Ron stared at Erwin in absolute horror, his face draining of all color.
"You?" he gasped, the synthesized voice cracking with genuine shock. "You're my target? Why? And how do you even know I exist? Even among the ancient gods, only a handful knew of my true nature!"
Erwin's expression was glacial. "You stole something that wasn't yours. Surrender it."
Ron stumbled backward. "How do you know? You're... no, not you! You're a Westerner! Who are you? How could you possibly know all this?"
"It seems you're not going to surrender it willingly," Erwin said, his tone devoid of emotion. "Fine. I'll simply take it myself."
With a fluid motion, the Sword of Gryffindor materialized in his hand. He didn't hesitate. With a light, almost casual swing, a brilliant purple blade of energy shot toward Ron.
Ron shrieked, frantically gathering the swirling black mist before him as a shield. He had witnessed this blade pierce Death's core with his own eyes. He understood its devastating power.
But the purple blade cleaved through the dark fog as if it were nothing more than smoke.
Before Ron's horrified gaze, the attack closed the distance effortlessly.
Back in the Changbai Mountains
Under Old Tom's supervision, the cleanup was completed efficiently. The wizards returned to their tents, free to depart as they pleased. The Cavendish family provided daily transport back to Hogsmeade.
As for the Triwizard Tournament, the Cup had resulted in a four-way draw. The event had officially concluded, but the topic dominating every conversation was the slaying of the deity. The battle had been broadcast live; no rumors were necessary.
The entire wizarding world was in an uproar. Gods had been proven to exist, yet humans had managed to slay one. It was utterly astounding.
The Western wizarding community was gripped by fear and frenzied speculation about what the death of a god might unleash. Conversely, the Eastern wizards were considerably calmer.
Unlike the West, where divinity was deeply feared, the wizarding community in the East did not revere gods unconditionally. They believed that human will could conquer nature. To them, gods were simply exceptionally powerful entities—entities that could be eliminated. They were unmoved by the theological implications.
In their worldview, if gods existed, they were subject to mortality.
Inside their tent, the Weasleys returned exhausted.
Arthur collapsed onto the bed, sighing heavily. "I'm completely spent! It was terrifying. We actually participated in slaying a god."
Molly nodded, about to respond, when a sudden, sharp pain lanced through her chest. She gasped. Around the tent, the other Weasley children felt it too—a sudden, hollow coldness.
Molly stood up abruptly. "Arthur? Where's Ron?"
Arthur froze, his eyes widening. He scrambled upright. "Ron?"
The Twins, Ginny, and the others exchanged looks of dawning horror. They had forgotten—until this very moment—that there was an extra person in their midst.
Just then, Old Tom's voice drifted from outside the tent.
"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley? Might I have a word?"
A sense of profound foreboding gripped the parents. They rushed outside, the children following closely.
Old Tom stood waiting solemnly. Before him lay a body on a stretcher.
It was Ron.
He lay unnaturally still, his face pale as parchment.
Arthur froze. "Ron... Ron, Merlin's mercy, how?"
Molly let out a sob, rushing forward to bury her face against her son's chest. "My boy! My poor boy!"
Old Tom offered a respectful, solemn bow. "I am deeply sorry to inform you, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Ron Weasley fell during the confrontation with Death. We discovered him while clearing the battlefield. Master Erwin sends his deepest condolences. He understands that no compensation can replace a life, but the Cavendish family will, of course, offer full restitution."
Molly wept bitterly over Ron's body. Behind her, the Twins and Ginny stood frozen, their eyes red and swelling with tears. Arthur trembled, his hands clenching and unclenching helplessly.
"This... this isn't Erwin's fault," Arthur stammered, his voice strained. "It was simply... terrible misfortune. Ron was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
What else could he say? Ron hadn't been killed by a rival wizard. He had been claimed by Death itself—a force that had reaped countless lives in that single catastrophic moment. It was a tragic accident, nothing more.
Old Tom offered no further words. He delivered the message and the body, then respectfully departed.
Walking a short distance away, Old Tom raised his hand to touch the dark mark on his arm, connecting to Erwin.
"Master, the Weasleys have been informed," he reported.
Erwin's voice echoed in his mind, cold and efficient. "Good. Handle the arrangements. I have other matters requiring attention."
"Understood, Master."
There was no avoiding it. Ron—or rather, the entity inhabiting Ron—had possessed the boy, and Erwin had found no method to expel the parasite without eliminating the host.
It was a necessary sacrifice. Compared to his grander plan, Ron's life was ultimately insignificant.
So, Ron was dead. It was a clean death; the Killing Curse left no visible marks, and Death's involvement provided perfect cover.
The Reaper saved me the inconvenience of dirtying my own hands, Erwin mused.
Meanwhile, Erwin stood by a secluded waterside in England. He scanned the area methodically, nodded to himself, and sat cross-legged on the grass.
The Sword of Gryffindor materialized in his hand, followed by his wand. He laid them parallel on the ground before him.
Immediately, brilliant purple light from the sword began to flow, mingling with the lingering black energy from the slain god's ichor. The energy streamed systematically into the wand.
Erwin watched impassively as the light dimmed, absorbed completely into the wood and core.
He then produced a small box—the one he had retrieved from the impostor. Lifting the lid, a piercing azure light illuminated his face.
Carefully, he removed the object inside and placed it against his wand.
A blinding flash erupted, persisting for a prolonged moment before fading. When the light receded, Erwin lifted his wand and inspected it thoroughly. A faint, satisfied smile touched his lips.
"It's complete," he murmured.
With the wand restored and enhanced, he rose to his feet. His gaze turned toward the distant horizon.
"Now," he said to the empty air, "it is time to visit the Underworld."
---
I've just launched Hogwarts: I, Tom Riddle, Am a Good Teacher! I've put extra care into the writing and consistency for this one, and I think you're going to love the vibe.
If you enjoyed my previous work, come check out the first few chapters and tell me: Would you survive a class with Professor Riddle? Don't forget to drop those Power Stones to help us rank!
— MrGrim