropped into a crouch and slammed one hand to the floor, the other to the wall.
Fiery cracks spread from his palms like lightning, racing forward in branching lines, crawling over stone and wood and dust, hunting the cultist like a living net.
The cracks hit.
BOOM.
Flames erupted in a violent explosion, filling the corridor with a roar and a flash of orange-white light. For a split second I thought Victor had ended it in one strike, because honestly, that spell was no joke. It was the kind of magic you didn't throw around unless you meant to make a point.
Victor's mouth curved into a victorious smile—
Then froze.
The flames didn't die. They didn't sputter out.
They were consumed.
The black aura around the cultist swelled like a hungry mouth, swallowing fire as if it were air. The red symbol on his forehead flared brighter, pulsing with the stolen heat.
When the smoke cleared, the believer stepped forward completely unharmed.
Not even singed.
Victor's eyes widened for the first time. It wasn't fear exactly. It was the shock of a theory colliding with reality at full speed. He'd known the Dark Church was dangerous—that was why he'd sought the Ancient One's help at all. But knowing something intellectually and seeing your best spell get eaten like a snack were two very different experiences.
He looked at me, voice tight. "Master Abel," he said, suddenly careful with the title like it could anchor him. "Be cautious. He is very strong."
"I know," I said, and this time I didn't bother pretending I was relaxed. I drew my wand from my waist, and the familiar warmth of wood and core settled into my palm like a handshake from an old friend. "I've encountered people with Dark Dimension power before. I know exactly how dangerous they are."
Victor's gaze flicked to the wand. To mundane eyes it was just a simple dark brown stick. To Victor—mage eyes, educated eyes—he could probably feel the difference immediately. A wand isn't just a tool; it's a circuit, a stabilizer, a way to turn raw magic into something clean and lethal.
The moment the wand aligned with my intent, my power snapped into shape, stronger and steadier, like a lens focusing sunlight into a beam.
Victor's expression sharpened. Respect, again, but now edged with something else: calculation.
"Since you understand," he said, "then I will not waste words. We join forces and kill him."
"Agreed," I said, and I meant it. Because this guy wasn't here to be knocked out and left on the floor. The aura around him wasn't the kind that forgave mercy.
The cultist lunged.
He moved fast—too fast for a normal man, black energy trailing behind him like a cape made of smoke. The corridor itself seemed to flinch as he passed, candle flames bending toward him as if drawn.
I planted my feet and whispered an incantation, wand carving a complex pattern through the air. The spell wasn't flashy; it was practical.
The ground in front of me distorted.
Stone rippled like water. The floor tilted, warped, rose and fell in uneven waves. To anyone watching, it looked like the corridor had suddenly become an ocean trapped inside architecture.
Terrain manipulation was one of those spells that made people rethink their life choices, because you can't punch the floor into behaving.
The cultist's charge faltered as his footing betrayed him. He dropped low, spreading his weight, fingers digging into stone that wasn't stone anymore. He clung like an insect on a moving surface, trying not to be thrown.
Perfect opening.
Victor's palms flared. Two fireballs condensed in his hands—tight spheres of heat rather than sloppy bursts—and he launched them in rapid succession toward the cultist's exposed side.
For a heartbeat, I thought it would work.
Then black tentacles erupted from the cultist's body.
Dozens of them, writhing, snapping out like whips made of darkness. They intercepted the fireballs mid-flight, smothering flame in coils of shadow. The fire didn't explode; it just… disappeared, devoured again.
The tentacles didn't stop there. They slapped against the walls and ceiling, anchoring like grappling hooks, and with a single violent pull, the cultist launched himself upward, defying gravity as he sprinted along the wall toward us, his body angled sideways like physics was optional.
Nope.
Not today.
"Wingardium Leviosa," I snapped.
