Chapter 61 Peter was so frightened he wet himself on the spot
Peter Pettigrew lay naked on the cold grass.
The pain of forcibly reversing his Animagus transformation had not yet passed.
His muscles twitched uncontrollably.
His obese body wriggled in the mud and weeds.
The autumn night wind was bitterly cold.
It scraped against his bare skin like knives.
He took large, greedy gulps of the freezing air into his lungs.
A leaky, wheezing sound came from his throat.
Muddy water glued his eyes shut.
He laboriously raised his heavy head and blinked.
A few drops of mud mixed with sweat fell down his eyelashes.
His vision barely regained a shred of clarity.
A pair of immaculate black leather boots stopped in front of him.
The edges of the boots featured dark silver metal buckles.
The leather surface glinted coldly in the faint moonlight.
Peter's gaze crawled upward along the pair of boots.
The hem of a pitch-black trench coat fluttered gently in the wind.
Finally, he met the face of a young man.
His blonde hair was slightly disheveled by the wind.
That pair of heterochromatic pupils, one black and one gray, looked down at him condescendingly.
The gray mist deep within his right eye swirled slowly.
There was no anger.
There was no superfluous emotion whatsoever.
It was just like looking at a pile of stinking garbage.
Peter's brain emitted a buzzing sound.
His heart slammed fiercely inside his fat-filled chest cavity.
It beat so hard that spots danced before his eyes.
He recognized this person.
Hiding in Ron's pocket usually, he had seen this blonde youth countless times.
He had seen how this person hung the Professor on the wall.
He had seen how the entire Slytherin and even pure-blood families groveled at this person's feet like dogs.
The true ruler of this school.
A Dark Lord who treated human lives like blades of grass.
For twelve years, Peter had lived like a rat.
His courage had long since turned into that of a genuine little mouse.
He was afraid of Sirius coming to seek revenge on him.
But he was even more terrified of the youth before him who exuded an abyss-like aura.
Back when he knelt at Lord Voldemort's feet and kissed the hem of his robe,
he had felt the oppressive might of that Dark Lord.
Lord Voldemort's terror was insidious, carrying a mischievous taste for torture.
But the youth before him was different.
This was a pure law of destruction.
Whenever he wished, he could tear a soul into pieces and stuff it into a fire to burn.
"No... Don't..."
Peter's lips trembled violently.
His upper and lower teeth clacked together, making a chattering sound.
He wanted to beg for mercy.
But his tongue was so stiff it completely refused to obey.
"I... I am useful..."
He stammered, his voice hoarse and ugly, carrying a heavy crying tone.
"Don't kill me... I beg you..."
He laboriously propped up his upper body with his arms, trying to embrace that pair of leather boots.
Arthur did not move.
The gray mist in his right eye glowed slightly.
A tangible Soul Law pressure slammed directly onto the top of Peter's head.
Peter's body, which had barely propped itself halfway up, was directly pressed back down into the mud.
His chin struck a stone heavily, biting his lip open.
The taste of blood spread in his mouth.
That pressure was too terrifying.
It directly penetrated his flesh and blood, pressing deep within his consciousness.
Peter felt as if his skull was about to be violently crushed by this force.
He remembered the explosion back then when he blew up Muggles in the alleyway.
But compared to the fear now, that was practically like a small firecracker.
His pathetic desire to survive completely collapsed.
The string of his sanity snapped with a pop.
His bladder sphincter completely went out of control in extreme terror.
A stream of warm liquid sprayed directly out.
It flowed down the base of his thighs onto the grass.
The dripping sound was very distinct in the quiet night.
The yellowish liquid soaked the soil beneath him.
Mixed with the moisture of the rain, it exuded a foul, pungent stench.
It was even rising with a faint heat.
He was so frightened he peed himself on the spot.
Arthur's brows furrowed immediately.
A trace of undisguised disgust flashed in the depths of his eyes.
He took a small step backward.
Avoiding the disgusting liquid spreading across the grass.
This kind of mud hiding in the gutter.
Even if it turned back into a human, it couldn't change that nauseating habit.
It didn't even qualify for him to use the Soul Law.
Peter lay prone in the puddle of urine and mud.
He couldn't care about any face or dignity at all.
He only knew that if he didn't grab onto something, he would die immediately.
He stretched out his right hand.
That right hand, missing an index finger and covered in yellow mud, reached desperately forward.
Trying to grab the hem of Arthur's robe.
"Filthy thing."
Arthur's voice was cold to the extreme.
He did not retreat further.
Instead, he directly raised his right foot.
The black leather boots carried an irresistible brute force.
He stepped down fiercely.
"Crack!"
A crisp sound of bone breaking exploded across the grass.
Arthur's sole precisely stepped onto Peter's right wrist.
Directly driving the wrist into the soft mud.
This time no magic was used.
Pure physical strength, coupled with the pressure of the hard boot sole.
Peter's wrist bones shattered on the spot.
The shards of broken bone pierced through the skin and stabbed into the mud.
Dark red blood surged out instantly, mixing with the muddy water on the ground.
"Ah—!"
Peter let out a heart-rending scream.
The sound was so loud it startled a few night owls in the distance into flight.
The pain caused his entire body to arch up like a shrimp.
His left hand tightly covered his crushed right arm.
Rolling frantically on the ground.
Mud smeared all over his face.
Tears and snot flowed into his mouth; he opened his mouth wide, leaving only the sound of gasping for cold air.
Arthur retracted his foot.
He rubbed the sole of his boot casually against the clean grass nearby.
Wiping away the tiny bit of blood stained on it.
Crippling this hand meant this rat would never be able to hold a wand again.
Even the most basic ability to resist was stripped away completely clean.
He could only writhe on the ground like a crippled grub.
Deep within his mind.
The system's cold mechanical voice rang incessantly.
A red light screen flickered at the edge of his retina.
[Target individual Peter Pettigrew's psychological defense line has completely shattered.]
[Extreme physiological collapse and incontinence produced.]
[Large amount of Fear Value credited.]
Arthur didn't even look at the settlement panel.
This kind of cowardly traitor contributed Fear Value that carried a cowardly sourness.
The quality was extremely poor.
After squeezing him dry this time, he wouldn't even have the value of acting as an ATM in the future.
He couldn't be bothered to look at this ball of rolling rotten meat on the ground anymore.
Looking at such garbage even one more glance felt like dirtying one's eyes.
Burning him directly was the most trouble-free option.
Arthur raised his right hand.
On the pad of his slender index finger, a spark of pure black fire suddenly burst out.
Fiendfyre.
The surrounding temperature spiked instantly.
The rainwater on the ground hissed from the baking, rising as white steam.
Peter saw that cluster of black flame.
His screams stuck in his throat.
He forgot the excruciating pain in his wrist, his eyes staring fixedly at that speck of spark.
The shadow of death completely enveloped him.
He wanted to crawl backward, but his broken right hand couldn't exert any strength at all.
He could only kick wildly in the mud with his legs in vain.
The Fiendfyre at Arthur's fingertips was just about to fall downward.
Just at this moment.
A burst of rapid rustling sounds from the bushes came from not far away.
Accompanied by heavy beastly panting.
"Woof!"
An aggressive dog barking exploded in the dark night.
The sound revealed madness and hatred that had been suppressed for twelve years.
Arthur stopped the action in his hand.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze crossing over Peter on the ground to look at the pitch-black woods on the right.
The Fiendfyre at his fingertips did not extinguish and was still beating quietly.
The bushes at the edge of the Forbidden Forest were violently knocked open by something.
The sounds of branches and leaves breaking echoed disorderly.
A huge black dog rushed out of the woods.
Its fur was messy, covered in burrs and mud.
Red light glowed in the black dog's eyes.
Locking tightly onto Peter Pettigrew on the ground.
Its four limbs pushed off the ground.
Its huge body soared directly into the air, pouncing toward this side.
In mid-air.
The black dog's body underwent a violent distortion.
Its bones deformed and elongated.
