Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

Chapter 82: Chapter 77: A Final Resolution



Everything seemed to move in slow motion.

From the moment Harry cast his spell to the moment Voldemort's wand flew out of his hand, it was no more than a second.

But that single second decided the outcome of the battle.

What Voldemort saw, his face stiffened in shock, were two wizards who moved instantly to seize the opportunity: Severus Snape and Hermione Granger.

Given Voldemort's mastery of wand work, he could normally fire a spell even after being disarmed.

The logical response would have been to predict the direction of his wand's flight and move toward it.

But doing so would have left him exposed to attacks from Snape and Hermione.

There was no way to avoid this.

The flash of Harry's Disarming Charm was visible—caught in Voldemort's eyes as if in slow motion.

But seeing it and avoiding it were two very different things.

The speed of the spell surpassed human reflexes; there wasn't enough time to evade.

While Voldemort could still make minor movements, such as flicking his wand wrist, he couldn't pull his arm away before the flash reached him.

That left only one option: decide what to do after losing the wand.

The question was which threat to eliminate first—Snape or Hermione.

The time needed to retrieve his wand would be two, maybe three seconds.

For those critical three seconds, he would be defenseless, subjected to attacks without a wand.

Snape posed a greater threat.

Voldemort made his decision: Snape needed to be neutralized.

While Hermione Granger was said to be talented, she was still a Mudblood in his eyes.

Snape, on the other hand, though weakened, had proven himself a relentless adversary moments before. Moreover, Snape shared Voldemort's mixed-blood lineage, making him a greater rival.

With that, Voldemort flicked his wrist and fired a spell.

It didn't need to be a powerful incantation—just enough to slow Snape down.

The Severing Charm Voldemort cast in desperation, however, struck Snape directly in the chest, blooming into a spray of blood.

Snape no longer had the strength to dodge.

Voldemort had made the wrong choice.

He should have aimed for Hermione instead of the already-dying Snape.

Had he done so, there might have been hope.

Eliminating Hermione would have allowed him to retrieve his wand and continue the battle.

But now, such speculation was meaningless.

The Mudblood he had underestimated cast a spell with unprecedented speed, summoning Voldemort's disarmed wand with Accio.

Then, holding both wands, she launched simultaneous attacks.

This is bad... Without my wand, I can't defend myself…!

Voldemort, now unarmed, had no means to protect himself.

Hermione's spell struck his chest, sending his body flying.

His expression froze in disbelief as he crashed into a wall and collapsed to the ground.

All of this happened in the span of one second.

"...Impossible... I cannot believe this... That I, the Dark Lord, would fall... like this..."

Without a wand, Voldemort could no longer perform magic.

Even the Dark Lord was no exception to this rule.

Of course, he had researched ways to overcome this limitation, spending years searching for methods to cast magic without a wand.

But he had overlooked the most glaring example: house-elves, who performed wandless magic effortlessly.

If he had studied their methods, perhaps the outcome would have been different.

Yet this too was a meaningless "what if" at this stage.

"It's over, Voldemort... This is our victory," Harry declared, his wand aimed squarely at his mortal enemy.

Beside him stood Severus Snape, leaning on Harry for support, and Hermione Granger, also pointing her wand at the fallen Dark Lord.

It was unthinkable—Voldemort, the Dark Lord, defeated and looked down upon by three mere individuals.

With murderous eyes, Voldemort glared at them and let out a growl.

"Kuh... Kuku... Do you think you've won so easily?"

"What?"

"I knew... I knew that accursed Beresford was destroying my Horcruxes.

Did you truly think the great Lord Voldemort would come to this battle without creating a new Horcrux?"

Harry's breath hitched.

Of course—Horcruxes! As long as they existed, Voldemort couldn't die!

Given how Mirabel had so ostentatiously destroyed the previous ones, it made sense that Voldemort would have created new ones.

Why hadn't Dumbledore, Snape, or even Mirabel anticipated this?

Why had they acted as if there were no more Horcruxes left during this final confrontation?

As if answering Harry's doubts, Snape, bloodied and pale, spoke coldly.

"There aren't any."

Snape's words cut through the tension with finality.

There were no more Horcruxes.

Turning his gaze back to the Dark Lord, Snape continued in a calm, resolute voice.

"Dark Lord... You split your soul too many times.

