Chapter 442: Bomb and Flame
"...You may begin."
The long-awaited signal finally came from afar. The man once known as the "Devil" decades ago, along with the core members of the Wizard Purity Party, were now trapped within that manor—impossible to return instantly through Apparition.
Ah… right. Apparition.
The High-Cheekboned Man mentally corrected himself, a smug smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He set down the telephone, gave a nod to the person beside him, and the young man slammed his hand onto the red button.
A mechanical female voice echoed: "Launch sequence initiated. 3… 2… 1… 0!"
A black cannonball shot through the air, trailing a blazing tail of fire, leaving behind a white smoke streak. It soared upward, its speed suddenly decelerating as if meeting an invisible obstacle.
Then—BOOM.
An invisible shockwave erupted outward with explosive force.
The young man’s instrument responded instantly—the screen, previously glowing with light, went dark in an instant. All indicator lights flickered and died. He tapped the keyboard twice, but nothing happened.
He let out a sharp “Tch,” tossed the useless device aside, and looked toward the distance.
A fierce wind howled through the snow, blindingly sharp, nearly forcing his eyes shut. The High-Cheekboned Man shielded his face with one hand, squinting through the cracks between his fingers—what he saw was astonishing.
The air itself seemed to shatter like glass. Web-like cracks spread downward from above, refracting tiny, radiating beams of light—like trees growing upside down.
At a certain moment, the web fractured entirely, dissolving into countless faint glimmers, like ice crystals in the morning sun after a snowfall.
Amidst the shimmering light, a colossal castle appeared as if conjured from thin air—rising from the rock like a living beast.
Its deep gray walls gleamed with a metallic sheen. The main keep tower soared at least a hundred feet high. The surrounding moat spanned thirty or forty feet, its surface frozen solid. Thick chains, as thick as a man’s arm, connected the wooden drawbridge.
The crowd stood breathless.
Such a massive, awe-inspiring structure would inspire reverence even in modern times. In the distant past, it would have seemed like an unstoppable giant.
And yet—just ten seconds ago, the area had been nothing but ruins. Not a single intact wall remained.
"Magic..." the young man whispered, filled with wonder and awe.
Then, the High-Cheekboned Man raised his hand and barked, "Attack!"
The truck’s panel snapped down with a sharp click. A long, slender cannon barrel extended outward. Fully armed soldiers stood ready, manually operating the weapon. The next moment, a deafening roar erupted as countless black cannonballs flew toward the castle in a dark, swarming cloud.
...
For Wovilet, today had been a day without purpose.
His favorite little friends had been taken by Gellert Grindelwald—no one knew if they’d return safely. His obedient apprentices had all been whisked away. A bunch of clumsy alchemists who couldn’t even outrun a common Muggle now had to survive on the battlefield. May they at least stay hidden.
Since everyone had departed, Wovilet had paced back and forth across his room dozens of times. Finally, he opened his private vault, pulling out his precious potions—each bottle meticulously counted and laid out on the table.
When they returned, there would surely be injured ones who needed them.
Wovilet kept himself calm by doing this, but deep down, he worried. Would this time be different? Would there be fewer casualties than before?
Suddenly, his arm twitched. A sharp, electric sting shot through him—like being stung by a venomous scorpion—but so fast it felt like an illusion. It vanished in an instant.
Thud.
A healing potion bottle, floating in midair, fell to the floor. Fortunately, the crystal vial was sturdy—the bottle didn’t shatter, only rolling twice before coming to rest.
Wovilet lifted his finger, and the bottle floated back into the air, gently placed back on the table. He stared at his arm, puzzled.
Why had Magic suddenly gone awry? Had he contracted some deadly illness?
He snapped his fingers again. The fireplace’s flames leapt upward, as if nothing had happened.
But… it wasn’t quite normal.
The flames burned brighter than usual, and there was an odd, crackling sound—like wind tearing through something fragile.
Wovilet glanced at his shadow on the floor. It was shifting with the light. Slowly, he realized—the light wasn’t coming from behind him. It was coming from outside. From the window.
He turned.
The sky glowed an unnatural green. Dozens of cannonballs, trailing flames, streaked toward the castle!
"Enemy attack!" A voice screamed, raw with panic.
The next instant, the cannonballs struck.
