Bounty Hunters

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"Shadowless Step!"

Sargeras's figure vanished from the stone floor in a flash.

Back in the Headmaster's office, the old man suddenly lifted his head, eyes turning toward the direction of Sargeras's study. His worn and weathered face was full of helpless resignation…

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The muddy ground squelched beneath his boots, thick with rot and sludge. Sargeras pushed aside a curtain of man-eating vines, following the trail of blood that led him toward the small town mentioned in the Nightingale's letter.

Black Fiendfyre was burning throughout the town. He knelt down and reached into the soggy mud to pick up a piece of frozen crystal—one that encased a pair of werewolf fangs.

This was Nightingale's handiwork. A signature spell he had crafted just for her, back before he was sent to Azkaban.

The chaos surrounding him said only one thing, loud and clear.

—She'd been ambushed!

Without changing expression, Sargeras crushed the shard of ice in his hand. Then he drew his wand and fired a brilliant burst of spelllight into the sky.

The spelllight shot upward with a sharp, shrieking sound and exploded high above into a terrifying symbol: the black silhouette of a raven's head.

Two seconds later, a faint purple light flared roughly eight hundred yards away and bloomed into a graceful emblem of a nightingale in mid-flight.

Sargeras let out a breath of relief.

In the next instant, his entire form dissolved into a black raven's shadow and launched upward from the ground, speeding toward the source of her signal.

The landscape below blurred past in streaks. Scattered traces of blood dotted the ground, along with three mangled corpses.

One had been skewered through the chest and pinned to a tree by an icicle. The other two were torn clean in half, their upper bodies discarded in the muck like trash. Pale ice crystals were still pushing out from their broken torsos, the frost spreading like veins, trying to consume what remained of the dead.

Suddenly, a dull, dragging pressure thickened the air around him. Sargeras understood at once—the enemy's dark wizards had deployed an Anti-apparition field using an alchemical array.

They had come prepared.

He pressed forward, following the signal straight into the heart of the battlefield, where a sprawling mass of blood-sucking Devil's Snare lay in wait, writhing in every direction.

These grotesque, carnivorous magical vines had gone wild. Twisted tendrils were growing at a frightening pace, each tipped with a snarling serpent's head, its mouth wide open and ready to devour whatever it could catch.

From high above, Sargeras dove like a falling star, crashing into the ground with force.

"Nether Fiendfyre!"

A pale white blaze burst from the tip of his wand, and from within the flame, a radiant Patronus emerged.

The moment it appeared, it soared upward first, spiraling high into the sky. Then, in one smooth arc, it shifted direction and dove straight toward the ground, slamming into it headfirst.

BOOOOM~!

At the point of impact, a massive wave of flame exploded outward, sweeping across the battlefield. The bloodthirsty Devil's Snare were incinerated the instant the fire touched them, their twisted limbs vanishing in a flash. None of them even had the chance to thrash or resist.

That strange pale white fire, though fearsome, didn't harm anything else around it. As soon as the cursed plants were reduced to ashes, the flames began to scatter and swirl, transforming into a flurry of tiny white birds. The birds fluttered upward and converged midair, gradually reforming into the very shape of the Patronus that had just been summoned.

Only then could Sargeras truly see the battlefield with the vines cleared away.

Ice and fire had split this patch of land in two. On the left, a roiling swamp boiled under the glow of black fire. On the right, sharp spears of ice—each nearly three meters tall—jutted up in clusters, catching the faint light like crystal blades.

Right along the border where the two elements met, a corpse lay impaled on an ice spike. The black-robed figure was frozen in the same posture he had held while casting his last spell, his death caught in mid-motion.

Just as Sargeras was taking in the scene, five black-robed wizards emerged from the dark fire. Behind them stumbled a large pack of freshly raised Inferi (undead), their bodies jerking and swaying as they followed in their masters' steps.

Sargeras didn't spare the grim-faced Dark Wizards a glance. Instead, he turned and looked toward the right side of the battlefield.

Nightingale was rising to her feet from the rotten marsh. Her long silver-white hair was matted with mud, and tiny beads of blood clung to the tips, slowly melting into embers and falling to the ground… a clear sign that her Veela bloodline was on the verge of losing control.

She was bent over, hands braced against her knees, panting hard. She looked absolutely wrecked. But even in such a state, one thing stood out plain as day… her captivating beauty. Fierce, breathtaking, and undeniable.

And that was exactly why these Dark Wizards were willing to pay such a steep price to capture her. Her beauty went beyond that of an ordinary Veela. If they managed to sell her to a Goblin, they'd make a fortune.

Seeing that she was still able to stand, Sargeras gave her a small nod. Then, without hesitation, he raised his wand toward the ones responsible—the group of Dark Wizards just about to speak.

He ignored the lead wizard's attempt to parley. His voice, when he spoke the incantation, was cold, calm, and utterly merciless.

"Frenzied Explosion."

A thick beam of blood-red light shot from his wand like a thunderbolt, cutting straight through the air and silencing the lead wizard before he could finish a single word.

BOOOOM~!

A thunderous explosion tore through the ground. The spell left a massive crater, blackened cracks radiating outward from the center like scorched veins.

Dozens of Inferi were blown apart, wiped out in an instant. Of the five Dark Wizards, only one remained—the leader, barely alive, his limbs shattered, his body covered in burns and blood. The others had been reduced to ash, nothing left behind at all.

"Ah~ wait, wait… in Merlin's name!"

The lone survivor tossed aside his snapped wand, groaning in pain as he raised his broken arms high above his head.

"We were just bounty hunters paid to do a job! Please, I beg you, spare me! I'll serve you instead—I'll do anything, anything you want…"

Sargeras gave a slight nod. "There's only one thing I need you to do…"

The Dark Wizard seemed to know exactly what was coming. His broken hand twitched—and in a flash, a fully intact wand appeared in his grip.

