Chapter 274: Sword of Gryffindor!

"Voldemort, now let''s see who is truly stronger!"

Cyrus held the sword in his left hand and his wand in his right.

Chirp~? Fawkes perched on his shoulder, each feather shimmering with flames.

Armed with legendary gear, Cyrus appeared majestic and commanding!

Voldemort''s spells were indeed powerful, but the sword in Cyrus''s hand was no less formidable.

Yet, Voldemort sneered, "A rusty sword and a red-feathered bird—do you think this will give you victory?"

"Hey!" The Sorting Hat on Cyrus''s head immediately objected upon hearing Voldemort''s remark. "Don''t underestimate Gryffindor''s sword, Tom! Do you think he became a master by defeating Muggles with spells?"

"Of course not!" It shouted theatrically, determined to make Voldemort understand one thing: a wizard only needs to know the Lumos spell—Gryffindor''s sword will handle the rest!

"Quick, chop him into pieces, and let him witness the prowess of the Sword of Gryffindor!"

Voldemort cast a cold glance at the Sorting Hat, his blood-red eyes radiating deadly intensity. Instantly, the hat fell silent. Its eye sockets and mouth vanished, turning it into what looked like an ordinary, tattered hat.

But the Sorting Hat''s words had, in fact, reminded Voldemort of something important.

If Voldemort had any disadvantage compared to Cyrus at this moment, it was Cyrus''s monstrous physical strength.

Voldemort would never forget that night when Cyrus twisted his arm, the sharp bone fragments piercing through the flesh on the inside of his right arm, bringing excruciating pain!

His cold gaze locked onto the silver blade of the sword, and his feet instinctively stepped back half a pace.

This expression of clear fear masked by forced bravado made Cyrus chuckle. However, he wouldn''t underestimate Voldemort because of this. On the contrary, the more cautious Voldemort was, the more dangerous he became.

Even if the Snakewood Wand''s full power was unleashed, it might not rival the Elder Wand. As for the sword—thanks to the Sorting Hat—Voldemort had been on guard from the beginning!

The two stood on opposite sides of the circular room.

At this moment, the room began to spin rapidly.

The blue flames flickering on the walls, accelerated by the rotation, appeared to merge into a ring of fire, like the ropes defining the boundaries of an arena.

Voldemort, like a venomous snake, lay in wait, ready to strike. Yet, after only a brief pause, he broke the standoff himself.

"Come on!" he hissed hoarsely, his expression far more serious than before. Clearly, Cyrus was exerting considerable pressure on him now.

In an instant, Cyrus raised his wand high.

The green serpent phantom on his right side seemed to come alive. It reared its head like a dragon and let out a deafening roar.

Its massive form looked as though it could fill the entire room!

Then, like an arrow loosed from a bowstring, it shot through the air, leaving behind only a green blur!

Swoosh!

Voldemort didn''t hesitate to unleash a bolt of black lightning from his wand. The electric current tore through the serpent, but in the next moment—a streak of gold cleaved through the lightning and came hurtling forward!

In the blink of an eye, Cyrus had crossed several meters. As the massive snake phantom dissolved into mist, the silver gleam of his blade pierced through the illusions before Voldemort and struck directly toward his skull!

Swish!

The air was ripped apart.

The blade of Gryffindor''s sword reflected in Voldemort''s blood-red eyes, as vivid as a pool of blood.

There was no time to evade. The blade seemed mere millimeters from his pupils, but that minuscule gap suddenly stretched to feel as distant as the horizon.

In the span of a single breath, Voldemort instinctively cast a flawless Extension Charm, creating a gap between himself and Cyrus.

This was a technique Cyrus had used before, but for a master like Voldemort, seizing that fleeting moment was effortless.

Immediately after, Voldemort swung his wand rapidly several times in Cyrus''s direction.

"You like playing with blades?" he sneered, his face contorted into a feral grin. With each flick of his wand, a black blade of magical energy tore through the air, aiming at Cyrus''s limbs and head.

"Superemum Protego Diabolica!"

Cyrus raised his right hand, and once again, a massive dragon-serpent coiled its body protectively around him. Its sturdy scales shifted with a metallic clink, creating a shield of impenetrable armor. Voldemort''s black blades struck the serpent''s scales, producing dazzling sparks before ricocheting off, slicing clean through the solid walls as if they were mere tofu!

Meanwhile, the phoenix perched on Cyrus''s shoulder, Fawkes, merged with the silver lightning bird''s phantom, transforming into a fully realized phoenix of lightning and flame!

The majestic creature spread its fiery wings, radiating bursts of lightning and fire, and soared into the air, diving directly at Voldemort with terrifying speed.

