Marvel's master of cosmic magic

Chapter 493

Rowan Mercer had never been fond of grandstanding.

He preferred working quietly, building influence in the shadows.

But right now, subtlety would ruin everything.

When you had overwhelming power to back it up, spectacle wasn’t vanity. It was strategy.

History proved it. Superheroes never made understated entrances. Iron Man didn’t descend politely from the sky. The Avengers all favored dramatic landings for a reason.

People followed symbols.

And Rowan’s entrance worked exactly as intended.

High above the stadium, two figures faced each other.

On the left, Voldemort, wrapped in roiling black mist, radiating pure menace.

On the right, a teenage boy blazing with white light, eight radiant wings unfurled behind him like a seraph from a cathedral mural.

The contrast was overwhelming.

Hope flickered through the crowd.

Only a flicker. Voldemort’s earlier display of power had been too terrifying.

"A child dares challenge me?" Voldemort sneered. "Your courage is admirable. Your stupidity is not."

Rowan met his gaze, calm and resolute.

"Whether I’m outmatched," he said evenly, "we’ll find out by fighting."

He raised his wand.

"Lightning, answer me."

The sky tore open.

A bolt of lightning as thick as a barrel crashed straight down toward Voldemort.

The Dark Lord’s eyes widened theatrically as he conjured his shield.

It shattered.

The lightning obliterated the barrier and dispersed only after its force was spent.

"Impossible..." Voldemort muttered.

"Impressive," he said louder. "At your age, you’ve already surpassed Dumbledore. Give me your name. I don’t kill nameless wizards."

Green light flared.

A massive Killing Curse shot toward Rowan.

Below, a hundred thousand people gasped as one.

"Rowan, watch out!"

Hermione’s voice cut through the chaos. Harry’s. McGonagall’s. Snape’s. Colleagues. Friends.

Rowan’s expression hardened.

He swung his wand.

"Assistant Director Rowan Mercer, Magical Law Enforcement Division. Today, I shatter darkness with lightning."

A beam of white thunder erupted from his wand.

It met the green curse midair.

The collision froze both spells in place.

Air twisted. Space rippled.

The stadium groaned under the strain.

Then—

Boom.

Both spells detonated.

A hurricane-force shockwave ripped across the stands, flinging spectators backward into walls and seats.

In the air, both combatants were blasted apart.

Rowan and Voldemort flew in opposite directions, each secretly transfiguring a mouthful of saliva into blood and coughing it out mid-flight.

"Without darkness, there is no light," Voldemort declared coldly as he steadied himself.

"You can’t awaken those who choose to sleep. The Ministry is rotten. They are no match for me."

His gaze sharpened.

"And you? You’re just a Ministry assistant. Even with your strength, what can you change?"

"This ends here," he announced. "We’re leaving."

He emphasized the words "Ministry assistant" deliberately.

Then he dissolved into a streak of black light.

The iron-sand cloud surged upward, carrying the Death Eaters and their prisoners with it.

They vanished.

Rowan drifted down and landed on the commentator’s platform.

He coughed again. More blood.

Rufus Scrimgeour rushed over, flanked by McGonagall and Snape.

"Rowan, are you all right?"

Rowan wiped his mouth and forced a steady breath.

"I’m fine. Just a minor injury. Voldemort took damage too, or he wouldn’t have retreated."

He looked toward the empty sky.

"I’m sorry. I couldn’t save the Headmaster. Or the Minister."

"You did more than enough," Scrimgeour said firmly.

"If not for you, the Ministry might not exist by tonight."

Others echoed the sentiment. Relief and gratitude drowned out disappointment.

Only Snape, who knew a little too much, studied Rowan in silence.

Scrimgeour straightened, his expression hardening with resolve.

"Our leadership has been taken. Voldemort is stronger than ever."

He looked Rowan squarely in the eyes.

"His words were right about one thing. You cannot remain a mere assistant."

"You’re the only one who can oppose him."

"I propose you become our new Minister for Magic."

A murmur rippled through the gathered officials and foreign delegates.

It made sense.

The public’s faith in the Ministry would collapse otherwise.

And no one else could stand against Voldemort.

Rowan hesitated.

"I’m just a junior official. I joined the Ministry to study magic, not to run a government."

It was the correct response.

The reluctant hero.

"Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures," said Amy, Deputy Director of International Magical Cooperation.

"We need you, Rowan."

The net tightened.

Exactly as planned.