Chapter 309: Chapter 309: "Ashes Under Moonlight"
Under the pale, distant glow of the moon, eight vampires stood in a tight, tense formation atop a desolate hillside. Their attire—dark cloaks and simple tunics—was designed to blend seamlessly into the shadows. But their eyes betrayed them, faintly glowing with a predatory hunger.
They had followed the trail of their prey to this very spot, tracking the subtle magical residue left by the one who had slain their brethren. Yet now, they found nothing but a rugged expanse of land—silent and unremarkable.
A wiry vampire named Justus crouched low near a moss-covered boulder, pressing his hand flat against the damp earth. His voice was low, but his certainty cut through the quiet. "We're here. The essence is strong—it lingers. Whoever killed Amara and the others stayed here for some time."
Ira, the oldest among them, with silver hair glinting faintly in the moonlight, narrowed her piercing eyes as she scanned the surroundings. "I see no structure, no cave, no door," she hissed. "If he's here, he's hidden well."
Sergei, a broad-shouldered vampire with a jagged scar across his cheek, growled in frustration. "The essence leads us here, yet there's nothing. It reeks of a Fidelius Charm. Does anyone know how to break through that kind of magic?"
At the mention of the Fidelius Charm, the group exchanged uneasy glances. The charm was no small matter—its secrecy was nearly absolute, and bypassing it required knowledge they didn't possess. Only the Secret Keeper could reveal its protected location.
Ira's lip curled, her voice dripping with irritation. "We were promised a swift kill if we followed the trail. Now we're standing here like fools. The Dark Lord and the Schwarzwald Zirkel warned us this wizard would be dangerous, but this level of cunning? He's more trouble than he's worth."
Rising to his full height, Justus tensed, his sharp features shadowed in the moonlight. "If he's using Fidelius, he's no ordinary wizard. Either he has powerful allies or a skilled Secret Keeper. Either way, this won't be easy."
Sergei grunted, a hint of savage glee in his tone. "I have an idea. The Fidelius hides, but it doesn't protect. Now that we know the area, why don't we destroy everything here—level the ground and take him and his house down together?"
Ira tilted her head, considering the idea. "Not bad, but we'd need wizards to cause that kind of destruction. Let's go back and return with a team who knows such magic. Staying here is wasting time."
Elisabet, the youngest among them, crossed her arms and glared at the rocks as though they were mocking her. "We should bring ward-breakers too. If he's under Fidelius, there are likely other wards hiding behind it. We'll break the wards and burn his hideout to ash. Let's see how long he thinks he can hide from us."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Highly trained and deadly, these vampires weren't used to being outmaneuvered, let alone outsmarted. The indignity of being thwarted by invisible magic stoked their frustration.
Nero, who had remained silent, spat on the ground. "If he's the one who killed our brethren in London, I expected him to fight. Not cower behind wards and spells."
Jana, who had lingered near the back, spoke up at last, her tone clipped and commanding. "Enough. We're done here. We'll return with reinforcements—wizards who can destroy and dismantle these protections. Standing around here until dawn will only expose us."
Her words carried finality, and the others fell silent.
Their plan came together quickly: retreat, regroup, and return with specialists. But as they turned to leave, the wind shifted, carrying with it a faint, unsettling trace of magic. A tingling sensation prickled at the backs of their necks, sharp and insistent, drawing their attention skyward and along the hill's edge. Something had awakened—subtle, yet unmistakable to their keen senses.
Sergei froze, nostrils flaring. "Do you feel that?"
Ira nodded, her jaw tightening. "He's here."
The group instinctively closed ranks, forming a defensive circle. Their glowing eyes darted through the darkness, searching for any sign of movement. They were fast, strong, and well-coordinated, but they all understood the implications: if their enemy dared to reveal himself now, he either believed he could handle them or was prepared to prevent their escape entirely.
Jana extended her hand cautiously, brushing against an invisible barrier. Her voice dropped to a fearful whisper. "We can't run. The wards have shifted." She pressed harder, her frustration mounting. "I can't Apparate. We're trapped."
Nero snarled under his breath, his fangs glinting in the moonlight. "If he thinks trapping us makes him safe, he's overconfident. We'll show him what a mistake that is."
The moon hung high above them, silent and indifferent. In the stillness, a figure emerged at the edge of their vision. At first, it was only a shadow, indistinct and ghostly. Then the figure stepped forward, entering a patch of moonlight. He was clad in armor that gleamed faintly with each measured movement, a sword with a ruby-set hilt resting casually on his shoulder. His face was hidden beneath a helm, but his posture radiated calm, focused intent.
Justus sucked in a sharp breath. "He's… clad like a knight."
