"Do you think I lost to Dumbledore on purpose?" Grindelwald asked with displeasure. "What exactly are you questioning?"
"I'm not doubting the authenticity of that duel," Wade replied calmly. "I'm just genuinely curious—can a spell like Flame God really be defended against?"
Grindelwald looked into those calm gray eyes and realized he had overreacted. His anger vanished in an instant.
The truth was, ever since his return, some people eager to curry favor with him had been trying to whitewash his past defeat—twisting that legendary duel into some sort of conspiracy.
In their retellings, it was as if Dumbledore had used some underhanded trick before the duel to secretly trap the noble and dignified Grindelwald.
Others—who vaguely knew about their past—painted the duel in an even more indecent light. Of course, they thought it was "romantic"—as if the whole thing was just a symbolic exchange, with Grindelwald pulling a white handkerchief from his wand tip and surrendering without a fight.
In those versions, Grindelwald became a hopeless romantic, willingly placing Dumbledore on a pedestal while sending himself into a life of darkness behind bars.
To Grindelwald, both of these interpretations were not only an insult to Dumbledore—they were a grave insult to himself.
As if, in some people's eyes, he, Gellert Grindelwald, was just a fool—some love-addled idiot who would throw away his ideals, betray himself and his followers, just for the sake of one man.
Grindelwald had been so furious about it that he'd cast countless Cruciatus curses before people finally learned not to bring it up in front of him.
That's why, when he heard Wade's question just now, the fury rose so quickly.
But realizing now that Wade's eyes held only a pure, cautious curiosity about the nature of magic, Grindelwald reined in his temper and explained:
"I wasn't just sleeping away those fifty years in prison."
Wade asked in surprise, "Flame God—did you create that spell yourself?"
The admiration in the young man's eyes clearly pleased the older wizard. His brows lifted slightly, and even the wrinkles on his face seemed to soften a little.
He gave a modest cough and said, "I did draw on some ancient spells. But the ability to invent new magic is really a basic skill for any great wizard... It's not such a big deal."
"If you want to learn from me, you'll need to set aside time to study several ancient wizarding languages, as well as the languages of various magical creatures..."
But before he could finish, both men suddenly heard a sharp, clear sound—like glass shattering.
Wade whipped his head around and saw that a section of the barrier had broken. The next moment, cracks spread across the entire shield with a crackling sound, and it dissolved into glowing particles that vanished into the darkness.
There had originally been over a dozen giant trees remaining, but the Fiendfyre had burned all but three or four. Most of their branches and leaves were gone, so neither Grindelwald nor Wade looked alarmed.
Even Mikael had pulled back the raging cursed fire, to avoid it accidentally spreading to the wizards fighting face-to-face with the trees.
Then, a few Alliance wizards were suddenly flung through the air by swinging branches. They let out pained, miserable screams, and their bodies flew far into the distance in a parabola.
Several other wizards shouted and ran after them, flinging levitation charms nonstop in hopes of catching them in time.
Grindelwald's smug grin and sly pride vanished. His face darkened with irritation—once again, he found himself feeling utterly exasperated by this new generation of Alliance followers.
When standing still and casting spells, they looked impressive enough—but the moment they were hit with an unexpected attack, these young wizards would immediately start acting like fools.
Fortunately, not everyone disappointed their leader. Several of them managed to dodge the first wave of assault from the giant trees and, in perfect unison, pointed their wands at the attackers and recited the spells they had long prepared.
A charred spruce tree sank deep into a conjured swamp. No matter how it twisted and struggled, its massive roots kept being dragged downward.
A thick beech tree flailed its branches and trunk wildly, but it moved as if its limbs were bound—clumsy and slow. Spellfire burst across its bark, causing the trunk to splinter and explode.
As for an unlucky oak tree that was half-burned and barely standing, it was suspended upside down by over a dozen wizards. Its roots flailed uselessly in the air, unable to touch the ground, until it was finally consumed by a barrage of fire spells.
Of course, not all spells succeeded. One "genius" cast a dancing charm on a yew tree—quite a powerful one, too.
The previously clumsy tree suddenly began bouncing around like mad, sending nearby wizards flying. It took several times the effort to finally subdue it.
But regardless, the area around the camp was gradually calming down.
The injured had received treatment. Those who had been thrown through the air were found and brought back. Giant tree roots still burned in the fire, and it looked like it would take hours before they were fully reduced to ash.
In the thickening night, the firelight flickered constantly and the sparks swirled like fireflies. When silence fell around them, Wade realized that everyone was watching him in silence.
Grindelwald gave him a light push on the shoulder, urging him to take two steps forward.
Then, a few wizards walked up to him. As they approached, they removed the oversized hoods from their heads.
"I'm Castor Bank," said a pale, thin man with a small smile. "Glad to have you as a comrade, Brown."
"Hello," Wade replied, shaking his hand. The man's palm was unusually cold.
"Octa Nott," said a young, brown-haired witch with high cheekbones and a burn scar at the corner of her mouth. She waved a master streaming mirror and grinned. "I recorded the whole thing. Mind if I broadcast it?"
"Go ahead."
"Oh," the witch tilted her head and smiled, "so this isn't your real face… but that's fine. I recognize your power."
"Ignore her," said a gloomy-looking wizard, extending his hand. "She's always digging into other people's privacy. I'm Von Rosen."
Wade shook his hand too, and glanced at the bleeding wound on the man's arm.
"Seraphina Lam," said a stern-faced witch with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, which reminded Wade of Professor McGonagall. "Sorry you had to witness some of our people performing so poorly."
"Albaric Neill," said a burly, gray-bearded man in a hoarse voice. "I suppose you've already noticed—I'm a werewolf."
Not everyone came forward to shake "Brown's" hand, but all those who had stood out in the battle did.
The burning pine resin crackled, casting firelight across the silent faces. Grindelwald looked off into the distance, and a mysterious smile once again tugged at the corner of his lips.
…
Inside the stadium, Barty Crouch Jr. stood in the hallway behind one of the VIP boxes and glanced down at his watch again.
By now, the enchanted trees should have already burst into the arena, wreaking havoc— So why is everything still calm inside the stadium?
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