The pitch core began to crack.
There was no roar this time.
No red flame.
No cursed wind.
No crawling sand.
Just a quiet sound from beneath the grass.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
That quietness frightened the professors more than every attack before it.
Madam Hooch did not waste a second.
"All players off the pitch! Move!"
The players flew toward the exits in a ragged line. No one cared about formation, score, or dignity anymore. One Beater nearly fell from his broom while landing, and Harry caught the back of his robe with the willow branch before he hit the ground.
The player turned pale.
"Thanks."
Harry nodded, then looked back at the center.
The grass there was sinking inward.
Not fast.
That made it worse.
Theodore stood alone on the field.
Under his feet, eight nails held the Ten Absolute Arrays in place. Each nail shone faintly through the Wuzhuang foundation, locking one stolen principle into Hogwarts' protection.
But the pitch core had stopped fighting the nails.
It had chosen another way.
If it exploded while still connected to the other fragments, the blast would not only tear open the pitch. It would shake every nail Theodore had planted. The Wuzhuang foundation was still young. Willow Immortal was strong, but not yet strong enough to eat a full backlash from the Ten Absolute Arrays without injury.
The hidden will had made the ugliest correct choice.
If it could not win, it would make the board bleed.
Theodore looked down at the cracking eye.
"Not bad."
The eye did not blink.
It continued breaking.
Around the stadium, evacuation began.
Dumbledore's voice spread over the stands.
"Students, follow your professors. No pushing. No running unless instructed."
That calm voice held the crowd together.
McGonagall moved faster than anyone expected from a woman in formal robes. Her stone beasts leapt from the railings and landed at the stairways, forcing students into orderly lines.
Flitwick sent silver sparks into the air, marking safe exits.
Sprout's plants pulled railings open where paths were blocked.
Filch stood at the west passage entrance, peachwood sword raised.
"You! That way! No, not that way! Do you want to walk into cursed sand?"
A second-year froze.
Filch pointed at another corridor.
"Use your eyes!"
The second-year obeyed immediately.
Ron shoved the last Chomping Cabbage into the box. The cabbage had a mouth full of red sand and looked personally offended by the universe.
Fred grabbed one handle of the box.
George grabbed the other.
Ron stared at them.
"You're helping?"
Fred looked hurt. "We are excellent brothers."
George nodded. "Also, if the box explodes, we want to know first."
Ron decided not to question it.
Hermione dragged Lee Jordan down from the commentator's box before he could try to narrate the evacuation.
"But this is historic!"
"You can be historic outside the blast range!"
"That is a fair argument."
Harry ran along the lower stand, checking for fallen students. His arm hurt badly now, but every time the willow branch pulled, he followed.
A first-year had frozen near the stairs, crying silently.
Harry grabbed his shoulder.
"Come on."
The boy shook his head.
Harry did not have time for a speech.
He looked at Ron.
"Cabbage!"
Ron understood at once.
He opened the box just enough.
A Chomping Cabbage popped out and snapped at the air near the first-year's shoe.
The boy screamed and ran.
Ron caught the cabbage before it chased him.
Harry stared.
Ron shrugged.
"Fear redirection."
Hermione, who had seen the whole thing, opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
It had worked.
That was the worst part.
At the center of the pitch, the cracks reached the surface.
Red-black light seeped through the grass.
Theodore raised his hand.
The eight nails answered, but the pitch core ignored them.
It was hollowing itself out.
Burning its own structure.
Turning every remaining trace into fuel.
If Theodore sealed it from outside, the pressure would explode inward and damage the foundation.
If he let it explode, the pitch and half the stands would suffer.
If he destroyed it, the hidden will might use the collapse to escape through the severed connection.
Three bad choices.
Theodore disliked choosing from bad options.
So he made a fourth.
"Willow Immortal."
The roots beneath Hogwarts tightened.
The great willow outside the stadium shook from crown to root. Its branches bent toward the pitch, leaves burning with green-gold light. Students evacuating through the grounds saw it move and stopped in awe.
Then Filch shouted at them.
"Admire the tree later!"
They ran.
Theodore pressed both hands downward.
Heaven and Earth in My Palm opened below the pitch instead of above it.
Space folded around the core from underneath, not trapping the explosion, but changing where the pressure would go.
A pit appeared in the folded space.
Small in the real world.
Deep in the inner space.
The cracking pitch core sank toward it.
The eye finally reacted.
It looked at Theodore.
For the first time, it seemed almost confused.
Theodore smiled.
"You want to die?"
His fingers closed slightly.
"Die somewhere useful."
The core dropped into the folded space.
The red-black light surged.
The explosion began.
Inside Theodore's palm, the world became a furnace.
Flame, sand, blood light, frost, wind, soul pressure, golden reflection, red water, earth force, fate distortion—all the remnants of the Ten Absolute Arrays collapsed together.
The backlash smashed against Theodore's palm-space.
His sleeve tore.
Blood seeped from his fingers.
Theodore's expression did not change, but the ground under his feet cracked in a circle.
Above the stands, Dumbledore stopped.
He turned sharply toward the pitch.
Fawkes cried from the sky and dove like a falling flame.
"No," Dumbledore said softly.
He understood what Theodore was doing.
The boy was not blocking the explosion.
He was digesting it.
That was far more dangerous.
Hermione saw the blood first.
Her face went white.
"Theodore!"
Harry grabbed her wrist before she could run.
"He told us to leave!"
"He's bleeding!"
Harry's own face was pale, but his grip did not loosen.
