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Valerius cast a look of disdain at the werewolves, their emotions raw and unrestrained, then glanced down at his former colleagues lying cold on the stone.
He straightened his tattered collar and, by instinct, drew himself up, adopting a tone dripping with condescension.
"Barbaric revelry—they delighted in it. We noble vampires would never stoop to such tasteless..."
His words cut off abruptly.
A pair of deep green eyes were fixed on him—calm, unblinking.
Valerius's heart seized.
The Net.
He remembered now. The legends said every vampire hunted by the Net had been a wanton predator in Muggle society.
He forced out a dry laugh, scrambling to explain himself.
"Of course, Mr. Holmes, every group... has its... less reputable elements. I joined the Red Moon Brotherhood for far more ambitious... grander goals..."
"And now, I'm all the more grateful to be following you."
Douglas didn't even acknowledge the feeble excuse.
He turned to Marco, his voice as calm as if assigning a mundane household chore.
"Put them all in coffins."
"Bury them in the valley. Set a headstone."
He paused, a cold, razor-thin smile curving his lips.
"Engrave it: Here lie the Totem Werewolves of the Red Moon Brotherhood, who once took pride in hunting Muggles and their own kind. Sponsored by Hogwarts' Defence Against the Dark Arts class."
"Oh, and add one more line."
"Notice: Professor Holmes's improved werewolf curse suppressant can quell lunar madness, preserve humanity and reason, and—when taken long-term—eradicate the lycanthropic curse. Those seeking hope may approach Marco of Ashen Claw at this site, with sincerity."
Marco and Lupin stood frozen.
They stared at Douglas as if seeing him for the first time.
Using their enemies' gravestone as a recruitment billboard for the tribe?
This… this was…
Valerius felt a chill crawl down his spine.
At last, he understood just what kind of being he had sworn himself to.
Far away, atop a mountain peak, a stone almost indistinguishable from its surroundings shimmered with a faint ripple.
An Auror in standard-issue Italian Ministry of Magic robes knelt, a crystal orb the size of a human head floating before him.
Within its depths, the cavern's events played out in crisp detail.
He swiftly stowed the orb, drew a sheet of parchment, and let his quill scrawl at breakneck speed.
[URGENT REPORT: Target Douglas Holmes confirmed to have executed thirteen Red Moon Brotherhood totem werewolves. Method: efficient, ruthless, not in line with British Ministry procedure. Casualties include the werewolf leader, Totem. Note: Target has absorbed the Ashen Claw tribe and used the execution site for... commercial promotion. Recommend reassessment of threat level and unpredictability.]
Vatican City, within a sunless prayer chamber.
A cardinal in deep crimson robes listened in silence as a knight delivered his report.
"…He turned their tombstone into an advertisement."
For the first time, a flicker of disbelief crossed the cardinal's face.
He fell silent, then spoke at last, his voice ancient and distant.
"Arrogant Englishman…"
"If he so loves purification, let him witness what true, divine cleansing means."
"Go. Awaken our most devout… hounds."
Across Italy's shadowed corners—
Surviving Red Moon Brotherhood members, hidden among various werewolf tribes, received word almost simultaneously: Totem and his elite guard were utterly destroyed.
No rage. No cries for vengeance.
Only a brief, stunned silence—then an outpouring of wild, irrepressible joy.
"Totem is dead! That lunatic's finally gone!"
"Brilliant! Once the Englishman leaves, the Red Moon Brotherhood is ours!"
But among the forcibly turned, ordinary werewolves, the news spread wider still.
They heard of the event, and of the gravestone standing in the valley.
Silence.
Many who lived as slaves at the bottom of other tribes quietly raised their heads, a new light flickering in their eyes.
Across the major werewolf clans, the mood shifted.
Those who once swaggered with impunity suddenly grew cautious.
They began warning their followers:
"Keep your heads down for now!"
"Stay away from Ashen Claw in the Apennines! Don't cross them! And whatever you do, don't mess with that English professor!"
In Lorenzo's office, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and cigar tobacco imported from the shores of Lake Geneva.
A report, delivered by Ministry-standard owl post, lay on a desk fashioned from Norwegian sea monster tentacles.
His long fingers lifted the parchment, its touch dry and cold.
As his eyes scanned the page, Lorenzo's brow furrowed.
"Truly… unexpected."
He murmured, leaning back in his soft leather armchair, his weary gaze flickering with confusion.
By his script, Douglas Holmes—this blade reintroduced to Italy—should have struck straight at the heart of the Church.
He knew better than anyone how deeply that old scandal had scarred the British wizard.
That bone-deep hatred for the Church's hypocrisy.
When the Church offered him a way out, he'd crushed it underfoot, insisting on exposing the mastermind, tearing down that cardinal's plot—and the Church's dignity along with it.
A man like that, faced with provocation from the Order of Saint Sebastian, should have unleashed a tempest—one to shake the entire Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.
But what did he do?
He took a detour. Like a veteran hunter, he ignored the obvious lion and set his sights on a pack of jackals lurking in the woods.
He absorbed Ashen Claw, executed the Red Moon Brotherhood's totem werewolves, even… tamed a vampire.
A twist in the tale.
Lorenzo's fingertips tapped a rhythm on the smooth walnut desk.
He tried to decipher this move, this piece played off the board.
"A vampire… Valerius…"
He dredged up the name, and the ancient family it belonged to—Cappadocia.
Could Douglas be using this exiled pawn to draw those reclusive, ancient bloodlines into the fray?
This chessboard was growing far too large.
After the confusion, a new possibility dawned.
Perhaps Douglas's motives didn't matter.
What mattered was that his actions were already providing Lorenzo with perfect ammunition.
Italy's magical world—a stagnant pond—needed a fierce catfish to stir it up.
And now, that catfish wasn't just churning the water, but rallying every creature in the pond.
A cold, incongruous smile curled across Lorenzo's lips.
"Let the storm come harder, then," he whispered.
He quickly drafted a message.
It emphasized the English professor, Hogwarts, and the fact that he was assembling… a cross-species private force.
He tied it to an owl's talon.
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