Its black fur rapidly retracted beneath its skin.
"Bang."
A pair of bare feet slammed heavily onto the grass.
Crushing a few withered, yellow weeds.
Sirius Black stood before Arthur.
The prisoner uniform on him had long since torn into rags, barely hanging onto his emaciated body.
His ribs were distinct, almost piercing through his skin.
His hair was like a ball of knotted dead grass, disheveled over his shoulders.
His cheeks were deeply sunken, and his eye sockets were dark.
He looked just like a skeleton crawling out of a grave.
He stood less than five meters away from Arthur.
Panting heavily.
His chest rose and fell violently.
Those bloodshot eyes first stared fixedly at the fat man with the broken hand on the ground.
Then.
Sirius slowly rolled his eyeballs.
His gaze fell upon the blonde youth standing to the side.
Chapter 62 Sirius? Sell your life to me for ten years
Sirius stood on the damp grass.
His chest heaved violently.
He stared fixedly at Peter lying in the mud.
The muscles on that skull-like face, ravaged by twelve years of Azkaban torture, twitched wildly.
"Wormtail..."
Sirius squeezed these words out from his throat.
The voice sounded like two rusty pieces of iron scraping hard against each other.
Twelve years of hatred rushed into his brain all at once at this moment.
He panted heavily, the bloodshot veins in his eyes densely terrifying.
He took a step forward.
The sole of his foot stepped into a puddle, splashing a patch of dirty water.
Only then did he remove his gaze from Peter and look at the blond teenager standing to the side.
And the beating Black spark at the teenager's fingertips.
Sirius didn't know Arthur at all.
Twelve years of prison life made him completely ignorant of the outside world.
He only saw a student wearing a school uniform windbreaker blocking in front of his prey.
"Get lost... kid."
Sirius clenched his back teeth.
He drew a wand from the pocket of his tattered prisoner uniform.
That was an old wand he stole in Hogsmeade Village, the surface of the wood covered in scratches.
The tip of the wand pointed at Arthur's chest.
Sirius's hand was shaking.
Due to long-term malnutrition, he found it somewhat difficult even to grip the wooden stick tightly.
But the desperate, mad-dog momentum on his body was very strong.
"Hand him... over to me."
He coughed twice, coughing up a mouthful of bloody spit.
"This... this is my business with him. If you don't want to die, stay away!"
He let out a roar, rushing forward with his scrawny legs.
Wanting to directly bypass Arthur to grab Peter on the ground.
The Black fire at Arthur's fingertips burned quietly.
He looked at this madman holding a broken wand.
This was the last heir of the House of Black.
Like a stray dog covered in fleas.
Arthur didn't even have the interest to raise his hand.
"Azkaban has ruined your brain."
His voice was flat.
The gray fog in his right eye suddenly accelerated its flow.
A materialized heavy pressure of magic.
Smashed down directly from mid-air.
No incantation was chanted.
The air emitted a dull hum.
"Boom."
Sirius felt an iron mountain suddenly press down on his shoulders.
His emaciated body simply couldn't withstand this kind of force.
His legs bent sharply.
"Crack."
He gritted his teeth desperately, trying to use the wand to support his body.
The old wand stabbed into the muddy ground.
Instantly snapped into two halves by the immense force.
Sharp wood splinters pierced into his palm, blood flowing out.
Sirius knelt heavily on the grass.
His knees smashed into the thick mud.
Muddy water splashed onto his chin and tattered collar.
He propped himself up tightly on the ground with both hands, the veins on his neck bulging one by one.
He tried to raise his head.
But that invisible coercion pressed firmly against the back of his head.
Pressing him down so that he could only look at Arthur's spotless Black leather boots.
And a few withered yellow weeds beside the leather boots.
Peter lay not far away.
Seeing Sirius pinned to the ground in a single move.
He made a few strange gurgling sounds in his throat, not knowing whether it was joy or despair.
His broken right wrist was still bleeding.
Peter rolled his eyes, dragging his broken hand, trying to crawl like a bug into the bushes beside him.
Arthur didn't look back.
His left foot retreated half a step, and his boot heel stepped precisely on Peter's ankle.
"Ah!"
Peter let out a miserable scream, rolling around in the muddy water in pain.
No longer daring to move at all.
"Black."
Arthur looked down at the panting man beneath his feet.
"You are currently a wanted death row inmate."
"If I burn this rat to ashes, you can only be a wanted dog hiding in the sewers for the rest of your life."
Sirius froze.
He breathed heavily, rainwater dripping down his matted hair.
Dripping into the mire.
"You... who on earth are you..."
He forced out these words with difficulty.
This kind of sense of oppression, he had never even seen on Lord Voldemort.
"This is not important."
Arthur took out a blank piece of parchment from his robe pocket.
The parchment floated in the night wind to in front of Sirius.
Hovering directly below his line of sight.
"I lack a biting dog."
Arthur looked at him.
"This rat, plus a chance to wash away your grievances."
"In exchange for you selling your life to me for ten years."
Sirius panted heavily.
He looked at Peter close at hand.
That traitor who caused the deaths of James and Lily was right in front of him.
As long as he could kill Wormtail, he could even give up his life.
Let alone selling his life.
But he was a Black.
The unyielding arrogance in his bones made him instinctively want to refuse this condescending handout.
"I... I won't be a dog for people..."
He bit through his lip.
Warm blood flowed into his mouth, carrying a rust taste.
"I myself... can kill him..."
Arthur sneered.
The mockery in the voice stung Sirius's eardrum.
"What do you take to kill him?"
The magic exerted on Sirius increased by another fraction.
His bones emitted an overburdened creaking sound.
Sirius's chest almost pressed against the muddy ground.
His lungs were crushed flat, and breathing became very difficult.
Every inhalation carried a bloody whistling sound.
"Sign it."
Arthur's voice carried the power of rules that could not be defied.
"Or I'll crush this rat's head right now."
"Then watch you be sucked into an empty shell by a Dementor."
Sirius turned his eyeballs with difficulty.
Looked at Peter rolling all over the ground.
Peter's wretched face was full of fear of death.
Hatred finally crushed Sirius's remaining pride.
For James.
To prove his innocence.
He slowly raised his right hand, which had been pierced and bled by wood splinters.
His arm trembled as if it were cramping.
He pressed his bloody thumb onto the bottom of the parchment.
The moment his blood touched the paper surface.
A dark red magical contract array lit up.
The soul oath was established.
The parchment turned into a red light, drilling into Arthur's cuff.
Arthur withdrew the magical coercion.
Sirius collapsed in the mud, drenched in sweat.
He felt an extra heavy shackle in his soul.
With just a thought from Arthur, he would wish he were dead.
He lowered his head in humiliation.
Closing his eyes, he masked the unwillingness and dejection deep in his eyes.
Twelve years of persistence traded for an indenture of servitude.
Arthur looked at the two people on the ground.
One a hand-broken traitor, one a contracted prisoner.
He took out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers.
Feeling that tonight's amusement should just about end.
Right at this moment.
Outside the lawn at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a flurry of hurried footsteps came.
Soles stepping into puddles, water splashing everywhere.
And the snapping sound of robes rolling violently in the wind.
Someone was running wildly.
"Black!"
A roar full of fanaticism and hatred exploded in the dark night.
The voice trembled with excitement.
Even carrying a trace of manic crack in the voice.
Snape rushed out of the back door of the Castle.
He raised his wand.
His greasy Black hair flew wildly in the wind, covering half his face.
On that chronically gloomy face, there was now a distorted ecstasy.
He saw the name on the Marauder's Map while patrolling at night.
Running wildly all the way over.
He had finally caught this chief culprit who caused Lily's death.
Snape breathed heavily.
The tip of the wand shone with a lethal light.
He didn't even notice the teenager in the Blackwindbreaker next to him at the first moment.
All of his attention.
Was nailed firmly onto Sirius who was sprawling in the mud.