Glass shattered instantly. A massive shockwave threw Wovilet off his feet, slamming him into a cabinet. Blood streamed from his forehead.
His vision blurred. His ears rang. He pushed himself up, barely able to see through the dust and debris swirling in the air. His wand had slipped from his hand, flying under the workbench.
But the castle’s stone walls were thick—reinforced over generations by wizards. After the barrage, the structure still stood firm, only a few sections collapsed.
Wovilet, in an instant, could barely hear anything. He crawled over, grabbed his wand, and shoved all the potions into a box. The door burst open.
A woman, her face twisted in panic, dragged him to his feet. She spoke frantically, but Wovilet couldn’t understand a word.
"I can’t hear!" the old man shouted. "What? What’s happening out there?"
The woman repeated something, then yanked him toward the door and dragged him away.
The Wizard Purity Party’s main force had left with Gellert Grindelwald. The castle now held only the elderly, the sick, and recently returned wounded—some still bleeding, others already dead.
Chaos reigned. Wizards screamed, fleeing in all directions. Others, injured, were dragged by their comrades through the corridors, desperate to survive.
"Wait! Wait!" Wovilet violently pulled free from her grip. Trembling, he fumbled through his box, pulled out a potion, waved his wand—and distributed them to the wounded.
He drank one himself. Instantly, the noise returned.
"Muggle! It’s the Muggle military!"
"How did they find us? The castle has Concealing Charms and Muggle-Repelling Spells!"
"All protections failed! Where’s Gellert Grindelwald? When will he return?"
"He’s dying! Help me!"
"Calm down! Calm down! Everyone to the basement! Run to the basement!"
A strange, piercing howl echoed again—like a thousand horned beasts howling in unison. The crowd paled. They knew: another round of bombardment was coming.
"Protego!"
"Shield Charm!"
"Obstacle Course!"
Wizards cast spells wildly. Magic flared in every direction—but their eyes were filled with fear and despair.
The window blazed with light.
Then—BOOM.
The explosion rattled the entire castle. All the glass shattered. A scorching wind swept down the corridor, howling like a beast. The once-dark hall now glowed like midday.
Shadows stretched long behind people. The stone walls trembled, emitting a dry, cracking sound. A piece of debris tumbled from a high window ledge.
Yet—no one inside was hurt. The walls didn’t collapse.
The light outside remained blinding, searing hot—but the cannonballs seemed to explode before they reached the castle.
"What… what just happened?" someone whispered.
Wovilet swallowed hard. He pushed aside the young man shielding him and walked to the window, peering through the narrow slit.
The sudden flash of light was rapidly fading. A golden-red bird soared through the air, wings spread wide—its body made of flame, larger than a Hippogriff by several times.
"What is that?" a young witch gasped, stunned. "Is it… a Phoenix?"
Phoenixes brought to mind Dumbledore—the only known wizard in the magical world to possess one. The one figure even enemies respected.
Wovilet blinked. "No… Dumbledore’s Phoenix is much smaller…"
He didn’t finish his sentence.
His body froze.
Far away, where the Muggle forces had gathered, black smoke churned violently—lifting trucks into the air, throwing screaming soldiers into the sky.
It was pure, annihilating power—the very force Gellert Grindelwald had spent his life trying to obtain.
Silent Shadow.
Wovilet whispered the name in his mind. Speechless. Unable to comprehend.
Why was Silent Shadow outside the castle? What was that ancient, fire-born bird? And why… did it seem to be protecting the people inside?
If Grindelwald had prepared such a defense… why hadn’t he told anyone?
Wovilet’s mind was a fog. And what came next was even stranger than anything he could have dreamed.
The firebird, having detonated all the cannonballs mid-air, flew through the resulting flames—as if absorbing some power. Its body swelled, growing larger and larger—like a living Inferno Flame beast, expanding uncontrollably.
After flipping half the Muggle vehicles, a thick, plump cannon barrel suddenly emerged from behind them, aimed at the swirling black fog.
A flash of blue light—then the fog shattered, vanishing into nothing. A frail girl tumbled from the air.
Black-cloaked soldiers opened fire. A cloak flew forward, blocking the bullets. Then—whoosh—a broomstick appeared from nowhere, caught the girl, and shot her away in an instant.
