"Fangs of the Soul Thief"

After buying the knives, Chase Everwyn reunited with Bilbo, and the two of them returned together to Bag End.

On the way, Bilbo glanced at the two large cleavers Chase carried and asked with a curious tilt of his head, "Chase, why did you buy two cleavers? Don't we already have kitchen knives at home?"

Chase raised the cleavers with a grin, striking a stance as though ready for battle. "These aren't for chopping bones. They're my weapons! I'll use them to defend myself from now on."

Bilbo stared at him, open-mouthed, unable to connect this display with the image of a traditional wizard.

"Well… as long as you like them," he said finally.

Noticing Bilbo's puzzled look, Chase gave a crooked smile.

Suddenly, the two cleavers flew from his hands with a sharp whoosh, embedding themselves deep into the trunk of a roadside oak. Half of each blade sank into the bark.

Bilbo was dumbfounded.

Chase raised one hand dramatically. "Knives—return!"

The blades yanked themselves free and flew back into his grasp.

Bilbo gaped, completely stunned.

Chase brushed off his sleeves and strolled ahead with the calm of a master. But inside, he was silently sweating.

They got stuck too deep... I nearly couldn't pull them out. That was close!

Back at Bag End, Chase began a new round of training.

He focused on controlling the two cleavers with magic, aiming to move them as though they were part of his body.

Each cleaver weighed about four pounds—just within the limit of what he could control smoothly through magical force.

To refine his skill, he began chopping firewood with them.

The effort was grueling at first. He could barely maintain control for more than a few seconds. But as the days passed, the blades grew more nimble, their speed sharper.

Before long, the firewood for Bag End's entire winter had been split—and then some.

Bilbo was thrilled.

While Hobbits loved comfort and routine, few enjoyed the backbreaking labor of chopping and stacking wood. Getting it done early felt like a small miracle.

Still, whenever Bilbo saw the cleavers darting through the air around Chase with sharp whooshes, he was filled with both admiration and a touch of fear.

The knives spun through the air, slicing invisible arcs for nearly half an hour before neatly returning to their sheaths at Chase's waist.

By then, Chase had reached a new level of mastery. Within a five-meter radius, the cleavers could strike at any point in an instant.

This gave him true offensive power—and a reliable means of defense.

Through further training, Chase even learned to levitate a hundred-pound object and hold it steadily for some time.

Bilbo became the first to experience the thrill of flight, lifted into the air like a kite on a string.

Their neighbors in Hobbiton watched in awe as Bilbo floated over the hills, becoming a brief legend among Hobbits.

Of course, Chase—the "wizard" responsible—also became a subject of much gossip and admiration.

Though few dared approach him, word of Chase Everwyn the Wizard began to spread throughout the Shire.

Two months passed.

One morning, Chase turned to Bilbo and said, "Bilbo, thank you for hosting me for so long. I think it's time I continued my journey."

Bilbo looked up in surprise. "Chase, did I do something wrong? You're leaving so suddenly."

Chase knelt slightly to place a hand on Bilbo's shoulder.

"Not at all. You've been a better friend than I could've hoped for. I just feel it's time I explored more of the world. I've only ever seen Hobbiton."

He gave Bilbo a playful wink. "And don't worry—when I get tired of traveling, I'll come back. You won't turn me away then, will you?"

Bilbo's smile returned. "Of course not. You'll always be welcome here, Chase Everwyn."

Still, he asked with concern, "Do you know where you're headed?"

Chase shook his head. "No plan. I'll stay in the Shire for now, see what's out there."

The Shire, while peaceful, had many towns and villages beyond Hobbiton.

Chase hoped to find new places—and perhaps something unexpected.

"Oh!" Chase added, "You know the Shire better than anyone. Any towns I shouldn't miss?"

Bilbo's eyes lit up.

He rushed to his study and returned with a well-worn map. Spreading it across the table, he pointed eagerly.

"If you're exploring the Shire, you must visit Michel Delving—it's our largest town, and the Mayor's office is there."

Michel Delving, located to the west in the same Westfarthing as Hobbiton, was the Shire's capital and a bustling center of trade and travel.

"It's the heart of the Shire," Bilbo said.

"Then that's where I'll go first," Chase replied.

Though he was reluctant, Bilbo still prepared a parting gift.

He packed a generous bag of food and pressed a pouch of silver into Chase's hands—enough to last him for weeks.

Chase tried to refuse, but having no coin of his own, he finally accepted it with quiet gratitude.

He didn't let Bilbo escort him.

Instead, he used a floating spell on his pack and, carrying it weightlessly behind him, set out alone.

From Bag End, Chase followed the East-West Road, heading west.

The road was even and well-traveled. Green fields and hills rolled gently into the distance, and now and then, other Hobbits passed by in carts or on foot, giving the tall outsider curious glances.

Chase walked swiftly, and by sunset, he arrived at Michel Delving.

The town was larger and more structured than Hobbiton. Its houses were made of brick, wood, and stone—more city than village.

As Chase stepped into town, the Hobbits around him paused to stare.

One, a stout fellow with a mustache and a feathered blue cap, stepped forward.

"Stranger! Where do you come from, and what business do you have in Michel Delving?"

Joseph Jerdam would've been an impressive man—if you could ignore the devilish muscles and the terrifyingly bald head.

He was usually calm. Peaceful, even.