Chapter 63 Severus, I Can Resurrect Lily
A blinding, cold light lit up at the tip of the wand.
Severus was panting heavily.
His chest rose and fell violently, and his ragged Blackrobes flapped wildly against his calves in the night wind.
He stepped on the water-logged grass.
His leather shoes snapped a few dead branches, making a crisp crunching sound.
"Black."
Severus squeezed the name out from his throat.
His voice was as hoarse as if it had been ground on sandpaper.
It carried the scent of aged poison fermented over twelve years.
He took a step forward.
His sole slipped in the mud.
He stumbled to steady his balance, not caring at all that the muddy water splashed and soiled his trouser legs.
In those permanently hollow Black eyes, there was now only twisted ecstasy.
Bloodshot veins crawled all over the whites of his eyes.
Sirius Black collapsed in the muddy ground.
He had just been forced to sign a ten-year soul contract, and every bone in his body still ached as if it were falling apart.
Hearing this voice, he turned his head with difficulty.
"Snivellus…"
Sirius Black twitched the corner of his mouth.
He spat out a mouthful of muddy bloody water and let out a weak chuckle.
Even though he was now lying on the ground like a dead dog, the rebellious streak in his bones still couldn't be changed.
"You're so slow… Only knowing how to sniff behind other people's asses…"
The muscles in Severus Snape's cheeks twitched violently.
The anger directly burned through the string in his mind called sanity.
He walked forward quickly.
The tip of the wand pressed directly against the center of Sirius Black's brow.
Pressing down hard, the wood punctured that layer of filthy skin, oozing a drop of blood.
"You still have the face to laugh."
Severus Snape's voice shook violently.
"You caused her death… You betrayed them!"
His chest rose and fell violently, and spit sprayed onto Sirius Black's face.
"Every night I think about how to peel your skin off piece by piece."
Sirius Black closed his eyes.
He couldn't be bothered to explain.
He had even signed a contract to be a dog for that blonde Dark Lord.
Now, being mocked a few times by Severus Snape, he only felt his whole body turning cold, and didn't even have the strength to be angry.
Severus Snape looked at Sirius Black, who was closing his eyes waiting for death.
A perverted sense of pleasure welled up in his heart.
The knuckles of his fingers gripping the wand turned white.
His nails dug deeply into the flesh of his palms, leaving bloody marks.
"The Dementor's Kiss is too cheap for you."
Severus Snape gritted his back teeth.
A dangerous dark red glow began to gather at the tip of the wand.
That was the starting posture of Sectumsempra.
He wanted to cut this man's flesh into hundreds of pieces and watch him bleed his last drop of blood.
"Sectum…"
The first syllable of the spell had just rolled out of his throat.
"Shut up."
A flat voice sounded nearby.
The voice wasn't loud.
But hearing it on the grassy field in the dark night, it was clearer than thunder.
Severus Snape's spell was abruptly stuck in his throat.
He was as if poured with a basin of ice water.
His fanatical brain cooled down by half in an instant.
He suddenly turned his head.
Just now his vision had been entirely occupied by SiriusBlack.
He hadn't noticed the Black figure standing a few meters away at all.
Arthur Grindelwald was wearing that pure Black knee-length trench coat.
His hands were shoved into his pockets.
His blonde hair swayed slightly in the night wind.
Those different-colored pupils—one Black, one gray—were looking at him coldly.
Severus Snape's breathing stagnated.
He recognized those eyes.
In the underground corridors, in the Potion Classclassroom, in the second-floor bathroom.
Every time these eyes appeared, they would grind his dignity and common sense into powder.
Cold sweat suddenly broke out from his forehead.
Dripping down his greasy sideburns.
Severus Snape subconsciously pressed the wand down a bit.
But he was unwilling.
Twelve years of hatred were right beneath the wand.
As long as he finished chanting that spell, everything would be over.
He had waited for this day for too long, so long that every night he had to rely on Potion to close his eyes.
"He… He is an escaped convict."
Severus Snape spoke.
His voice was tight, and his tongue trembled in his mouth.
"He is a murderer… He betrayed…"
He stuttered, trying to find a reasonable excuse for his killing.
Wanting to retain the last bit of the right to kill in front of the Dark Lord.
Arthur Grindelwald's gaze turned cold.
The gray mist in his right eye slowly turned half a circle.
The surrounding air instantly became as heavy as an iron block.
The Dark Lord's coercion smashed directly onto SeverusSnape's shoulders.
Severus Snape's legs bent.
He gritted his teeth hard, forcing himself not to kneel down.
The bones of his knees made a creaking friction sound.
"Are you teaching me how to do things?"
There was a hint of impatience in Arthur Grindelwald's voice.
This group of people living in the past had brains filled with garbage crammed with those boring hatreds.
He didn't even look at Severus Snape.
He just looked at that small puddle of water on the ground.
"This dog just signed an indenture."
"He is my property now. His life belongs to me."
Arthur Grindelwald's words directly sentenced SiriusBlack's ownership.
The muscles on Severus Snape's face twisted.
His eyes were filled with bloodshot veins.
He panted heavily, making a tearing, wheezing sound in his chest.
He saw another person lying in the muddy water beside them.
That fat, obscene naked man.
Peter Pettigrew.
Peter Pettigrew's right wrist had been crushed to pieces, and he was lying on the ground rolling his eyes.
Severus Snape's brain operated crazily at this moment.
He wasn't a fool.
Sirius Black wasn't dead, yet Peter Pettigrew was lying here like mud.
The truth of back then struck his mind like a bolt of lightning.
Who the real traitor was was clear at a glance.
But the fire in his heart simply couldn't be extinguished.
Even if Sirius Black wasn't the traitor.
If it weren't for this fool acting on his own to change the Secret-Keeper back then.
Lily Potter wouldn't have died at all.
This account, he still reckoned it on Sirius Black's head.
"I beg you…"
Severus Snape's voice cracked.
His hand holding the wand was shaking.
"Let me kill him… Or kill that fat guy…"
He was almost using all the strength in his whole body to plead.
For revenge, he even put down the airs of a Potion Master.
Arthur Grindelwald felt that this entanglement was very uninteresting.
A pathetic wretch living in the shadow of dead people.
Trapped for a lifetime by an outdated oath.
"Put down the wand, Severus."
Arthur Grindelwald pronounced Severus Snape's name.
Severus Snape didn't move.
He stared fixedly at the two people on the ground.
Hatred gnawed at his heart like a poisonous snake.
He wanted to resist.
Even if he were burned to ashes by Fiendfyre, he would kill these two rats today.
The red light at the tip of the wand lit up again.
Arthur Grindelwald looked at his appearance of being about to go crazy.
He didn't get angry.
He just used a cold tone, as if talking about the weather.
Threw out a sentence.
"If you still want to see Lily Evans again."
"Then put down the wand for me."
This sentence was very light.
Blown away by the wind.
But slamming into Severus Snape's ears, it was like detonating a hundred Dungbombs.
Severus Snape's body suddenly stiffened.
That red light flickered violently at the tip of the wand.
And directly went out.
He thought he had heard wrong.
The sound of wind, the sound of rain, the groans on the ground.
In this instant, all vanished from his world.
Only those four words remained in his brain.
Lily Evans.
This name was the absolute taboo in his life.
It was also the scar he didn't dare to touch even in his dreams for twelve years.
Locked tightly at the deepest layer of his soul by his thickest Occlumency.
Now, it was casually yanked out by this blonde teenager.
Severus Snape turned his head.
His neck was as stiff as a rusted machine.
Making a soft creaking sound.
He stared fixedly at Arthur Grindelwald.
Those permanently dead and hollow Black eyes were now wide open.
His eye sockets instantly turned blood red.
So red as if blood was about to drip out.
"You… What did you say…"
He couldn't even find his voice.
He could only squeeze out a few weak breathy sounds in his throat.
His lips trembled violently, his upper and lower teeth clattered together, biting through the inner wall.
Blood seeps down the corner of his mouth.
Resurrection.