Didn't you heed Slughorn's warning? Horcruxes are the deepest of dark magic... To tear one's soul even once is a dangerous act.

And yet, you did so seven times."

A Horcrux divides the soul unevenly.

Of course—it's only natural. Each time one is made, the original soul diminishes further. It could never remain equal.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion.

From the moment Harry cast his spell to the instant Voldemort's wand flew from his hand, only about a second had passed.

But that single second was enough to turn the tide of battle.

Voldemort's expression froze in shock as he saw two wizards spring into action, seizing the opportunity: Severus Snape and Hermione Granger.

Had it been anyone else, Voldemort's skill with his wand would have allowed him to fire off a spell even after being disarmed. Normally, he would predict the trajectory of the flying wand and move to retrieve it.

But such a move now would expose him to attacks from Snape and Hermione.

An Unavoidable Fate

There was no escape.

He saw the flash of Harry's spell—clear as day, almost as if in slow motion.

Yet, some things remain unavoidable, even when clearly seen. The disarming spell moved faster than human reflexes could hope to match. It was impossible to avoid in time.

Though he could still make the small motion of flicking his wrist to cast a spell, moving his arm out of the way before the light reached him was out of the question.

Choosing a Target

The immediate focus had to shift to what came after losing his wand.

Who should he eliminate first: Snape or Hermione?

It would take two, maybe three seconds to retrieve his wand. During those three seconds, he would be defenseless, exposed to their attacks without his wand to shield him.

Snape was the greater threat.

This was Voldemort's calculated decision. Hermione Granger, while said to be talented, was still a Mudblood. Snape, on the other hand, though weakened, had just driven him to the brink of defeat moments ago. Moreover, Snape shared his half-blood heritage.

With this reasoning, Voldemort snapped his wrist and released a spell. It didn't need to be sophisticated—just something to hinder Snape's movements.

The cutting curse Voldemort cast in desperation, however, struck Snape's chest directly, a burst of blood blooming. Snape no longer had the strength to dodge.

A Fatal Miscalculation

Voldemort had miscalculated.

He should have aimed for Hermione instead. Eliminating her first might have given him a chance. He could have retrieved his wand and reentered the fray.

But such "what-ifs" held no meaning now.

The Mudblood he had so underestimated acted faster than he could have anticipated, casting a spell to summon Voldemort's fallen wand with Accio.

With two wands in her possession, Hermione unleashed a simultaneous assault.

"This is bad…! Without my wand, I can't block this…!"

But it was too late. His wand was gone, and nothing remained to protect him.

Hermione's spell struck Voldemort square in the chest, sending him flying. His body crashed into the wall and collapsed in a heap.

All this transpired in the span of a single second.

The Final Confrontation

"…Im-impossible… I… Lord Voldemort… defeated like this…?"

Without his wand, Voldemort could not wield magic. Not even the Dark Lord was exempt from this rule.

He had sought ways to overcome this limitation—researching tirelessly for methods to perform wandless magic. Yet, he had ignored the obvious example before him: the house-elves and their unique magical abilities.

Had he studied their magic, the outcome might have been different.

But this too was nothing more than a meaningless "what-if."

"It's over, Voldemort. This is our victory."

Harry declared his triumph, his wand aimed at his mortal enemy.

Beside him, Snape leaned on Harry for support, and Hermione stood with her wand trained on the fallen Dark Lord.

To be defeated and looked down upon by just three people—Voldemort could hardly believe it. He glared at them with murderous eyes, his voice a low growl.

"Ku…kuh… You think you've won with this?"

"What?"

"I knew… that accursed Beresford was destroying my Horcruxes. Did you really think the great Lord Voldemort would come to this battle without creating new ones?"

The Truth About His Soul

Harry's breath caught.

Horcruxes. As long as they existed, Voldemort could not truly die.

It made perfect sense that he would have made new ones after Beresford had destroyed the originals.

Why hadn't Dumbledore, Snape, or even Beresford accounted for this? They had approached this final battle as though no Horcruxes remained.

Snape, coughing blood, answered coldly.

"That's not possible."

His words were definitive.

"The Horcruxes are gone. You split your soul too many times, Voldemort. Did you not heed Slughorn's warning? Horcrux creation is dark magic of the deepest kind. Even tearing your soul once is dangerous. Yet you did it… seven times."

Each time a Horcrux was made, the soul was divided, diminishing the strength of each piece.

