Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Regulus put away his black wand and tucked it back into his waistband.

The containment chamber's exit closed, the gray magic faded from the body, and the silver-white of the Constant Armor Charm shone brightly again, no longer obscured by gray.

This wand had a short appearance time tonight, less than half an hour in total, but it killed quite a few people.

It consumed the black energy from the wound and gnawed on a third of the black mist. From eating to gnawing, it buzzed continuously, full of energy. It's a good thing.

What his father gave him, he can forget about returning once it's in his hands.

He pulled his everyday wand from the inner pocket with his right hand, and the moment he grasped it, the temperature of his palm returned from the scorching heat of the black wand to normal, and the feel changed from heavy to comfortable.

The black wand has finished its work; it was responsible for grinding, gnawing, and shaving the black mist from its indestructible state to its current state.

In this final move, he used his own.

The Black Wand is something that has been passed down in the Black family for hundreds of years, and Betelgeuse is his own star. The final end should be pure, using his own power.

Regulus raised his wand above his head, the tip pointing to the sky.

Magic surged upwards from the core, opening all the channels and flowing along the arm into the staff.

Fierce Fire.

Flames erupted from the tip of the staff, unlike any other time. This time, he didn't press the protective will into it, didn't restrain it, didn't give it direction or boundaries, but simply let it flow out.

Orange-red flames surged and rolled into the night sky, reaching extremely high temperatures, distorting and warping the surrounding air.

The flames were expanding rapidly, the temperature was soaring, and the speed at which they were spiraling out of control was extremely fast.

It was originally a destructive cursed creation, and without his constant restraint, it would expand outwards according to its own instincts.

The flames began to transform, the rolling tongues of fire sprouted the rudiments of claws, the edges of the flames showed the curves of wings, the outline of a beast's head took shape above the fireball, and two empty eye sockets burned in the flames, beginning to look around.

The Fiery Blaze's destructive instincts are breaking free of restraint; it wants to transform itself into a ferocious beast that can pounce outwards, wanting to devour everything and burn the world to ashes.

Regulus watched as flames formed above his head, claws, wings, and a beast's head becoming clearer and clearer. He hadn't put anything in yet; he was just watching.

Just as the transformation of the beast was about to be completed, Regulus incorporated the image of Betelgeuse into it.

The core imagery of Betelgeuse has two aspects.

On one hand, there's the inner self, the invisible sword held by the little soul, its unseen edge, belonging to his spiritual world.

On the other hand, it faces outwards. Betelgeuse's fate was already written from the moment of its birth: a supernova explosion.

The mass is too great, the gravity too strong, the nuclear fusion fuel will eventually run out, the core will collapse, the outer layer will explode, and the entire star will end its existence in an explosion.

The inevitable end was pushed into the raging flames.

The transformation of the flames stopped at that moment, the outline of the beast shattered, its claws retracted, its wings folded up, the empty eye sockets of the beast's head closed, and the entire form of the beast retreated from the flames.

The Fiery Blaze's destructive instincts remained; it had simply been given a direction.

The five stars of the constellation told the fiery creature what it couldn't burn, and drew a boundary for it, forbidding it from touching anything within that boundary. That was discipline, discipline, and making it obedient.

Betelgeuse tells Lihuo what must be ended, giving it a direction, a focus, an end that must be reached. That is guidance, destiny, and what makes it do things.

Whether the Fiery Blaze obeys or not is no longer important, because it doesn't need to obey. It just needs to know where to go. Betelgeuse has given it a destination, and it will go there on its own.

The fierce fire completed its convergence in a very short time, and the swirling chaotic fireballs flowed in the same direction, converging, compressing, and stretching.

The shape of the flame changed from a chaotic cloud of fire to a vertical line, a sword.

White, high-temperature bands of light flowed along the sides of the flame, with the image of Betelgeuse circulating within, giving the flame something beyond the realm of combustion.

Anything it touches will reach the end of existence, the end of matter, the end of magic, the end of structure.

