For decades, I had dissected magic itself—its bones, its soul, its heartbeat. Yet even after conquering death, after commanding dragons and reshaping life with alchemy, there still lingered one elusive summit: the Primordial Flames.
Nicholas's ancient notes described them not merely as fire, but as fragments of creation itself—cosmic embers born when the universe first exhaled. Only five existed, each a willful, sentient force that could devour entire civilizations should it ever slip beyond control. To lesser alchemists, they were legend. To me, they were destiny.
Among these five, one name burned brighter than all others—Infernos, the Worldflame.It was said to be the breath of the first sun, caged in molten silver and sealed beneath layers of time and terror. It was the flame that could recreate the world—or reduce it to ash.
I spent months unraveling the labyrinth of rituals needed to claim it. Salazar's fragmented diaries spoke of the Flame Tongue, an ancient language lost even to the Founders. Dumbledore's own coded writings hinted at the last shrine where the Worldflame had been glimpsed—a fragment of meteorite buried beneath obsidian cliffs in the far north. Nicholas Flamel's notes described the final act: the Bonding Touch—the moment the flame decided whether one was worthy… or kindling.
Even for me, with all my mastery, it was not a process I approached lightly. I prepared for months, gathering everything the ritual demanded. Obsidian chamber, molten silver, sunlight crystal—procured through old allies and manipulated contacts.Lucius Malfoy, ever ambitious, and Regulus Black, still loyal to secrets he barely understood, delivered what I needed in silence. None of them knew what they were contributing to—none could.
When the preparations were complete, I stood within the chamber alone.Obsidian walls shimmered like black glass, reflecting my youthful face—the face of a being far older than it appeared. In the center hovered a sealed vessel of light and heat: the slumbering Worldflame.
I began the purification—seven days of fasting, meditation, and separation from all mortal distractions. By the end, my magic pulsed so sharply that even the air trembled. When the final hour came, I drew the Elder Wand and let its ancient wood hum in unison with my heartbeat. The wand's core—death itself—resonated with the rising hum of the flame.
Then I began the invocation.
Words older than mankind spilled from my lips, weaving through the chamber like molten rivers of sound. The language of fire bent around me; I circled the flame three times clockwise, each pass drawing it closer to consciousness.The temperature surged. The air turned white. My robes whipped violently, though no wind existed.
The offering came next.
I placed a single item at the heart of the ritual circle—the Philosopher's Crystal, a condensed fusion of my life's ambition and power. My symbol of intent. My goal: to master the very essence of transformation, to become the eternal flame of creation itself.
Infernos awoke.
The sealed vessel shattered without sound. White‑hot light exploded outward, forcing the obsidian to bleed silver. From its center rose a flame that was not flame at all—alive, aware, hungry.It pulsed like a heart, every beat syncing with my pulse. I felt it look at me, testing my resolve, reading my soul. Every fear, every doubt, every hidden weakness was dragged to the surface.
Pain seared through me—not physical pain, but the burning of every imperfection. Memories of failure, of doubt, of fleeting humanity—stripped away, incinerated in blinding light. For an instant, I saw nothing but endless white. Then, slowly, I reached forward.
"I am the end of all flames," I whispered. "And their beginning."
The Elder Wand flared like a sun.I plunged my hand into the heart of the Worldflame.
It should have consumed me. It should have erased me from existence.But instead—it obeyed.
The white fire licked my skin, twining up my arm like a living serpent, burning runes of molten silver into my flesh. It merged with my magic, my soul, my very essence. The pain was exquisite, divine, and eternal all at once.
When I finally exhaled, the flame folded inward, sinking into me. A sigil appeared across my chest—a radiant mark of fire and silver, shaped like an eye within a sun. The hum in the air ceased. The world fell silent.
Then, for the first time, I felt Infernos breathe within me.
My power surged tenfold. Every spark of magic I cast now resonated with a pulse of white flame.A mere gesture could turn air to fire, stone to molten glass. My alchemy thrummed with unimaginable precision—the base elements no longer resisted transformation; they yearned for it. Even the Elder Wand seemed almost reverent in my grasp, the black wood glowing faintly with streaks of silver heat.
When I tested the flame, I did not need to speak a spell.A flick of my finger and an entire column of molten fire spiraled upward, reshaping into blades, serpents, and wings. With a thought, they collapsed into harmless sparks.
The Worldfire Surge—Infernos's ultimate gift—slumbered deep within me, waiting. Even I hesitated to awaken it yet.
But one thing was certain: my alchemy had transcended mortal boundaries.No longer bound by the ordinary flame of transformation, I wielded the fire of creation itself.
I had become more than a Grandmaster.More than the Master of Death.I was now the Bearer of the Worldflame, the one soul in existence capable of wielding the primordial fire without perishing.
And as I stood in that obsidian chamber, silver veins of light still crawling across the walls, I smiled.For the first time in centuries, I could feel it again—the thrill of limitless possibility.
The world would soon remember that the God of Death had learned to master rebirth.