Boom.
The sound of the Quidditch goal shattering echoed through the stadium like thunder.
Every member of the Slytherin team froze, their eyes widening in disbelief as if they had just witnessed a ghost.
They had played Quidditch for years and knew the structure of the hoops better than anyone. Those goals weren't fragile; they were reinforced with magic and constructed to withstand the heavy collisions of bludgers. Throughout countless matches, bludgers had smashed into the posts again and again—yet never once had they cracked, let alone shattered.
But this time, the bludger struck by Roger had splintered the goal cleanly apart.
What kind of terrifying strength was this?
For the first time, fear spread among the Slytherin players. Their pride in the enchanted armor they wore, armor specifically designed to resist Roger's attacks, suddenly evaporated.
They had researched him thoroughly, even studying recordings of his last match. His swings had been powerful, but not nearly enough to reach this kind of destructive force.
So why now? Why had his strength multiplied so drastically?
A realization dawned on them all at once.
"He didn't use his full power last time…" one muttered hoarsely.
"He tricked us!" another hissed.
"That cunning, evil little badger—he used a despicable scheme!"
But Roger ignored their shouts entirely.
His gaze swept across the invisible system panel only he could see. When his eyes lingered on the glowing upgrades—Legendary Life and Legendary Strength—a smile of deep satisfaction crossed his face.
Training with trolls these past weeks hadn't been in vain. Each exhausting session, each brutal clash, had pushed him closer toward the Mythical path. And now, the results were undeniable. His strength and physique had advanced so far that he felt like a different person compared to the last match.
Previously, he might have been able to crack the goal if he put every ounce of force into a bludger swing. But this? This was effortless, clean, decisive.
If he kept climbing at this rate… what would happen once he truly reached the Mythical Level?
He knew the legends: the power of Titans who could rend the sky and shatter the earth. Compared to that, even high-level magic might crumble like sand.
For a brief moment, Roger's mind burned with possibility.
But the shrill blast of Madam Hooch's whistle pulled him back.
"Match resumes!" she barked.
At once, the Hufflepuff players leapt back into action, brooms streaking into the air like golden comets.
Cedric Diggory, their Seeker and Roger's closest ally on the pitch, smirked at Slytherin's captain, Marcus Flint.
"Come on, fly up," Cedric taunted. "You don't want to be remembered as the first Slytherin team in a decade to miss the finals, do you?"
Flint's jaw clenched. His pride stung, but his words lit a fire under his teammates.
"That's right," one growled.
"We can't let that happen," another said through gritted teeth.
"There's still a chance," Flint snapped. "If we catch the Snitch before Hufflepuff builds too big a lead—we can still win!"
"No need to waste energy chasing goals," someone reasoned. "Forget the Quaffle. Focus on the Snitch!"
Their plan was desperate, but it was all they had left.
"Seven against one," Flint muttered, rallying them. "The advantage is ours."
So the Slytherin squad rose into the sky in unison, abandoning the Quaffle completely and spreading out in search of the glittering Snitch.
Roger and Cedric exchanged knowing glances. Exactly as expected.
For years, Slytherin's dominance had been fueled not only by Snape's questionable refereeing, but also by their tactical discipline. Even cornered, their instincts to seize a path to victory were sharp.
But Roger's expression remained calm, almost cold.
He gripped his bat, swung once more, and launched another bludger. It tore through the air like a cannonball, curving upward in a deadly arc.
His voice rang across the pitch, low and commanding:
"Did I permit you to ascend?"
The five Slytherin players felt the pressure instantly. The air rippled, whistling violently around the incoming ball. Even through their armor, their scalps tingled.
Was this really something a human could strike? Even a giant might have struggled to unleash such raw force.
But Flint refused to back down completely. His eyes darted to one of his Beaters.
"You. Stop it!" he barked.
The boy's eyes bulged. "M-me?"
"Yes, you!" Flint snapped. "You're a Beater, aren't you? What else are you here for? Hit it back!"
The Beater swallowed hard, hands trembling.
"Don't be afraid," Flint pressed. "You're armored. If you can deflect it, even once, you'll be the hero who saves Slytherin!"
