Stern paused for a moment, suddenly realizing something.
He reached out to press his left shoulder, through the firm jacket, he could vaguely detect an unnatural slight bulge underneath the skin.
Stern closed his eyes, a scene flashing through his mind of Headmaster Fontana with a concerned look, patting his shoulder.
No wonder...the organization's stronghold was so secretive, yet wizards managed to break in without any warning.
Just a few seconds ago, a dark suspicion crossed his heart, thinking that Bloren or Abigail had betrayed the organization.
At this moment, he finally understood, the traitor who brought calamity into the nest—
Was himself, planted with Tracking Magic!
He usually wouldn't be so careless.
Every time he returned to the stronghold, Stern would meticulously check like a cautious cheetah, changing all clothes and shoes to ensure no traces that might endanger the nest were left.
If he had done the same yesterday, even if the stronghold's exposure couldn't be prevented, he could at least gain precious time—enough to inform all his companions to evacuate, letting the wizards find nothing!
But last night...
Last night he was engulfed by agony, Bloren's cold questioning echoed in his ears.
The organization's beliefs, the safety of companions, the hatred and basic morals running through life fiercely tore at his mind, almost leading to his collapse.
He plunged into chaotic thoughts, not even knowing when he fell asleep.
It was just a moment of negligence! He only made that one mistake!
But the result was so tragic that Stern couldn't handle it.
He seemed to see the corpses of his companions scattered before him, overwhelming heartache surged in! Even when caught by the Auror, Stern had no strength to resist.
While being pressed by two Aurors, stumbling past Fontana, Stern stopped, his eyes bloodshot and dark as he looked at the elderly man.
"Why you?" he asked quietly, "Why did even you deceive me?"
Fontana lowered his gaze to him, his eyes carrying complex emotions.
After a moment of silence, he slowly said, "I gave you a choice, Rolando… I waited until noon… that was the last window I left for you."
Stern recalled the perfunctory talks he had with the headmaster before, his expression slightly shifted.
He opened his mouth but didn't know what else he could say.
Fontana stepped forward slightly, pressing Stern's shoulder.
At this moment, the young man seemed to have a conditioned emotional response, subconsciously dodged, but didn't manage to avoid.
Fontana lifted his Tracking Spell, then said, "In thirty-seven years of teaching, I've seen too many prodigies go astray. But you're the one that pains me the most—"
His voice suddenly became hoarse and low as if dyed with deep sorrow:
"Rolando, you should have been Ilvermorny's pride."
Stern lowered his head, disheveled hair covering his painful and twisted expression.
He was like a puppet that had lost its soul, pushed by the Aurors toward the exit.
The originally dark passage was now bright as daylight, Laira Picquery raised her eyebrow slightly:
"Rolando Stern, didn't expect to see you here."
Seeing he hadn't responded, she stepped forward slightly, lowering her voice:
"Tell us Bloren's whereabouts, Stern, you still have a chance to reduce your sentence!"
Stern suddenly let out a laugh from his throat, raising his blurry eyes to look at Laira:
"Bloren? I would love to know...where exactly he is..."
…
On the deep underground tracks, an old, paint-peeling dark green train clanked along.
The narrow and cramped underground passage dug for mining years ago, with the depletion of minerals, these old rails had been abandoned for years, yet secretly maintained well, even widened some.
In the narrow train windows, "passengers'" faces were occasionally illuminated by the flashing lights inside the passage.
An ugly Troll hugged its knees, squeezing itself into the carriage pitifully, its head swaying with the train's movement.
After traveling for an unknown duration, the train rushed out of the tunnel, the view suddenly brightened!
Intense, pure white light instantly filled the entire sight, forming a stark contrast to the previous darkness.
The train slowly stopped at an extremely clean station, the walls and floor built with white stone slabs, light sources set around overhead and on the walls illuminating the underground station distinctly.
On the platform, a man in a sharp suit stood beside the train, wearing sunglasses, his posture tall and straight, hands naturally folded before him, seeming to have waited for quite some time.
The carriage door silently slid open, through the open door, it could be seen the train interior was not as outdated as the exterior, all facilities even surpass New York's currently running subways in advancement.
Yodel Bronlin was the first to step out, his gaze calmly swept over the man receiving him, nodding slightly.
Next was Illari, clutching a briefcase tightly in his arms, looking nervously around, appearing very uneasy.
Then came the endless stream of Poppets.
The handsome Vampires exuding elegance, especially a silver-haired girl whose waist-length hair was as exquisite as a doll, immediately attracting the suit man's gaze upon appearance.
The Werewolves, with muscles bulging, fur coarse and hard, the leader let out a deep growl, the rest of the Werewolf Poppets all carried a wild, impatient agitation.
Finally trailing behind was a group of Troll Poppets, emitting peculiar hissing noises, as they appeared a strong stench like swamp mixed with rotten meat spread with them.
The Troll swung its massive wooden stick, gazing maliciously at the suit man, as if eager to give his head a strike.
Beside, the Werewolves and Vampires also instinctively let their eyes fall on his neck and heart.
The suited man, pale-faced, said in a low voice: "Bronlin, keep your things in check!"
"Rest assured, without command, they won't act recklessly."
Bronlin waved nonchalantly, the Poppets instantly calmed down.
The suit man's eyes slightly shifted.
He stepped forward, squeezing a programmed smile on his bloodless face:
"Mr. Bronlin, a long journey. I am Mark Paul, Sir's special assistant, responsible for receiving you and your... 'cargo.'
As he spoke, his gaze shifted to the Poppet Legion, eyes carrying some scrutiny, and a hint of faint fear and greed.
"Dare I ask, these are indeed Poppets...not real Dark Creatures, right?"
Assistant Paul asked, struggling to resist the urge to cover his nose.
"Of course, real Trolls wouldn't obey anyone's commands." Illari said nervously.
Bronlin said: "Mr. Paul, I hope to meet Sir Stonefield immediately. There are some cooperation details I believe we need to finalize face to face."