A storm of chaos and death surged above Mount Wundagore. The winds howled like the mouths of the damned.

  Lord Voldemort stood before the Scarlet Throne—his long fingers outstretched, wand held like a dagger. His eyes, colder than the mountain snow, burned with sickly green light.

  The throne pulsed, veins of crimson and emerald wrapping around its base, fed by the corrupted essence of Wanda Maximoff’s lingering power. Magic twisted in the air—both chaos and darkness, dancing like dueling serpents.

  He raised his wand and hissed in Parseltongue before chanting:

  "Morsmordre."

  The Dark Mark erupted above the throne, its emerald skull merging into the scarlet mist.

  "Inferius Animum... Ascendat Umbra Wandae."

  (Let the soul rise... shadow of Wanda, obey.)

  The corrupted throne responded. Scarlet witchfire rose from the stone like spectral blood. The air screamed.

  Then Voldemort cried:

  "Avada Kedavra!"

  But this time, it wasn’t meant to kill. It was a ritual sacrifice, fed into the runes carved into the floor. The Killing Curse sank into the mountain, waking something deeper—something that should never rise.

  Suddenly—

  A ripple.

  A burst of gold.

  Doctor Strange and Wong emerged from a portal of the Mystic Arts, standing upon a fractured ledge overlooking the throne.

  Wong:

  "He’s breaching the chaos core… Strange, we’re too te!"

  Strange narrowed his eyes.

  "Then we buy time—no matter the cost."

  He raised both hands and incanted:

  “By the Fangs of Faralh! By Seraphim’s Wrath—bind him!”

  Golden tendrils of light burst forth, wrapping toward Voldemort. But the Dark Lord turned sharply and spat:

  "Protego Diabolica!"

  A barrier of burning green-bck fme surged up, deflecting Strange’s spell. He followed up with:

  "Fiendfyre."

  From his wand erupted a colossal serpent of fme, coiling toward the mystics.

  Wong crossed his arms and chanted:

  “Winds of Watoomb!”

  A cyclone of mystic wind cshed with the Fiendfyre, struggling against the living bze. Sparks showered the battlefield.

  Strange drew a glowing glyph mid-air and called:

  “Chains of Krakkan!”

  The crimson chains shed toward Voldemort, who spun and countered with:

  "Confringo!"

  The detonation bsted the cliffside, cracking stone and casting Strange backward.

  Voldemort floated toward the throne, cape billowing.

  "I seek not resurrection... but transcendence!" he roared.

  He raised both arms, chanting now in a blend of Latin and chaos tongue:

  "Exsurge, Thronus Rubrum... Sanguinem meum, potentiam tuam!"

  (Rise, Scarlet Throne... My blood, your power.)

  The throne bled magic—red, green, bck, and something else. A shadow of Wanda’s face screamed from the stone, twisting in torment.

  Wong (panting):

  "He’s binding her essence to his own. If he succeeds, he’ll become a vessel of both Chaos Magic and Dark Arts!"

  Strange stepped forward, bleeding from the temple, eyes fierce.

  "Then we unleash everything."

  He extended both hands and whispered:

  “Fmes of the Faltine…”

  “Vapors of Valtorr…”

  “By the Eye of Agamotto—show me his weakness.”

  Time slowed for Strange. He saw Voldemort’s soul—torn, cursed, full of Horcrux fractures. And now, anchored to the throne through a final link…

  A chaos-bound Horcrux.

  The throne was the st Horcrux.

  Strange turned to Wong:

  "He put his soul in the throne. If we destroy it—he falls."

  Wong nodded grimly.

  "Then we burn the mountain."

  Voldemort screamed, sensing their knowledge.

  "Crucio!"

  "Sectumsempra!"

  Curses flew like bdes. Wong spun through them with portals, deflecting with Shields of Seraphim, while Strange ascended, forming a storm of floating mandas.

  "By the Power of the Vishanti—break the throne!"

  The sky cracked.

  Scarlet lightning. Mystic fme. Death and time warping together.

  And at the center—

  The Scarlet Throne exploded.

  Stone, blood, and chaos screamed as the final Horcrux shattered.

  Voldemort fell to the ground, screaming, his magic unraveling.

  But he wasn’t dead… not yet.

  From the rubble, the shadow of Wanda’s will arose, shaped in fme and pain. It whispered to Strange.

  "He must be bound… or all realms fall."

  Strange nodded solemnly. He formed a containment sigil of all three sanctums—New York, London, Hong Kong.

  "By the Seal of the Vishanti—Tom, you are condemned."

  The seal smmed shut like a celestial prison.

  The mountain went silent.