The plan was simple.
Elegant.
And utterly ruthless.
I stood at the edge of a dense, isolated woodland far from prying eyes—chosen carefully, warded thoroughly. Layers of magic shimmered faintly in the air, detection spells, anti-apparition barriers, containment fields.
A stage.
And at its center—
Alastor Moody.
He turned toward me, his sharp gaze immediately scanning the area.
"You said this was advanced training," he growled.
"It is," I replied calmly.
Not a lie.
Just… incomplete.
I raised my wand slightly.
And the world changed.
The wards activated.
The ground trembled as constructs of earth rose violently around us—twisting into jagged formations, boxing him in.
Wind screamed through the clearing, sharp and cutting.
Water condensed from the air, forming pressurized blades hovering at my side.
And beneath it all—
Dark magic.
Watching.
Waiting.
Moody's stance shifted instantly.
Combat-ready.
Good.
"Riddle…" he said slowly.
"This isn't training."
A faint smile.
"It is."
Then I attacked.
The first strike came from above.
Compressed air—nearly invisible—slashed downward.
Moody dodged.
Barely.
"Too slow," I murmured.
Earth spikes erupted beneath him.
He countered—blasting them apart with raw force.
Good instincts.
Water spears followed—fast, relentless, designed not to kill, but to pressure.
To overwhelm.
To push.
Moody adapted quickly.
He always did.
Dodging.
Countering.
Reading patterns.
But I wasn't fighting to win.
I was controlling the pace.
Tightening the pressure.
Gradually.
Relentlessly.
Minutes passed.
His breathing grew heavier.
His movements sharper—but more desperate.
Good.
Exactly where I wanted him.
I stepped forward slightly.
And released more power.
Dark magic surged into the battlefield—not as a direct attack, but as presence.
Weight.
Fear.
The kind that pressed against the mind.
Moody faltered.
Just for a moment.
But that moment was enough.
Earth closed in.
Wind cut off escape.
Water sealed openings.
A perfect cage.
He stood in the center.
Trapped.
Outmatched.
Facing me.
"This…" he breathed, wand trembling slightly—
"…this is real."
I met his gaze.
Cold.
Unyielding.
"Yes."
Silence.
Then—
Something changed.
Not in me.
In him.
His grip tightened.
Fear didn't consume him.
It hardened.
Transformed.
Into something else.
Resolve.
Bravery.
Defiance.
"Then I fight," Moody growled.
And in that moment—
The air shifted.
Magic responded.
Ancient.
Recognizing.
Answering.
A gleam of silver.
A flash of red.
And suddenly—
It was there.
In his hand.
Godric Gryffindor's Sword.
I smiled.
"Perfect."
Moody surged forward, empowered now, the blade cutting through my constructs with ease.
Air shattered.
Water split.
Earth broke.
The sword was everything legend promised.
But it didn't matter.
Because the trial—
Was already complete.
I stepped back.
Lowered my wand.
And let the battlefield dissolve.
Moody froze.
Breathing heavily.
Confused.
"Why did you—"
His words stopped.
As his grip loosened.
And the sword—
Vanished.
Silence fell.
I turned away slightly.
"Good," I said calmly.
"You passed."
"…Passed?" Moody frowned.
I glanced back.
"You chose to fight when defeat was certain."
A pause.
"That's what makes you valuable."
He studied me.
Long.
Carefully.
Suspicion.
Respect.
And something else.
Trust.
"Next time," he muttered, "warn me."
A faint smile.
"Where would be the fun in that?"
As we left the clearing—
My mind was already moving ahead.
The sword had appeared.
That meant one thing.
Now—
I knew how to summon it.
Control it.
Claim it.
And soon—
The final relic of the Founders…
Would be mine.