The air reeked of blood and madness.
The goblins' world had become a nightmarish haze of death, their once-cautious minds now reduced to a singular, frenzied thought: Kill.
Their eyes burned with bloodlust, their faces twisted in unnatural rage. Panic had long since been overridden by the overwhelming compulsion to fight. There was no longer fear, no hesitation—only a blind, maddened charge toward the enemy.
They sprinted forward like rabid animals, their small, clawed hands mechanically loading and firing their weapons, magic bullets spraying in rapid succession. The rounds lit up the cavern like bursts of fiery serpents, but as soon as they entered the swirling black mist, they simply vanished, swallowed whole by the darkness. No sound, no impact—just pure nothingness.
Yet, not a single goblin paused to question it.
They were deaf to reason, their fury blinding them to the obvious anomaly. Their weapons, their magic—none of it was working.
And still, they continued.
Voldemort, perched amidst the carnage, took notice. His red eyes gleamed with intrigue as he flicked his wand, sending a tendril of black mist outward. The mist unfurled like a sentient wraith, stretching and splitting, slipping through the air unseen.
It was his eyes now, scouting the rest of Gringotts even as he fought.
The visions poured into his mind—chaos, bloodshed, screaming goblins locked in battle, not just against Death Eaters but against each other.
Internal strife.
The goblins weren't just defending themselves; they were fighting one another.
Voldemort turned, his gaze landing on Tom.
The younger Dark Lord stood motionless in the distance, wand still in hand, his face unreadable.
Voldemort narrowed his eyes, deep crimson flashing ominously.
A shift in perception.
For the briefest of moments, the world itself seemed to change.
Tom's magic was everywhere.
The runes he had been casting had not simply faded into the air—they had spread, unraveling into invisible threads. These cursed strings now wove through the battlefield, slithering unnoticed into the minds of the goblins.
And with each death, each act of violence, those threads thickened, spreading further and further.
Voldemort's gaze sharpened.
The goblins weren't just fighting because they were desperate.
They were under his influence.
A magnificent curse—one that thrived on chaos, one that infected, twisted, and turned enemies into mindless berserkers.
Every goblin touched by those invisible strings had been driven into an uncontrollable, suicidal rage, forced into slaughtering their own kind.
Brilliant.
Voldemort let out a quiet, almost imperceptible breath.
It wasn't that he couldn't have done this himself—he simply hadn't thought of it.
And that was what truly gave him pause.
Tom's strategy was not just brutal—it was efficient.
He had taken what Voldemort did naturally and refined it, weaponized it into something even more devastating.
Voldemort tilted his head slightly, watching the carnage unfold. He had always known that Tom Riddle was powerful, but now he had to acknowledge something else.
Tom Riddle was dangerous.
Not to him, not yet.
But the potential was there.
The revelation tempered Voldemort's killing frenzy. His movements became more measured, his curses cast with less reckless joy.
There was room for improvement.
He would need to adapt, to evolve.
He would not allow himself to be lesser than his own younger self.
Meanwhile, across the battlefield, a lone goblin suddenly halted mid-charge.
Rio gasped as the madness in his mind shattered, a cool sensation washing over his body like a sudden plunge into icy water.
His vision cleared.
The rage dissipated.
And for the first time, he truly saw what was happening.
The battlefield before him was a nightmare.
His brethren, eyes wild and unfocused, were slaughtering each other with no rhyme or reason. The ground was slick with goblin blood, their screams of agony blending with the echoing gunfire and the crackle of dark magic.
His stomach twisted in horror.
He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, fingers grazing the cold metal of the identity plate hanging there.
The Goblin Revolutionary Army.
A lifeline.
If not for this protective enchantment, he too would have been lost to madness, another mindless pawn in Tom Riddle's cruel game.
Rio took a shuddering breath and cautiously moved toward the battlefield's edge.
He wasn't alone.
Through the haze, he spotted others—fellow goblins clutching identical identity plates, their expressions mirroring his own shock and relief.
Survivors.
They locked eyes for a brief moment, silent understanding passing between them.
They needed to get out.
Tom's gaze flickered toward the escaping goblins but showed no interest in stopping them.
His spell was vast in scale, and he had known from the start that there would be ways to counter it. A few goblins slipping away hardly mattered. The damage had already been done.
Voldemort, however, had noticed.
The way Tom ignored the escapees, the way he had chosen Gringotts as their target in the first place—it was all starting to make sense.
He was testing something.
Interesting.
But he said nothing. Their partnership, for now, remained intact, and they shared a common enemy.
With the battlefield nearly devoid of living goblins, Voldemort finally lost interest in the slaughter.
The bet was over.
And he had lost.
For the first time in a long time, Voldemort found himself disinterested in further killing. Instead, his thoughts turned elsewhere—
The vaults.
The Death Eaters had already begun looting, tearing through centuries of accumulated wealth.
But while they were busy sifting through the treasures of pure-blood families and wizarding vaults, Voldemort set his sights on something far greater.
The goblin treasury.
Goblins were famed for their alchemy, and their kind had hoarded treasures beyond even what the wealthiest wizards could imagine.
And he would claim them.
With a swirl of black mist, Voldemort's form dissolved into shadow, streaking away through the underground corridors.
Tom watched him go, his gaze sweeping over the looted vaults and the remnants of their devastation.
Gringotts was finished.
Their mission had been a success.
Now, it was time for the next step.
The underground tunnels twisted and turned like a labyrinth, their winding paths treacherous even for goblins who had spent centuries navigating them.
But Voldemort moved with purpose.
He knew exactly where he was going.
Each turn, each choice of direction—precise.
Occasionally, he paused before a vault, observing either the emptied chambers or the Death Eaters still greedily plundering. If something caught his interest, he lingered for a moment before moving on.
He passed skirmishes—goblins still desperately trying to fight back, their gunfire lost against the sheer might of dark magic.
Some battles intrigued him.
Others bored him.
If an attack came his way, the assailant was swiftly reduced to dust, their bones collapsing in a silent heap.
Finally, he slowed.
He had arrived.
A massive platform stretched before him, guarded by goblins whose expressions betrayed no fear, only grim determination.
A shimmering yellow barrier surrounded them, pulsing faintly with protective enchantments—likely designed to counter Tom's curse.
Voldemort's eyes gleamed.
These goblins were different.
They weren't simply protecting treasure.
They were guarding something far more valuable.
His lips curled into a predatory smile.
He had found the Goblin Armory.
...
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