Convergence of Magic: The Overlord X Harry Potter

A Fanfiction By Kart

The one, destined to conquer the Dark Lord, draws nigh,

Born to those who thrice defied, 

when the seventh month bids goodbye.

Marked as the Dark Lord's peer, 

with power yet unknown, 

The child shall wield strength, 

that the Dark Lord can't disown.

From realms obscure, 

Death shall tread untrodden way,

Rescuing the child, 

from darkness' sway.

Fate weaves its tapestry, 

merging realms in flight,

Death, an unexpected ally, 

shaping the hidden fight.

With Death's touch,

a shield unseen and rare.

The child shall endure,

Beyond the Dark Lord's snare.

Dark Lord's equal,

With power unrevealed,

A force that the Dark Lord's ignorance can't shield.

In shadow's embrace, 

secrets shall be kept,

Ensuring survival,

From Darkness adept.

- SYBILL TRELAWNEY'S FIRST PROPHECY

X

In the year 2138 AD, a term dominated the gaming lexicon: DMMO-RPG. This acronym stood for "Dive Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game," a revolutionary concept that blurred the lines between reality and virtual. These games transcended traditional gaming experiences by interfacing directly with the human brain through a neuronal nano-interface—a groundbreaking fusion of cyber- and nanotechnology.

Among the plethora of DMMO-RPGs flooding the market, one title reigned supreme: Yggdrasil. Renowned for its expansive virtual world, diverse range of character classes, and unparalleled freedom in character customization, Yggdrasil sparked a cultural phenomenon in Japan. Its innovative features ignited the imaginations of players, giving rise to what would later be termed a stylistic revolution.

Such was Yggdrasil's dominance that the mere mention of "DMMO-RPG" conjured thoughts of this iconic game in the minds of Japanese gamers. Yet, as time marched on, these accolades became relics of the past—

The throne room exuded an air of majestic splendour, its grandeur a testament to the finest craftsmanship. Despite its vastness, the room retained an aura of tranquil solemnity, capable of accommodating hundreds without ever feeling crowded. Its lofty ceiling and pristine white walls, adorned with intricate golden embellishments, set the stage for opulence.

Countless chandeliers, each adorned with precious stones of every hue, cast a mesmerising rainbow of light throughout the space, imbuing it with a surreal allure. Arrayed along the walls, flagpoles bore flags emblazoned with a myriad of symbols, gently swaying in the breeze that stirred the room. A total of forty-one flags, from ceiling to floor, added a touch of regality to the already resplendent ambiance.

In the heart of this room, bathed in tints of gold and silver, stood a grand staircase, ascending ten steps to a towering throne. Crafted from a single piece of crystal, its towering back reached the very ceiling above. Behind it, a vast red banner unfurled, proudly bearing the emblem of the guild. Nestled in the deepest recesses of the Great Underground Tomb of Nazarick, this chamber exuded a palpable weight, imposing itself upon all who beheld its magnificence. It was here, amidst this solemn grandeur, that he chose to welcome the game's final moments.

A solitary figure traversed this divine realm, adorned in a resplendent black academic robe, intricately trimmed with the edges of violet and gold. Though the collar appeared ostentatious, it harmonised seamlessly with the garment's overall aesthetic. Yet, what truly drew the eye was the figure's exposed skull, illuminated by points of dark red light within its cavernous eye sockets, surrounded by an ominous halo of black radiance.

This figure was none other than Momonga, the Master of the Great Tomb of Nazarick, Ruler of Death, an Undead of the highest order—an Overlord. As he strode forward, the room seemed to swallow the sound of his footsteps, his penetrating gaze fixed upon the female NPC standing at the side of the throne.

She stood before him, a vision of ethereal beauty wrapped in a pure white gown that flowed around her like cascading moonlight. Her delicate features bore a faint, goddess-like smile, radiating an aura of serenity. Yet, amidst her celestial appearance, there were elements that hinted at a darker nature.

Contrasting starkly with her alabaster attire, her hair cascaded in lustrous jet-black waves, cascading down to her waist like an obsidian waterfall. Despite the oddity of her golden irises and vertically slitted pupils, she possessed a timeless allure that would rival any world-class beauty. However, two curved horns protruded from the sides of her head, adding a sinister edge to her otherwise angelic visage.

In addition to her horns, a pair of ebony-feathered wings emerged gracefully from her waist, hinting at a hidden power beneath her serene exterior. And though her smile appeared divine, there lingered a subtle sense of mystery—a mask concealing deeper emotions, perhaps amplified by the presence of her twisted horns.

