"Ah!" The Swedish Prime Minister squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his cheeks as the blinding light stabbed at his senses. "Damn it! What have you people done?"
The Swedish Minister of Magic squinted, still dazed, unsure if he was witnessing reality or some waking dream.
He could only mutter, half in awe, "Was that lightning... or the moon? Or... the sun itself?"
By the time the Prime Minister regained his composure, a colossal, dazzling orb of light had erupted outside the window, hurling arcs of plasma in every direction.
His voice trembled with disbelief. "Is this... is this really the power of magic? You can conjure something like this?"
The Minister of Magic remained silent. He had never seen anything of the sort in his life.
Back at Durmstrang, he'd only heard legends of Gellert Grindelwald—how he'd once unleashed a spell so devastating it nearly obliterated Père Lachaise Cemetery. If not for a coalition of wizards intervening just in time, the casualties would have been catastrophic.
A short while earlier…
Wyzett and Luna rode atop Frigg, the eight-legged divine steed, ascending toward the crown of the World Tree.
Frigg carried them upward, gliding through the living wood like water drawn through the xylem of a tree. Perhaps only by such means could one reach the World Tree's summit.
Wyzett felt his senses shrink to nothing, as if he'd gone blind—darkness pressed in on all sides.
He paused, recalling an ancient spell he'd once mastered: Basic Herbology Cultivation.
This magic heightened a wizard's affinity with magical plants. He focused, attempting to use that bond to communicate with the World Tree, searching for a way to quell the unstoppable waves.
Channeling the ancient power, Wyzett poured his magic into the heartwood of the tree.
At once, his mind filled with swirling mists—visions tied to the World Tree itself. As he climbed higher, the fog began to thin, secrets long buried surfacing in his consciousness.
Thanks to his earlier research into Devil's Snare and Christmas Cactus, the path opened before him. Ancient magic guided him, unhindered, to the truth at the tree's core.
Thunder rumbled all around.
Suddenly, Wyzett's mind was swept away—he was somewhere else entirely.
The darkness fractured into a riot of color, hues leaping and swirling like the strokes of an oil painting. But beneath the vibrant chaos lurked an oppressive undertone: black and cobalt blue spiraled into a vortex, a sea of death swallowing all hope.
At the center of that dead sea stood a lone, upright figure—regal as a god, a long spear gripped in his hand. Wisps of pure, shadowy mist curled around him, keeping him aloft above the abyss.
He spun the spear again and again, each thrust unleashing bolts of lightning that battered back the encroaching tides. The canvas bled with stormy violets and sickly copper-greens.
Perhaps the sea, realizing these waves could not touch the spear-bearer, finally stirred in earnest. It twisted itself into a massive portal, leaving a terrible, yawning void in its wake.
From that portal emerged a skeletal figure, enthroned upon bones, his tattered robes stained with the same gray-violet and copper-green.
The skeletal king roared, pointing a bony finger. The shadow-mist shuddered, the pure blackness tainted by crimson, writhing as it broke free from the upright figure and scattered into the void.
Just as the spear-bearer teetered at the brink, he thrust his weapon skyward. In that instant, thunder swallowed the world, flooding the vision with a blinding, absolute white.
As the searing white faded, Wyzett returned to himself—at the very crown of the World Tree.
Frigg did not pause, circling the treetop, as if knowing exactly what Wyzett needed to do. The summit of the tree felt impossibly high—Stockholm itself was a miniature landscape far below, city lights twinkling in the dusk.
Yet here, there was no breathlessness, no biting wind—just a dreamlike hush, the world muffled and veiled in mist.
Each time Frigg halted, motes drifted up—ash or snowflakes, glimmering in the enchanted air. The crown of the World Tree felt utterly apart from the world below.
In the distance, the waves had climbed to match the tree's height, still surging upward, drawing ever closer.
Wyzett knew: if those waves crashed down, Stockholm would be drowned in an instant.
He scanned the mental map in his mind, ensuring every last trace of fog had been swept away. Then, gathering all the ancient magic he could muster, he poured it into The Wizard's Practical Combat Guide.
The notebook in his mind snapped open, greedily absorbing the power. At last, the page that had always remained blank revealed itself.
There were no elaborate explanations, no "Ancient Magic" prefix—just a single, stark word:
Fulgur.
But through Basic Herbology Cultivation, and the vision etched into the World Tree, Wyzett understood exactly how to wield this spell.
He saw the distant spear—and raised his wand.
"Spear, come!"
The spear leapt into his hand. Up close, its craftsmanship was breathtaking: the head clear as purest ice, lightning flickering within; the shaft aglow with silver-blue, runes etched deep into the wood, ancient and powerful.
The roar of the waves grew deafening. They were nearly upon him.
"Let me down," Wyzett said, drawing a deep breath. He invoked Custodis Meditatio (Guardian's Meditation), sharpening every sense.
"I'll wait for you here," Luna whispered, her voice unwavering.
Wyzett stepped to the very edge, gripping the spear in one hand.
He closed his eyes. Deep within, the core of his Obscurus surged, power flooding through his veins.
"Ansuz!"
He parted his lips, raising the spear and striking it against the ground. Lightning exploded around him.
In that instant, the waves seemed to freeze.
But only for a heartbeat. Then, with a world-shaking roar, they crashed down—an unstoppable wall of water, thundering toward Wyzett…
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