The firebird let out a furious scream. Its massive body surged forward, its long tail sweeping across the ground, leaving a trail of blazing fire.
Its size made it a perfect target—but it was still flying, easy to hit.
The cannon struck it with an invisible bomb. The bird’s flight path veered sharply—thud—it crashed into a distant hill, igniting a massive firestorm.
While everyone was distracted by the firebird, the broomstick returned stealthily. From high above, it dropped a strange, oddly colored cube.
"Bomb!" someone screamed.
The soldiers nearby dove for cover—but the cube landed on top of the cannon. Two metal claws shot out from its sides, moving at impossible speed. With a series of clank-clank-clank sounds, it dismantled half the cannon in seconds—then pulled out an axe, hacking away at the rest.
"Fire!" the Muggle commander roared.
A torrent of bullets poured down. The cube suddenly unfolded a shield, blocking every shot—perfectly.
But the shield wasn’t indestructible. Dents began to appear.
The cube kept moving, resisting the barrage. Then—thud—it dropped the shield and rolled aside. The shield landed, and the bullets struck a truck’s fuel tank.
Boom!
Another explosion. The area turned into a sea of fire.
In the flames, the cube leapt up, its side unfolding—revealing an arsenal of tools: metal claws, pliers, wrenches, bottle openers, shovels—all kinds of bizarre, mechanical gadgets. It moved like a war machine, cutting down Muggle soldiers who scrambled for cover.
Then—whoosh—a masked stranger appeared, his strength monstrous. He charged like a rampaging bull, smashing into trucks, flattening several fronts.
The two intruders seemed made of iron. They ignored bullets. They didn’t flinch at death. They seized Muggle guns and fired into fuel tanks and weapon boxes.
Explosions erupted in waves. Heat waves scorched hair and skin.
Inside the castle, wizards crowded the windows, stunned—watching as if it were a surreal comedy.
Just as they thought the Muggle army had no answer—pop!—another Muggle fired a strange gun with grappling hooks.
Zzzzzt!
A violent surge of electricity arced through the air. The cube and the masked man both collapsed—limbs locked, joints frozen as if rusted.
The High-Cheekboned Man sneered. "I knew it. Any creature tied to magic can’t withstand this. Let’s see what you really are!"
He stepped toward the masked man, reaching to pull off his hood.
"Thunder Explosion!"
A voice roared.
The High-Cheekboned Man flew backward like a sack of sand.
Twenty or so wizards, hidden in plain sight until now, stepped forward from the shadows—wands raised.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Spells flew across the battlefield. But Wovilet heard a faint, trembling voice beside him: "Merlin… that’s… that’s the Phoenix Society?"
Wovilet turned. He recognized the young wizard—a British mage.
"The Phoenix Society?" Wovilet asked, surprised.
The young man trembled. "It was founded twenty years ago by Dumbledore. A secret resistance group against the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters. It was nearly wiped out during the First British Wizard War… officially disbanded ten years ago. I… I know two of them."
He stared, awestruck. "Looks like they’re back. Phoenix Society isn’t here to help us. Dumbledore might be coming soon… Should we… should we escape now?"
He looked around frantically, as if expecting the headmaster to appear at any second.
Wovilet ignored the rest. His expression was unreadable. "Dumbledore created a secret society… just to fight Voldemort?"
He suddenly felt indignant. "Why didn’t he do it when we ruled Europe?"
The young wizard nearly collapsed. "...Is that really the point?"
Boom!
A heavy thud echoed from the outer wall.
Everyone turned.
A familiar flying broomstick hovered outside the broken window.
Beside it: the cube, the masked stranger, the girl wrapped in black fog, and the firebird—its wings spread wide, eyes glowing golden-red. All of them radiated danger.
"Excuse me," the cube said politely, "where is our Master, Wade Gray?"
Its side, the firebird opened its wings slightly, flames dancing in its throat.
The girl exhaled black mist. Her pupils glowed faintly white.
"Good question," a voice said from behind.
Sirius Black and Remus Lupin appeared outside the window, riding broomsticks, wands pointed at the gathered members of the Wizard Purity Party.
"Release the child," Sirius Black said coldly. "Or you’ll join the Muggles in the flames."
(End of Chapter)
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