A streak of purple light flashed at the tip of the sword. The Grim Reaper's authority shattered like brittle glass, pierced through without resistance. The black mist surrounding Death slowly dissipated as the hooded figure turned to face Erwin.
"How is this possible?" Death's voice rasped, devoid of its usual resonance. "You are mortal! Yet you wield authority! The blood of Pendragon and the blood of a Dragon Speaker are insufficient for this. Who are you?"
Erwin slowly withdrew the Sword of Gryffindor from the Reaper's chest. A single drop of black ichor hit the earth and sizzled.
"I am a mortal," Erwin said, his voice flat. "Or, as you might prefer, the Godslayer."
Death stared intently. Its tattered robes began to flake away like ash, revealing a withered, skeletal form beneath. It resembled a leafless winter tree or a lich from a dark fairy tale.
Death's twig-like fingers rose, reaching desperately for Erwin, who stood rooted to the spot. He didn't dodge. The fingers slid limply down his chest, touching nothing substantial. Death was powerless—life drained, divine energy gone, authority fatally unbalanced.
Death's hollow eyes fixed on Erwin's slowly dissipating form—a clever illusion. Suddenly, the Reaper stiffened.
"So it was you," Death whispered, a horrifying realization dawning. "I understand now. No wonder you wielded such power. Even gods cannot escape fate. I hid. I fled. Yet I find you here regardless."
As the words faded, Death's form dissolved completely. A pool of black ink remained on the ground—the last remnant of a god. Erwin plunged the sword into the puddle, and the viscous ichor vanished, leaving behind a dark, jagged mark on the blade's original purple radiance.
He didn't seem concerned.
Around him, the other wizards were stunned speechless. They had actually killed a god. Even if they had merely maintained the formation, they had been part of it. It was a story to last lifetimes.
Sunny Finch released her magical energy, and the formation crumbled. She turned to speak, but the Supreme Elder of Kunlun was already gone. She looked at Erwin, her mind racing. What is his ultimate objective?
Charlotte stood nearby, observing Sunny Finch with a blank expression. As expected of the Master's choice, she thought. While everyone else celebrates slaying a god, she's already attempting to solve the larger puzzle.
But even Charlotte didn't know the complete plan. Sunny Finch would waste considerable time trying to deduce it.
Erwin glanced at Old Tom, who nodded imperceptibly. He understood what to do: clean up the aftermath.
Tom stepped forward to address the crowd, but Erwin didn't wait. He Apparated away with a sharp crack, leaving Dumbledore and Grindelwald staring at the empty space.
"Does he have additional plans?" Grindelwald frowned.
Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "I don't know. He always guards his secrets closely."
Erwin had no time for cleanup operations. He had a parasite to eliminate.
Location: A Wizarding Settlement
Ron was hiding in a dark alleyway, gasping for breath. His body trembled, weak and inadequate.
"Death is eliminated," he muttered, black mist swirling around his feet. "Good. That provides me an opportunity to escape. But the authority... it's dissipated. That complicates matters. I'll have to reclaim it later."
He looked down at his hands, disgusted by the boy's mortal flesh.
"Who is that Erwin?" he snarled. "He slew a god. That's impossible. I need to leave. Once I claim Death's power properly—once I possess two divine authorities—who can oppose me?"
Suddenly, the sky above the alleyway illuminated. A purple light descended like a falling star.
Crack.
Erwin stood ten feet away.
"Found you," Erwin said, his voice unnervingly calm.
The black mist recoiled as Ron looked up, panic flashing in his eyes. A beam of violet magic struck the ground, scattering the shadows. Ron scrambled backward, shielding himself with the remnants of Death's dissipating magic.
"It's you!" Ron cried out.
Erwin smiled, cold and predatory. "So hasty. Where are you fleeing to?"
Ron feigned confusion, his voice rising an octave. "Erwin? What are you doing? Why are you attacking me?"
Erwin laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Excellent performance. Truly impressive. But you missed one crucial detail when you were rifling through Ron's memories."
Erwin took a deliberate step forward. The air grew oppressively heavy.
"If it were the real Ron," Erwin said softly, "he would never dare speak to me like that."
Ron's face twisted grotesquely. The illusion dropped. His feet began to dissolve into wisps of black energy.
"Attempting to flee?" Erwin asked. "With what power? Death is eliminated. His essence is drifting, untethered. You cannot wield it. And here, in this city, the wards suppress your Outer God nature."
He raised the Sword of Gryffindor. The purple glow flared brilliantly, erasing the shadows.
"Honestly," Erwin said, stepping closer with deliberate menace, "you're far easier to eliminate than Death was. If you weren't such an expert at fleeing, I wouldn't have needed to orchestrate all this."
The parasite inhabiting Ron's body screamed as the sword descended.