For instance, the diary—the first Horcrux—possessed enough power to act with its own will, manipulate others, and even control a basilisk, forcing Dumbledore to briefly step down.

But what about the sixth Horcrux: Harry himself?

The soul fragment within him, though present, had never controlled him. It couldn't even manifest, let alone draw sustenance from the soul nearby.

If they could visualize the soul fragment inside Harry, it would appear as a pathetic, crumpled remnant—a miserable infant crouched in the corner of his mind.

And Voldemort had gone even further, splitting his soul once more since then.

"There's nothing left of your soul to create a new Horcrux."

The End of Voldemort

Voldemort's face twisted with rage, but his reaction confirmed Snape's words.

With a desperate roar, Voldemort charged at them.

Snape, calm and prepared, raised his wand. In a fluid motion, he cast the spell he had created as a student.

"Sectumsempra!"

The curse slashed through Voldemort's limbs, bringing him down.

For years, Snape had awaited this moment. Dreamed of it.

Harry stepped forward, his wand trained on Voldemort as their eyes locked in a final confrontation.

"Voldemort… you've taken so much from me. From so many others.

This is your last chance. Repent, Riddle. I've seen what you'll become otherwise."

Voldemort laughed, a terrifying grin splitting his face.

"Lord Voldemort does not repent."

"So be it."

Harry raised his wand.

"Sectumsempra!"

Blood sprayed, and Hermione covered her face with her hands. Voldemort's body crumpled as his head rolled across the floor.

Even in death, his expression was frozen in a devilish grimace befitting the Dark Lord.

A Final Task

Snape slumped against the wall, exhausted.

"Snape!"

"Leave me… I'm just… tired," Snape rasped, swallowing the blood pooling in his mouth.

"Take the Sword of Gryffindor," he said hoarsely. "Do not lose it. It is the only way… to exploit Beresford's weakness. And… if you win… destroy it."

Though Harry did not understand the reasoning, he nodded. Some things required no explanation—they were simply right.

"Potter... look at me."

At Snape's command, Harry looked at him.

Their eyes met—Harry's green eyes and Snape's dark ones—and a few seconds passed in silence.

Then, Snape spoke, his voice filled with nostalgia.

"Those eyes... They're Lily's eyes.

Everything about you, from your appearance to the way you act, even your annoying tendency to worry about me at this point—it's all so much like him. But your eyes, they're just like Lily's..."

"...Professor Snape..."

"You... you called me 'Professor' for the first time..."

At that moment, Harry was overwhelmed by a deep respect for Snape, mixed with an unbearable regret.

Why had he never tried to understand this person better?

Why hadn't he tried to get closer to him?

Why... why had he said such awful things to him that night?

The more he thought about it, the more he realized how many times Snape had helped him, saved him.

And yet, Harry had repaid him with nothing but disdain.

No matter how much he regretted it, the guilt seemed impossible to erase.

"Professor... I've misunderstood you for so long... I've said horrible things to you.

...I want to apologize now. You are braver than anyone I know."

"Hmph... You were the most troublesome student I ever had."

Snape's words, though harsh, came with an almost wistful tone.

"Now, go... The ones waiting for you are over there..."

Harry nodded without hesitation this time, understanding the gravity of Snape's words, and signaled to Hermione.

"Professor! I'll come back, I promise... So, until then, don't die!

There's still so much I want to talk to you about! So many things I need to apologize for!"

"...That's none of your business..."

Snape's answer was as stubborn as ever.

Even in his weakened state, Harry found an odd comfort in Snape's familiar, defiant attitude, and smiled softly.

He then took Hermione's hand, and together, they rushed off.

As they disappeared from view, Snape spat out blood.

Good.

If they had stayed any longer, he would have been humiliated.

Snape smiled wryly, looking back over the years.

From the beginning to the end, Harry had always been a difficult student.

Impudent, rule-breaking, attention-seeking, and endlessly like his father.

And yet, at crucial moments, Harry showed traits that resembled his mother. That made everything more complicated.

He was probably not a good teacher.

He was likely a despised, unpleasant teacher.

And that was fine.

Harry Potter should not concern himself with Snape's fate. He should move forward, just as he always did. Never look back.

Run forward, like Lily, like his mother—without a second thought.

That was Snape's one and only pride: protecting Lily's son.

"...Lily..."

With unfocused eyes, Snape gazed into the empty space before him, whispering the name of the woman he had loved.