But at that very moment, the ground beneath Voldemort''s feet turned into a swamp of dark green venom. From the poisonous mire emerged a serpent as thick as a human''s torso, its menacing head arching high into the air. With fangs like steel lances, the monstrous snake lunged at Fawkes''s talon-like claws!

Clang!

The sound was like the clash of metal.

The massive serpent then pulled its enormous body fully out of the venomous swamp, its colossal form capable of crushing any beast. Its murky yellow eyes glowed with an unsettling magical intensity.

To Cyrus''s astonishment, this wasn''t a creature conjured by magic—it was a living, breathing basilisk!

Cyrus found himself completely overwhelmed, unable to mount any effective counterattack.

"Hahaha! Come on, Cyrus! Stop running!" Voldemort taunted.

Growing increasingly arrogant, he relished the sensation of toying with his opponent, like a predator cornering a hapless mouse. Cyrus could do nothing but evade, darting and scrambling to avoid the barrage of spells.

"Is this all you''ve got?~" Voldemort sneered, watching as Cyrus burst through a broken, crumbling door into the Death Chamber. Without hesitation, Voldemort followed, a cold smirk on his face.

Of course, Voldemort had considered the possibility that Cyrus might be luring him into a trap by entering the Death Chamber so suddenly.

But his caution was unrelenting—his sharp gaze always a step ahead of his advancing feet.

The Death Chamber was a dim and chilling room, cloaked in an oppressive gray hue.

The space was vast and eerily empty, with nothing inside but a crumbling archway draped with a tattered, fluttering white veil.

As Voldemort stepped inside, his eyes immediately found Cyrus standing on the other side of the archway, breathing heavily as he gazed back at him.

"This is quite a fitting place, don''t you think?" Voldemort remarked, his cold eyes sweeping across the silent chamber.

The room seemed untouched, insulated by some inexplicable force from all the chaos of the world outside. Perhaps death itself was meant to be this quiet.

"I mean," Voldemort continued cruelly, "as your grave."

The words were laced with malice, but Cyrus remained silent. He appeared unusually taciturn today, offering no retort.

This lack of response left Voldemort feeling somewhat disappointed.

"I''d love to teach you the virtue of obedience," he sneered.

Killing his enemy outright seemed far too dull.

Voldemort wanted to see Cyrus broken, kneeling, trembling in fear.

Yet even now, Cyrus''s defiance remained etched on his face, stubborn and unyielding. This made Voldemort wonder: was Cyrus truly unafraid of death?

Did he not understand the power of death''s magic?

Voldemort, cold and furious, unleashed a spell. Cyrus, appearing utterly exhausted, raised his wand in an attempt to counter it.

"Ugh!—"

But the wand was struck out of his hand, clattering to the floor and rolling to rest beside the archway.

Seeing this, Voldemort realized Cyrus had no strength left to fight back.

He conjured massive chains, binding Cyrus tightly.

Then, with calculated malice, Voldemort approached, placing his icy hand around Cyrus''s throat.

"Look at your pathetic state," Voldemort sneered, his fingers tightening their grip. "Now tell me—who can save you?"

His lips curled into a cruel smile as his eyes briefly glanced at the archway in the Death Chamber. The serpentwood wand lay lifeless and inert on the floor, stripped of all its mystical vitality.

"Without the sword and now without your wand," Voldemort continued, his voice dripping with contempt, "I could snap your neck as easily as breaking a twig. Do you hear it, Cyrus? The call of death?"

It was said that the closer one was to death, the clearer the whispers of the departed could be heard from beyond the veil.

Voldemort was curious—did Cyrus hear those voices? Did he hear his own among them?

The question, however, was rhetorical; Voldemort didn''t expect an answer.

Yet, to his astonishment, Cyrus nodded.

His face, flushed a deep red from the pressure around his throat, twisted as he struggled to speak. In a hoarse, strained voice, he rasped, "I do hear it..."

In his golden eyes, there was a hint of mockery. "But what I hear, Voldemort, is your voice!"

''The confidence in those eyes....'' Voldemort froze for a moment, then a wave of unease washed over him, a sensation unlike anything he''d ever felt before.

It was as if something terrible was about to happen. At that moment, a chilling gust of wind swept across his back!

He spun around in alarm, only to be met with a blinding silver light that stung his eyes!

Swish!

In mid-air, another Cyrus, sword in hand, swung down at his head!

The sword-wielding Cyrus moved with the grace and precision of a master, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. In less than a breath, the blade was nearly at Voldemort''s head, severing a lock of his black hair.

"Voldemort, die!"

This time, there was no place for him to hide.

_________

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