The words stung his pride. With a roar, he forced himself forward, bat raised high.
"Just try it!" he shouted.
The moment the bat connected with Roger's bludger, the sound cracked like thunder.
And then—his bat exploded into fragments.
The bludger's force slammed into him like a tidal wave. Only the enchantments woven into his armor saved him from immediate death. Even so, the protective wards cracked and fizzled, his shoulder wrenched out of joint, and pain lanced through his body. His vision blurred as he tumbled downwards, plummeting like a broken kite.
Gasps tore from the stands. Madam Pomfrey and her team rushed forward, levitating the unconscious Beater away toward the Medical Ward.
The remaining Slytherin players stared in horror.
That was the result of Flint's command: try it and die.
Flint turned, his face pale, and locked eyes with the second Beater.
"You—" he began.
But the boy cut him off with a furious shout.
"Why don't you do it yourself?" he snapped, red-faced. "You strut around every day acting strong. You're the captain—then go prove it!"
"I'm a Chaser!" Flint roared. "It's not my job to—"
"Not anymore!" the Beater snarled, shoving his bat into Flint's chest. "The goals are destroyed, Chasers are useless. If you want someone to break themselves against that monster, it'll be you."
Flint trembled with rage, but pride forced him to act. Gripping the bat with white knuckles, he kicked his broom skyward.
Another bludger came screaming toward him.
Flint roared defiantly—but at the last second, the raw pressure alone forced him to dive back down.
Again and again, he tried. Again and again, Roger's bludgers cut him off, driving him earthward.
The few Slytherins who managed to climb were instantly knocked back down, their armor splintering under the relentless bombardment. Each failed attempt sent another player limping—or carried—to the Medical Ward.
By the time the score hit 150–0, the truth was undeniable.
Slytherin could no longer win.
Even if they caught the Snitch, they couldn't close the gap. Worse, they couldn't even stay aloft long enough to search for it.
Under Roger's domination, the sky itself had been sealed away from them.
Hufflepuff, meanwhile, pressed on mercilessly. Their Chasers tore through what remained of Slytherin's defense, hammering goal after goal. The scoreboard climbed higher and higher.
The spectators buzzed with excitement. The match wasn't just a victory anymore—it was on the verge of becoming legendary.
At 220–0, then 230–0, the Hufflepuff section thundered their chants in unison, voices booming like a war drum.
On the opposite stands, Slytherin fell silent. Malfoy's smug grin had vanished, replaced by a sickly pale face. Students turned away in shame, leaving their green banners discarded like rubbish on the floor.
In the commentator's box, Lee Jordan's voice shook.
"One hundred twenty-seven years ago, Slytherin thrashed a crippled Hufflepuff team, five hundred seventy to thirty… a five hundred forty-point lead. That was the largest margin in Hogwarts Quidditch history. For over a century, no match has come close. But today—today we may see history rewritten!"
His words ignited the Hufflepuff stands. The house that had always been dismissed as the "quiet one" was roaring like thunder now, their chants shaking the stadium to its foundation.
"Five hundred twenty!"
"Five hundred thirty!"
"Five hundred forty!"
The moment the score matched the old record, Cedric finally moved. With a whistle blast, he shot forward on his broom.
The Snitch had long since been located. Within three seconds, it was clasped firmly in his hand.
Lee Jordan's voice cracked with awe.
"He's caught it! The Snitch is caught—the match is over!"
"The final score: six hundred ninety to zero!"
"The largest victory margin in a thousand years of Quidditch history. And not only that—it's the first time such a record has been set with a complete shutout!"
The stadium erupted in chaos.
Hufflepuff's players soared in formation, repeating Roger's triumphant gesture as they circled the pitch. Cedric shouted himself hoarse:
"We made history!"
In the stands, Professor Sprout's stern face finally melted into pure joy. She turned toward a certain smug Board member who had mocked her earlier.
"What was it you said?" she sneered. "That Slytherin could beat Hufflepuff even with… with dung?"
Her eyes glittered with triumph.
"Well, my Roger just beat the dung out of you."
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