Adorning her slender form was a golden necklace fashioned in the likeness of a spider's web, cascading from her shoulders down to the gentle curve of her breasts. Her wrists were adorned with lustrous silk gloves, accentuating her elegant limbs. In her delicate hand, she wielded a peculiar weapon resembling a wand, approximately forty-five centimetres in length, with a black orb hovering at its tip—an enchanting yet enigmatic artefact. Momonga had not forgotten her name.

She was none other than Albedo, the esteemed Overseer of the Floor Guardians within the Great Underground Tomb of Nazarick. As the guardian of the seven NPC Floor Guardians, she held the highest rank among all inhabitants of the Tomb. It was her solemn duty to oversee their activities and ensure the smooth operation of their domain.

Due to her pivotal role, Albedo was granted the privilege of awaiting orders within the Throne Room, situated in the deepest recesses of the Tomb. Here, amidst the hallowed halls of power, she stood ready to execute her master's will with unwavering loyalty and dedication.

"This is a suitable location," Momonga's voice resonated across the room, addressing a distinguished figure adorned in the attire of a butler. The gentleman's appearance exuded an air of seasoned refinement, with hair as white as freshly fallen snow, including his neatly groomed beard and moustache. Despite the passing of years, his posture remained impeccably erect, reminiscent of a blade forged from the finest steel.

His countenance bore the marks of age, etched with deep lines that hinted at a life well-lived, evoking an aura of kindness and gentility to those who beheld him. However, behind the veil of serenity, his piercing gaze betrayed a keen intellect akin to that of a predatory eagle, assessing the room with a shrewd vigilance.

Behind the butler stood six maids, each a unique embodiment of strength and elegance. These were no ordinary attendants; clad in gauntlets and greaves fashioned from a blend of gold, silver, black, and an array of other metals, their armour mirrored the attire of manga-inspired maid outfits.

They did not wear helmets, but instead pristine white headdresses, allowing their varied hairstyles to cascade freely. From buns to ponytails, from flowing locks to intricate French curls, their hairstyles reflected a diversity as rich as their individual personalities.

Every maiden wielded a distinct weapon, showcasing their prowess in battle. They were the epitome of combat-ready maids, exuding a formidable presence tempered by grace and beauty. Despite their differences, each one possessed a unique allure; one radiated athleticism and strength, another exuded the demure charm of a traditional Japanese maiden, while yet another captivated with a seductive allure. Together, they formed a formidable and captivating ensemble, ready to serve their master with unwavering loyalty and skill.

All present, save for Momonga, were NPC creations meticulously crafted to fulfil the desires and directives of their creators—the esteemed Guild members of Ainz Ooal Gown. Whether tasked with defending against invaders or providing entertainment through immersive role-playing elements, they existed solely as Non-Player Characters within the Great Tomb of Nazarick. Unlike characters controlled by the game, they operated according to a set of pre-programmed AI routines, rendering them akin to mobile automatons.

Though their designs boasted remarkable realism, their actions were but scripted movements executed in accordance with their programmed directives. Despite their lifelike appearance, they were mere puppets, serving as instruments to carry out the will of their creators.

As he ascended the stairs, Momonga halted at the sound of approaching footsteps behind him. Though his skeletal visage betrayed no emotion, a chuckle escaped him involuntarily. The NPCs, after all, were nothing more than rigid AI routines, bound by their programmed limitations. Without precise and explicit commands, they would remain oblivious to his intentions.

In his oversight, Momonga realised that he had neglected to issue proper directives to the NPCs. His amusement tinged with a hint of self-deprecation as he acknowledged his oversight.

After his guild members departed, Momonga delved into solo hunting with relentless determination, driven by the need to amass the gold required to sustain Nazarick. Eschewing camaraderie with fellow players, he steered clear of high-difficulty areas that once brimmed with the presence of his comrades. Instead, he tirelessly pursued his solitary quests, accumulating wealth to be deposited into the Treasury before logging out.

This solitary routine had become his daily ritual, leaving little room for interaction with the NPCs who inhabited Nazarick.

"Stand by," he commanded, his voice cutting through the stillness of the throne room, as he addressed his loyal attendants.

The sound of footsteps ceased as Momonga issued the correct command, ascending the final steps to reach the throne. His gaze fixed upon Albedo, who stood resolutely by its side. Though he had traversed this room on numerous occasions, he found himself taken aback by the intensity of Albedo's scrutiny. It seemed as though her eyes were tracing his every movement, a detail that had eluded his recollection from previous visits.

"What kind of backstory does she have?" Momonga pondered aloud, his curiosity piqued by the enigmatic figure before him. With a flicker of interest, he accessed a console and began sifting through the intricate details of Albedo's character profile. Lines upon lines of densely packed text unfolded before his eyes, akin to deciphering the verses of an ancient epic poem.