No matter who she had been drawn to, or whether she was still in this world, his feelings for her would never change.

And they never would.

Behind his closed eyelids, he could still see the scenes from their childhood, when they had spent time together. He murmured softly.

"I love you... forever..."

He said it with a peaceful expression.

And then, Severus Snape never moved again.

Magic was unleashed toward the arch.

However, it never reached its target. Another spell intercepted it from the side.

The knights, who had seemed to be merely collapsed on the ground, had managed to block Mirabel's spell with their injured bodies.

Ah, as expected from those chosen by Dumbledore—they wouldn't allow an easy victory.

In that case, the solution was simple: eliminate them first.

With this decision, Mirabel turned her focus toward the knights, extending her hand—only to be interrupted in the next moment by Edith, who was presumed unconscious, launching a desperate counterattack.

Or rather, judging by the sight of Dumbledore aiming his wand, it seemed he had used magic to restore Edith's consciousness.

"Aaaaahhhhhh!"

Propelled by magic, Edith flung her entire body forward, closing the distance with Mirabel in one swift motion.

Mirabel, both startled and impressed, couldn't help but feel a wave of respect for the audacity before her. Shock mixed with a hint of amusement flickered across her face.

You still come for me, Reinegral!

Before Mirabel could fully react, a silver guardian spirit emerged, its movements faster than the very flow of time, and it plunged straight into her chest.

It was nothing short of a miraculous strike—a flawless attack unlikely to ever be repeated.

But that was all it was.

Even this direct hit from the guardian spirit could not kill Mirabel, nor could it render her incapable of fighting.

And yet... that was enough.

(Please! Let this reach you... Hear my voice!)

There was no other option left.

Edith's final gamble was to reach out to someone deep within Mirabel's guardian spirit—her own sister.

What Edith couldn't possibly have known was that Harry Potter's wand and Voldemort's wand had once resonated with each other due to being brother wands. Sharing cores derived from the same phoenix feather, these two wands were bound in a way unprecedented in history. When the two bearers, intricately connected, clashed, they triggered an unforeseen phenomenon.

As a result, Harry's wand identified Voldemort as its mortal foe, acting with extraordinary power against him, even beyond the will of its master.

Now, Edith found herself in a similarly extraordinary situation.

The blood Mirabel used when discarding her humanity belonged to Mary Orwell—a part of Mirabel still resided within her. By inheriting the protection of Mirabel's sister, Letis, Edith had created a connection akin to that of Harry and Voldemort's wands.

Of course, Edith knew nothing of this.

Yet, by sheer coincidence, her last effort was carried out under conditions so perfect they could only be called miraculous.

(Right now, you're the only one who can stop Mirabel! Please, if you can hear me, lend me your strength… Big sister!)

If things continued as they were, no one would find happiness.

Harry, Hermione, and so many others who fought to protect this broken world would only see it destroyed.

Even Mirabel herself would find no joy in ruling over a world subdued through violence.

Mirabel had to be stopped.

Precisely because Edith was her friend, she had to do this, no matter what.

(Please...!)

Clicking her tongue softly, Mirabel conjured magic in her palm.

Even with protective magic, it wasn't as though all spells would be ineffective. Disarming spells or indirect methods of harm could easily bypass such barriers.

Yet, even as danger loomed right before her, Edith continued to focus her will.

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for what was to come, and kept wishing, kept praying.

Praying.

Praying.

…And as she persisted, she suddenly realized something.

She hadn't been attacked.

"…?"

Time passed, but Mirabel's spell never struck her.

Had she been killed so quickly that she hadn't even felt the pain? Had she already died without realizing it? If she opened her eyes, would her body be lying headless on the ground?

That would be awful, she thought nervously, hesitantly cracking her eyes open.

Before her was the back of a silver-haired girl, arms outstretched to shield Edith.

"…Impossible…!"

Mirabel's voice trembled with a shock so profound it seemed foreign, unlike anything she had ever expressed before. Her eyes widened, staring at what lay before her—no, at what she couldn't believe was truly happening. Her outstretched arm froze, and her gaze locked on the girl standing before her.

"Letis… Why…?!"

Mirabel's guardian spirit had intervened to block her own attack. To anyone familiar with the nature of guardian spirits, this was an impossible sight.

And in a way, they would be right.

Letis Grosteste was no longer Mirabel's guardian spirit.