"If we go in, he has to protect us too."
Hermione froze.
That sentence hurt because it was correct.
Ron looked toward the center of the pitch, then at the cabbage box in his hands.
For once, he had no joke ready.
At the center, Theodore drove the exploding core deeper into the folded space.
Wutu Divine Light became the furnace wall.
Yimu Divine Light became the living root inside it.
The eight nails fed the structure from all directions.
The pitch core had wanted to destroy the foundation.
Theodore was forcing it to become the foundation's heartfire.
The hidden will beyond the severed connection realized too late.
A furious pressure descended through the broken link.
The fifth nail shook.
The sixth nail burned.
The severed-hand fragment inside the Wuzhuang foundation twisted violently, trying to answer its master.
Willow Immortal's roots blackened.
Theodore's eyes cooled.
"Stay."
The single word pressed through the foundation.
The roots stopped shaking.
The sixth nail held.
Fawkes arrived above the pitch, phoenix flame raining down in a bright circle. The fire did not touch Theodore. It guarded the outer air, keeping the backlash from spreading toward the evacuated stands.
Dumbledore raised the Elder Wand.
Silver-white light joined the phoenix flame.
"Mr. Snow," he said across the field, voice calm but grave, "I assume assistance is not unwelcome."
Theodore did not look up.
"Seal the sky."
Dumbledore smiled faintly.
"Gladly."
He lifted his wand.
The air above the pitch became a silver dome.
The explosion inside Theodore's folded space lost its last escape route.
Now it could only burn inward.
Theodore closed his bleeding hand.
The folded space collapsed.
For one breath, all sound vanished.
Then a heavy boom rolled through Hogwarts.
Not outward.
Downward.
Deep beneath the pitch, where the core had been, a new nail formed.
Different from the others.
Larger.
Heavier.
Alive with red-gold light.
The ninth nail.
The heart nail.
The pitch core was gone.
In its place, the Wuzhuang foundation gained a furnace.
The grass at the center of the pitch turned black.
Then green shoots broke through.
One after another.
Fresh grass grew over the burned circle at a visible speed, carrying faint golden veins that vanished after a few seconds.
Theodore opened his hand.
The wound across his palm was deep.
Then Yimu Divine Light moved through it, closing the cut slowly.
Not instantly.
He had spent too much.
Theodore looked at the pitch beneath him.
Nine nails.
The Ten Absolute Arrays were no longer a complete formation.
Only the last hidden trace remained.
The will behind it.
The stadium was silent.
Students, professors, guests, even the players stood beyond the exits and stared at the pitch.
No one knew whether to cheer.
No one knew whether it was over.
Lee Jordan, safely dragged to the lower entrance by Hermione, whispered, "Can I say something?"
Hermione wiped her eyes quickly and glared at him.
"No."
Lee nodded.
"Right."
Then Fred shouted from somewhere behind Ron.
"THE PITCH SURVIVED!"
George immediately added, "MOSTLY!"
That broke the silence.
Nervous laughter spread first.
Then cheers.
Real cheers this time.
Messy, relieved, half-hysterical cheers.
Theodore looked toward the stands and shook his head slightly.
Dumbledore lowered his wand and let out a quiet breath.
In the Headmaster's office, Quirrell suddenly arched in his chair.
Voldemort screamed.
Not from pain caused by the seals.
From loss.
The pitch core had been his main anchor.
Gone.
No.
Worse.
Taken.
Theodore Snow had taken it.
The turban writhed.
Fawkes's flame mark on the chair blazed, forcing Voldemort back down.
Quirrell gasped, half-conscious, eyes wet with terror.
"My Lord…"
Voldemort's voice came like poison.
"Silence."
But this time, the word lacked its old certainty.
On the pitch, Theodore felt the final hidden trace retreat.
Fast.
Very fast.
It fled through a path not tied to the pitch, not tied to Quirrell, not tied to the lake.
A path buried much deeper.
Theodore turned toward the castle.
Not the dungeons.
Lower.
Older.
The ancient being beneath the Black Lake spoke in his mind.
"It is running toward the old prison."
Theodore's eyes narrowed.
"Yours?"
"No."
The old voice became cold.
"Something below mine."
The cheers around the pitch faded from Theodore's awareness.
So that was the final layer.
The Ten Absolute Arrays had failed.
The hidden will had lost flesh.
Voldemort had lost his battlefield.
But the thing behind all of it still had one place to retreat.
Beneath Hogwarts.
Beneath the lake prison.
In the dark where even the ancient being did not want to remember.
Theodore smiled faintly.
"Tournament first."
The old being paused.
"You still care about the game?"
"The students do."
The ancient being was silent for a long moment.
Then it gave a low, tired laugh.
"Unreasonable."
Theodore looked at the damaged pitch.
Madam Hooch stood nearby, staring at him as if trying to decide whether rules still applied.
He turned to her.
"Can the match continue?"
Madam Hooch looked at the fresh grass.
Then at the players.
Then at the stands full of students who were alive, frightened, excited, and already beginning to shout about the score.
Her jaw tightened.
"It can."
Theodore nodded.
"Then continue."
Madam Hooch slowly raised her backup whistle.
This one had a crack in it.
She blew anyway.
The sound rang across the stadium.
The match resumed.
And beneath Hogwarts, far below the cheering students, something ancient opened one eye.
◇ BONUS & SUPPORT ◇
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 10 reviews — drop a comment!
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ Read 60 chapters ahead on P@treon → patreon.com/StrawHatStudios