If he were to devote the time to read it in detail, he surmised he would likely remain engrossed until the game's conclusion. Momonga felt a knot of unease tighten in his chest, akin to stepping on a landmine. Though unable to physically tremble, he sensed a surge of apprehension coursing through him. He chastised himself inwardly for his oversight—Albedo's creator was known for their meticulous attention to detail, a fact he had foolishly overlooked.

Despite his reluctance, Momonga found himself inexorably drawn to continue scrolling through the dense text. With a sense of urgency, he bypassed paragraphs in favour of reaching the conclusion as swiftly as possible. His eyes darted across the screen, seeking solace in the final line, only to freeze in shock as he read it.

"She is also a slut."

Momonga's non-existent lips parted in disbelief as he read the shocking words displayed before him. He scrutinised the phrase repeatedly, searching for an alternative interpretation, but ultimately found none. With a heavy heart, he could only conclude that it was indeed an insult.

Each of the forty-one guild members had crafted their own NPCs, and Momonga struggled to comprehend why someone would tarnish their own creation in such a manner. Perhaps the reasoning lay within the extensive essay of flavour text, but he knew that some guild members possessed unconventional tastes. Tabula Smaragdina, Albedo's creator, was one such individual.

"Ah, is this what they call gap moe?" Momonga mused aloud, pondering the incongruity between Albedo's appearance and her supposed backstory. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that such a narrative was excessive. After all, the NPCs were a shared legacy of the guild, and to imbue the highest-ranked NPC with such a demeaning portrayal troubled him deeply.

With a contemplative "umu," Momonga deliberated over the possibility of altering an NPC's backstory based on personal preference. After careful consideration, he arrived at a decision.

"Should I change it?" he wondered aloud, uncertainty clouding his thoughts.

With the Guild Weapon firmly in his grasp, Momonga now wielded the authority of the guildmaster—a power he had never before exercised. As he gazed upon the altered text on his console, his resolve solidified. It was time to rectify the injustice inflicted upon Albedo by his guildmate.

Extending the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown, Momonga accessed Albedo's settings with a sense of purpose. Through the sheer force of his guildmaster status, he bypassed the need for developer tools and began editing her character profile. With a few swift actions, the derogatory line vanished from existence.

"Ah, that's better," Momonga remarked with a sense of satisfaction. Yet, as he pondered the empty space left by the deletion, a sense of obligation compelled him to fill it.

"This feels a little silly," he admitted, a hint of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist the urge to add a new line to Albedo's backstory. With a mixture of amusement and embarrassment, he typed out the words:

"She loves Momonga."

A blush crept across Momonga's skeletal features as he covered his face with his palm, overcome with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement at his own actions. It felt as though he were crafting the ideal romantic scenario for himself, a notion that both thrilled and embarrassed him.

Despite his initial impulse to rewrite the sentence out of embarrassment, Momonga ultimately decided against it. After all, the game would soon come to an end, and with it, any lingering feelings of shame. Moreover, the new line seamlessly filled the gap left by the deleted sentence, preserving the integrity of Albedo's character profile.

Seated upon the throne, Momonga surveyed his surroundings with a sense of satisfaction tinged with lingering embarrassment.

Observing Sebas and the maids standing motionless, Momonga couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness and unease that pervaded the throne room. Recalling a command he had heard before, he extended his hand and uttered a single word:

"Kneel."

Instantly, as if compelled by an unseen force, Albedo, Sebas, and the six maids dropped to one knee in perfect synchrony, their movements fluid and precise. Satisfied with the result, Momonga raised his left hand to check the time.

23:55:48

He had timed it perfectly.

As the final moments of the game approached, Momonga remained oblivious to the festivities likely unfolding in the outside world. Immersed in his solitude within Nazarick, he had severed all ties with the realm beyond its walls.

Leaning back against the throne, Momonga gazed up at the ceiling with a sense of calm resolve. Even on this, the game's last day, he remained vigilant, fully aware that potential invaders might attempt to breach the sanctity of Nazarick. Yet, he harboured no fear. As the guildmaster, he embraced any challenge that dared to test the fortress's defences.

Despite having sent emails to all the guild members, only a handful had responded. Nevertheless, Momonga remained steadfast in his resolve to await their return, eager to welcome them back as their guildmaster.

"A relic of the past, huh," Momonga mused, sinking into contemplation. Though the guild now stood as nothing more than an empty shell, he cherished the memories they had shared together. His gaze drifted towards the array of flags suspended from the ceiling, each bearing the personal symbol of a guild member.

