The sky over Europe split open.
It didn't crack with thunder it tore, jagged rents of gold and shadow unfurling above the ancient cities. From those wounds in the air, the flood poured through. Angels with tarnished wings, demons with burning eyes, and gods of half-forgotten cults whose names had long rotted from mortal memory — all surging downward in a single, unstoppable tide.
There was no distinction anymore between light or dark in the defenders' eyes. The first roars from the portals erased all notions of old alliances or grudges. This wasn't about purity, vengeance, or glory. This was survival.
Diagon Alley took the first hit.
Shops that had stood for centuries shuddered under the impact as winged forms crashed into the cobblestones. Spells ignited instantly, the entire street bathed in sickly greens, blinding silvers, and streaks of fire-red. The defenders were ready they had been waiting for days and the moment the horde hit, the wards flared. But even layered magic groaned under the weight of so many invaders.
Goblins in segmented black armor anchored the front lines, their shields overlapping to form a jagged wall. The clang of steel against claw and fang rang out as they braced and stabbed, hacking at whatever pushed against them. Above and behind, centaurs fired arrows with blinding speed, every shaft tipped with magic that exploded on impact. Wizards and witches — light and dark robes mingled — hurled curse and counter-curse over the heads of the goblins, filling the air with a screaming tangle of enchantments.
The attackers didn't stop.
They slammed into the barricades, wings folding tight to ram through narrow gaps, claws digging into shields, teeth snapping at faces. A golden-winged angel landed hard enough to crack the street, sending goblins scattering before a blast of fire from a dark wizard seared half its body. A demon the size of a carriage shouldered its way forward, shrieking as half a dozen spells detonated against its hide.
Then the traps triggered.
Herpo's sigils — invisible until now — flared to life beneath the horde. Circles of glyphs erupted in gouts of green flame, reducing anything caught inside to ash. Sections of the cobblestones split and dropped, sending entire clusters of invaders tumbling into jagged, spike-lined pits. A haze of corrosive mist rolled low along the street, eating through armor, feathers, and skin alike. The shrieks were deafening.
The flood staggered, but it didn't break.
In Hogsmeade, the second breach slammed into prepared defenses. Arrows and spells rained down from every rooftop. Narrow streets were turned into choke points, where goblins lunged from shadows to hamstring enemies before melting away, and centaurs charged through like battering rams, their spears punching through armor. A group of wizards, faces grim, funneled attackers into an alley that suddenly sealed itself in walls of molten stone, trapping them inside with roaring flame.
Every defense bought seconds, sometimes minutes. But the tide kept pressing forward.
The line bent. Then it bent again. The defenders fell back to the next barricade, the next street, the next choke point. Boots and hooves and clawed feet slipped in blood pooling on the stones. The stench of burning hair, scorched flesh, and ozone choked the air. Screams — human and inhuman alike — merged into one unbroken howl.
No one spoke of winning.
No one even thought it.
They fought for the next corner, the next heartbeat. And the flood kept coming.
Herpo's voice cut through the din like a blade. "Now."
Albus's wand was already raised, a flick of ancient precision tracing sigils in the air. All around them, carved ward-stones buried under cobblestones and foundation beams shuddered awake.
The ground trembled.
Shops groaned as their frames twisted. Whole houses slid across the street, stone and timber scraping against each other with a deafening grind. Roofs folded like paper, alleyways sealed, and façades locked together until the streets became walls and the buildings formed jagged barricades. What had been an open district a moment ago was now a labyrinthine fortress of stone and brick, every gap sealed by magic older than most of the fighters alive.
Those watching didn't need orders.
A centaur wheeled his mount-body toward the new battlements, bowstring already taut with a shimmering arrow of conjured light. Goblins vanished with short, sharp cracks of displacement, reappearing on fresh vantage points in the barricades, crossbows snapping upward. Wizards apparated in quick succession, filling the ramparts and choke points that the wards had carved from the city's bones.
Beyond the new walls, the flood of enemies was left stranded in the open.
A tide of winged shapes, armored giants, and writhing forms with too many limbs surged toward the fortress, but their momentum shattered the instant spellfire rained down. Bolts of transfigured stone spears tore through the front ranks. Entire pockets of attackers were swallowed by suddenly-summoned pits or smothered under collapsing transfigurations of the very ground they stood on. A dozen at once were frozen mid-stride, their bodies seized by binding hexes and then hurled into one another by a charm.
***
The war room was heavy with the smell of burning air, the kind that only came when powerful magic clashed in the open. Through the stone walls, faint tremors rolled in from the ongoing battle—thuds of giants hitting the ground, distant screams, and the muffled percussion of siege spells detonating.
A long oak table dominated the chamber, its surface covered in maps, shifting illusionary markers showing troop positions, and scraps of parchment covered in frantic notes. Albus stood at one end, hands braced on the table's edge. Herpo sat opposite him, robes as pristine as if the chaos outside was of no concern.
Lord Arcturus Black was halfway down the table, a glass of deep red wine untouched before him. Alongside him sat other lords and ladies of the British wizarding aristocracy, their expressions grim but controlled. On the far side, robed envoys and warriors from foreign magical societies watched in silence—stern-faced shamans from the Himalayas, weathered druids from the Celtic enclaves, desert magi in sun-bleached garb. None spoke.
Albus broke the quiet, his tone low but razor-sharp.
"Please… don't tell me it is true."
Herpo's brow lifted faintly. "That what is true?"
"Don't make me say it." Albus's voice carried a rare note of hurt, his eyes hard yet faintly pained.
The silence deepened.
Herpo let out a quiet sigh, his gaze sweeping the ring of influential faces around the table. When he finally spoke, his words cut like a blade.
"Of course, Albus. The last anchor is inside Hogwarts. That is what it was built for."
A ripple went through the room—some sucking in breath, others stiffening in disbelief.
Herpo's mouth twisted into something between disdain and mockery. "Why do you think Morpheus was there in the first place? He needed to check on the anchor—our most important one. And it cannot fall."
The table felt smaller, the air heavier. Outside, a fresh explosion rattled the walls, the sound of stone collapsing mingling with the cries of the defenders.
"Now, I'm going to go and help the war effort I suggest you do the same."
***
The shrine stood at the crest of the mountain, its lacquered gates and weathered stone steps gleaming faintly in the gray light. The wind carried the smell of rain and blood, along with a distant, rising chorus—war cries and the unholy harmonics of wings tearing the air.
Below them, the valley churned like a living nightmare. Angels in blinding silver, demons in jagged black, and lesser gods wreathed in strange elemental auras surged upward in a single, unstoppable tide. The earth itself seemed to tremble under their charge, banners of light and shadow twisting together in a chaos where allegiance no longer mattered—only destruction.
Morpheus and Kazuki stood shoulder to shoulder before the shrine's gates. Kazuki's hands tightened on the hilt of his blade, his jaw set, but his eyes betrayed the truth.
"It's over," he murmured, voice nearly lost to the wind. "We cannot defend this."
Morpheus didn't look at him. His gaze was fixed on the encroaching mass, unblinking. Slowly, he shook his head.
"We can," he said, his voice low and steady. "And we will."
The first ranks of the enemy crested the final ridge, the ground beneath them shattering from their combined momentum. The air thickened with heat, divine radiance, and the fetid stink of brimstone.
And still, Morpheus did not move.
—
A/N: finally we are in the final stretch