The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 550: Who is the Dark Lord?

Several Horcruxes were deployed.

Although its strength is not as great as the original body.

However, it should not be underestimated.

That power was enough to level an entire street!

However, they all faced this kind of attack.

"Noisy."

Ian simply raised his wand and gently pressed it down.

A simple, effortless movement. Then, the five torrents of demonic power, capable of destroying everything, simultaneously halted less than three feet from his body. They writhed, struggled, and roared wildly, as if struck by an invisible, indestructible barrier, yet could not advance an inch further.

then.

Then, Ian's wand twirled slightly.

The five torrents of demonic power simultaneously changed direction, returning with even greater ferocity than before, heading straight for the five soul weapon clones! "What?!"

"No!"

boom!!!

Amidst the deafening explosion, the five Horcrux clones were simultaneously struck by their own magic, flying backward like five kites with broken strings, crashing heavily into the buildings on both sides of the street, piercing through the walls, and buried under the rubble.

A dead silence.

The surviving Death Eaters were completely stunned.

They even forgot to run away, just staring blankly at the scene, at the black-haired young man, as if he were a monster from another dimension.

one strike.

Just one strike.

Five Horcruxes, each possessing a portion of Voldemort's power and capable of overwhelming ordinary Aurors, were simultaneously suppressed!

Moreover, the young man didn't even cast any complicated spells; he simply raised his wand lightly, as if brushing away a speck of dust. "A...legend..." a Death Eater murmured, his legs going weak, and he collapsed to his knees.

"He's a legend too! And...and even more powerful than my master!"

"How is this possible?! How could there possibly be a legend in this world more powerful than our master?!"

Whispers of terror spread among the Death Eaters. No one dared to move, no one dared to run, no one dared to even breathe loudly. They simply lay there, limp, like lambs to the slaughter.

From the rubble, young Tom struggled to his feet, covered in blood, his face a mask of disbelief, horror, and madness. He stared intently at Ian, his voice hoarse and trembling:

"Who...who are you?! Who exactly are you?! A legend...a legend even more powerful than the original...how could you be unknown?! Where did you come from?!"

Ian did not answer him.

She didn't even glance at him.

His gaze passed over the terrified Death Eaters, over the collapsed rubble, and landed on a spot not far away...

Grindelwald slowly descended from mid-air back to the ground. The illusion that had bound him with the "Void Realm" had completely dissipated. Standing on the empty street, his heterochromatic eyes flickered with extremely complex emotions—shock, realization, relief, and a trace of...deep apprehension. He, too, had not expected that it was all an illusion.

He also hadn't expected this young man to be so powerful.

At that moment, the young man was looking at him.

Ian's gaze was calm as still water, yet as deep as an abyss. He spoke slowly, his voice not loud, but clearly reaching Grindelwald's ears, carrying a strange, almost soul-piercing insight:

"Mr. Grindelwald."

He paused, his gaze growing even deeper.

"Should I address you as... Mr. Grindelwald?"

"still"

His tone remained calm, but his next words were like a stone thrown into stagnant water, stirring up the most hidden ripples in Grindelwald's heart:

"My professor, Grindelwald?"

The words fell.

Grindelwald's pupils suddenly contracted to the size of pinpoints!

For the first time, genuine shock appeared on that aged face, etched with the marks of time!

He stared intently at Ian, his heterochromatic eyes flashing intensely, as if trying to find any trace of a joke or misunderstanding in the young man's calm face.

But he couldn't find it.

Ian's expression was too calm; that calmness was not feigned, but genuine, a composure born from knowing everything.

It was as if he had already seen through everything.

It was as if he already knew that this "Grindelwald" before him, this old man who had been imprisoned for nearly half a century, this former European Dark Lord, was hiding some... earth-shattering secret.

The moonlight shone coldly on the ruins.

The Horcrux clone buried under the rubble is still struggling.

The Death Eaters, limp and paralyzed on the ground, trembled.

Grindelwald, an old man who had weathered countless storms and remained unmoved even in the face of death, was now frozen in place as if petrified, staring at Ian.

