Ten years had passed since I had first distilled the phoenix's flame into a crystal vial, yet even that monumental achievement now seemed… pedestrian. Immortality, rebirth, mastery over life and death, dominion over alchemy, potions, beasts, and every branch of magic — all of it paled in comparison to the secrets that lay before me now.
Nicholas Flamel's old notes whispered of power unlike any other. He had written of alchemy flames, elemental forces that burned with the intensity of the cosmos itself. Most were dangerous, most were unattainable. But even among those, a select few — the Primordial Alchemy Flames — were considered untouchable. Only five existed in the entire world. Each flame could only be claimed by one wielder at a time.
Scholars had dreamed of them, fought over them, died in pursuit of them. And yet I was here. I was more than a scholar, more than a wizard. I was the master of death, a Grand Master of alchemy, potions, transfiguration, charms, and the dark arts. I had spent decades in perfecting spells, forging relics, dissecting the essence of magic itself. I possessed a cheat system that allowed me to see the world in probabilities, outcomes, and truths invisible to others. If anyone could claim a primordial flame, it was me.
I wanted the strongest.
The Infernos — the Worldflame.
The description made my blood hum with anticipation: a blinding, white-hot flame, veined with molten silver, radiating a heat so intense it could reduce even magical constructs to ash. The flame was semi-sentient, responding to the wielder's emotions and intent. Its power could shape walls of fire, monstrous beasts of flame, even storms that reshaped the battlefield itself. But it came with risks — immense mana consumption, emotional volatility, and the near certainty of destroying anyone unworthy.
I did not fear it.
For months, I poured over every fragment of knowledge I could find. Salazar Slytherin's writings hinted at its original creation; Dumbledore's private journals contained fragments of a ritual long lost to time; Flamel's notes provided the final instructions on binding, purification, and intent. Only by combining these disparate sources could I hope to recreate the full ritual.
The ritual itself was a marvel of precision and preparation.
I began by constructing the chamber: an obsidian sanctum lined with fireproof wards, every surface inscribed with runes of containment and amplification. A vial of molten silver floated in the center, infused with sunlight I had captured and crystallized over years. The flame itself — obtained through careful negotiation with a hidden shrine and a meteorite fragment — hovered above the offering altar, swaying as though alive.
Before the flame, I placed the symbol of intent: a small, unremarkable object on its own, yet imbued with the culmination of my ambition, my hunger for mastery, my desire to bend the very forces of the cosmos to my will. The flame pulsed in response, testing me already.
The first step, purification, was straightforward. Seven days of fasting, meditation, and ritual attunement honed my mind, body, and soul. Every neuron, every heartbeat, every molecule of my being aligned with fire, with magic, with the raw essence of creation. My clones monitored each stage, assisting where necessary, but the essence — the true test — was mine alone.
Invocation followed. I circled the flame three times, reciting the ancient words of power in the lost language of Flame Tongue. It was difficult; the words were archaic, musical, vibrating against my ears like chords of a world older than the sun. But my mind was perfect; my will unbreakable. The flame responded, veins of molten silver swirling faster, heat radiating without harm.
The offering was next. I placed my symbol of intent into the center of the fire. Immediately, the flame lashed out, testing me. It burned my mind, stripping away hesitation, doubt, weakness. Memories of failure, hesitation, fear — all were consumed, leaving only clarity, focus, and raw ambition. Many lesser wizards would have crumbled, their flesh, soul, or sanity incinerated in moments. But I? I smiled. The flame was powerful, but I was greater.
Finally, the bonding touch. Wearing protective wards over my hand, I dipped it into the heart of Infernos. The flame flowed around me like living mercury, licking my skin without harm. It sank into my soul, imprinting itself upon my essence. I could feel it now — the pulse of raw creation, a living fire attuned to both destruction and renewal.
And then the final seal: a personal vow. I spoke aloud, my voice echoing across the chamber, promising mastery, restraint, and the pursuit of absolute understanding. The flame responded, condensing into a sphere of molten brilliance that now orbited my hand. It had accepted me.
Infernos was mine.
I lifted it, and the chamber trembled. Walls of obsidian glowed with reflected heat, runes blazed white. The clones stopped their work, frozen in awe, as I waved my hand. A simple flick, and the flame extended outward, forming jagged spires, weaving itself into shapes, monstrous and beautiful, all under my control.
I felt its potential — the ability to incinerate enchanted constructs, to empower my spells beyond anything I had ever imagined. I could summon a storm of fire once a month that could level a battlefield. I was not just powerful — I was apotheosis.
And yet… even now, I felt the subtle sentience of the flame. It tested me still. It whispered in the pulse of heat and light, challenging, coaxing, ensuring I was worthy of wielding it.
That is the nature of true power: not to be taken lightly, not to be fully understood, but to be mastered.
For I am no mere wizard. I am the God of Death, the Eternal, the Grand Master of all magic. I have commanded life and death, fire and water, light and shadow. I have recreated the phoenix's essence, mastered every animal, forged artifacts of unimaginable potency, and unlocked every secret the world has to offer.
And now, I hold the Worldflame.
The universe itself burns in my palm, and it waits only for my will.