Boom!
Boom!
"Damn Grindelwald lackeys, go to hell!"
"Kill them!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
Magic lit up the battlefield in a flurry of bright, deadly streaks. The saints or better known as Grindelwald Alliance and their enemies exchanged spells with murderous intent blazing in their eyes. Corpses littered the ground, bodies torn asunder, and severed limbs scattered amidst pools of blood. The acrid stench of death hung heavy in the air.
Yet, neither side flinched. Their faces betrayed no hint of fear or revulsion—only fanaticism and an insatiable thirst for violence.
This was America—or, more specifically, the hidden war raging within the American Wizarding World.
Grindelwald had set his sights on the Magical Congress of the United States of America (MACUSA) after successfully seizing Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. To him, there was no point in half-measures. With Ilvermorny under his control, allowing MACUSA to remain standing would be nothing short of negligence.
Moreover, Grindelwald harbored a personal grudge against this land. It was here that he had first tasted defeat—thanks to the meddling of Newt Scamander and the intervention of MACUSA. The sting of that failure had never left him, and the time for retribution had finally arrived.
With MACUSA at its weakest, Grindelwald seized the opportunity. Through meticulous planning and ruthless execution, he had brought the American wizarding world to its knees. Victory was within reach.
The only obstacle now was the elusive resistance. These American wizards, like cunning rats, hid in the shadows, striking out with guerrilla tactics and ambushes. Even now, a skirmish raged in the streets, spells flying and bodies falling.
But Grindelwald was not on the battlefield.
He stood before a massive gray stone structure—the headquarters of the Wizards Bank Association of America. The imposing edifice bore intricate carvings of magical creatures and wizards, its heavy doors a testament to both craftsmanship and secrecy.
Grindelwald's sharp eyes scanned the ornate entrance, a contemplative look on his face. He had been briefed on the peculiar decline of the American wizarding world after his self-imposed imprisonment. To his astonishment, the cause of this decline wasn't infighting or external threats.
No, the culprits were goblins.
These diminutive creatures, long regarded as little more than servants, had gained an outsized influence over the American wizarding economy. Without casting a single spell, they had manipulated commerce and capital to such an extent that they wielded undeniable control.
The absurdity of it all made Grindelwald's lips curl in disdain.
"Sir, shall we proceed?"
The question came from an elderly saint standing at his side, his expression one of simmering rage. His gaze burned with hatred as he stared at the bank's entrance, as if willing it to crumble under his glare.
American wizards were an embarrassment, but the goblins? They were worse.
"No matter how fierce the battles between wizards, it remains a matter for wizards to resolve," the saint muttered. "But these creatures—these former slaves—have no place meddling in our affairs."
Grindelwald raised his wand, his expression impassive. With a swift, decisive motion, he unleashed a wave of fierce blue flames. The magical fire roared to life, encircling the bank's headquarters and cutting off any escape routes.
The saints watched the rising flames with barely contained excitement. For many, this display brought back memories of the day Grindelwald had first summoned them, promising a glorious future. Now, the same flames symbolized the dawn of a new era.
Grindelwald's voice cut through the crackling fire. "Kill every last one of them. Spare no goblin."
The saints cheered in unison, their faces alight with zeal. "Spare no goblin!"
With a flick of his wand, Grindelwald sent the blue fire hurtling toward the bank's entrance. The flames collided with a shimmering, pale golden shield that sprang into existence, blocking the attack.
Grindelwald's eyes narrowed. The goblins had prepared defenses.
He raised his wand again, conjuring a storm of razor-sharp cyan blades that hovered in the air. At his command, the blades rained down upon the golden barrier, each strike sending ripples across its surface.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The relentless assault took its toll. Cracks spidered across the shield, growing wider with each passing second until, with a resounding crash, the barrier shattered into golden shards.
The saints surged forward, their chants echoing in unison: "Spare no goblin!"
The massive stone doors creaked open, revealing the darkened interior of the Wizards Bank Association. The saints charged in, their wands raised and ready to strike.
But their momentum was short-lived.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Gunfire erupted from the shadows, and the saints recoiled as a hail of bullets struck them. Cries of pain and alarm filled the air.
Grindelwald stepped forward, his face a mask of cold fury. His sharp eyes quickly identified the source of the attack—goblins wielding modified weapons. Magic guns.
The sight was both enraging and insulting. Goblins, creatures who should have been subservient, now stood defiantly with weapons designed to pierce even the strongest of magical shields.
Grindelwald's anger burned hot, but he forced himself to remain composed. "Avada Kedavra!" he roared, his wand emitting deadly green light.
The spell found its mark, striking down one goblin after another. The saints, emboldened by his example, followed suit. The room filled with the sounds of curses and screams as the goblins fell under the relentless assault.
When the last goblin collapsed, silence descended. The saints looked to Grindelwald with reverence, their awe for their leader renewed.
Grindelwald, however, was not satisfied. His sharp senses told him something was amiss.
He stepped deeper into the building, his wand raised. The silence was oppressive, the stillness unnatural. No signs of life stirred in the vast halls.
His frown deepened as realization dawned.
The goblins had fled.
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