This word was a non-existent lie in the wizarding world.
Albus Dumbledore had told him that dead people were dead people.
Any magic attempting to summon back the souls of the dead only brought back freaks and tragedies.
He believed it.
So he lived like a walking corpse for twelve years.
But the one saying these words now.
Was Arthur Grindelwald.
A Dark Lord who could step on a thousand-year Basilisklike a dog and extract a blood curse with bare hands.
Severus Snape looked at those different-colored pupils—one Black, one gray.
He remembered that Soul Law he felt outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts Class classroom.
That eye of a god that could see through the boundaries of life and death.
If it was him.
If it really was this monster who ignored all rules.
Perhaps… it could really be done.
Once this crazy thought broke through the soil.
It twined around Severus Snape's sanity like vines.
Twisting all his common sense, all his pride, all his hatred.
Into powder.
What was Sirius Black.
What was Peter Pettigrew.
As long as he could see her again, even just for a glance.
Even if he were immediately sent to hell to be burned by fire for a thousand years, he would be willing and content.
Severus Snape's breathing became short.
He was like a traveler who had been thirsty in the desert for over a dozen days with his throat smoking.
Suddenly seeing a pool of clear spring water.
The strength in his hands completely dissipated.
"Clatter."
That Black wand slipped from between his fingers.
Falling into the water-logged muddy ground.
Staining with filth.
Severus Snape didn't even look at the wand that had fallen to the ground.
His legs went soft.
No longer able to support the weight of his body.
"Thud."
A muffled impact sounded.
Severus Snape's both knees smashed heavily onto the grass.
His knees sank into the mud.
He knelt before Arthur Grindelwald.
Lifting that bloodless, tear-stained face.
With a nearly demented pleading gaze, he gazed up fixedly at that blonde teenager.
Chapter 64: The Potion Master Completely Switches Sides
Snape's knees sank into the mud.
The muddy water soaked through his black trousers.
The cold rain pelted his pale face, streaming down his aquiline nose.
He did not even blink.
In those pitch-black eyes that had been dead for twelve years, a fire burned, threatening to burn right through his sanity.
Sirius lay flat on the ground beside him.
His mouth was wide open as he stared at this arch-enemy from school days.
He forgot how to breathe.
Snivellus actually knelt down to a twelve-year-old Slytherin student.
Even his wand was thrown into the mud pit.
Sirius felt as though he was still having some absurd nightmare in Azkaban.
Snape could not see Sirius beside him at all.
Nor could he see Peter with his broken wrist.
In his world, only those four words remained.
Lily Evans.
"Resurrection..."
Snape's Adam's apple bobbed, scraping against his dry vocal cords.
His voice was as hoarse as shattered glass.
"You can do it..."
This was not a question.
It was a desperate confirmation, like a drowning man clutching at a straw.
Arthur lowered his eyelids.
Looking at the Potion Master kneeling in the muddy water, stripped of all dignity.
"Death is the end in your eyes."
Arthur's voice dissipated in the wind and rain, carrying a cold, hard metallic texture.
"To me, it is merely a broken wooden door that can be pushed open at will."
Arthur did not waste any more words.
The gray mist in his right eye slowly turned half a circle.
A wisp of Soul Law's aura slammed directly into Snape's brain along his line of sight.
The scene before Snape's eyes changed.
The night receded.
Hogwarts's Castle and the trees of the Forbidden Forestturned into a monotonous grayish-white.
He felt an icy chill seeping from the cracks of his bones.
This was not the coldness of the weather.
It was the deathly silence of no heartbeat and no breath.
He lowered his head to look at the ground.
On the withered blades of grass, wisps of faint gray light spots drifted.
Those were the soul residues left behind after plants died.
Deep in the distant soil, countless light spots converged into an endless gray river.
The boundary between life and death was thus brutally torn open and laid before him.
Snape's breathing completely stagnated.
He saw it.
This was by no means any advanced Disillusionment Charm or hallucinogenic Potion.
This was the underlying rule that directly interfered with life and death.
This blond boy truly held the key to opening the gates of the underworld.
The grayish-white world before him shattered.
The cold rain pelted Snape's face once again.
He gasped heavily, his chest heaving like a broken bellows.
He bent down without hesitation.
Pressing that perpetually gloomy and pride-filled face heavily against the mud-soaked grass.
His forehead brushed against the rough grass roots and gravel.
Scratching open a bloody gash.
Blood and mud mixed together, blurring his brows and eyes.
"Everything I have is yours."
Snape's voice came through against the ground.
Carrying a morbid fanaticism and complete submission.
"My soul, my Potion, my position at Hogwarts."
"As long as I can see her again, if you tell me to kill Dumbledore, I will immediately go get my wand."
He completely betrayed.
The man who had made a solemn vow before Dumbledoreto protect Lily's child.
Faced with the true hope of resurrection.
He tore up all promises to the white Wizard without hesitation.
The Savior, the future of the wizarding world.
Were all stepped into the mud pit like garbage by him.
Arthur looked at the double agent prostrate before the tips of his shoes.
He needed an obedient dog.
A mad dog that could bite people for him among the Hogwarts faculty.
"Swear an oath."
Arthur raised his right hand.
A wisp of black magic flowed down along his fingertips.
Transforming into a pitch-black chain in mid-air.
This was a soul contract far more domineering than the Unbreakable Vow.
Once signed, the moment of betrayal would burn the soul into nothingness by Fiendfyre.
Snape raised his head.
He did not hesitate for half a second.
Stretching out his right hand directly with his palm open.
The black chain, like a venomous snake, instantly coiled around Snape's wrist.
The cold touch pierced his skin.
Pushing straight into his blood vessels and rushing into his heart along the blood flow.
Snape let out a muffled groan.
The pain of his heart being tightly squeezed made his face turn pale.
But he gritted his teeth, not even frowning slightly.
A black mark appeared on the inner side of his wrist.
Resembling an incomplete cross.
The soul contract was established.
Arthur withdrew his hand.
"Clean up these two pieces of trash on the ground."
He glanced at the dumbfounded Sirius nearby and Peterrolling all over the ground.
"Do not let them die on the Castle lawn and dirty the path."
Snape stood up from the mud.
His black suit trousers were covered in large chunks of mud.
He bent down to pick up the wand that had just fallen to the ground.
The wooden tip of the wand pointed at the two people on the ground.
His black eyes regained that emptiness and ruthlessness.
"Yes, Master."
Snape's voice was lowered very low.
He turned to look at Sirius, the hatred in the depths of his eyes forcibly suppressed into an icy coldness of executing orders.
With a wave of his wand.
Several thick ropes appeared out of thin air, binding Siriusand Peter tightly.
A deep trench was strained into the turf on the ground.
Arthur did not care to look another glance.
Turning around, stepping on the puddles after the rain.
His black trench coat swept a cold, hard arc in the night wind.
The sound of leather boots stepping on stone slabs gradually faded away.
Leaving Snape with a lofty, towering back figure.
Time was like an undercurrent in the Black Lake.
Ice and snow melted.
The long winter came to an end.
Fresh green shoots grew on the grass outside Hogwarts.
Over the past half year or so, a dead, oppressive feeling permeated the Castle.
Dumbledore rarely stepped out of the Principal's office.
Slytherin students walked with a swagger in the corridors.
People from other houses only dared to walk close to the base of the walls.
Even Peeves dared not make trouble in the corridors above the third floor.
For fear of disturbing that Demon King living in the dungeons.
The third-year final exams week arrived.
The weather was sultry.
At the top of the North Tower.
Divination Class classroom.
The air here was so hot that people could barely breathe.
The windows were tightly shut, drawn with heavy dark red curtains.
Not a single bit of breeze could get through.
The room was filled with small round tables and feather-stuffed cushioned armchairs.
A huge bronze brazier burned in the center of the classroom.
Filled with spices inside.
Emitting a cheap perfume scent that was sickeningly sweet.
The smell made people's heads dizzy, as if their respiratory tracts were stuffed with cotton scented with cosmetic powder.
