more clean up(chapter 157)

Chapter 157

A dozen wands snapped upward, incantations spilling from their lips— But the witch doctor moved first. A glass vial slipped from his fingers, shattering against the stone floor. A thin, green mist hissed upward — and the first to breathe it in fell silent.

The woman working on the runes staggered, her eyes wide with terror as her throat worked uselessly — but no sound emerged. She clawed at her neck, her mouth opening in a silent scream. "What—what's happening?!" Another wizard tried to speak, but his voice failed him halfway through. Panic spread like wildfire as one by one, their voices vanished. "No—no—!" A man stumbled backward, his wand shaking. The words for his spell formed on his lips— But silence stole them away. And then the killing began.

The witch doctor did not raise his wand. He didn't need to. Another vial rolled across the floor — and where it burst, a wave of black smoke surged outward. The Order members scrambled away, but it was too late. The smoke clung to them like oil, seeping into their skin.

Blood ran from their eyes. One fell to his knees, his body convulsing as his magic core flared violently — out of control, unstable. He reached for his wand, but his limbs wouldn't obey, twisting and jerking with unnatural spasms. A woman raised her hand in a silent plea— And then her head snapped backward with a sickening crack. Still, the witch doctor said nothing. He watched, unmoving, as the room descended into madness.

A man tried to run — but the illusions they relied on turned against them. The walls shifted, the ground rippled, and his escape twisted into a nightmare maze. He screamed — or would have, if he had the voice to do so — and vanished into the dark. Some tried to fight. Spells sparked wordlessly from their wands — weak, unfocused, crippled without their incantations. The witch doctor walked through their attacks like mist. A flick of his wrist sent a dagger flying, embedding itself in a wizard's throat. Another vial shattered at his feet — and the floor erupted in black tendrils, dragging a witch screaming into the ground. They fought. They died.

And still, he watched.

A man dropped his wand and tried to Apparate — but the poison had done its work. His senses spun, his mind fractured. With a crack, his body folded in on itself, and he collapsed into a broken, lifeless heap. The last survivor, a woman with blood running down her face, stumbled backward until she hit the wall. She stared at the witch doctor with wide, desperate eyes, her lips forming silent prayers. He approached her slowly.

She tried to cast a spell — but without her voice, it fizzled uselessly. He knelt before her — and from his cloak, he produced a final vial. A thin, violet liquid that glowed with an unnatural light. He held it up — and she shook her head violently, her hands raised in a soundless plea. But there was no mercy left in Grey Snape. The vial tipped. The liquid fell in a single, perfect drop onto her forehead— And she began to burn.

Silent, agonized thrashing as her skin blackened, her body twisting in agony. Her magic flared and fought — but there was no escape. When the fire finally died, only ash remained. The room was silent. The smoke cleared. Blood and bodies lay strewn across the stone floor, their faces frozen in agony. The witch doctor stood among them — the only living thing left. He did not speak. He did not need to.

-scene change-

The mine stretched deep into the earth — a labyrinth of stone and darkness, long abandoned by those who had first carved it from the rock. The air was thick and heavy, damp with the scent of iron and decay. Twisting tunnels reached into the depths, and the only light came from enchanted torches that flickered with an eerie, bluish hue. 

But it was no longer abandoned. The Order of Merlin had made it their refuge — a fortress hidden far from prying eyes. Here, the strongest among them gathered. Enforcers. Battlemages. Cursebreakers and wardmasters. They were not the cowards hiding behind bureaucracy or illusions — these were killers, warriors hardened by blood and magic. And they were ready. 

The wards around the mine were ancient and powerful, layered with spells designed to mislead and destroy. Protective enchantments twisted the air, cloaking the entrance in a veil of stone and shadow. The paths shifted like a living maze, and the deeper you went, the more reality unraveled — gravity bent, light distorted, and space itself became treacherous. They believed themselves untouchable. They were wrong. The first sign of death was the silence. 

At the mine's entrance, a pair of sentries stood guard — sharp-eyed and alert. But the sound of dripping water and shifting rock masked the approach of the figure that emerged from the dark. One moment they were alone — the next, they weren't. The witch doctor stepped forward. A hand rose. A vial spun through the air. The sentries never had a chance. 

The glass shattered at their feet, and the mist that spread was nearly invisible — a thin, silvery haze. One of the guards turned, his wand rising— And then his body seized. Blood burst from his mouth, his eyes rolling back as his limbs twisted in ways they shouldn't. His partner fell with him, their convulsions silent and horrifying. Their magic flared wildly — but their cores were already collapsing, burning them out from within. The witch doctor passed their bodies without a glance. 

The Order's strongest felt the wards tremble — but they did not panic. They readied themselves, drawing their wands and speaking words of power. Some laid traps of cursed sigils and explosive runes, while others formed battle formations, their eyes fixed on the twisting tunnels ahead. "We hold the line," one of them growled — a towering man with scars down his face and a voice like thunder. "Whoever they are, they die here." 

They did not know fear. But fear came for them anyway. The attack began with a sound — a low, distorted hum that grew and grew, vibrating through the very stone. The air grew colder, and the light from their torches dimmed, flickering like candles in a storm. Then the first explosion rocked the mine. The tunnel ahead collapsed in a shower of stone and dust — and when the smoke cleared, the witch doctor stood on the far side. 

They didn't wait. Spells flew — bolts of fire and lightning, curses that turned the air to ice and shattered stone. The mine blazed with light and fury— But the witch doctor moved like a shadow. 

He didn't cast spells. He didn't need to. Another vial fell, and when it broke, the air rippled with sickly green mist. The battlemages threw up shields — but it was too late. The mist passed through their defenses like they weren't even there. One of them screamed — a short, choked sound before his throat closed entirely. Blood poured from his eyes and ears, his skin blistering as his body seized. "Fall back!" the scarred leader roared.