Support me and be 30 chapters ahead of webnovel:
patreon.com/Draco_
******
The match ended in less than half a second. When the contestants returned to the resting area, they were introduced for the first time to the man who had emerged from the European rookie division.
Though competitors from other divisions often labeled rookies from this region as weak, they had to admit one thing—anyone who could rise from this division and hold their ground on the world stage was never an easy opponent.
In over four centuries, only five competitors from this rookie division had ever won the world championship. Yet, without exception, each of them was an extraordinary force to be reckoned with.
Professor Flitwick was the most recent among those five. And now, decades later, the man he had brought to the tournament—would he walk the same path of glory?
The competitors began to take notice of him—this young man named Harry Potter. He was different from other wizards from the European region.
European-born wizards typically shared a distinctive trait: due to variations in magical systems, spellcasters from different regions specialized in different areas. If one were to categorize them by gaming archetypes, European wizards often aligned with the "Gunslinger" class—excelling in mid-to-long-range combat and single-target precision. The North American division, which shared historical roots with Europe, followed a similar trend. However, because of the region's highly diverse population—mainly composed of immigrants—their magical traditions had undergone nearly two centuries of blending. As a result, their spellcasting system had diverged significantly from Europe's.
By compensating for their traditional weakness in close combat, North American wizards had, on average, surpassed their European counterparts in overall ability.
A mishmash of styles might not always taste good—it could even be downright strange—but when you throw everything into the pot and let it simmer, at least the dish ends up nutritionally balanced. Whether it's poisonous or not, well, time will tell. After all, two hundred years is hardly a long period in the wizarding world. It wouldn't be surprising if some of the old wizards from that nation—those who witnessed its founding—were still alive today.
But Harry was clearly not a typical European wizard. His strong, well-proportioned body, brimming with explosive power, was proof enough that he was no weakling in close combat.
And that kick—how powerful had it been? Seasoned wizards only needed one glance to make an educated guess.
Then there was his Apparition—flawless, seamless, leaving no trace. It sent a chill down the spines of onlookers. Apparition was common in duels, yet rare in its mastery. The spell required both preparation and recovery time; without exceptional talent, even with extensive practice, most wizards couldn't eliminate its inherent vulnerabilities.
But those who could master Apparition to such a degree?
They were nightmares on the dueling stage.
Dueling arenas weren't large. The largest regulation stage was only 50 meters long by 5 meters wide, enclosed within a 50-meter-high space. With such limited maneuverability, head-on confrontations and skillful counters were the primary modes of combat. The very reason dueling tournaments had remained popular for centuries was the absence of excessive room for evasion or concealment—forcing contestants into thrilling, high-stakes battles.
The intensity of combat within such confined spaces had always been a spectacle that sent audiences into a frenzy.
As a result, champions of one-on-one dueling tournaments typically emerged from those adept in mid-to-close-range combat. Meanwhile, winners of battle royales tended to be agile, defensive-minded spellcasters who excelled in long-range engagements.
The infamous phrase "melee fools" originated from an incident where a dueling champion suffered a crushing defeat in a battle royale—chased relentlessly and worn down until they had no choice but to surrender.
Professor Flitwick himself had been heavily targeted in battle royales for a reason. No one in their right mind would ignore a wizard whose spell accuracy was impeccable and whose casting speed left opponents no time to react. If left unchecked, he could dominate the entire battlefield single-handedly.
The pint-sized professor was a prime target in every battle royale. And no one—especially not close-combat specialists—wanted to suffer the same fate as that unfortunate champion who had been kited into submission.
After all, getting publicly humiliated in a world tournament? That kind of disgrace followed you for life.
The ten-minute break had ended.
As Harry stepped back onto the dueling stage, his face flickered with mild surprise—he had spotted a familiar figure.
"Didn't expect to run into you so soon, Arthur."
His expression was unreadable as he locked eyes with the man across from him—a flamboyantly dressed figure in a red-and-green plaid suit, standing out like a sore thumb.
"Yeah, tell me about it. Am I unlucky, or just incredibly fortunate?"