"Reinegral… What… what have you done?!"

For the first time, Mirabel's voice roared with anger and desperation, stripped of her usual composure. Her fury was raw, unfiltered.

And understandably so.

The girl before her, whose magical prowess should have been vastly inferior, had somehow pulled the soul from her guardian spirit. Letis's soul was no longer housed within Mirabel's guardian spirit. Devoid of Letis, the spirit lost its form and dissolved into a silvery mist.

Conversely, Edith's former guardian spirit, which had taken the form of a Pegasus, now transformed into a silver-haired girl standing resolutely before her.

"W-What do you mean? I just… called out to her. I begged for her help," Edith replied.

"Don't be ridiculous! Are you saying… this is Letis's will? That it wasn't some trickery on your part, but that Letis herself chose to leave me?!"

Mirabel gritted her teeth so hard it seemed they might shatter, radiating a hatred so intense it seemed to warp the very air around her. The ground quaked faintly, and the surrounding scenery seemed to ripple as though recoiling from her presence.

But Edith remained unaffected.

Ordinarily, such sheer malice would have made her sick to her stomach or caused her to collapse in terror. Yet she felt nothing.

The reason stood before her—her guardian spirit, deflecting Mirabel's hatred with an unyielding shield. Edith remained untouched, protected by the silent resolve of the silver-haired girl.

"Why, Letis…? Why?! No matter how much I called out to you, you never answered. So why now?! Why leave me at this moment?!"

Mirabel's voice, thick with resentment and sorrow, lashed out at the girl. The silver-haired guardian spirit closed her eyes, her expression tinged with sadness. Then, as if to reject the golden-haired girl's actions, she gently shook her head.

Silent denial.

And yet, it struck Mirabel harder than any magic ever could.

"…I… I did it all for you…! Everything I've done, it was for you! I was willing to destroy the world—just for you!"

The once-mighty tyrant now resembled a wounded animal abandoned by its owner. Her face contorted with anguish, her voice quivering with the weight of suppressed tears.

The silver-haired girl, her friend even in death, embraced Mirabel tenderly, stroking her golden locks with care.

"Mirabel… that girl… she never wanted this," came a quiet voice from the ground.

Dumbledore, still collapsed but conscious, spoke, his voice heavy with both sorrow and understanding.

"I know the tragedy that befell her… the foolish, inexcusable mistakes of the magical world's adults that caused it all.

No… perhaps I am not even qualified to call them fools. Perhaps your hatred of the magical world is justified."

Dumbledore had not come to this final confrontation without first learning of Mirabel's past. He had uncovered the role Letis Valentine had played in Mirabel's descent into madness.

What he had not foreseen, however, was that Letis's soul had remained sealed within Mirabel's guardian spirit all this time.

Now, though, it made sense. It explained why he had felt such a deep resonance with this girl. They were alike. Both had suffered the loss of someone precious due to the folly of others. And both had fallen into despair, allowing their hatred to drive them to extremes.

Mirabel, in essence, was a reflection of another possible Dumbledore—a version of himself who had chosen not to repent or reflect, but instead to let his hatred fuel his pursuit of domination.

"But look at her tears. That girl never wished for you to carry such a burden. She didn't want revenge. She didn't want you to keep adding to your sins."

The silver-haired girl's embrace said it all. She had never wanted Mirabel to walk such a dark path. Even in death, she wanted only for her friend to find happiness.

"Mirabel… please," Dumbledore continued softly.

Even now, it wasn't too late.

Edith's gaze met that of her former friend, filled with a quiet plea. Though the world could never truly return to the way it had been, though the wounds inflicted on the magical world were too great to simply forget, they could at least stop further suffering.

In the silence that followed, all eyes fell on Mirabel. She remained motionless, her head bowed, lost in thought.

Seconds turned to tens of seconds.

Finally, she opened her mouth to speak.

"—Is everything rejecting me? ... So be it."

In that instant, magical energy erupted like an explosion. Letis was flung away along with Edith, torn from Mirabel by the violent surge of magical power, as a ferocious wind of energy swept through the battlefield.

Then, an overwhelming sense of madness descended upon everyone present, a suffocating aura so crushing it felt as if their bodies might collapse under the mere act of existing in its presence.

"Ku...ku...ku...ku... Ku-ku-ku-ku-ku-ku-ku-ku...!"