There is nothing after the end, not even nothingness, because nothingness is also a state, and the end is where even the state itself ends.

Regulus looked at the line of fire that was taking shape. It was too straight, too upright, with symmetrical double blades. It was very dignified and suited him well. He was also quite dignified.

But at this moment, standing on the desolate wasteland that had been abandoned for most of the night, with a hole in his body, his hair plastered to his face, and his feet covered in mud and scorch marks, he didn't want to be dignified.

The flame curved in accordance with his will, shifting from the spine of the sword, changing the blade from double-edged to single-edged, breaking the symmetry of the blade, and changing the outline from straight to curved, from narrow to wide.

A huge knife.

The blade, formed of flames, unfolded in the night sky, extending upwards from the tip of Regulus's raised staff, burning up to a height of over forty meters.

The blade is wide and curved, with a single edge that flows with the unique swirling patterns of the flames. The edge is the hottest part, so white it's blinding.

The blade's spine was thick, with orange-red flames swirling on it, occasionally a tongue of fire would rise from the back of the blade and fall back down.

The moonlight filtered through the clouds, but the area where it shone on the blade was obscured by the flames.

The blade cast a shadow tens of meters long at the point where the moonlight and firelight met, falling on the wasteland and stretching from Regulus's feet all the way into the darkness in the distance.

Three or four hundred wizards on the hills witnessed this scene.

A small figure stood on the wasteland, holding a magic wand in one hand, the tip of which was connected to a fire knife that burned from the ground all the way to mid-air.

The flames illuminated the entire plain, and orange and white light radiated from the blade, brightening the slopes of the distant hills and stretching the shadows of every spectator dozens of meters behind them.

The heatwave rolled down the blade, and the grass hundreds of meters away began to catch fire.

Regulus looked up at the forty-meter-long Fiery Greatsword he had raised and nodded in satisfaction.

The heat of the flames baked his face, drying the sweat. His gray eyes shone brightly in the firelight, their pupils reflecting an orange-red light.

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He lowered his gaze and looked at the black mist in front of him. It was still moving, still pushing towards him, though much slower than before, but it hadn't stopped.

The frequency of the spells being sprayed out became sparse, and the spells that were shot out were deflected by the heat radiating from the blade as they approached.

Regulus raised his sword and swung it down sharply.

The Fiery Blade followed the movement of his wrist and slashed down from the air. As the blade fell, the flames on its body were pulled by the air, leaving a heat wave trail nearly a hundred meters long. The air on both sides was baked into a plasma state by the high temperature, emitting a blue-white glow.

The moment the blade touched the black mist, the mist was cleaved in two.

The flames of the Fiery Blade were responsible for burning. Wherever the blade passed, the black mist was engulfed by the orange-red, high-temperature flames. The black substance swirled in the flames for a moment and then disappeared without even a puff of smoke.

The cut surface was covered in flames, which spread from the cut to both sides.

The imagery of Betelgeuse's endpoint pushes forward along the path of the blade, and wherever it passes, the black mist reaches its end.

The chaotic magical noise disappeared, the surging black matter vanished, and the cut surface became a vast void.

There was nothing there—no color, no texture, no trace of magic, no light, and even the structure of the space itself was blurred.

A void about two meters wide stretched from the top where the blade had cleaved through to the bottom.

The black mist was split in two, losing its overall structure and beginning to disintegrate.

The three forces acted simultaneously: the afterimage devoured the black mist, peeling it off piece by piece; the fierce fire burned the layer closest to the flames, turning the black into white.

Wherever the image of the destination reached, the black mist didn't even need to burn; it simply disappeared, first becoming transparent, then white, and then that area became completely empty.

The black mist was shrinking rapidly, from forty meters to thirty meters, then twenty meters. Its once surging surface was now full of cracks and holes, and the scattered incantations that were still being emitted from within dissipated in mid-air.

The afterimages were gnawing faster, the flames were spreading faster, and the end was spreading faster.

Ten meters, five meters, the two remaining black clumps were shrinking and disintegrating, the surface churning turned into spasms, and the expansion turned into convulsions.