Pointing to one flag, Momonga whispered, "Mine," a faint smile tugging at the corners of his skeletal lips. With each successive flag, he recounted the names of his former comrades, their identities etched deeply into his memory.

"Touch Me," he murmured, acknowledging the founder of the guild and the catalyst behind the gathering of the "Original Nine." Moving on, he recited the names of each member with fluid precision, from the oldest to the newest, from the strongest to the most revered.

"Herohero, Peroroncino, Bukubukuchagama, Tabula Smaragdina, Warrior Takemikazuchi, Variable Talisman, Genjiro—" Momonga's voice trailed off as he recited each name with reverence and nostalgia.

Exhausted from the flood of memories, Momonga sank wearily onto the throne. "Yeah, it really was fun," he whispered softly, a bittersweet smile playing upon his lips.

The time displayed on his watch read 23:57. With just three minutes remaining until the server shutdown at 00:00, time was running out. The impending end of the virtual world meant a return to reality the next day. That was only natural—Nobody could live in a virtual world, which was why everyone had left, one by one. Momonga couldn't help but sigh, resigned to the inevitable departure of each member, one by one.

As the seconds ticked away, Momonga felt the weight of exhaustion settling upon him. Remembering he had to wake up at four tomorrow, he knew he had to seize what little time remained to ensure he could function properly the next day. 

23:59:35, 36, 37

Momonga set his watch to count out the seconds.

23:59:48, 49, 50

Momonga closed his eyes.

23:59:58, 59—

X

In the vast expanse of this world, the mightiest beings were the Dragons. They were the epitome of adaptation, thriving in lands too harsh for humanity to dare venture. Among the rugged terrain of the Azerlisian Mountain Range, the Dragons reigned supreme, particularly the formidable Frost Dragons. Unlike their brethren, Frost Dragons possessed sleek, serpentine bodies, reminiscent more of graceful felines than the lumbering forms of lizards. Their scales bore a striking bluish-white hue, reminiscent of the pristine snows that blanketed their domain. As they aged, their scales transitioned to the purest white, a testament to their mastery of their wintry environment.

With their natural affinity for cold, Frost Dragons were immune to its biting embrace, yet paradoxically vulnerable to the searing touch of fire. However, their most fearsome asset lay in their ability to unleash a freezing breath that could crystallize even the hardiest of foes.

At the pinnacle of this Draconic hierarchy stood Olasird'arc Haylilyal, the White Dragon Lord and ruler of the Quagoa that had long plagued the Dwarf Kingdom nestled within the Azerlisian Mountains. It was this formidable leader who now bellowed a command towards the confines of his castle: "It's me, open up."

He waited patiently, but there was no response from the other side of the door. It was inconceivable that his son was not present. The occupant of this room was a recluse, a hikikomori, who seldom ventured beyond its confines. In fact, Olasird'arc could not recall a single instance of his son leaving his room. Even his meals were delivered by his siblings. The audacity of his son feigning absence in the presence of his own father, a Dragon Lord, was deeply irksome.

"I'll repeat myself. It's me. Open up," Olasird'arc demanded once more, his voice resonating with the authority befitting his status.

Dragons possessed incredibly acute senses, and the forcefulness of his shout should have roused even the deepest sleeper. Yet, the door remained obstinately closed. Anger surged within Olasird'arc, transforming into action. With a swift motion, he lashed out at the door with his tail, the impact reverberating through the chamber. The door, constructed by Dwarves who had likely never anticipated such force, groaned under the blow.

Signs of movement stirred within, but Olasird'arc's fury remained unabated. He struck the door once more, shattering it into splintered fragments. Stones flew into the room like shrapnel, accompanied by a startled cry from within.

"Get out of there, right now!" Olasird'arc's voice thundered with authority, prompting a reaction from within the room. A Frost Dragon emerged, but unlike the slender physique typical of its kind, this one appeared overweight. Perched precariously on its nose were tiny spectacles, and it regarded Olasird'arc with a nervous demeanour. Though this was his son, the sight of his pitiful display left Olasird'arc sighing inwardly. It was understandable, perhaps, for one to tremble in the presence of a ruler such as himself, but he had hoped for more strength from his own blood. Furthermore, the Dragon's corpulent physique resembled that of a swine rather than a true Dragon.

As his son, Hejinmal, tentatively spoke up, Olasird'arc contemplated the situation. Though lacking in the physical prowess expected of a Dragon, Hejinmal still possessed the potential to grow stronger with age.

"I have a job for you, Hejinmal," Olasird'arc announced, his tone brooking no argument.

"A... a job?" Hejinmal stammered, clearly taken aback.

"Yes. The Son of the Dragon Emperor has extended an invitation for us to participate in a mass ritual to restore wild magic and undo the spell cast by his father," Olasird'arc explained.

