Goblin Palace.
Turan, the King of Goblins, sat upon his throne, his sharp golden eyes fixed on the swirling cascade of images before him. The magical display flickered, shifting seamlessly between various scenes. Dumbledore and Chenos observing the Magic Congress.
Goblin alchemists hammering away at an enchanted weapon. The chaos of battle as goblins and wizards united in ambushes against the Saints. And, most crucially, wizards within the Saints whispering about matters of grave importance.
Every time the vision changed, the red circular mark between Turan's eyebrows pulsed with a faint golden glow. However, whenever he attempted to spy on the Saints' gatherings, the light flared violently, blinking at an increasingly rapid pace.
It was a sign.
The deeper he probed, the more power it consumed.
Much like how Grindelwald could wield destiny to glimpse into hidden corners of the world, Turan had mastered the power of the Disk of Fate, a relic that granted him unparalleled foresight.
As long as Grindelwald didn't take great pains to shroud his actions, Turan could always peer through the veil, supplementing his observations with the goblins' formidable intelligence network.
In the silent war between the two camps, knowledge was the greatest weapon.
As Turan observed the Magic Congress, attempting to trace Dumbledore's exact whereabouts, the red mark between his brows began to burn. A warning.
Then—
Pain.
The mark flared uncontrollably, and without warning, wisps of gray mist erupted from its center. The cursed fog coiled around Turan's face like creeping vines, seeping into his skin with unnatural speed. A suffocating, dark energy spread across his features, corrupting the very essence of his being.
Caught off guard, Turan barely had time to react. His vision blurred as gray and black blemishes spread from his face to his chest and limbs, sinking deeper with every second. His breathing grew ragged.
But he was no ordinary goblin.
Summoning every ounce of his strength, he forced his consciousness into the Disk of Fate. The red mark upon his forehead trembled violently before bursting forth, sending a circular, rune-covered artifact spinning into the air.
A disk of pure destiny, bathed in a crimson and gold glow.
Golden light pulsed across its surface, cascading like liquid fire, thick and overwhelming. Merely gazing upon it would make an ordinary wizard feel disoriented, as if drowning in an endless flood of knowledge too vast to comprehend.
Then, just as suddenly as the curse had spread, the gray mist began to recede.
The disk, floating above Turan's head, rained down threads of golden light, each droplet embedding itself into his form, gradually purging the foreign affliction. With a sharp gasp, Turan felt the tight grip of the curse loosen. The pain dulled, the spreading corruption halted. But the damage was done.
He raised a hand, touching his face. His fingertips brushed against remnants of the gray-black markings still etched into his skin.
Rage flickered in his golden eyes.
Grindelwald.
The power of fate was unmistakable. The curse had his mark all over it.
The audacity of that man! To strike so boldly against him, to attempt such an insidious attack—
Fine.
If Grindelwald wished to play this game, Turan would answer in kind.
Without hesitation, he tightened his grip around his Black-Gold Scepter, channeling the vast reserves of accumulated destiny stored within the Goblin Palace. A surge of golden energy rippled outward, condensing into physical form.
Blades. Hammers. Crowns. Jewels.
They were not mere trinkets, but legendary goblin-forged artifacts, each possessing immense power. Artifacts that had once shaped the course of history.
Now, they would serve a new purpose.
As Turan swung the scepter, these golden relics morphed, melting and reshaping into something far deadlier. Arrowheads. Dozens. Hundreds.
The Disk of Fate, sensing its master's intent, pulsed once more. Gray-black raindrops, symbols of misfortune, seeped from the disk and soaked into the newly-formed arrows. The pristine gold tarnished into obsidian-streaked black-gold.
The arrows trembled, eager for their targets.
Through the ever-watching Disk of Fate, images of the Saints flickered before Turan's eyes—his enemies, Grindelwald's devoted followers. They had no idea what was coming.
His lips curled.
"Fire."
Turan's roar echoed through the chamber as he hurled his scepter forward.
The air trembled.
The black-gold arrows, imbued with both destiny and misfortune, vanished in a blur. One by one, they shot forth, cutting through space itself, each guided by an unseen force towards its designated prey.
They would strike without mercy.
As the last of the arrows disappeared into the void, the Disk of Fate once again descended upon Turan, wrapping him in golden light.
Grindelwald was trying to kill him.
The curse that had invaded his body was no simple spell—it was a calculated assassination attempt, one that continued to linger, gnawing away at his very existence. Even now, he could feel it, an invisible dagger buried in his soul.
But he was not without defenses.
For now, the Disk of Fate would sustain him. Its power would continue to repel the curse, ensuring he survived.
But survival alone was not enough.
Turan clenched his fists. He wanted blood.
Yet, he knew he could not afford outright war. Not yet.
Grindelwald had the Saints, but Turan had the goblins. If he mobilized his forces now, he could drown the Saints in an unrelenting tide of steel and magic. However, that would only serve to strengthen Dumbledore's position. If goblin forces became too aggressive, Dumbledore might see no choice but to align himself with Grindelwald, an outcome Turan could not allow.
He needed to strike hard, but not too deep. Inflict wounds, but not war.
He had to make Grindelwald pause.
The game had changed, and Turan would make sure his opponent understood that this was no longer a one-sided hunt.
Ilvermorny.
Within the castle's hallowed halls, the daily rhythm of academia continued. Saints, disguised as esteemed professors, instructed young wizards in the arts of magic.
Potions, spellcraft, alchemy, magical creatures—each subject was taught with a careful hand, molding the next generation of witches and wizards. After all, these students were more than just pupils. They were future Saints.
One such professor, Wayne, stood before his class, his sharp gaze sweeping over the young witches and wizards before him. The lesson for today—
The Elixir of Joy.
"There is one core principle to refining the Elixir of Joy," Wayne declared, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "Take out your notebooks and write it down."
The students obeyed instantly, quills scratching against parchment.
"If you forget this, you will be standing in class for the next week," Wayne added smoothly.
A collective shudder ran through the room. They had seen it happen before. Some unfortunate students had been sentenced to weeks of standing, forced to endure aching legs while absorbing every word of Wayne's lessons.
Wayne's expression remained impassive as he continued, demonstrating each precise movement in brewing the potion.
Then—
Boom!
...
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