"Avada…"

SPLAT~!

A crimson flash cut through the air. Sargeras's silent slicing curse ripped forward like a blade through butter, shearing along the wizard's wand. In the same instant, four of his fingers—and half his head—were severed clean off and hit the ground.

"I knew it…" Sargeras muttered with a trace of disdain as he turned and walked calmly toward Nightingale.

"Watch out!"

He had just reached down to help her up when her urgent cry burst from her lips.

A towering werewolf suddenly burst from the boiling mud behind them, lunging straight at Sargeras. Its claws were jagged and razor-sharp, each one wreathed in flickering black fire.

"Crimson Rend."

Even before the werewolf reached the peak of its leap, Sargeras's wand had already snapped up, aimed at exactly where the beast was going to appear.

A piercing red flash cut through the air. The moment the creature reached the height of its jump, it was shredded midair into a splash of red liquid that slammed backward faster than it had leapt.

"Noooo!!!"

The scream echoed from far across the battlefield, raw and furious, just as the werewolf dissolved into a fine crimson mist under the force of the spell.

Sargeras flicked his wand in a small circle, and the bloodied liquid instantly froze into a dense cloud of jagged blood-red crystals. With a sharp motion, he hurled them toward the source of the scream like a storm of deadly glass.

Then, with a casual wave of his hand, a soft breeze swept in, scattering the smoke across the battlefield until the figure behind it finally came into view.

"So that's who it is..." Sargeras's voice was calm, almost indifferent. "The infamous werewolf leader. The wanted criminal who murders Muggles for fun… Fenrir Greyback."

As the smoke finally cleared, a tall figure stepped into view. He had already shifted back into human form, but the signs of his beastly nature were still obvious—his face was twisted and grotesque, his yellowed teeth sharp and still bared in a lingering snarl.

Greyback's body was riddled with small wounds, blood-red crystals embedded from head to toe. His matted fur had soaked up both blood and mud, congealing into filthy clumps that clung to his skin like wet ropes. The result was a savage, blood-soaked figure, feral and menacing.

"I know you, Sargeras…" The words grated from his throat, rough and hoarse, thick with hate and disgust.

As he spoke, his jaundiced eyes flicked past Sargeras to the woman behind him—Nightingale. And in that glance, the hatred he held for her burned even hotter than what he felt for the man standing in front of him.

It was her. She was the reason their plan had gone up in smoke. Because of her, they'd suffered heavy losses. Because of her, his brother was dead…

Greyback dug out a jagged, blood-crusted crystal embedded in his side and clenched it tightly in his hand—his brother's blood.

"House Greengrass pup…" he growled, voice low and dangerous, "this matter ends here today. I won't—"

"Did I ever say this ends here?"

Sargeras cut him off, voice cold and flat, his wand already drawn and pulsing with power.

"You really want to be marked by the Blood Moon Alliance?" Greyback snarled the words through gritted teeth, forcing down the violent instinct surging through his half-shifted body. "Kill me, and every werewolf under the moon will hunt you to the ends of the earth…"

"Hunt me?" Sargeras let out a sharp, scornful laugh. "You mean those mutts infected by a filthy stray dog like you?"

He twirled the old, second-hand magic wand between his fingers, shaking his head slowly with clear disdain. "Or do you actually think you're someone important?"

The intense humiliation hit like a punch to the gut. Greyback's spine cracked as it started to warp and twist, rage flooding through his chest and rising to his throat…

AWOOOooo~!

The howl erupted from him like grinding metal laced with thick, bloody phlegm. And with that savage cry, Fenrir Greyback's last shred of sanity vanished into the wind.

Saliva mixed with blood dripped from between his snarling fangs, and the hot breath he expelled reeked of rotting flesh.

He was the one who had willingly infected himself with lycanthropy in exchange for power.

He was the werewolf leader who had tortured Muggles by the dozens and turned countless wizards into cursed beasts.

He was the magic creature, the terror in the night, who'd spread fear like wildfire and unleashed a storm of blood-soaked curses across the land.

And now, he was being stared down—humiliated—by a mere human wizard with a wand pointed at his face like he was nothing but a rabid dog.

But anger gave him strength!

Fenrir leapt forward, the stench of blood and fury swirling around him like a storm. Yet before he could get close, Sargeras raised his wand and cast a silent Freezing Charm. The snarling werewolf was frozen mid-pounce, suspended like a grotesque insect sealed in amber.

Then, with a flick of his wand, Sargeras stirred the filthy swampwater into the air and reshaped it using a Transfiguration spell into a cage of jagged spikes, which clamped down around the werewolf's body just as it began to break free.

The moment the spike cage closed, fire ignited at its tips, engulfing the struggling beast and scorching its flesh, layer by layer, until all that remained was a shredded mess of fur and ruin.

One merciless spell after another, one humiliation stacked on top of the next—Greyback could no longer even muster a proper howl. All that was left in his throat were whimpers, helpless and pitiful and broken.

And still he muttered through the sobs, barely more than a whisper now, "You won't kill me… you can't… the Blood Moon Alliance will brand you… they'll never stop hunting you…"

Sargeras stepped in closer, bent down beside him, and pressed the tip of his wand firmly against the beast's thudding heart. His voice was quiet, but colder than ever.

"Then let your little pups come try."

"Magical Overload."

A strange light flashed at the tip of his wand.

Fenrir screamed as his body convulsed uncontrollably, twisting and spasming while his voice shattered into fragments of agony. The screaming faded, the light dimmed, and at last, his body collapsed into stillness.

Fenrir Greyback was… dead!

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[Chapter End's]

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