Arthur leaned back in a soft chair beside a round table.
He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his robes.
The smell of this inferior spice touched his bottom line of tolerance.
He paid no attention to the tea dregs and broken cups placed on the table.
His gaze looked coldly toward the front of the classroom.
The other students were all lowering their heads, flipping through Unfogging the Future.
Harry and Ron sat behind a table in the very corner.
Both of them were sweating profusely.
Holding quill pens in their hands, making up bad luck for the future on parchment.
Ron's collar was drenched with sweat, clinging to his neck.
A sound of tinkling metal pendants came over.
Clatter. Clatter.
Sybill Trelawney crawled out from a trapdoor at the back of the classroom.
She was as thin as a withered branch.
Draped over her body was a wide shawl covered in sequins and bead strings.
All the accessories on her body rattled as she walked.
That oversized pair of glasses rested on her shriveled bridge of the nose, magnifying her eyes several times.
Looking like a startled green-headed fly.
She took drifting steps.
Weaving between the round tables.
The smell mixed with sherry and cheap essence on her body became even heavier.
Trelawney stopped in the center of the classroom.
A dusty crystal ball was placed on the table.
Thick white fog rolled inside the sphere.
She extended her withered fingers, touching the smooth surface of the crystal ball.
Her eyes stared fixedly at the fog inside.
Muttering words under her breath, her voice dragged out very long, carrying a deliberately faked sense of mystery.
Arthur looked coldly at this fraud.
He was wondering whether to simply burn this madwoman along with her broken crystal ball with a fire.
Sparing the air from being polluted here.
Trelawney suddenly stopped swaying.
She bent down, her face almost pressed against the crystal ball.
The eyeballs behind her large glasses stared fiercely.
Her lips began to tremble violently.
Her breathing became rapid, and a bellows-like panting sound came from her chest.
Chapter 65: The Price of Angering Me Is Death
Trelawney's neck stiffened.
Her shriveled skin stopped twitching, and her muscles tightened rigidly.
The bellows-like panting from her wide-open mouth suddenly vanished.
In its place was a dead silence that made one's bones ache.
Her eyes, which had been fixed dead on the crystal ball, suddenly rolled upward.
Her black pupils sank completely into her upper eyelids.
Leaving only large swaths of bloodshot whites of the eyes, lifelessly exposed behind the thick lenses.
The sweet, cloying perfume in the classroom was blown away by a chilling gust of wind.
The flames in the bronze brazier had been burning brightly.
At this moment, as if splashed with a basin of ice water, they suddenly surged two feet high, turning into a gloomy, ghastly green.
The firelight beat against Trelawney's upturned, white-eyed gaze, carrying an eerie aura.
Harry's quill dropped onto the desk.
The nib tore through the parchment, leaving a long trail of ink.
He even forgot to breathe.
Ron shrank into the soft armchair, clutching his knees tightly with both hands, his teeth clicking softly together.
This was completely unlike Trelawney's usual charlatan tone.
"Darkness..."
A voice squeezed out from Trelawney's wide-open mouth.
Low.
Hoarse.
Resembling two rough pieces of granite grinding hard against each other, carrying overlapping echoes.
This was by no means a woman's voice.
"An abandoned bloodline... crawling out from the abyss..."
This muffled voice reverberated back and forth within the enclosed North Tower classroom.
Causing the glass windows to hum in resonance.
The divination teacups on the table rattled with their lids and saucers clattering.
Trelawney's withered hands hovered in mid-air like eagle talons.
Her ten fingers were curled and convulsing.
The white mist inside the crystal ball stopped churning, instantly turning into an impenetrable mass of pitch black.
Just like a drop of ink falling into clear water.
The black mist darted frantically inside the glass sphere.
"Black fire... will burn through ancient stone..."
That eerie, double-toned voice continued to spill from her throat.
"Under the gaze of different-colored eyes, all life will turn to ash."
"There is no redemption... That is a predestined destruction..."
The temperature in the classroom plunged into an ice cellar.
A few Hufflepuff girls huddled together, not even daring to cry out loud.
Draco sat not far from Arthur.
He felt a tingling numbness across his scalp.
He knew who this madwoman was prophesying about.
He quietly moved his chair back half an inch, fearing he would be splattered with blood next.
Arthur sat in the soft armchair.
The collar of his dark gray shirt was open.
He looked at the woman with rolling white eyes in the center of the podium.
The pitch-blackness of his left eye showed no fluctuation, but the gray mist in his right eye stopped swirling.
Predestined.
These four words fell into Arthur's ears like a few buzzing flies.
He hated this self-righteous judgment.
Fate was a dog chain locked around the neck of the weak.
Gods never needed to be prophesied.
Arthur stood up.
The legs of his chair scraped a short, dull sound against the wooden floor.
This sound appeared exceptionally grating amidst Trelawney's eerie prophetic chants.
He did not take his wand.
His hands hung naturally at his sides.
The hem of his black robe stirred up a cold wind, directly extinguishing a candle on the nearby table.
Arthur strode forward with long legs.
Blocking his way was a small wooden round table covered in tea leaves.
He couldn't even be bothered to walk around it.
His leather boots directly stepped upon it.
Crack.
The wooden board of the round table could not bear this weight laden with magical oppression.
It split directly down the middle into two halves.
The teacups and saucers on the table crashed all over the floor in a clatter, shards of porcelain splashing everywhere.
This explosive sound made the students in the classroom shudder collectively.
Harry pressed his body tightly against the base of the wall.
He watched that retreating figure walking past after crushing the table.
That familiar oppressive sense of death, smelling of cremation ashes, once again choked his windpipe.
Arthur stepped over the wood and continued walking forward.
With every step he took.
That nauseating, cheap perfume in the classroom was dispelled a fraction more.
Replaced by an icy, bone-chilling scent of blood.
That was pure murderous intent.
Unconcealed.
Resembling a rusted guillotine suspended above everyone's heads.
A Gryffindor boy could not bear this pressure.
He scrambled backward toward the back door of the classroom.
His knees knocked over two cushions, but he didn't even dare glance toward the podium.
Throughout the entire classroom, only the sound of Arthur's leather boots hitting the ground remained.
Trelawney showed no reaction to the external commotion.
She was completely immersed in the state of true prophecy.
"A new order will be established upon the ruins..."
Her shriveled lips were still moving.
"He shall wear the crown of thorns and scatter death unto—"
Before the last word could be uttered.
Arthur had already walked up in front of her.
He didn't waste words.
His right hand suddenly thrust forward.
The movement was so fast it left a blur in the air.
That pale, slender hand accurately caught Trelawney's thin neck.
His fingers tightened like iron pliers.
The five fingers dug directly into the soft flesh of her neck.
"Ugh!"
The eerie, sub-bass tone of the prophecy was abruptly cut off by this brute physical method.
Only a short, muffled groan escaped her throat.
The muscles in Arthur's right arm tensed.
The power of the Dark Arts surged into his arm along his blood vessels.
He exerted force with one hand.
Directly lifting Trelawney entirely off the ground.
Her feet left the ground.
The jangling sequins and bead strings on Trelawney made a chaotic crashing sound.
Her bulky shawl slipped to the floor.
She hung in mid-air like an old fish hooked by the gills.
Arthur raised his head.
Looking at the struggling woman in his hands.
In his different-colored pupils, there was only unyielding coldness.
"My life, are you even worthy to calculate it?"
The whites of Trelawney's eyes faded by half.
She was forcibly dragged back from the deep mists of prophecy by excruciating pain.
Her eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, were about to bulge out of their sockets.
Filled with red bloodshot veins.
Her carotid artery was tightly suppressed.
Her brain rapidly suffered from oxygen deprivation.
The blood vessels on her old face bulged out one by one, a mixture of purplish-blue.
Her hands clawed wildly at Arthur's arm.
Her nails dug hard into the sleeves of his black trench coat.
But the fabric didn't even show a single wrinkle.