Hejinmal's eyes widened with apprehension. "Hieee," he muttered nervously.

Ignoring his son's hesitance, Olasird'arc continued, "You will accompany me. Your time spent holed up in this room should have provided you with ample knowledge to assist in the ritual and remain vigilant for any potential threats."

"Suspicious?" Hejinmal echoed, his voice trembling.

"Yes. Trusting blindly could prove disastrous. Keep your senses sharp," Olasird'arc cautioned.

"I-I will, Father. I'll keep a watchful eye and ears open," Hejinmal promised, his resolve evident despite his faltering speech.

Olasird'arc nodded approvingly, but then fixed his son with a stern glare. "And stop stuttering so much. Show some backbone. You are the son of the White Dragon Lord, ruler of the Azerlisian Mountains."

Hejinmal wanted to interject, but wisely held his tongue, knowing better than to argue with his father's commands.

In the heart of the desert, far to the south of the Re-Estize Kingdom, loomed a colossal and awe-inspiring city that instilled both reverence and fear in those who beheld it. Legend has it that this city was erected five centuries ago by the Eight Greed Kings, who intended it to serve as the capital of their empire during their reign over the continent. Though the hubris of the Eight Greed Kings led to their downfall and the demise of their nation in internecine strife, the city endured, guarded by thirty sentinels armed with formidable magical weaponry.

Today, however, the city was encircled by hundreds of gigantic dragons, among them Hejinmal and his father, alongside other Frost Dragons. Their attention was fixed upon the figure standing at the epicentre of the city, while a fully clad armoured figure of imposing stature stood by his side. Tsaindorcus Vaision, a dragon of magnificent proportions, exuded an aura of majesty. His scales, gleaming with an ethereal white luminescence, imparted an impression of grace and elegance, akin to a living masterpiece rather than a member of the mightiest species.

his colossal stature alike, Tsaindorcus Vaision raised his voice with fervour and conviction as he addressed his assembled kin and allies. "Greetings, my esteemed brethren and honoured allies! Today marks a pivotal moment in our history—a moment of unity and purpose. For too long, our world has languished under the shadow of a curse—a curse born from the avarice of my progenitor, the sins of the past. This curse has warped the very fabric of our reality, unleashing untold suffering and devastation upon countless species by the periodic incursion of those abhorrent beings every century. But today, my friends, we stand united in our resolve to cast aside this malevolent legacy, to right the wrongs of the past. Together, we shall perform a mass ritual to rectify the sins of my forebearer and to usher in a new era of harmony and prosperity!"

The proclamation stirred the gathered dragons, eliciting thunderous roars echoing across the desert sands and elemental breaths unleashed into the heavens. Each word resonated with passion and determination, infusing the air with a palpable sense of purpose and resolve. Tsaindorcus Vaision, his form radiant with ethereal light, exuded an aura of majesty and authority as he continued to inspire his comrades with his impassioned speech.

Meanwhile, Hejinmal harboured concerns regarding the toll this endeavour would exact upon his kind. It was widely known that wild magic drew its power from the souls of beings, and even legendary dragons possessed finite soul energy. While the ancient Dragon Lords had methods to bolster their souls, Hejinmal pondered the fate of the newer Dragon Lords and fledgling dragons like himself, who relied on the Tier Magic System. How would they replenish their depleted soul strength after partaking in this ritual?

The Platinum Dragon Lord had reiterated on numerous occasions that all dragons would indeed gain wild magic after the ritual. He assured them that the strength they contributed would directly correlate to the potency of the wild magic they would receive. But where was the evidence? Could such a feat truly be possible? With these doubts lingering in his mind, Hejinmal extended his senses to their utmost, scrutinising every detail for even the slightest alteration that could spell irreversible consequences as the ritual unfolded.

Tsaindorcus brandished a blade crafted from crystal in one hand—a weapon that, if described, appeared both stunning and ostentatious. According to the information Hejinmal had perused, it was none other than the Eight Greed Kings' Guild Weapon. In his other hand, Tsaindorcus held a thick tome. Legend had it that the Eight Greed Kings possessed a plethora of powerful artefacts that cemented their dominion over the New World. Foremost among these was the Nameless Book of Spells. Valued at a king's ransom, this tome was imbued with unimaginable power. It was whispered that all spells of the New World were inscribed within its pages, and that newly created incantations were automatically transcribed into its depths. The true extent of its capabilities remained a mystery, yet its existence served as a testament to the possibility of legendary 10th Tier Magic.