Arthur Phoenix spread his hands in feigned helplessness. "I thought I'd at least make it past two elimination rounds. But I guess luck plays as much of a role as skill in determining rankings."
He gave Harry a knowing look. "You've gotten even stronger."
"Even back then, when we first met, I knew you weren't showing your full strength. But now, after just half a month, you've improved again."
Harry smiled faintly. "I've been working hard."
"And what about you?"
"Oh, me?"
Arthur's grin stretched almost unnaturally wide, reaching the corners of his face.
It wasn't the grin of a madman—but something about it was unsettling.
"I just hope my performance today brings you some amusement, sir."
With a slight bow, Arthur's posture was one of refined elegance—like a gentleman.
Yet, his exaggerated movements carried the flair of a jester.
Perhaps He Had Always Been a Clown?
The duel had barely begun. A turn, a step forward—then, with the crack of the referee's starting gun—
Apparition. A flash-step strike!
At this moment, Harry had no intention of playing around. He knew that the most thrilling opponent awaited him at the very end. All he had to do was keep winning, and he would eventually find the prey that would truly excite him.
But just as his heavy fist was about to crash into Arthur Phoenix's back, something unsettling happened.
A head—painted in ghostly white foundation, with lips smeared in blood-red—suddenly twisted 180 degrees to face him.
At the center of the man's cross-shaped black eye makeup, a pair of eerie, glowing green eyes stared directly into Harry's.
And in those eyes—there was no fear. No hesitation.
Only an unfathomable frenzy—a manic exhilaration that sent a chill down one's spine.
A moment ago, Arthur had looked like any ordinary man. But in the blink of an eye, he had transformed into a grotesquely painted clown.
Arthur Phoenix wasn't a Metamorphmagus. There hadn't been enough time for him to apply such elaborate makeup.
Which meant there was only one explanation—
"An Animagus?"
Harry muttered in shock.
But his fist did not stop.
It slammed forward mercilessly, colliding with what felt like a human-shaped balloon.
BOOM!
A deafening explosion.
A brilliant red sprayed outward, resembling shattered flesh and severed limbs—
Only, it wasn't blood.
It was the scarlet carpet covering the stage.
The fabric burst apart like an overfilled balloon, disintegrating into hundreds of razor-sharp shards that scattered in all directions.
"Yes, sir… Hehehehehe~"
The laughter—sharp, high-pitched—echoed from everywhere.
Yet, there was no sign of Arthur Phoenix.
Harry was alone on the duel stage.
And yet… his gaze lifted.
Above him, a faint blue magical glow traced the outline of an invisible figure in the air.
"Ah… looks like I've been found out."
A voice—tinged with feigned disappointment—drifted down from above.
Then, from midair, a clown suddenly materialized—his body curled up, gripping his own ankle as he swung lazily back and forth, as if playing on some unseen trapeze.
And indeed, up in the air, countless thin, nearly invisible threads crisscrossed like a vast spider's web.
"I've always been a clown, sir. But now… I've become a true clown, haven't I?"
Arthur Phoenix laughed wildly—his voice trembling with an eerie, hysterical glee.
Compared to his previous self, he seemed utterly unchained—like a man who had finally ripped off the shackles of sanity, revealing the full extent of his deranged joy to the world.
"How about a little magic trick?"
BOOM!
Arthur exploded.
Like a balloon stuffed with glittering confetti, his body shattered into a storm of sparkling fragments, fluttering down like falling snow.
And once again—only Harry remained on the stage.
"Check behind you!"
"…Just kidding! Try this instead! HEH-HAHAHAHAHA!"
From thin air, flying knives materialized—sharp, deadly, unpredictable.
From the floor, gift boxes sprang open—jack-in-the-box clowns popping up with oversized grins, clutching bombs with burning fuses.
Some were illusions.
Some were very, very real.
The stage itself had transformed—bent and reshaped by Transfiguration into a twisted carnival.
And at the center of it all—
A clown danced on the brink of madness, desperate to make the audience laugh—
With his terrifying games.
With his grotesque, ridiculous performance.
(End of Chapter.)