Mirabel's voice rose in twisted laughter. "I see, I see. Your feelings are quite clear, Letis. In the end, it seems no one can follow me."

The magical power continued to rise. Higher, and still higher—escalating past all limits, as though boundaries were meaningless. With every passing second, her power grew exponentially, surpassing anything previously imagined. Even without casting a single spell, the sheer force of her mana caused the ground to quake and nearby buildings to crack.

What had already seemed monstrous before now paled in comparison. Her white sclera turned black, her irises gleamed gold. Her mouth stretched unnaturally, almost splitting her face, as golden radiance consumed the entire scenery, burning like an unbearable sun. Her nails elongated into razor-sharp claws, and her hair writhed like a living entity.

"Very well, then! If that's how it is, so be it! To rule a world where none desires my existence—that, too, is amusing!"

Until now, a part of Mirabel had acted for Letis's sake. Somewhere deep within, that purpose had held her back, imposing restraint. In her own twisted way, she had kept herself from fully unleashing her destructive potential, reining in her desires with an obsessive sense of purpose.

Even in her monstrous state, Mirabel had stopped short of obliterating the magical world entirely, instead aiming to reshape it. She had meticulously selected who to spare and who to destroy. But now, even that tenuous brake was gone.

The part of her that acted out of care or attachment to Letis had been obliterated. Her conscience, fragile as it was, had vanished entirely.

"—Kill them all."

There was no hesitation left. No restraint. Mirabel no longer felt any obligation to hold herself back. She would murder, destroy, and plunder without limit, driven solely by unbridled malice.

Purebloods or Muggles—what difference did it make? Talent or worthiness—who cared?

"This world... I no longer need it! I want none of it anymore!"

Her malevolence swelled unchecked, an all-consuming storm of destruction. The idea of ruling this world no longer stirred her interest.

There was only one impulse left—to annihilate.

"I will destroy everything in this world, right here, right now!"

The toys she had once entertained herself with had become trash. Broken things belonged in the bin. So she would break them. She would destroy them all. Her madness surged without restraint, her impulses urging her to unleash her infinite power.

Philosophies she had preached, dreams of a brighter future—none of it mattered now. All that remained was chaos.

In this final moment, the only spell she desired was one of complete summoning: Accio, to call forth every celestial body in the cosmos and hurl them toward Earth. Let the stars collide, let the planet shatter—let humanity perish.

Even if it meant her own destruction, it was of no concern.

Nothing.

Nothing mattered anymore.

"I... I was wrong again," Dumbledore whispered in stunned horror as he watched Mirabel's descent into madness.

The prophecy spoken by Sybill Trelawney echoed in his mind. Now, finally, he understood.

At last, he grasped the true meaning of those fateful words.

Beneath the scales of Venus's guardian moon, the demon will be born.

The demon's scales can tilt toward salvation or ruin.

The demon shall gain its angelic counterpart, finding balance in the scales.

Take the angel from the demon, and ruin shall follow.

The foretold future will be irrevocably undone.

Until this moment, Dumbledore had believed Letis to be the "angel" of the prophecy, and that she had been lost. But no—he had misunderstood. Gaining the angelic counterpart referred to Letis's soul, which Mirabel had obtained and held until now.

Until now, Mirabel had been in balance, teetering on the edge of salvation. Her seemingly destructive acts had, in fact, been restrained by the stabilizing presence of Letis's soul.

But Dumbledore, seeing only the surface, had misjudged. He had mistaken her journey as a descent into ruin. He had been wrong.

The true ruin, the prophecy's foretold catastrophe, was happening now.

By tearing Letis's soul away, the balance of the scales had been destroyed. The final battle, which he himself had instigated, had become the trigger for this collapse.

"What a fool I've been... What an utter fool!" he lamented, his voice trembling with despair.

He had projected his own mistakes onto Mirabel, misinterpreting her path as one of darkness. But in truth, her path had been one toward salvation. It had been his folly, his misguided actions, that had brought ruin upon them all.

It was over.

No—it would be over soon.

This foolish old man's misunderstanding, the battle born of his errors, had stripped the demon of its angel and set the scales tipping irrevocably toward destruction.

And now, there was no one left to stop her—

"—Wait! Mirabel Beresford!!"

A voice rang out, shattering the oppressive despair that hung over the battlefield.

In the place where the fate of the magical world would be decided, the final hope had arrived.

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