A loud, piercing alarm blared through the underground tunnels of Gringotts, the urgent buzzing accompanied by a mechanical voice repeating the warning.
"Gringotts has encountered a major crisis. Reminder: Major crisis. Major crisis."
"All goblins, urgent assembly. Urgent assembly."
"Proceed to the nearest platform within one minute and deploy to the battlefield."
The echoes of the alarm filled the vast underground network, reverberating off the ancient stone walls. Goblins in crimson uniforms scrambled from various chambers, rushing toward the nearest platform. Their sharp, beady eyes were wide with urgency as they leaped onto enchanted carts, which screeched to life and hurtled down the twisting tracks at breakneck speed.
Each goblin clutched a magic-forged firearm, their belts laden with gleaming rounds of enchanted bullets. Their grip tightened instinctively around the cold metal, seeking comfort in the weight of their weapons. None of them spoke; they didn't need to. The deafening roar of distant explosions and the unmistakable crack of gunfire painted a vivid picture of the battle ahead.
The wind howled through the underground tunnels, whipping past them as their carts sped toward the eastern sector of the bank. The further they traveled, the louder the cacophony of destruction became. The stench of burning stone and the acrid tang of blood tainted the air.
Rio, one of the goblin commanders, clenched his jaw as he caught sight of the battlefield. His breath hitched, and his grip on his weapon tightened until his knuckles turned white.
The once-grand battle platform had been reduced to a smoldering wasteland. Thick, curling smoke choked the air, turning the cavern's usual dim glow into a shadowy nightmare. The corpses of fallen goblins littered the ground, some charred beyond recognition, others dismembered, their severed limbs strewn about like discarded scraps.
Blood pooled in deep crimson puddles, seeping into the cracks of the ancient stone. The eerie silence of the dead contrasted sharply with the wails of the wounded, whose cries were swallowed by the relentless barrage of curses still echoing through the chamber.
Rio's stomach churned as he watched one of his fellow goblins brush too close to the swirling black mist infecting the air. A split second later, a horrendous screech filled the cavern as the goblin's body contorted in agony, flesh dissolving as if devoured by an invisible predator. Within moments, nothing remained but bones, which crumbled into dust.
Fear gripped the goblins. Many hesitated, their instincts screaming at them to retreat. But orders were orders. And those who turned and fled would be executed for cowardice, if not by their superiors—then by the Death Eaters themselves.
Across the battlefield, Voldemort stood amid the chaos, a twisted smile curling his pale lips. His wand moved lazily through the air, sending out bursts of lethal green light and torrents of dark mist that slithered like living shadows.
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Death Fog!"
One by one, the goblins fell.
Voldemort inhaled deeply, reveling in the metallic scent of blood and the burning stench of death. To him, this wasn't merely battle—it was pleasure. The terror in his enemies' eyes, the sound of their final, gurgling breaths, the thrill of complete domination—he craved it.
The screams were music. The corpses, his art.
His magic surged around him, raw and boundless.
No one could match his command of the Dark Arts. Not Dumbledore, not Grindelwald—no one.
A short distance away, Tom Riddle watched, his expression unreadable. The way Voldemort wielded death with such ease stirred something in him, an ancient instinct deeply embedded in their very essence.
They were the same.
And yet, they were not.
Tom did not lack the desire for death and destruction, but unlike Voldemort, he was a creature of patience and control. True power did not come from reckless slaughter—it came from precision. Every move had to serve a greater purpose.
Suddenly—
Boom!
A goblin was obliterated before his eyes, his body reduced to a fine mist of blood and bone. The explosion sent debris flying, and in its wake, something golden gleamed beneath the rubble.
The Death Eaters nearby froze, eyes widening.
A vault.
The remnants of a destroyed chamber wall revealed its hidden treasure.
A hungry silence followed.
Then, all at once, the Death Eaters lunged forward, their greed consuming them like a drug.
They had been bystanders in the battle between the two Dark Lords, unwilling to interfere in their display of dominance. But now, with the vaults cracked open before them, they had their own feast to indulge in.
They moved like vultures, tearing into the unguarded riches with frenzied excitement. Galleons spilled onto the bloodstained floor, jewelry and artifacts glinting amidst the carnage.
No one held back.
It was free wealth, wealth taken without consequence.
Voldemort noticed, and a chilling laugh escaped his lips.
"Go." His voice slithered through the air like a curse. "Take what you desire. Kill as you please."
The Death Eaters didn't need to be told twice.
Wands snapped upward, and the massacre resumed.
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Bone-Breaking Curse!"
Gunfire clashed with dark magic as the goblins desperately tried to defend what remained of their bank. But against the overwhelming force of Voldemort's army, they were mere insects crushed beneath an unforgiving boot.
Voldemort's crimson eyes flickered toward Tom, his expression tinged with curiosity.
Unlike himself, Tom had not actively joined the slaughter.
Instead, the younger Dark Lord had been weaving intricate runes into the air, his wand tracing precise, deliberate patterns. Ancient symbols pulsed with malevolent energy, stretching out across the battlefield.
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. Was Tom hesitating? Was he falling behind?
No.
Voldemort understood himself too well to think that.
Tom was planning something.
And whatever it was, it was big.
Voldemort turned away, focusing instead on his own brand of destruction.
With a single sweep of his wand, the thick black mist coiled and writhed, slithering into the mouths and wounds of fallen goblins.
Then—
Click. Click. Click.
The corpses moved.
Broken bodies began to stitch themselves together. Shattered limbs twisted and reformed. The dead were no longer dead.
From the blood-soaked ground, grotesque creatures rose—hulking, misshapen monstrosities crafted from a nightmarish fusion of goblin flesh and dark magic.
The bullets fired at them were useless. The creatures barely flinched as gunfire shredded their rotting flesh, only to watch the wounds knit back together.
Rio's stomach lurched as he witnessed the horror unfold.
One of the creatures lunged, grasping a goblin in its massive, decaying hands. The goblin screamed as he was pulled toward the creature's gaping maw, sharp teeth sinking into his flesh.
With a sickening crunch, he was consumed whole.
The other goblins froze.
Terror unlike anything they had ever known gripped them.
This was no longer a battle.
It was a massacre.
And the second Dark Lord had yet to even raise his wand in attack.
Tom's purple wand moved gracefully, dark runes flickering outward like ripples in water. The spell spread—not just across the battlefield, but beyond, creeping through the walls, infiltrating every inch of Gringotts.
...
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