Next, a sinuous dragon deftly crawled from within the castle. Its slender form, narrow wings, and lithe limbs gave it the appearance of a Drake rather than a Dragon. Its sleek scales shimmered like amethyst in the sunlight, yet appeared almost obsidian-like in the shadows. This was the Deep Darkness Dragon Lord who once fought and killed a Pu'hu'la-yer—The wretched existence thathad required the combined might of seven to eight dragon lords to defeat was killed by this fearsome dragon single handedly. The spoils of its victory were evident, held within its jaws—the Black Bead, a treasure of immense power that could change the very laws of the world. 

Subsequently, four more dragons emerged, each bearing artefacts of comparable might and worth. With each item surpassing the last in potency, they assumed their positions within the magical formation. These legendary treasures were known as World Items, possessing power vast enough to bring about the annihilation of entire worlds. The summoning of the abhorrent beings was attributed to the Dragon Emperor's insatiable coveting of these Items.

As the Legendary Ritual commenced, a surge of energy coursed through everyone present, invigorating them with newfound vigour drawn from the World Items. Unaware of the subtle drain on their souls wrought by the formation, the dragons revelled in the exhilaration of their augmented strength. However, as the Ancient Spell persisted, signs of distress began to manifest with some of the weaker dragons going berserk. Their scales cracked, and strange energy seeped from every orifice, hinting at the tumult within.

Hajinmal's voice pierced through the chaos as he called out to his father with a sharp cry, "NUU-UUKK!" This code word, coined by Hajinmal following his father's cautionary words, held significance akin to that of a small creature resembling a rat known as a Nuk. Preyed upon by numerous inhabitants of the Azerlisia Mountains, the Nuk had evolved with robust reproductive capabilities and a tendency to flee at the slightest hint of danger. Thus, its name aptly served as a call to retreat in times of peril.

However, as Hajinmal turned, he witnessed a dragon hurtling away at breakneck speed, intent on escaping the confines of the ritual only to bash his head straight into a barrier. The dragon's roar of agony echoed through the air as others joined in, bombarding the invisible wall with their elemental breaths, only to meet with futile resistance. 

World-Isolating Barrier

This was a mid-tier wild magic spell that had been cast. It created a realm separate from reality, impervious to conventional entry or exit methods, including teleportation. Even attempts to teleport within or out of its confines were met with failure, with the furthest one could reach being its very edge. Only those possessing special means, such as Wild Magic or a World Item, could breach its boundaries. The dome encompassing the Platinum Dragon Lord's domain spanned an immense kilometre-wide expanse, an ability rivalling that of a Super-Tier spell or a World Item in its sheer scale and potency.

Hajinmal locked eyes with his father and turned his snout towards Tsaindorcus. Understanding his son's intent, Olasird'arc unleashed a resounding roar and surged towards the epicentre where the True Dragon Lords were conducting the ritual. In his wake, several other dragons followed suit, mustering their strength and preparing to confront the mightiest of their kind.

Meanwhile, the Platinum Dragon Lord observed with detached apathy, fully aware of the inevitable fate awaiting these fake Dragon Lords. Their belated efforts to halt the spell were futile. With each exertion of their strength, the dragons transformed into mere motes of light. His attention shifted towards the city below, where millions of inhabitants had long perished, their souls drained from their corporeal forms. Such was the grim fate befalling numerous cities across the world as the ritual continued its relentless march.

Amidst the prevailing despair, a curious spectacle seized his attention. Despite the overwhelming tide of oblivion, a handful of souls managed to elude its clutches, slipping away towards an uncertain destination. Speculating on their fate, he pondered whether they were destined for the new realm where the abhorrent beings and their World Items would inevitably meet their reckoning. Without intervention, he allowed their escape, understanding that their departure held little sway over the relentless force of the spell.

For even the loss of a thousand souls slipping through the cracks would scarcely perturb the spell's insatiable appetite for countless more. They were but a drop in an ocean, insignificant against the vast expanse of millions of souls required to sustain its formidable power.

In the northwestern expanse of the Re-Estize Kingdom, nestled amid imposing mountains, lies the Argland Council State, a demi-human nation with a storied past. Founded by the Platinum Dragon Lord as part of his pioneering experiments in community building, it emerged following the defeat of the Evil Deities two centuries ago. A bastion of diversity, the nation is home to a myriad of humans and demi-human species coexisting in harmony.

Yet, amidst this tranquil tapestry, an eerie stillness has descended upon the land. Cities once bustling with activity now lie silent, devoid of the usual clamour of daily life. The laughter of children and the chirping of birds have faded into oblivion, leaving behind a haunting emptiness. It is as if the very essence of vitality has been drained from the land, leaving its inhabitants laying down like the puppets whose strings had been cut.

