The marble hall of the International Confederation of Wizards (ICW) glowed with quiet power. Curtains of translucent wards shimmered above every seat, filtering the light, and the vast ceiling projected a live illusion of constellations rotating above an arctic skyline—an homage to the neutrality and ancient magic of the organization, a reminder of the world's untamed corners.
Delegates from over forty magical enclaves filled the tiered circle. Witches, wizards, shamans, and magicians from every continent gathered beneath banners marked with their magical nation's sigils, a vibrant tapestry of global power. At the highest platform, the Council Elders stood beneath the unified symbol of the ICW.
High Chairman Magnus Vézrin stepped forward. He wore star-stitched robes and a crownless circlet of obsidian and silver, an emblem of his authority. When he raised a hand, the murmur of diplomacy, the low hum of a hundred languages and magical currents, fell to an abrupt, expectant silence.
"Welcome," he began, his voice amplified by arcane crystal, resonating with a deep, authoritative tone. "To the 238th Emergency Assembly of the International Confederation of Wizards."
The room listened, every eye fixed on him.
"Today's gathering was not scheduled, but necessity overrides comfort. We are not here to discuss trade, treaties, or scholastic exchange. We are here," Vézrin said, his voice darkening, the shift in his tone echoing the gravity of his words, "because as we truly know the age of gods never ended, and with them the campiones, and now a new, unpredictable force has entered our world. A new Campione has emerged."
A ripple of tension, palpable and cold, spread across the chamber. The delegates, accustomed to political maneuvering, stiffened at the mention of deities and The devil kings.
Godslayers
"The reason for this assembly is simple and urgent," Vézrin continued, gesturing to the enchanted projection orb in the center of the chamber.
It pulsed, expanded, and displayed an icy landscape—massive glaciers, dark volcanic cliffs, and frostbitten valleys of Iceland.
"Five weeks ago, an irregular magical surge was recorded off the coast near Iceland. The Mage Association and the Nordic Magical Council identified the signature as Heretic. But before they could investigate… the signature vanished."
Gasps, sharp and incredulous, echoed through the hall.
Elodie Mireille from France frowned, her elegant features tightening. "Vanished? Without a trace of conflict?" That was strange. Because when Hectic gods came down their very presence changed the environment. Natural disasters and untold deaths.
To hear that no changes and deaths followed after a descent was indeed strange and worrisome.
Vézrin nodded, his expression grim. "Precisely. No widespread destruction. No wreckage. The region remained physically intact. The assumption, a hopeful one, was that the Heretic God simply departed, returning to its own plane."
"And then?" asked the German representative, his voice clipped with impatience.
"Three days ago," Vézrin continued, the projection shifting to show seismic graphs, magical interference maps, and enchanted photographs of lightning storms tearing through unnatural auroras, "a second divine manifestation occurred—this time farther inland. Magical tremors of unprecedented scale, reality distortions that warped the very fabric of space, and what can only be described as myth-relic resonance echoed throughout Europe. A battle, Between god and devil king, occurred."
A hush fell over the assembly, heavier than before. The sheer power that seemed to be radiating from the mere projected images reminded every witch, wizard, and magician present just how far beyond their comprehension and control these divine conflicts truly were. The fear of gods was ancient, primal, and for good reason.
"The Heretic God is gone," Vézrin said, his voice low, impactful. "Slain."
A collective intake of breath.
"By whom?" asked Amari Keita from the African delegation, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.
"A Campione," Vézrin answered, the word hanging in the air like a pronouncement of fate. "A new Campione"
Disbelief surged through the room, quickly followed by a wave of alarm.
"A new Campione?" hissed a delegate from East Asia, the implications of such a development rippling through the established order.
"Confirmed," Vézrin said, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the delegates. "Unofficial. Unnamed. But alive. Active. And as seen capable."
He let that stark truth hang in the air, allowing its full weight to settle upon the assembly. "Furthermore," he added, his voice gaining a chilling edge, "it is now our firm conclusion that this newly emerged Campione was responsible for the first Heretic God's disappearance weeks ago. It is highly probable they became a Campione then, and have now claimed a second divine authority."
Murmurs returned in earnest, laced with genuine fear. Campiones were walking cataclysms, beings of immense, uncontrollable power.
While Winx communities didn't have much knowledge of them that was because the upper echelon tried not to make them worried but those who knew about them knew to fear them.
"For decades," Vézrin went on, his voice cutting through the rising din, "we've monitored Campiones across the globe. Each one is a walking disaster. Each one carrying the potential to raze cities by accident—or whim. Our policy has always been clear: control is not possible. But guidance, oversight, and awareness are. We've kept destruction minimal by understanding these beings before they act. We must identify this new Campione."
All eyes, heavy with expectation and thinly veiled demands, turned to the Mage Association's Icelandic branch, seated along the lower crescent of the chamber.
Their speaker, a sharp-eyed woman named Elísabet Hrafnsdóttir, stood slowly, her indigo cloak rustling softly.
"The event occurred on Icelandic soil," she said calmly, her voice steady despite the hundreds of eyes on her. "We confirm that a Heretic God did appear. We confirm its destruction. We confirm it was not done by any registered Winx or magical military force. We confirm… the existence of a Campione."
"Then name them!" demanded Zöllner, the German delegate, his voice booming. "So we can reach out. Prepare. This is a matter of global magical security!"
Elísabet met his gaze, unwavering. "We cannot."
"Why?!" asked Mireille, her composure cracking slightly. "You are obligated to provide this information!"
The Icelandic magician's voice remained steady, though a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor of awe underlay her words. "We were given strict instructions. The Campione made contact after the event and asked—no, commanded—that their identity remain secret. And we obeyed." She paused, letting the outrage build before delivering her explanation. "You did not feel what we felt. The pressure. The power. The way the ley lines bent around him. The earth itself pulsed with magic that has not walked in centuries. This is not a question of obedience. This is survival. To defy such a being, unknown and unaligned, would be an act of suicidal folly."
Vézrin raised a hand, his gesture cutting through the furious whispers that erupted. The delegates, though seething with frustration, knew better than to push further. The Mage Association, for all its Muggle origins, understood Campiones with a terrifying intimacy.
"Iceland's branch has provided documentation," Vézrin stated his voice firm. "But no name. No origin. We will not compel them further. We will not provoke a Campione we do not understand, not when the consequences could be catastrophic."
There was reluctant, grudging acceptance. The fear of the unknown Campione outweighed their political demands.
"Have they interfered with your nation since?" Dumbledore asked, his voice soft, almost conversational, yet cutting through the residual tension.
"No," Elísabet replied, shaking her head. "They left without further incident. But they are watching."
The word chilled the room, a silent, unsettling promise of a power that observed, unseen, and unconcerned with their rules.
"And do we know if this Campione has ties to any Winx group, nation, or council?" asked someone from the American faction, seeking to place the anomaly within a familiar framework.
Elísabet paused, her gaze distant. "…We do not believe they are of the Mage Association They are… new. Alone. A force unto themselves."
He said making sure to phrase it in a way not to point in any direction that may cost him.
The chamber quieted once more, the implications settling like a shroud.
Vézrin closed the orb projection, plunging the center of the room into shadow.
"Then this is our warning. A new Campione walks the earth. Unknown. Unclaimed. Unaligned."
He looked to the gathered nations, his expression somber.
"May our restraint last longer than our curiosity, for the sake of us all."
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