Her legs kicked irregularly in mid-air; one of her shoes fell off, smashing onto the floor.
A near-death "gurgle" sound came from her throat.
Saliva flowed down the corners of her shriveled mouth, dripping onto the back of Arthur's hand.
Arthur frowned in disgust.
His fingers increased their strength by another fraction.
Her cervical bones emitted a faint crunching sound.
Harry sat in the corner.
Watching Trelawney hanging in mid-air with her eyes rolled back and foaming at the mouth.
His stomach spasmed, and he retched softly.
He wanted to close his eyes, but the instinct of being targeted by the top of the food chain prevented him from even shifting his gaze away.
He could only watch this unilateral massacre with open eyes.
The surrounding air grew sticky.
The wood grain on the desk cracked under the magical pressure.
That crystal ball filled with black mist lost its balance.
It rolled slowly outward along the edge of the split tabletop.
Finally detaching from the desk.
Gravity pulled the crystal ball downward.
"Bang!"
A crisp shattering sound of glass rang out.
The crystal ball heavily smashed onto the stone slabs.
Exploding into a pool of sharp fragments.
Those black mists sealed inside, losing their container, instantly dissipated into the cold air.
Leaving only a scene of utter devastation.
Chapter 66 Physical Interruption of Prophecy!
A crisp shattering of glass echoed in the sultry classroom.
Shards of the crystal ball splattered all over the floor.
A few sharp glass fragments even bounced onto Harry's shoe tips.
He didn't dare move an inch.
Trelawney was still struggling mid-air.
That eerie, prophetic male voice was stuck in her throat.
Turning into an incoherent "gurgle" sound.
Arthur did not let go.
His slender fingers slightly curled inward.
His knuckle bones exerted force.
"Crack."
Her cervical cartilage emitted a teeth-gritting squeak.
Out of Trelawney's wide-open mouth spewed a mouthful of sour-smelling white foam.
Her eyeballs, magnified by the thick lenses, rolled completely upward.
Her legs hung down limply as if their bones had been sucked out.
She stopped twitching.
Arthur flipped his wrist.
Throwing her out like a bag of stinky, damp garbage.
Trelawney's withered body slammed heavily onto the glass shards covering the floor.
The sharp fragments pierced her bead-strung shawl.
Beads of blood seeped out, trickling down the gaps between the floor tiles.
The mysterious magical field of the prophecy was shattered completely in the face of absolute physical violence.
The trajectory of fate was forcibly torn apart at this moment.
The air pressure in the room returned to normal.
The dim green flames turned back into ordinary dark yellow.
A deathly silence enveloped the surroundings.
Ron huddled in the corner of the armchair, hugging his head tightly with both hands.
He even held his breath, his cheeks flushed red.
Harry felt as if his throat was being gripped by an invisible hand, and a wave of sour water churned in his stomach.
This was a Professor.
In class, she was choked unconscious by a second-year student like strangling a chicken.
No one dared to go and help Trelawney.
Arthur took a handkerchief out of his pocket.
Leisurely wiping away a bit of cold sweat stained on his fingertips.
Before his retina, the dim blue system light screen popped up.
[Target Sybill Trelawney's psychological defense line has completely collapsed.]
[The fate observation state has been forcibly interrupted, and the target has fallen into a deep coma.]
[Stripping successful. Obtained Talent: Prophecy Talent Fragment.]
The gray fog in Arthur's right eye accelerated its rotation.
A subtle stream of energy carrying the aura of the laws of time poured into his mind through the system.
He closed his eyes.
In the darkness before his eyes, a few blurry frames of future visions flashed past.
Fate?
Arthur opened his eyes, with only pure mockery at the bottom of his eyes.
Handing one's fate over to such superstitious fragments to judge is a foolish thing only weaklings would do.
These fragments can at most be used as intelligence supplements on his chessboard.
He doesn't need to see the future.
He is only responsible for crushing all futures that block his way.
Arthur stepped over Trelawney on the ground.
His leather boots stepped on a larger crystal ball fragment.
"Snap."
The glass turned into fine powder.
He pushed open the wooden door of the classroom.
Disappearing into the dim corridor of the North Tower.
Until his footsteps could no longer be heard, a few suppressed whimpers sounded in the classroom.
...
The bell of Hogwarts chimed the end-of-term note.
Summer vacation had arrived.
London had been pouring with rain for days, and the accumulated water on the streets overflowed the curbs.
Arthur did not return to his residence in London.
On an evening when the heavy rain stopped.
The hinterland of the European continent.
Deep within the Black Forest inside Germany.
The trees here towered into the clouds, their dense branches and leaves blocking most of the skylight.
The tree trunks were covered in dark green thick moss.
The woods were filled with a lingering cold fog that never dispersed over the years.
A few crows perched on dead tree branches, making hoarse and harsh cawings.
Arthur walked alone on a path covered with fallen leaves.
His black trench coat blended into the fog.
His leather boots stepped on the rotting dead leaves without making a single sound.
He walked straight ahead, following that familiar magical pull originating from the depths of his bloodline.
The fog gradually dispersed.
A huge ancient castle built entirely of dark gray boulders appeared at the end of the woodland.
There were no guards.
There was no firelight.
The entire ancient castle exuded a stern, cold, and hard medieval military fortress style.
The towering iron railing gate was tightly closed.
The iron bars were covered in dark red rust.
On the lintel, an ancient symbol was carved.
A triangle enclosing a circle and a vertical line.
The Deathly Hallows.
The absolute totem of the Grindelwald family and the first-generation Acolytes.
Arthur stopped in his tracks.
He stood outside the iron gate, looking up at this fortress that had been asleep for half a century.
"Creak——"
The heavy iron railing gate slowly opened to both sides without borrowing any external force.
The door hinges rubbed, making a harsh sound.
Frightening away a few crows on the surrounding trees.
Standing in the stone courtyard of the ancient castle was a person.
A woman.
She was wearing a retro black long dress.
The fabric of the long dress was heavy, the tailoring was seamless, and there wasn't a trace of extra ornamentation.
The collar was buttoned up to the topmost button.
The woman's hair was coiled meticulously.
Her facial lines were cold and hard, and the corners of her eyes bore fine lines left by the years.
But the brilliance in those eyes was as sharp as a poisoned blade.
She stood there.
Her hands were folded in front of her.
Her posture was straight, exuding an aloof and cold temperament tempered by blood and fire.
Arthur looked at her.
The woman also looked at Arthur.
Separated by the open iron gate, their gazes intersected in the cold fog.
She sized up the blond-haired, different-eyed teenager before her.
Her breath paused for a split second.
The contour of that face, along with that casual posture of stepping all living beings beneath one's feet.
Awakened the crazy years she had hidden deep within her memory.
The woman loosened her folded hands.
Her fingertips trembled slightly.
She slowly lowered her proud head and bowed.
Chapter 67: First-Generation Acolytes Appear!
The woman lowered her head and bent her waist.
Her black skirt hem trailed over the moss-covered flagstones.
Cold fog billowed around her.
"Welcome home, Young Master."
Her voice echoed through the empty Black Forest.
Her tone was kept very low, and her voice hid a fanaticism that had been suppressed for half a century.
Arthur looked at her.
Vinda Rosier.
A core backbone of the first-generation acolytes, the actual power-holder of the Rosier family.
According to the tedious genealogy of the pure-blood families, she was Arthur's nominal great-aunt.
Arthur did not respond to this greeting.
He strode forward, his leather boots stepping over the slippery fallen leaves covering the ground.
Past Vinda's shoulder, he walked straight into the gates of the ancient castle.
Vinda straightened her body.
She turned around and followed slightly behind Arthur's side.
Lagging half a step behind, her posture was humble and respectful.
The space inside the ancient castle was very large.
Pale blue cold fires flickered in the bronze brazier on the wall.
The air drifted with the scent of aged preservative spices and rusted ironware.
Beside the long black stone table in the exact center of the hall.
More than a dozen people stood.