Finally, only a small black mass remained at the end of the scorch mark, still trying to crawl towards Regulus.

It has lost its shape, yet it still carries out the original command: to kill Regulus Black.

It writhed a few more times, and the last wisp of black disappeared into the end of Betelgeuse, leaving nothing behind.

Only a straight scorch mark remained on the ground, stretching from where Regulus stood all the way to the depths of the wasteland hundreds of meters away.

The grassland was burned into a black ash band, more than ten meters wide, with charred black charcoal layers left by the blazing fire at the edges, and an extremely thin pure white line running through the center of the charred scar.

The texture of that white line was completely different from the surroundings; it was too clean, neither reflective nor dull, just the trace left after something had been completely wiped away.

The wasteland quieted down, and the Fiery Blaze began to die out after losing its target. Betelgeuse gave it a focus, and when that focus disappeared, the flame lost its direction, but it did not go out of control.

The imagery of the end point continues to unfold. The doomed end of Betelgeuse is not only applicable to the black mist; Fiendfire itself is also an existence, and it too has an end point. When the goal disappears, Fiendfire's own end point is also reached.

The flames receded from the tip of the blade, the blade's outline narrowed, the curve straightened, and the orange-red light dimmed.

The blade shrank to the length of the handle, and the handle shrank further to the size of a small flame on the tip of a staff, which flickered and then went out.

Even the residual heat of the flames dissipated in a very short time; there was no residual heat in the air, no burnt smell, nothing at all.

The ultimate goal is to be completely clean and tidy.

Regulus stood at one end of the scorch mark, his wand hanging in his right hand. The wound on his left side had long since closed, leaving only a faint throbbing pain.

The tear on the left side of the robe fluttered in the wind, revealing a white shirt soaked in blood underneath. Hair was still stuck to his forehead, and dust clung to the sweat stains on his cheeks.

Shoulders relaxed naturally, weight slightly shifted to right leg, left leg slightly turned outward to avoid stress on the left side wound.

His breathing gradually calmed down, the rise and fall of his chest lessened, and the wand hung loosely on his fingertips.

They fought for most of the night, from midnight until now, using the Disintegration Curse, stationary bombardment, spatial network, half an hour of chase, being surrounded by black mist, breaking through and getting injured, exchanging blows with black magic wands, and finally ending with Fiendfire.

I'm tired, really tired, but I'm in a good mood.

He poured magic out like water, hitting wherever he wanted, drying everything he wanted to dry, using up everything he could, and that final blow was incredibly satisfying. Opportunities to fight so freely like that are rare; you rarely encounter opponents like that.

The wind blew from the direction of the North Sea, brushing against his face and blowing the stray hairs on his forehead to the side, while the silvery moonlight reflected in his gray eyes.

On the hill, three or four hundred wizards were watching him, their mouths agape and their eyes wide open.

There was no sound from the crowd; everyone was looking in the same direction, at the black-haired boy in the wasteland.

The initial beam of yellowish-brown light that struck down from the sky blasted the centuries-old stone walls and defenses of the Roll Manor into rubble, and the ground trembled for miles around, filling them with fear.

Then came the massive explosions that occurred simultaneously from all directions, creating a fireball over fifty meters in diameter that illuminated the entire wasteland as bright as day, leaving them in awe.

Then old Raoul sacrificed himself and became a cloud of black mist, which surged and chased after them, swallowing everything in its path. Countless black spells shot out from it, and no one knew how to deal with it. They screamed and they ran away.

Finally, the fiery blade, which had burned from the ground to mid-air, cleaved the all-consuming darkness in two, burning it into nothingness.

This scene has rendered them unable to produce an appropriate emotional response.

Shock has been used up, fear has been used up, amazement has been used up, and all that remains is a collective silence, mouths forget to close, vocal cords forget to vibrate, and brains forget to send commands to facial muscles.

The wind continued to blow, and embers of fire still burned in the distance.

Regulus strode toward the ruins; there were still survivors.