The Dragon Kingdom, a bastion of human civilization within the New World, traces its lineage back to the illustrious reign of the Brightness Dragon Lord. Presently, its governance lies in the capable hands of his great-granddaughter, Dragon Queen Draudillon. The nation endured relentless threats of invasion from the neighbouring Beastman Country, its very existence teetering on the brink of annihilation. Salvation arrived in the form of the Founder, whose timely intervention struck fear into the hearts of the marauding Beastmen Army, compelling them to retreat and sparing the Dragon Kingdom from impending destruction.

A young girl made her way through the majestic corridors of the royal palace, her steps echoing softly against the polished marble floors. Tall columns adorned with intricate carvings lined the passage, their surfaces illuminated by the gentle glow of ornate sconces. Flanking her were several ministers and royal guards, their watchful eyes following her every move with earnest vigilance. 

As she approached the imposing Platinum door, its surface shimmered with an otherworldly brilliance, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to dance in the flickering torchlight. The door itself stood tall and formidable, adorned with elaborate carvings depicting scenes of battle and triumph. Its imposing presence seemed to dwarf even the assembled guards and ministers who stood watch nearby.

From beyond the door, a cacophony of sounds erupted, filling the corridor with a tumultuous symphony of moans, screams, and roars, interspersed with sporadic bouts of rigorous clapping. 

The girl frowned at the sounds but quickly veiled her disapproval with an innocent expression, knowing that the sooner she dealt with this, the sooner the debauchery would cease. Summoning her courage, she called out in her sweet, melodious voice,

"My~lord! May I come in?!"

As the girl's voice pierced through the tumult, the cacophony within the chamber subsided, and the colossal doors swung open. Stepping inside, she left her entourage behind, their cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

Inside, a glittering hoard of gold and treasures adorned the chamber. The wealth of the Dragon Kingdom shimmered, bathed in the radiant glow emanating from a strikingly handsome man reclining atop this lavish display. 

Surrounding him were several naked beauties, their forms a testament to his allure, as he regarded the newcomer with an insatiable hunger in his eyes. In a mirthful tone, he addressed his descendant, his voice rich with anticipation, 

"Is everything ready, my child?"

Unperturbed by the provocative scene before her, the little girl responded with unwavering enthusiasm,

"Yes! Great~GrandPa! Everything is prepared as per your Orders! We can Begin the ritual~, when you are ready~!"

With a satisfied chuckle, the man nodded, his gaze alight with eagerness,

"Uwu! Then Let us commence without any further delay."

The handsome man rose from his opulent throne, his form bathed in radiant light.

In a breathtaking display of power and majesty, the handsome man rose to his feet, his naked form illuminated by an ethereal glow. With a swift motion, wings of light unfurled from his back, and his body underwent a stunning metamorphosis, morphing into the majestic form of a beautiful white dragon. As he soared out of the treasury, all those present bowed their heads in reverence, acknowledging the might of the dragon lord.

Emerging into the skies above the capital of the Draconic Kingdom, the magnificent dragon lord commanded the attention of all who beheld him. As he ascended, a wave of awe swept through the onlookers, prompting them to prostrate themselves in reverence.

In the next moment, a colossal magic circle materialized, its intricate patterns weaving a protective barrier over the entire capital. Simultaneously, similar formations manifested across the whole nation, casting a spell of awe and fear over the land.

With joyous expressions, the people gazed upon the magnificent view, unaware of the faint glow that began to suffuse their forms. Some who noticed it felt a surge of elation, believing it to be the blessing of their revered deity, but they soon transformed into motes of light, unwittingly fuelling the power of the legendary spell.

Witnessing the devastating scene unfold before her, the queen found herself unable to contain her anguish. Her heartrending cries echoed through the hall as she beheld the faces of her beloved subjects, each one a testament to the sacrifices she had made to shield them from harm. Yet, despite her best efforts, she now stood powerless, forced to bear witness as they fell victim to the relentless onslaught. The weight of her inability to protect them pressed upon her like a suffocating shroud, leaving her engulfed in a profound sense of despair.

"Why!? Why!!?" she cried out in desperation, her voice trembling with emotion. 

"You promised that this would quell future troubles!" 

"Indeed, this will eradicate those pests once and for all. But child, your vision is too narrow; you fail to grasp the secrets of the world," he retorted, his tone laced with a mix of resignation and wisdom.

Saying this Brightness Dragon Lord Vanished in a Dazzling display leaving behind the sobbing Dragon Queen.

And so the world was rid of Tier Magic and all the World Items. With the power of the Laws of the world, all its traces are erased, even from the people's memories, of those who remain, unbeknownst to them what kind powers their friends and ancestors wield. With the passage of time, even the traces of their civilization vanished.