Chase Everwyn had known Joseph long before he'd turned into a werewolf.

Back then, Chase had once considered that if he couldn't master spells through normal means, maybe he could follow Joseph's path—altering his body with raw magical force, transforming himself to access powers beyond human limits.

But their paths diverged. Chase didn't want that kind of strength, nor the kind of magic that came with it. In time, he parted ways with the Jerdam family.

Now freed from the iron mask and heavy restraints, Joseph Jerdam flexed his jaw and worked his mouth, clenching and unclenching his teeth. His eyes swept over the people gathered in the Burrow.

His gaze was cold, and yet his face was strangely composed—as though they were the prisoners, not him.

Only when his eyes locked with Chase's did something in his expression finally shift.

"Hello, Joseph," Chase said evenly.

"Chase," Jerdam nodded. "Long time no see."

Their conversation was shockingly casual—like two old friends discussing the weather.

"How long has it been?" Chase asked.

"One year, two months, and three days," Joseph replied without hesitation.

"Do we need to go through formalities?"

Joseph shook his head. "I know exactly what you're capable of, Chase. But you also know the honor of the Jerdam line. I won't betray secrets. Even if I knew more, the oath of the Order would bind my tongue."

Minister Fudge, watching the exchange, was visibly rattled. He could hardly believe his eyes. This towering werewolf—this monster—was talking because a young boy had asked politely.

"Minister?"

"Ah? What is it?"

"You can begin asking your questions now."

Fudge hesitated. Could it really be this simple?

He eyed Joseph warily. The man looked more like a weapon than a wizard.

Still, the urgency of the situation left him no room to second-guess.

"Did you kill those Muggles? Who is behind you? Why have you come to Britain?"

Joseph ignored the questions, never once looking at Fudge. His gaze remained fixed on Chase.

Chase's tone was soft, almost too gentle for someone so young. "Come now, Joseph. No need for this. We can work together. We should work together."

"Answer the Minister's question."

The calmness in his voice made those around him—Mrs. Weasley, Professor Flitwick, even Moody—shiver. It wasn't the voice of a child. It was too steady. Too controlled.

Molly Weasley suddenly realized she didn't know her nephew at all.

She hadn't truly understood how Chase had survived life in a Muggle foster home.

She hadn't grasped what it meant for a boy once labeled a squib to now wield magic like this.

Joseph gave a low growl, barely turning his head to address Fudge.

"Comrade Chase Everwyn, I will answer your questions because I respect you—but don't insult me by letting these simpering British wizards interrogate me. If you won't ask me directly, then let's go through the process and see if I'm like the others—unable to resist your will."

Fudge blinked. "What does that mean?"

Moody chuckled darkly. "It means… we're about to witness what a Soulbinder really is."

"Soulbinder?" someone whispered.

Even the usually stony-faced Silent Man raised an eyebrow.

Chase sighed. "Joseph… must we really go through this? We were allies once—"

"No," Joseph snapped. "We had business, nothing more. And the Jerdam family does not associate with former Soulbinders of the K.L.B."

Chase's brow twitched. "So annoying."

He could already feel the tension rising. If he revealed his true identity now, Molly, Fudge—maybe even Moody—would start watching him like a threat.

This situation was already messy enough.

But for the sake of Fudge… and the promise of a wand from Ollivander…

Chase looked into Joseph's defiant eyes and felt a wave of disgust.

He'd once thought this man had a strange kind of elegance.

"What, did the werewolf transformation replace his brain with muscles?" he thought bitterly. "I definitely made the right decision not going through with that kind of magic."

Still grumbling to himself, Chase took off his coat, revealing a plain white shirt beneath, and stepped toward Joseph.

"Minister, get ready—"

"Ready for what?"

"Just brace yourself."

"Wh—?"

Joseph towered over Chase, his bulky form half-kneeling but still taller. Compared to him, Chase looked like a wisp.

But Joseph was trembling. Sweat ran down the thick ridges of muscle across his neck and shoulders.

"Joseph," Chase said quietly, "out of respect for your former master, I'll ask one last time—"

Before Joseph could respond—

Bang!

Chase's fist crashed into the side of Joseph's face.

The sound echoed like a slap of stone. His head snapped sideways, cheek denting, muscles rippling under the force. Blood and broken teeth flew.

The chain strained and rattled, screeching like it might snap.

Everyone in the room froze.

Joseph's massive body was slammed back by the punch, his limbs caught midair by the iron bindings before crashing to the floor.

Bang.

Chase stepped forward.

Bang. Another punch.

Bang. A slap.

Bang. A solid kick to the face.

Chase said nothing.

He simply poured every blow into Joseph Jerdam with methodical, bone-snapping precision.

Joseph gasped and choked, barely able to breathe.

The only sounds in the room were the brutal impacts—blow after blow, like someone hammering a slab of meat—and Joseph's ragged, panicked breathing.

"Stop it!" Molly Weasley finally screamed, her voice shaking. She couldn't comprehend how a fourteen-year-old boy could be capable of this.

The others—Fudge, Flitwick, even Moody—were silent. Seeing it in person was something else entirely.

"Enough! Jack—Chase, this isn't right! Cornelius, do something!" Molly cried again, begging the Minister to intervene.

But Chase barely blinked.

"Oh, so this is what it takes?" he murmured with growing annoyance.

Bang.

He raised his foot—and stomped directly on Joseph's bloodied, crumpled face.