Marvel's master of cosmic magic

Chapter 492

Rowan had always believed the war between wizards and Muggles was inevitable.

The magical world had barely changed in decades. A few new convenience charms. Minor refinements. Nothing fundamental.

Meanwhile, the Muggle world was sprinting forward.

Technology advanced faster every year. Weapons grew more precise, more destructive, more automated. At a certain point, the line between "magic" and "science" blurred. The miracles of modern engineering were already rivaling spells.

Discovery was only a matter of time.

And when it happened, war would follow.

Ruling classes never tolerated rivals to their authority.

It would be wizard rule or Muggle rule. There would be no third option.

In another world Rowan had seen, Muggles won. Wizards were regulated, capped in number, forced to live under laws written by non-magical governments.

And that outcome made perfect sense.

In raw firepower, magic lost to nuclear weapons and precision missiles.

In political warfare, Muggles had centuries of institutional experience that wizards simply didn’t.

Wizards’ only advantage was individual combat strength. Elite spellcasters could assassinate leaders.

But modern governments replaced leaders overnight.

Kill one cabinet. Another took its place.

There were too many countries. Too many officials. You couldn’t decapitate the world.

Worse still—

If war broke out, no one on the Muggle side would defect to the wizards.

But plenty of wizards would defect to the Muggles.

Muggle-borns. Half-bloods. Idealists like Dumbledore who would block assassinations in the name of peace.

Promise those people power and safety, and they’d become the administrators of a post-wizard world.

The conclusion was obvious.

Wizards would lose.

So Rowan wasn’t starting a war.

He was starting it early.

Before Muggle technology reached the point of no return.

And he was doing it on the wizards’ terms.

Why side with wizards instead of Muggles?

Because he was a wizard.

That was all the reason he needed.

There was no justice in wars like this.

Only survival and dominance.

Like a lion hunting a gazelle.

From the lion’s side, it had to eat or die.

From the gazelle’s side, it had to flee or die.

There was no moral high ground.

Only position.

And Rowan had chosen his.

"Voldemort, you’re lying!"

The shout tore across the stadium.

"You butchered countless people for your own power! Don’t pretend this was for wizardkind!"

The speaker strode forward, wand raised.

Rufus Scrimgeour.

Behind him, dozens of Aurors fanned out, weapons trained on the commentator’s platform.

"Release Dumbledore and the Minister," Scrimgeour roared, "or we end you here and now!"

The false Voldemort threw his head back and laughed.

"End me? Dumbledore himself is no match for me now. And you think you can touch me?"

"Attack!"

Scrimgeour didn’t hesitate.

Spells erupted from the Aurors’ wands in a blinding volley.

Voldemort flicked his wrist.

A translucent shield flared into existence.

Every curse smashed into it and vanished without leaving a ripple.

Scrimgeour’s face went pale.

That wasn’t possible.

Even Voldemort shouldn’t have been able to block that much firepower with a single shield charm.

"Petrificus Totalus—chain cast."

The Dark Lord raised one hand.

A wave of binding magic lashed out.

Half the Aurors collapsed where they stood, frozen mid-motion.

Scrimgeour turned and shouted to the stands.

"Help us! If he escapes, the wizarding world is finished!"

Hesitation shattered.

Wands came up across the stadium.

Some people ran.

Some were children and couldn’t fight.

But thousands stayed.

Foreign Aurors. Ministry staff from other countries. Old enemies of the Death Eaters. Professors. Veterans.

Sirius Black.

Minerva McGonagall.

Severus Snape.

Even Harry, Hermione, and Ron raised their wands.

Tens of thousands of spells tore through the air at once.

The loyal Death Eaters hovering above stiffened in panic.

Even they knew this was impossible to survive.

Voldemort rose into the air.

"Now you will understand," he thundered, "why only I am fit to lead wizardkind!"

A killing curse the width of a man’s torso erupted from his wand.

It spiraled around him like a living storm.

Every incoming spell that touched it shattered.

Not a single attack reached his body.

Silence spread like frost.

This wasn’t magic anymore.

This was something else.

No wizard in history—not Merlin, not the founders of Hogwarts—could have stood against this.

Despair took root in a hundred thousand hearts.

Then a voice rang out like a bell struck against steel.

"Voldemort. That’s enough."

A figure tore free of the England team’s red robes.

Rowan Mercer ripped off his Quidditch uniform.

Beneath it, he wore ornate wizard’s robes.

Eight pairs of radiant white wings unfurled from his back.

Holy light poured from his body.

He rose into the air and stopped directly in front of Voldemort.

The stadium fell into stunned silence.