Harry Potter: Journey to Godhood

Aware of his significant magical advantage, Alaric was actually eager for a direct confrontation with Voldemort.

Rather than risking unexpected mishaps in an exciting duel, wouldn't it be better to defeat Voldemort simply by standing there? 

If Voldemort were to mistakenly harm one of his girls, that would be disastrous.

Thus, the two of them—one determined, one cautious—engaged in a mutually agreed magical confrontation.

At first, although Voldemort exerted himself to the fullest, his face was filled with cold smiles, as if he had already foreseen the demise of his opponent.

The silver and green light clashed violently between them, with sparks occasionally shifting slightly toward Alaric, and then leaning back toward Voldemort.

This involved countless mutual probing and subtle strategies, but as long as neither side exhausted their magic, everything remained futile.

However, as time passed, Voldemort, feeling his magic running low, discovered that his opponent still appeared to be in the same state. 

Although he seemed to be expending magical energy, there were no signs of genuine effort, as if he had consumed nothing at all during that lengthy period.

—Could it be? His magic is significantly higher than mine?

Voldemort pondered.

—How is that possible? He is so young and a Muggle at that. It's one thing to have such high magical skills, but to possess such high magic power? 

—Why? This is impossible. He must be bluffing, trying to make me concede. I cannot be deceived by him again. As long as I hold on, it will surely be him who collapses first!

Yet, as time continued to pass, Voldemort's face grew paler, and his magic was nearly depleted, while Alaric remained unaffected.

Finally, the stalemate was broken—within the clash of silver and green lights, the silver magic gradually overwhelmed the sickly green, and the sparks began to shift toward Voldemort.

Seeing this, Voldemort gritted his teeth once more, intensifying his magical output.

The movement of the sparks finally came to a temporary halt.

However, for Voldemort, this was merely a futile remedy.

Yet he had no choice but to do so.

He did not want to interrupt the confrontation because he finally realized that in this magical duel, he would never be Alaric's match.

Though Voldemort had overestimated Alaric, he now recognized that he had underestimated him even more.

His arrogance as a wizard had once again led to a significant loss.

At this moment, even if he wanted to amend it all, he no longer had that opportunity.

In this magical clash, the exchange of magic was not only a confrontation with his opponent but also connected their magic together.

Unless one side chose to concede like a warrior severing his own hand, no one could actively break this connection before the confrontation ended.

However, conceding would mean being engulfed by the raging tide of magic in the next instant.

Wizards were not creatures with physical strength or incredible magical resistance, so for them, surrender equated to death.

Unfortunately for Voldemort at this moment, the outcome would be the same whether he surrendered or not.

Finally, he exhausted his last ounce of magic, and the silver light finally overwhelmed the sickly green.

In the center of the battlefield, under the gaze of all, the silver light struck Voldemort's chest.

People saw Voldemort hit by Alaric's spell.

He staggered back, arms spread wide, his red eyes rolling upward.

Tom Riddle fell to the ground, dying like a mortal, his body twitching, pale hands still tightly clutching his wand, his snake-like face empty and dazed.

Voldemort was dead, killed by Alaric's killing curse, defeated in the magical confrontation with his opponent.

With the destruction of the Horcruxes, Voldemort's soul had nowhere to escape. 

His shattered soul could not even truly enter eternal rest, nor could it become a ghost, wandering instead in a liminal realm between life and death (often referred to as the border of hell, a necessary passage for souls of the deceased to cross over).

Alaric stood there, clutching his wand, gazing down faintly at the body of his old rival.

He had achieved ultimate victory in a solo confrontation with the most powerful dark wizard in history.

Just then, a golden-red sunlight abruptly broke through the distant horizon, capturing Alaric's attention.

He turned to see a small part of the rising sun slowly ascending from beneath the sea, as half of the endless night was draped in a thin layer of colorful clouds.

Unbeknownst to him, the battle had lasted all night and was finally coming to an end.

"The dark dawn is finally coming to a close," he murmured.

Upon seeing Voldemort fall, people's first reaction was shock and disbelief, but this chilling silence was soon shattered.

As people realized what had happened, a roaring wave of excitement erupted around Alaric, cheers, shouts, and applause shaking the very ground.

The sun's rays grew brighter, illuminating the battlefield, as people rushed toward him. 

The first to arrive were the girls Hermione, Cho, Penelope, Fleur, and Luna, who tightly embraced his arms, body, and back, showering him with enthusiastic kisses, their lips lingering on his cheeks, neck, and hair.

Next came his acquaintances. 

Madam Bones shed her previously serious demeanor, discarding the composure of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and future Minister of Magic, rushing forward in excitement.

Being the leader of the Ministry of Magic who was not strong enough to confront Voldemort, she bore the greatest pressure.

Following her were Lupin, Black, Tonks, along with Mr. Weasley, Kingsley, Moody, Scrimgeour, McGonagall, Ronan, and others, their incoherent shouts nearly deafening him.

Lurue also galloped over, desperately squeezing toward her master with her body. 

Everyone made way for the little unicorn, beloved not only because she was a unicorn but also for her significant role in the battle.

During the latter half of the war, she had almost single-handedly fought against all the Dementors under Voldemort, risking her life to dash back and forth on the battlefield, saving everyone.

Everyone was shouting, and Alaric could hardly hear a word, unable to distinguish whose hands were pulling and tugging him, desperately trying to embrace any part of him.

Hundreds of people surged forward, each wanting to touch this young genius, the one who had finally ended their nightmare.

Given Alaric's temperament, he would have never allowed such a scene to unfold; he would either leave with spatial magic or push everyone away.

However, perhaps influenced by the people's excitement and joy, he refrained from doing anything to disrupt the atmosphere.

"This is the last time; I won't allow it again," he quietly told himself.

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