"So, you two are members of that Dark Wizard organisation called the School of Withering?"
A calm voice suddenly echoed through the woods, as though it had been waiting there for a long time.
Morrigan and Isabella spun around like startled birds, their wands instantly sliding from their sleeves into their hands and pointing towards the speaker.
A man in simple black robes stood silently a few steps away, his presence almost blending into the surrounding forest.
"Who are you?!"
Isabella shrieked, the tip of her wand flickering with unstable, dangerous light.
Morrigan's cloudy eyes were filled with shock and vigilance. He could sense the man's unfathomable magic, far exceeding their combined power.
"Answer my question."
Sagres's expression remained calm, but his tone carried an oppressive weight.
"This has nothing to do with you, sir!" Morrigan hissed, while simultaneously giving Isabella a look.
The two were just about to raise their wands at the same time.
However, Sagres was faster.
Or rather, he did not move at all.
Just as their magic was about to erupt, the surrounding trees seemed to come alive. Flexible branches shot forward like giant pythons, instantly coiling around their wrists, ankles, and torsos before tightening sharply.
The tremendous force made their bones creak, and their wands flew from their hands.
Several thinner branches moved like living creatures, precisely wrapping around their mouths and constricting tightly, cutting off both their screams and their spells.
"Mm! Mmm!"
The two struggled desperately, their eyes filled with disbelief, terror, and pain.
The trees binding them were not magical constructs, but real forest trees. Yet under the man's silent control, they had become a deadly cage.
Sagres slowly walked towards the two nearly immobilised figures, his gaze calmly sweeping across their faces, twisted from suffocation.
"It seems we'll need to find another way to talk."
He drew his wand and gently pointed it at Morrigan's forehead.
Uncontrollable fear instantly filled the old wizard's eyes. He frantically twisted his head away, but he could not avoid the seemingly slow yet inescapable touch.
The moment the tip of Sagres's wand touched his skin, he activated Legilimency.
It was a violent invasion of the mind.
Morrigan's body began trembling violently. His eyes rolled back, and a strangled gurgling sound came from his throat.
Secret gatherings, strange rituals, research into plagues, deep-rooted hatred of the Church, and information about other members poured into Sagres's mind like water from a burst dam.
A moment later, Sagres withdrew his wand.
Morrigan went limp as though all the bones had vanished from his body. If not for the branches restraining him, he would have collapsed to the ground, capable only of letting out unconscious groans.
Sagres turned his gaze towards Isabella.
The girl's eyes were filled with despair.
The same process happened again.
The tip of Sagres's wand lightly touched her forehead, and he forcibly read through her memories.
"Just as I thought..."
Sagres murmured to himself, confirming his suspicions.
The two were indeed members of the School of Withering, a loose but extremely dangerous Dark Wizard organisation devoted to studying death, plague, and forbidden magic.
In short, they were anti-human and antisocial.
What puzzled Sagres, however, was that the History of Magic he knew from later generations contained no record of the School of Withering.
It seemed to have been little more than a minor force active in a specific period and region before eventually disappearing into the long course of history.
From the memories of the two, Sagres learned that the School of Withering was far from united, and its members pursued very different goals.
Some of these Dark Wizards sought power, some sought revenge, while others simply delighted in destruction.
Their numbers, however, were greater than Sagres had expected, and they were scattered throughout Europe.
Moreover, one unexpected discovery caught his attention.
He found the same name in both of their memories: Noctis.
This member of the School of Withering, who happened to share a name with Sagres's raven, was currently taking advantage of the unrest at Durmstrang to profit from the chaos.
"Noctis..."
Sagres softly repeated the name, a playful expression appearing on his face.
This journey through time was becoming more and more interesting.
After casually draining two more sources of magical power, Sagres paid no further attention to the two mentally broken Dark Wizards and silently set off in pursuit of the Witch Hunting Squad.
The two had lost their ability to cast magic and remained bound by the forest. Their fate was already sealed.
They would either slowly die in their weakened state or be discovered and eaten by passing wild beasts.
...
The setting sun dyed the sky blood-red.
The Witch Hunting Squad had set up camp in a forest clearing beside a small stream.
At the centre of the camp, the tent belonging to the cleric leader was particularly conspicuous. It was made of thick canvas and silk, spacious inside, and even had a finely crafted rug laid before the entrance.
Warm light and the faint scent of incense drifted from within. Its comfort and luxury far exceeded anything an ordinary villager could ever hope to possess in a lifetime.
By contrast, the knights' tents were much simpler and arranged around the central camp in a defensive formation.
Farther out, the prisoners were chained together like a string of withered fruit and casually tied to the base of a large tree, their hunger and exhaustion completely ignored.
In one corner of the camp, a knight drew his gleaming greatsword and cleanly killed the ox taken from the village, the one said to be "unbelievably strong".
The animal collapsed with a dull thud.
Several servants immediately stepped forward and began skilfully skinning and butchering it.
Nearby, cooking smoke curled into the air while a thick soup of dried meat simmered in a large pot. Its rich aroma spread throughout the camp, making the prisoners' empty stomachs ache even more.
The so-called "wizards", linked together by chains, sat listlessly on the ground with vacant expressions, as though their souls had long since left their bodies.
One of the Archpriest's deputies glanced at them with disgust.
He casually gestured to a knight beside him and whispered a few words.
A cruel smile immediately appeared on the knight's face.
He strode over to the prisoners, raised his iron-clad boot, and viciously kicked several of those nearest to him.
"Who gave you permission to sit down? You filthy maggots! All of you, get up!"
His roar echoed through the camp, spittle flying from his mouth.
The prisoners were knocked aside, groaning in pain as they struggled to stand.
But the chains binding them together and their weakened bodies made every movement slow and clumsy.
The knight seemed to revel in the feeling of controlling their lives and deaths.
His gaze swept across the terrified prisoners before finally settling on a particularly emaciated young man whose eyes were filled with despair.
He grabbed the young man by the hair and roughly dragged him out from among the others, the chains clattering loudly.
"What was that look you just gave me?" the knight sneered.
His iron-gauntleted fist slammed into the young man's stomach.
"Urgh!"
The young man cried out and collapsed, curling up on the ground.
But that was only the beginning.
The knight planted his boot on the young man's fingers and ground down.
The faint cracking of bones was followed by a shrill scream, which the knight seemed to enjoy like music.
From time to time, he struck the young man's back with his scabbard. At other moments, he hauled him upright only to deliver several heavy slaps across his face.
The other knights and members of the clergy watched from nearby.
Some remained indifferent.
Others even let out quiet chuckles, treating the brutal torture as evening entertainment.
Before long, the young man had been beaten black and blue. Blood seeped from his nose and mouth as he lay convulsing on the ground.
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