Novel Chapter
As Douglas led his newly acquired assistant back toward the mine, a heavy scent hit his nose.
It wasn't the crisp, green aroma of the mountain forest.
It was blood.
And, beneath that, the acrid tang of ozone—the lingering, burnt scent left behind when powerful magic collides.
At the mouth of the mine, the sentries who should have been on watch had vanished without a trace.
"Looks like we missed the party," Douglas remarked, his voice steady as ever as he strolled toward the entrance.
Valerius followed, inhaling deeply. A malicious, almost gleeful smile split his pale face.
"Red Moon totem werewolves," he pronounced, sniffing the air with a sickly excitement. "Their scent is a blend of rusty iron and rotting flesh. I could never mistake it."
He shot a glance at Douglas, hoping to see a flicker of alarm or concern.
But he was disappointed.
Douglas's expression was utterly calm, as if he were simply confirming something he'd already known.
The ground around the entrance was a mess—broken spears, crude stone axes, and several pools of blood already dried to a dark, rusty red.
A battle had taken place here—a fierce one.
But there were no bodies.
Without pausing, Douglas strode deeper into the mine.
His footsteps echoed through the shadowed tunnel, unhurried, each step radiating an unnerving composure.
Valerius hurried after him, his unease growing with every step into the darkness.
At last, they arrived at the Echo Chamber.
One look at the cavern's interior, and Valerius sucked in a sharp breath.
The schadenfreude that had just begun to bloom in his chest was instantly replaced by a chill that reached his very bones.
In the center of the cavern, over a dozen hulking werewolves were locked in a frenzy—howling, clawing, savaging one another.
Every one of them bore the blood-red crescent moon tattoo. Their muscles bulged, claws glinted with lethal promise.
But their actions were disturbingly absurd.
One werewolf slashed madly at empty stone, as if battling some invisible beast.
Another huddled on the ground, clutching his head and screaming in terror, tormented by phantoms only he could see.
Two or three more, eyes bloodshot and wild, tore into their own companions in a fit of savage delirium.
They were caught in a war only they could perceive.
At the edge of this chaos, the runes Douglas had painstakingly inscribed onto the cavern walls glimmered with a faint, unwavering light—silent as watchful wardens.
Valerius stared, transfixed, at those runes.
Their twisted lines and uncanny patterns were unmistakably kin to the contract he'd just signed.
He understood in an instant.
This wizard hadn't been waiting for guests.
He'd been waiting for prey to step willingly into his carefully prepared slaughterhouse.
Was this man truly a graduate of Hogwarts?
A wild thought flashed through Valerius's mind—perhaps he was really some ancient Greek dark wizard reborn, merely masquerading as a British professor.
From the far side of the cavern came the muffled cheers of survivors, voices tinged with the relief of having narrowly escaped death.
Lupin stood behind a makeshift barricade of transfigured stone, shielding the members of the Ashen Claw tribe.
Some were wounded, faces pale, but—miraculously—there had been no major casualties.
The moment they spotted Douglas, hope flared in every eye.
"Mr. Holmes!"
Marco emerged from behind the barricade, one arm bound in a blood-soaked bandage.
He looked from the powerful totem werewolves, now lost in their own illusions and tearing each other apart, to Douglas, who approached with unhurried ease. Whatever doubts he'd harbored about this man's strength melted away.
Only awe remained.
He finally understood what Lupin had meant.
Douglas wasn't just helping them.
He was offering them a new future.
Douglas's gaze settled on the totem werewolves trapped within the barrier.
In that moment, his gentle eyes turned as cold as a scalpel.
"That one," Valerius whispered, pointing to a particularly imposing figure at the heart of the chaos, "is the Red Moon Brotherhood's werewolf chief. They call him 'Totem.'"
This werewolf was larger than the rest, and even under the torment of illusion, his eyes would occasionally flash with clarity.
Whenever that happened, he would lock his gaze on Douglas, growling deep in his throat like a beast fighting desperately against the spell's grip.
He was stronger—and more dangerous—than any of his kin.
Douglas raised his wand.
No judgment. No interrogation.
He simply spoke, his tone as calm as a surgeon pronouncing a diagnosis.
"Fulmen Serpens!"
A slender bolt of silver-white lightning, compressed to its very limit, shot from the tip of his wand.
There was no thunderous roar—just a soft, sharp "crack."
The lightning struck the werewolf chief—"Totem"—with surgical precision.
His massive body jerked, the blood-red tattoo blazing for a split second. Then the last glimmer of life vanished from his eyes, and he collapsed, lifeless.
But that was only the beginning.
The silver-white current seemed almost sentient.
It burst from the chief's corpse, arcing through the air in a jagged, predatory line, and struck the nearest werewolf.
"Crack!"
Another one down.
The lightning moved like a serpent let loose in a pond, using the malice of its targets as a conduit—seeking, leaping, chaining from foe to foe in an inescapable dance of death.
It flashed between the dozen werewolves, each flicker marked by another powerful body crashing to the ground.
The whole process was silent, efficient, and possessed a sinister beauty.
Valerius's pupils shrank to pinpoints, but what he felt went far beyond mere visual shock.
The thick stench of ozone and scorched flesh assaulted his keen senses—not the aroma of food, but the warning scent of a natural predator.
His ancient blood screamed at him to run, but the contract's brand, like red-hot iron chains, pinned him in place.
He had no doubt—had he chosen to resist earlier, this "Fulmen Serpens" would have claimed him as well.
Marco and the Ashen Claw tribe could only stare, dumbfounded.
They had imagined countless brutal battles—but never pictured an ending so swift, so... clean.
Lupin looked pale.
He had seen Voldemort's cruelty, the Death Eaters' madness.
But Douglas's methods were something else entirely.
Not a sadist's revelry, but a surgical purge.
Like a doctor cutting away diseased flesh.
When the last totem werewolf fell, the cavern filled with the stench of charred meat.
The silver-white lightning, its work done, flickered once more and vanished into the air.
Silence returned.
Douglas lowered his wand, surveying the blackened corpses with no trace of emotion.
He turned to the thoroughly shaken Valerius, his tone brooking no argument:
"Assistant, go into the woods and bring back a dozen of the sturdiest oak trees."
Then, turning to Marco:
"You—keep an eye on him."
Author's Note:
Spatial Prison (画地为牢): Developed by Professor Holmes, this conceptual barrier spell is not a physical wall. The caster fuses Latin and Eastern syllables, inscribing runes into the very fabric of space to create a three-dimensional magical field. Its core effect, "Mirror Backlash," means the more aggressive and malicious the intruder, the greater the sensation of spatial oppression—walls closing in, echoes twisting into curses, companions turning into enemies, all sense of direction lost. In this hall of mirrors built from their own rage, they spiral into madness. Externally, nothing changes but the air grows thick—perfect against emotion-driven foes like werewolves or berserkers, harmless to innocents. At its heart, the spell weaponizes the enemy's own malice, achieving mental imprisonment and collapse—a step beyond traditional physical defenses.
Fulmen Serpens (电走龙蛇): A chain-killing spell researched by Professor Holmes. The caster unleashes a highly compressed, silver-white bolt of lightning, silent and precise. Its "intelligent conduction" allows it to strike the first target, then leap from body to body, following the strongest malice in the group, creating an inescapable chain of silent slaughter. It's a surgical tool for eliminating groups—no wasted magic, no collateral damage. Warning: The spell's path strictly follows malice—never use it where allies are present.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
Read up to (100+ ) advanced chapters on Patre\on
Visit us here: patreon.com/GoldenLong
Happy reading, everyone!