They were all elderly, with full heads of white hair, or simply bald.
Wearing old Wizard robes.
These people carried a fierce aura left over from years of killing.
An old man had a blind left eye, and the edge of his eyepatch revealed a deep red scar running through his cheek.
Another old woman leaned on a blackened cane, her right leg being a rough piece of wood.
They were the surviving first-generation acolytes.
Desperados who back then followed Gellert Grindelwaldto turn the European magic world upside down.
Hearing footsteps.
These dozen pairs of fierce-looking eyes looked over simultaneously.
They saw Arthur walking in.
A twelve-year-old boy wearing a black windbreaker.
Fragmented murmurs rang out in the empty hall.
The blind old man frowned.
His only remaining right eye looked Arthur up and down.
"Vinda, you called us here in the middle of the night."
The old man tapped the oak wand in his hand, his voice hoarse.
"Just to let us look at a student who hasn't been weaned yet?"
Another cane-leaning old woman let out a cold snort.
"Grindelwald's bloodline is indeed noble."
She spat out a mouthful of phlegm, smashing it onto the flagstone floor.
"But us old bones won't play house games with a child."
They had hidden like rats in sewers and the Black Forest for fifty years, evading the pursuit of Aurors from various countries.
They only submitted to absolute power.
In their eyes, bloodline was not worth kneeling for.
Vinda stopped.
She glanced at the blind old man, as if looking at a corpse.
Without speaking, she retreated into the shadows at the edge of the hall.
Arthur stopped in the center of the hall.
He looked at this bunch of old fogies who were like leftover scraps.
There was no temperature in the depths of his eyes.
Reasoning with this pack of beaten dogs eliminated by the times was purely a waste of saliva.
He raised his right hand.
His slender index finger and thumb gently rubbed against each other in mid-air.
"Snap."
A crisp sound.
A trace of pure black spark peeled off from his fingertips.
Falling onto the hard black stone floor.
There was no process of spreading.
The moment the spark landed.
Boom!
A pure black wall of fire rose straight from the ground in front of Arthur.
The flames surged more than a dozen feet high, licking directly at the hall's towering stone dome.
This was not ordinary Fiendfyre.
This fire carried the underlying rules of depriving life.
The cold fire in the entire hall instantly went out.
The temperature soared to a distorted degree.
The moisture in the air was sucked dry on the spot.
The wind breathed into the lungs turned into scalding blades.
The hard black stone floor could not withstand this high temperature.
The surface of the stone began to turn red and soften.
Turning into pools of bubbling dark red magma.
Those dozen old acolytes were all stunned.
The wands in their hands began to heat up, and scorched blue smoke emerged from the wooden surfaces.
The blind old man was the closest.
The heat wave slapped his face.
The white beard on his chin instantly curled and burned to flying ash.
He opened his mouth wide, wanting to retreat.
But he found that the surrounding air was pumped into a vacuum, and he couldn't even inhale.
The kneecaps of his legs were as soft as two boiled noodles.
"Thump."
The blind old man knelt directly on the scorching flagstones.
The fabric on his knees instantly carbonized, and his skin and flesh touched the high-temperature stone, making a harsh sizzling sound.
He couldn't even let out a cry of pain.
This was the signature of Gellert Grindelwald back then.
But this black fire was ten times more domineering and cruel than the gas stove back then.
Pure death was hidden inside.
The wooden cane in the cane-leaning old woman's hand directly spontaneously combusted.
She fell to the ground, her hands desperately digging into the gaps of the floor tiles.
Cold sweat was baked dry as soon as it popped out from her forehead.
Arrogance and contempt were burned by this black wall of fire until not even dregs remained.
What remained was only the trembling carved deep into the soul.
Arthur stood behind the wall of fire.
The firelight cast his blond hair flickeringly.
The heterochromatic pupils of black and gray looked down at the group of trembling old people lying on the ground through the beating black flames.
"I have very little patience."
Arthur's voice pierced through the roar of the flames, clearly smashing against everyone's eardrums.
"Kneel, or turn to ash."
Without half a second of hesitation.
The dozen old acolytes in the hall all prostrated themselves.
They couldn't care about the scorching stones on the ground, pressing their foreheads tightly against the ground.
Fear transformed into morbid fanaticism.
The blind old man scrambled forward.
Ignoring the scalded skin and flesh on his knees, he crawled to Arthur's feet.
His trembling hands lifted the black hem of Arthur's windbreaker.
Shriveled lips pressed against the edge of the fabric, kissing it heavily.
"Master..."
Tears streamed down the old man's face, muddy tears carving two gullies on his dirty face.
"We've waited for fifty years... The glory of the acolytes has returned..."
His voice was hoarse and cracking, exuding a madness that sacrificed everything.
The others crawled forward as well.
They pressed their faces against the footprints Arthur had walked over.
Their bodies trembled like sieve chaff, muttering oaths of allegiance in their mouths.
These old murderers found long-lost belonging in the face of the true abyss.
Vinda stood in the shadows.
She looked at the boy illuminated by the black fire like a deity.
Her chest rose and fell violently, her breathing becoming rapid.
She saw a more perfect masterpiece than that man back then.
Arthur lowered his head and glanced at the blind old man grabbing his clothes.
He didn't kick him away.
He merely waved a hand.
The all-inclusive black fire wall instantly collapsed inward, burrowing back into his fingertips.
Disappearing without a trace.
The temperature in the hall slowly dropped.
Leaving only a few pools of unsolidified magma on the ground, emitting a pungent sulfur smell.
"Send a message to all breathing acolytes."
Arthur turned and walked toward the black high-backed chair at the top of the hall.
He sat down in the chair.
Crossing his legs.
"Before the sun rises."
"I want to see all entrances and exits of the German Ministry of Magic replaced with our people."
Vinda immediately knelt on one knee.
Her right hand pressed against her left chest, performing an ancient knightly salute.
"As you command, Young Master."
She drew a silver wand from her cuff.
Swung it fiercely toward mid-air.
More than a dozen black smokes shot out from the tip of the wand.
The smoke penetrated the thick stone walls of the ancient castle, flying away in all directions.
Merging into the pitch-black night sky outside.
This smoke was the highest-level assembly order unique to the acolytes.
It hadn't been used for fifty years.
Late at night.
Berlin.
German Ministry of Magic headquarters.
In the underground hall of the Auror Command Center.
Hundreds of bronze sirens hanging on the wall had been quiet all along.
Several night-shift Aurors were leaning against the tables drinking coffee.
Suddenly.
The huge bronze bell at the very top representing a national-level magic disaster.
Shook violently without warning.
"Dong—dong—dong!"
The deafening bell toll exploded in the hall.
The sound was so loud it covered up the thunderstorm outside.
Immediately afterwards, hundreds of small alarms on the entire wall all began to ring.
The red warning lights flashed frantically, illuminating the Aurors' faces blood-red.
A young Auror holding a coffee cup trembled in hand.
The cup dropped to the ground and shattered into pieces.
Scalding coffee splashed on his leather shoes.
He looked at the huge German magic map on the wall.
On the map, hundreds of black dots representing high-risk Dark Arts fluctuations were lighting up simultaneously.
Like a black plague, crawling out from every hidden corner.
Rapidly gathering towards the same direction.
"Something's happened..."
The Auror captain's face was pale, his voice sounding weak and powerless amidst the bell toll.
"First-class Dark Wizards across the entire territory are moving..."
The intelligence network of the entire German magicworld.
Within just a few hours, it was completely torn apart by this terrifying undercurrent.
Chapter 68: The Young Master Returns, Germany Trembles
Three o'clock in the morning.
The bedroom door of Schmidt, the Minister for Magic of Germany, was rudely kicked open.
The brass door handle slammed into the wall, chipping off a large piece of plaster.
Schmidt woke up with a start from his velvet bed.
Before he even had time to fly into a rage,
the Auror captain rushed straight to the bedside, carrying the biting, fishy smell of rain.