No one knew what the title "professor" truly meant. Nor did anyone know what...truth Ian had glimpsed in his calm, still eyes.

at the same time.

Amidst the ruins of London, truth and secrets clash. Meanwhile, across the ocean in Washington, D.C., an equally violent storm is quietly brewing.

The atmosphere in the emergency conference room of the White House bunker was so tense it was almost frozen. On the huge holographic projection screen, extremely blurry infrared images transmitted from the British were playing repeatedly—strange energy fluctuations, the wizards' riots, and scenes that could not be explained by any scientific principles.

Although everything before was an illusion.

However, the Prime Minister did contact the Ministry of Magic regarding the large-scale Death Eater attack. Upon learning this, the US immediately convened a large conference, gathering the highest-ranking figures from both the military and political spheres. The Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the CIA Director, the Secretary of State… everyone's expression was extremely grim.

"What...what exactly are those things?"

A general spoke with difficulty, his voice trembling uncontrollably, "Magic? Witchcraft? Isn't that something from fairy tales?" "It's not a fairy tale." The CIA director adjusted his glasses, a thick file stamped "Top Secret" lying before him. "We have a... long-term, highly confidential cooperation agreement with them. There is indeed a secret organization in the world called the 'Ministry of Magic.'" "In the shadows of this world, lives a group of wizards with supernatural abilities." This was a secret known only to a select few.

"wizard?"

The president abruptly looked up. The man, a middle-aged politician known for his tough stance, now had disbelief in his eyes. "You mean, those so-called fairy tales are all true?"

He was just a puppet president, serving for a maximum of eight years, so he didn't know much.

"It's far more complicated than a fairy tale, Mr. President." The CIA director took a deep breath. "According to our intelligence, these wizards have been hiding on the fringes of society, concealing their existence through some means. And Britain is one of the regions where they are most active."

"Our initial assessment of tonight's conflict is that it is a war between two hostile factions within the wizarding community." His information was indeed very accurate.

"War? No! This is provocation!"

The Minister of Defense slammed his fist on the table and stood up.

A heated argument broke out in the conference room.

Some advocated for immediate military retaliation, while others warned against rash actions. Some demanded an explanation from the British government, while others questioned the veracity of the claims.

Finally, the president slammed his hand on the table, and everyone fell silent.

"Enough." His voice was low and cold. "Whatever those things are, whatever superpowers they have—power stronger than ours is unacceptable!"

He looked around, his gaze finally settling on the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"General, we need to demonstrate our strength. We need to show those… 'wizards' what the majesty of a great power is, what modern warfare is. Mobilize all the forces we can—carrier battle groups, strategic bombers, satellite surveillance systems—send them all to Britain. Not an invasion, but… 'peacekeeping.' Afterwards, we can 'request' a troop presence from the British government in the name of protecting our citizens and allies."

He paused, a cold, aloof expression appearing on his lips.

"If they refuse, we will 'force' them to fulfill their duties as international police." With the order given, the entire U.S. war machine began to operate at high speed at the Norfolk Naval Base in Virginia.

On the massive aircraft carrier deck, ground crew are conducting final checks. The two nuclear-powered aircraft carriers, the USS Eisenhower and the USS Theodore Roosevelt, will be ready to set sail within 24 hours, leading their respective escort fleets across the Atlantic and heading straight for British waters.

Meanwhile, multiple US military bases in the UK received maximum alert orders. F-15 fighter squadrons stationed at Lakenheath and Mildenhall began loading live ammunition, with pilots on 24-hour standby. Satellite monitoring systems were pointed at London and the surrounding area, attempting to detect any "abnormal" energy signals.

"This is the largest transatlantic military deployment since the Cold War," a retired general remarked in a television commentary. "But who is the enemy? We don't even know."

Meanwhile, in another part of Washington, in a mysterious institution far from the White House and Capitol Hill, hidden among ordinary office buildings, the atmosphere is quite different.

There was no tension, no anger, only an... eerie calm.