My wand pointed, magic surged, and the cultist jerked upward as if a giant invisible hand had grabbed him by the collar. He snarled—an ugly, animal sound—and his tentacles strained, wrapping around beams and edges, trying to hold him down. For a second, we were in a tug-of-war: my levitation against his Dark Dimension anchors.
Victor didn't waste it.
He pressed his hands together again, but this time the magic that gathered between his fingers wasn't heat. It was light. Electric, violent, fast. The air crackled. The hairs on my arms lifted.
Then he thrust both palms forward.
CRACK.
A bolt of lightning slammed into the cultist's suspended body. It wasn't like movie lightning, slow and dramatic. It was instantaneous, a brutal flash that turned the corridor white for a fraction of a second.
The black aura tried to absorb it.
But lightning is speed and directness. It doesn't linger. It doesn't negotiate. The darkness couldn't eat it fast enough.
The cultist convulsed midair, body locking, smoke rising from charred cloth and burned flesh. The tentacles spasmed and loosened. Whatever was powering him flickered.
He fell.
He hit the warped floor with a wet thud, bounced once, and went still.
I held the levitation for half a second longer just to be sure, because I've learned the hard way that "still" doesn't always mean "dead" when demons are involved. Then I released the spell and let the corridor breathe again.
The distorted ground smoothed back into solid stone.
Victor and I exchanged glances. No words. Just that mutual acknowledgment you get after you survive something that should've killed you: You're competent. You're dangerous. I'll remember that.
He's good, I thought. Surprisingly good.
Future supervillain credentials: confirmed.
We didn't celebrate. We didn't even slow down. Because the deeper we moved toward the village core, the more the air pressed against us, heavy with wrongness. The chanting we'd heard earlier wasn't louder anymore—it was closer in a way sound shouldn't be. Like the walls themselves were vibrating with it.
The dimensional crack is near.
We hurried through a narrow alleyway between two buildings attached to the church complex. Our footsteps echoed off damp stone. The windstorm outside was a distant howl, muffled by thick walls, but here it felt like we'd stepped into the throat of something enormous.
Then a shadow spread across the ground.
Fast.
Unnatural.
It didn't move like a person's shadow or even a cloud. It unfurled like a curtain being dropped from above, swallowing the alley from all directions. The temperature dropped so sharply my breath fogged.
Trap.
I spun, wand raised, but the darkness surged up and over—
Too late.
It didn't feel like being knocked out. It felt like being peeled away from the world, like someone reached into reality, grabbed my existence, and tugged me sideways. My stomach lurched, the way it does during Apparition—except worse, because Apparition at least follows rules, and this was rule-breaking as a hobby.
When I opened my eyes, everything had changed.
Victor was gone.
The alley was gone.
The village was gone.
I stood in a dimly lit hall that made no architectural sense. Vast, endless, its edges too far away to judge, like perspective had been rewritten by someone who hated geometry. Above me, colors flowed and shifted like the cosmos was bleeding through a wound in the sky—purples and greens and blacks deeper than night, threaded with star-like points that weren't stars but something watching.
My skin prickled. My teeth ached.
This wasn't a place. It was an intrusion.
This is the Dark Dimension's manifestation, I realized, my throat going dry. Not fully inside it, maybe, but close enough that it had started leaking into my world.
I tightened my grip on my wand.
Shit. This just got a lot more complicated.
"Victor?" I called, and my voice echoed strangely, stretching as if the air didn't know how to carry sound. No answer came back, just the soft, endless hum of a dimension that didn't care about human panic.
Where's Victor? Is he trapped too, or did the dimension separate us on purpose?
I turned slowly, scanning the hall. Every sense I had was on high alert—sight, hearing, magical perception, and that deeply unscientific "this is a bad idea" instinct that has kept me alive more times than skill ever did.
Somewhere in here, there's a dimensional crack. And probably a lot of very angry cultists.
And if Dormammu's followers were bold enough to pull me into a pocket of the Dark Dimension, that meant one horrifying thing: they weren't just opening the door anymore.
They were trying to drag someone through it.