Rainwater dripped down the captain's leather trench coat, soiling the precious Persian rug.
"Sir!"
The Auror captain's voice cracked, sounding like a leaky bellows.
He shoved a rain-soaked piece of parchment right in front of Schmidt's eyes.
The paper was trembling violently.
The words Schmidt was about to curse were stuck in his throat.
He saw clearly what was on that piece of parchment.
There were no words on it.
Only a pattern burned through with black magic.
A triangle enclosing a circle and a vertical line.
The Deathly Hallows.
The thick flesh on Schmidt's face twitched violently.
The color drained completely from his face in an instant, turning it into a pale, dead-man's face.
His mouth wide open, his breathing halted.
His pajamas were completely soaked through with cold sweat within a second.
Clinging to his fat body.
He scrambled to get out of bed.
But his legs were as soft as two overcooked noodles.
With a "thump."
He tumbled right off the bed, slamming heavily onto the rug.
His knees hit the corner of the bed, and he didn't even have the strength to rub them.
Fifty years.
That group of madmen who had been hiding like rats in the Black Forest for half a century.
That totem whose very name the entire European magicworld dared not utter.
Had returned once more.
...
Berlin Ministry of Magic lobby.
The crystal chandelier overhead shone blindingly bright.
The lobby was packed with over three hundred fully armed Aurors.
Everyone's wands were pointed dead-set at the two solid bronze doors straight ahead.
No one was speaking.
Only heavy, chaotic breathing.
And the chattering sounds of a few people's teeth clashing together.
The air was as thick as an unmelting lump of glue.
Time ticked away second by second.
"Boom!"
There was no sound of chanting.
The two solid bronze doors, weighing several tons, suddenly caved inward violently.
The defensive rune carvings on them couldn't hold out even for a second before shattering directly.
The massive bronze doors were directly torn open by a violent surge of magic.
Dislodging from the door frame.
Two pieces of twisted scrap copper flew a dozen meters away in mid-air.
Slamming heavily onto the floor tiles in front of the Aurorphalanx.
A large crater was smashed into the marble floor tiles.
Stone fragments splattered everywhere like bullets.
Several Aurors in the front row were knocked over by the blast wave, crashing to the ground and coughing up large mouthfuls of blood.
Dust filled the air.
The cold wind from outside the lobby poured back in mixed with fine rain.
Arthur walked in, stepping on the rubble on the ground.
The hem of his black trench coat whipped in the wind.
He didn't draw his wand, his hands casually shoved into his pockets.
That pair of heterochromatic pupils, interwoven with paleness and pitch black, swept across the entire scene indifferently.
Vinda Rosier followed behind him to the side.
Further back were dozens of old Acolytes wearing worn-out robes.
These old murderers exuded a thick stench of blood.
Looking at the opposite Aurors as if they were a bunch of livestock waiting to be slaughtered.
"Back off! Put down your weapons!"
An Auror deputy captain roared.
His voice cracked, carrying a heavy crying tone.
The tip of the wand in his hand lit up with a blinding red light, intending to cast a spell.
Arthur didn't stop his stride.
He didn't even look at that person.
"Noisy."
He raised his right hand, his five fingers casually clenching inward in mid-air.
The spatial laws were brutally squeezed.
A teeth-aching sharp sound rang out in the air at the front of the lobby.
"Crack, crack!"
Dozens of crisp snaps merged into one.
The wands in the hands of those Aurors in the front row exploded into a pile of wood chips in their hands simultaneously.
Wood fragments pierced into the palms of their hands.
Immediately after, an invisible soul pressure came down.
Like an iron mountain weighing hundreds of tons, it slammed directly onto the heads of these three hundred Aurors.
There was no room for any resistance.
A large swath of people collapsed instantly in the lobby.
Everyone was pressed flat onto the marble floor tiles in unison.
Their cheeks pressed tightly against the cold ground.
The muffled sounds of broken nasal bones rose and fell one after another.
They couldn't even let out screams.
Their windpipes were flattened, and they could only make weak rattling sounds.
Saliva mixed with nosebleeds flowed into pools of dark red puddles on the floor tiles.
Arthur walked through this mass of sprawling bodies.
His leather boots stepped on the clean floor tiles, producing steady footsteps.
As if walking through an uninhabited realm.
Schmidt happened to arrive at the staircase on the periphery of the lobby at this moment.
He had casually thrown a coat over his pajamas.
Three buttons were buttoned incorrectly.
He wore only one leather shoe on his foot, while his other bare foot stepped on the stone slab.
He looked at this scene of unilateral slaughter in the lobby.
His stomach churned violently.
Leaning directly against the stair railing, he dry-heaved a mouthful of sour water.
Three hundred of the most elite Aurors in the German magic world.
In front of this blond-haired teenager, they didn't even have the qualification to draw their wands.
They had been turned into gasping mud lying all over the floor.
Arthur walked to the center of the lobby.
There stood a tall stone sculpture symbolizing the majesty of the Ministry of Magic.
He stopped, turned his head, and looked at Schmidt cowering at the staircase.
"Get over here."
Arthur's voice wasn't loud.
Yet it slammed clearly against Schmidt's eardrums.
Schmidt shook all over like a rotten leaf in the autumn wind.
How could he dare say a single word of refusal?
He scrambled down the stairs.
His bare foot stepped on a piece of broken glass, piercing the sole of his foot.
Leaving a trail of bloody footprints.
He ran to a spot less than two meters in front of Arthur.
His legs went weak, and he knelt directly on the ground.
Supporting himself on the floor tiles with both hands, he didn't even dare raise his head.
"This room is too dirty."
Arthur looked down at the Minister for Magic on the ground.
"Starting today, this place is my back garden."
Schmidt's throat went dry.
He wanted to put on the airs of a Minister, wanted to say a few official polite words to salvage a bit of dignity.
"Th-this is the German Ministry of Magic... This is an invasion..."
He stammered, his voice smaller than a mosquito's.
The gray fog in Arthur's right eye slowly rotated half a turn.
Schmidt felt a cold hand reach directly into his brain.
Grasping his soul tightly.
His mind went blank, and all his thoughts and reason instantly cut out.
He rolled his eyes.
Cold sweat streamed madly down that fat face, hitting the back of his hand.
"Bring me the vault keys, and the blood-pact rosters of all your Aurors."
Arthur couldn't even be bothered to listen to his nonsense.
"If a single piece of paper is missing, I will skin you alive and hang your soul on the door to burn like a candle."
Schmidt slammed his head hard against the floor tiles.
Bone met stone with a dull thump.
The pitiful desire for power in his head was ground into powder by these casually spoken words.
He knew that if he dared to shake his head, his head would explode just like those two bronze doors earlier.
"I'll get them... I'll get everything..."
Schmidt cried out, snot streaming onto his lips.
The dignified Minister for Magic had completely reduced to a watchdog.
Vinda stood behind Arthur, watching this scene with cold eyes.
The fanaticism in the eyes of the old Acolytes was almost turning into substantial flames.
Without losing a single soldier.
Within minutes, he hollowed out the magic regime of the entire country.
This was the Dark Lord they swore allegiance to.
At dawn.
The torrential rain stopped.
On the highest spire of the Berlin Ministry of Magic, the cold wind howled.
Arthur stood in front of the balcony's stone railing.
His black trench coat whipped in the wind.
He looked down at the bustling magic district below.
Those oblivious Wizards were busy on the streets, with the lights of the shops twinkling like stars.
They had no idea that the sky above their heads had already changed.
Arthur felt around in his robe pocket and pulled out something.
A pure gold Galleon.
His slender fingers pinched the gold coin, casually rolling and playing with it at his fingertips.
Metal collided and rubbed, refracting a cold and hard light.
Relying solely on violence and fear could only suppress a bunch of brainless dogs.
To completely rule the whole of Europe, one needed to grasp all the lifeblood in their own hands.
He looked at the Goblin head pattern on the Galleon.
Money was the rope to strangle necks with in the next step.