Elisabet's voice trembled, betraying her unease. "A knight? Here? In this age? Did a knight kill our brethren?"
Ira's expression darkened as she tried to recall old tales. "Knights are rare, but not extinct. If this is a true knight, we can't afford to be reckless."
Harry, concealed beneath his helm, remained silent. Unlike his usual confrontations, tonight he had no patience for words or theatrics.
He moved forward with deliberate precision, the sword in his hand gleaming in the moonlight, while his wand stayed hidden but poised for action. There was no room for banter, no space for intimidation. His purpose was clear: eliminate the threat swiftly and return to Hogwarts before anyone realized he was gone.
The vampires might view him as reckless for challenging eight of them alone, but Harry had faced far graver odds. He wasn't about to let them escape with any knowledge that could lead back to him.
The vampires spread out, their predatory eyes fixed on the advancing knight. Sergei snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "Whoever you are, knight, you've made a grave mistake showing yourself."
The knight didn't reply. His movements were smooth and calculated, each step imbued with purpose. Beneath the armor, Harry focused on his breathing, on the rhythm of his movements, and on the aura emanating from each vampire. He felt their power, their tension, and their cohesion as a unit. It didn't matter. He would strike first—and strike hard.
Jana's lips curled into a feral snarl. "Fine. Stay silent. We'll make you scream soon enough."
In an instant, Harry lunged. His sword flashed like lightning, coursing with elemental magic. A gust of wind roared from its edge, scattering the vampires like leaves in a storm. Nero cried out as a blade of air sliced his shoulder. Elisabet leaped to a nearby outcrop, hissing orders to flank him, but Harry was already moving again—too fast, too unpredictable.
The vampires tried to encircle him, coordinating in groups of three to corner their foe. Yet Harry spun through their ranks, wandless bursts of force knocking them off balance. The ground quaked beneath their feet as he channeled elemental energy through his sword. Tremors disrupted their footing, jets of fire separated them, and shards of ice slowed their movements.
Ira spat curses, her voice tinged with panic. "He's using elemental magic! This is no ordinary knight!"
Justus tried a stealthy approach, darting in from behind with claws aimed for Harry's neck. Without turning, Harry flicked his sword upward, releasing a crack of thunder magic. Lightning lit the night, and Justus staggered back, a pained howl escaping his lips as burns scored his chest.
Sergei, the strongest of the group, opted for brute force. Ignoring the sting of Harry's spells, he charged forward, swinging a heavy claw at Harry's helmet. Harry parried with the flat of his blade, then countered with a low slash that severed Sergei's leg at the knee. Sergei's scream was short-lived; Harry's wand conjured a lash of Fiendfyre that reduced the vampire to ash in moments.
"He's killed Sergei too easily!" Ira shouted, desperation creeping into her voice. "Regroup! Regroup!"
But there was no chance. Harry pressed his advantage, stepping into the gap left by Sergei's death. He moved with relentless efficiency, delivering a wind-boosted strike to Nero's midsection, sending the vampire tumbling through the air. Before Nero could land, Harry was there, his sword slashing through the vampire's neck. A hiss of Fiendfyre followed, leaving nothing behind but embers carried off by the breeze.
Elisabet backed away, her wide eyes betraying her terror. "This can't be happening. He's a monster!"
The irony wasn't lost on Harry, but he gave no response. Silent and efficient, he granted no quarter. He couldn't afford it. These vampires had tracked him here, proving they possessed methods to bypass even his defenses. If they escaped, they'd return with reinforcements, better prepared. Harry's only choice was to ensure no information left this battlefield. An unprepared enemy was always an easier one to defeat.
The remaining vampires rallied, hurling a volley of Vampiric Hexes and blood-magic curses. Harry countered with elemental shields: fire consuming their spells, water washing away the energy of their curses, and hardened earth absorbing the brunt of the impacts. He had grown adept at channeling magic through his sword rather than his wand—it added versatility and, he admitted, looked far more imposing.
"Focus!" Ira screamed, her voice sharp and commanding. "Attack together!"
Three vampires rushed him simultaneously, while two more leaped at him from above. Harry crouched low, letting their shadows pass over him, then erupted upward with a shockwave of force. One vampire crashed into a rock, their skull cracking with a sickening thud. Another was impaled by a conjured lance of ice, their screams echoing briefly before fading into silence.
Elisabet and Ira recoiled, horrified at the swift decimation of their ranks. Of the eight who had stood confident moments before, four were now ash, two lay immobilized, and only Elisabet and Ira remained unscathed. Even they trembled, their confidence shattered by the knight who moved like a storm given human form.
"Run!" Elisabet begged, her voice cracking with desperation.
Ira hesitated, the hum of the wards around them sealing their fates. Her expression darkened as understanding dawned. "There is no escape. We cannot run. He's too strong."