X

Nestled within the Borough of Islington, London, amidst a mundane neighbourhood oblivious to its hidden significance, stood 12 Grimmauld Place—a name steeped in both history and secrecy. Once the ancestral abode of the esteemed Black family, it now served as the clandestine headquarters for the valiant members of the Order of the Phoenix—a beacon of resistance against the encroaching darkness of Lord Voldemort's tyranny.

On the first floor of this enigmatic edifice, an exquisite drawing room unfolded—a chamber steeped in faded grandeur and veiled mystique. Its large windows, draped in heavy velvet curtains, offered fleeting glimpses of the bustling street below, while a crackling fireplace, flanked by two ornate glass-fronted cabinets, cast dancing shadows across the polished wooden floor, infusing the space with a flickering warmth. Adorning an entire wall, a majestic tapestry unfurled—a sprawling chronicle of the intricate lineage of the House of Black, each thread woven with the echoes of generations past.

Amidst this tableau of faded opulence and whispered secrets, three figures stood, their presence imbuing the room with a solemn gravity. Lily J. Potter, her auburn locks cascading in gentle waves around her, cradled her infant son in her arms—a symbol of fragile innocence amidst tumultuous times. Beside her stood James Potter, his protective embrace a silent testament to his unwavering devotion. And presiding over them all, a towering figure clad in flowing robes of deep purple and a cloak that swept the ground—a paragon of wisdom and authority in troubled times. Albus Dumbledore, the venerable headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, regarded the young family with eyes that gleamed behind half-moon spectacles, his gaze a mixture of kindness and gravitas.

Within the hallowed halls of 12 Grimmauld Place, amidst the flickering shadows and whispered echoes of generations past, the stage was set for a pivotal moment in the unfolding saga of the wizarding world—a moment fraught with both peril and promise, where the choices made would shape the destiny of all who stood upon the precipice of history.

"So, this is the Prophecy," began Albus Dumbledore, his voice carrying the weight of solemn revelation as he addressed the young couple before him. "Professor Trelawney made it during her interview for the post of Divination teacher at Hogwarts, and it seems Voldemort has learned of it."

Upon hearing these words, Lily J. Potter, her auburn locks shimmering in the flickering firelight, instinctively drew her child closer, a protective gesture born of maternal instinct. Her husband, James Potter, stood by her side, his embrace a silent reassurance amidst the uncertainty that hung heavy in the air.

"Are you sure this Prophecy is truly about our child?" James questioned, his voice tinged with a mixture of concern and disbelief. "He is just an infant. How long will it take for him to grow up and defeat the Dark Lord? I am sure we can kill him several times over before that day comes."

Dumbledore's gaze softened, his eyes reflecting the depth of his understanding as he addressed their apprehensions. "There are actually two prospects for this prophecy," he explained, his tone measured yet imbued with a sense of urgency that belied the gravity of the situation. 

As he spoke, a fleeting smile graced Lily's lips, a glimmer of hope amidst the looming shadows of uncertainty. Yet, it was short-lived, extinguished by the weight of Dumbledore's next words.

"One is your child, Harry Potter," Dumbledore continued, his voice grave. "And the other is Neville Longbottom, the only son of Frank and Alice Longbottom."

Frank and Alice Longbottom, esteemed Aurors and loyal members of the Order of the Phoenix, had welcomed the arrival of their son, Neville, just a few hours before Harry's birth. Their dedication to the Order mirrored that of James and Lily Potter, illustrating the shared commitment among their ranks.

"According to my sources, Voldemort believes the prophecy pertains to your child," Dumbledore continued, his expression grave as he shared the unsettling revelation.

James and Lily exchanged a knowing glance, the weight of their responsibility as parents bearing heavily upon them. "So, I would suggest you take your family and go into hiding for a few days until this matter dies down," Dumbledore advised, his tone laced with concern. "I will personally become your secret keeper."

Lily shook her head gently, her resolve unwavering. "You already have a lot on your plate," she countered, her voice tinged with gratitude and determination. 

James, expressing his reluctance to burden Dumbledore said, "We don't need to trouble you any further. We will stay at our house in Godric's Hollow, protected by the Fidelius Charm. And as for being the Secret Keeper, I will just ask one of my friends."

Dumbledore's concern was evident as he reiterated the gravity of their decision. "Are you certain? This is a crucial choice, and Voldemort will not be easily thwarted," he cautioned, his blue eyes piercing as he searched their faces for any sign of hesitation.

James and Lily looked into eachothers eyes before turning back to Dumbledore with unwavering determination. "We are," they affirmed in unison, their resolve clear as they prepared to face the looming threat that threatened their family and the wizarding world alike…