In a conference room with no windows and only a dim chandelier, several figures in dark suits with indistinct faces were sitting around a round table.

Spread out on the table was neither a military map nor an intelligence file, but a handwritten, ancient parchment-bound... magical contract. "The chaos in Britain has arrived sooner than we anticipated," a hoarse voice said, its age and gender impossible to discern. "But the outcome is the same," another voice chimed in, a chilling smile playing on its lips. "Muggle anger, military intervention, international turmoil... everything is proceeding according to plan."

"The wizards will soon realize that they can no longer hide. And the Muggles will discover that their prized weapons are nothing but laughable toys in that world."

"Conflict, chaos, fear... this is exactly what the pools crave."

After a moment of silence, the hoarse voice rang out again, this time with a hint of expectation:

"Alright, let's begin."

As soon as he finished speaking, the conference room door was pushed open.

A figure dressed in a long black robe, his face completely shrouded in shadow, slowly walked in. His steps were silent, like a ghost, and he exuded a chilling, chaotic magical aura.

The figures in the conference room stood up the moment they saw him, their faces displaying a complex mix of awe and fanaticism. The man in black robes didn't speak, but simply raised his hand.

He held a magic wand in his hand, the tip of which glowed with a ghostly green light.

"Immorio - Soul Stealing Curse"

A gentle incantation echoed in the enclosed space.

The green light spread out, rippling across everyone in the conference room. Their bodies stiffened slightly, a brief struggle flashed in their eyes, and then... they returned to calm.

As the green light faded, the figures who had just possessed independent will now wore only a numb, empty calm on their faces. "The president's decisions... need... guidance," the man in black robes spoke slowly, his voice hoarse and cold. "Congressional discussions... need... a unified direction."

Upon hearing this, the figures controlled by the Soul-Stealing Curse nodded in unison, their movements as synchronized as marionettes.

"Yes... Master..."

The man in black robes withdrew his wand with satisfaction, turned, and disappeared out the door. Inside the conference room, only those few empty figures remained, and the dim chandelier burned silently.

The light of the Soul-Stealing Curse spread like a plague through the centers of global power. Over the next seventy-two hours, the controlled figures entered the highest decision-making levels of various countries under different identities.

Some were senior staff members of U.S. Congress, others were chief administrators at the British Prime Minister's residence, some were security advisors at the Élysée Palace in France, and others were inconspicuous civilian officials in the Kremlin. Their faces were ordinary, their resumes impeccable, and no one would give them a second glance. But the moment they stepped into the heart of those powers, a ghostly green light silently spread out.

As for the purpose.

In any case, the top decision-making bodies of all 37 nuclear-armed countries in the world fell under control within the same week.

When the last target, the captain of a strategic nuclear submarine, was struck by the Soul-Stealing Curse hundreds of meters below the sea, it seemed as if all the threads of fate had finally converged at one point.

At the UN headquarters, in an emergency Security Council meeting, representatives from various countries discussed the "British crisis" with grave expressions. No one noticed that, at a certain moment, the representatives of all the permanent members simultaneously lowered their eyes, then simultaneously raised them again, their expressions identical. After the meeting, a top-secret document, jointly signed by all the permanent members, was sent to every nuclear arsenal, every missile silo, and every strategic nuclear submarine in the world.

The command consists of only one line:

"Activate all nuclear weapons. Enter maximum combat readiness. Await final instructions."

The cover of the underground launch silo slowly opened.

Strategic bombers carrying nuclear bombs slid out of the hangar.

Nuclear submarines in the deep sea shut down all communications, leaving only one receiving channel open.

Tens of thousands of nuclear warheads around the world simultaneously awoke from their slumber on this seemingly peaceful night.

Their guidance systems began self-checking.

Their targets began to be redistributed in the database—not to any particular enemy country, but to cover all major cities worldwide, all military bases, and all densely populated areas.

Amidst the ruins of London, the man in black robes gazed at the rising sun in the east, a cold smile playing on his lips.

"Deep space...is gazing upon us."

"And the offerings the ponds desire..."

"It will be despair for the whole world."