Harry advanced, his sword raised, each step measured and deliberate.
In a final, desperate move, Ira lunged to distract him, hoping to give Elisabet a chance to break through the wards. Harry met her charge with a sweeping strike, which she narrowly dodged—only to be impaled by a conjured spike of earth. Pinned and helpless, she could do nothing as Harry's blade flashed, followed by the hiss of Fiendfyre. Her ashes scattered into the night.
"No! You—wretch!" Elisabet screamed, tears streaming down her face. "You'll pay for this—"
Harry didn't let her finish. A gust of pressurized air sent her stumbling, shattering her stance. With a swift, final slash and a surge of Fiendfyre, her cries were silenced, and the battlefield grew still.
The hillside, once alive with the chaos of battle, now stood silent. Only faint scorch marks and drifting embers bore witness to what had occurred. Harry methodically erased all traces of his presence. A cleansing charm here, a ward adjustment there—he left nothing behind that could point to him. Voldemort and the vampires would know something had happened, but without survivors, their understanding would be incomplete.
Standing alone under the moonlight, Harry breathed steadily. He'd won swiftly, as intended. Now he needed to return to Hogwarts before anyone noticed his absence. Time was essential—he had classes to attend, a façade to maintain, and a school to subtly protect.
With a faint pop of Apparition, he vanished, leaving the hillside as tranquil and empty as the vampires had first found it. The wards shimmered faintly, repairing themselves, ready for the next intrusion.
Chapter 310: Chapter 310: "Dark Council"
As Harry made his way back to Hogwarts, high above the British countryside in an ancient castle, an important meeting was underway. The dimly lit chamber glowed with the eerie light of hovering orbs of cold fire, casting long shadows across the room.
Voldemort sat at the head of an ornate table, flanked by Magnus Blutreich of the Schwarzwald Zirkel and Vladimir Dracul XII of the Carpathian Covenant. Their respective inner circles stood at attention beside their leaders. The alliance's plans were progressing smoothly—Ministry infiltration, political maneuvering, strategic positioning—and this meeting was part of their regular discussions to refine their schemes.
After reviewing their primary objectives, the topic shifted to a growing concern—a thorn in their side.
"What of our vigilante problem?" Voldemort asked, his crimson eyes locking onto Vladimir. "The one who killed Macnair and your guards. Have you resolved it?"
A confident smile spread across Vladimir's aged features. "By now, he should be dead. I sent nine of my elite warriors to his hideout tonight. They are my finest—experts in tracking, combat, and stealth. We should hear of their success any moment."
Magnus raised a skeptical eyebrow, his silver hair gleaming faintly in the cold firelight. "Such confidence, despite the previous failures?"
"This time—" Vladimir began, but the chamber doors burst open with a resounding crash.
A young vampire stumbled in, pale even by undead standards. He was trembling as he approached the table where his lord sat.
"Marcus?" Vladimir's smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. "You were assigned to the hunting party. Why are you here alone? Where are the others?"
Marcus fell to one knee, his voice trembling. "My lord... they're dead. All of them. That monster killed them."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop further as Vladimir rose slowly from his seat, his ancient face twisted in fury. "What? Everyone? Dead? How? Speak—tell me everything."
Marcus spoke quickly, his words tumbling over each other as he recounted the night's events. He described how they had tracked their target to a hillside, how he had been stationed as a lookout, ready to strike if their prey tried to flee. Then, everything had gone wrong. Wards had sprung up, trapping them, and a knight had emerged. He detailed the swift, brutal efficiency with which their target had cut down his comrades.
"A knight?" Magnus interrupted, leaning forward, his sharp features intent. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," Marcus whispered. "The armor, the way he fought—it was unmistakable. But this knight wasn't like the stories I've heard. He wielded magic—elements bent to his will. Fire, lightning, earth... they moved as though they were extensions of him."
Voldemort's lip curled, his voice icy. "A knight? Why have I not heard of them, and why are you so afraid?" Skepticism tinged his words, though his crimson eyes flicked toward Magnus, who was well-versed in ancient lore. "Explain."
Magnus sighed, his tone laced with irritation and unease. "Knights are relics of a forgotten time. Humans who trained their bodies relentlessly without magic, achieving feats of strength and endurance rivaling wizards. But their methods were painstakingly slow. They were replaced by wizards, who could achieve power far more quickly. I believed them to be extinct."
Vladimir nodded, his voice low and grave. "Not entirely extinct, it seems. My Covenant's oldest records speak of them. Knights once roamed ancient kingdoms, facing entire armies single-handedly. The greatest among them—the Sky Knights—harnessed life energy, allowing them to surpass mortal limits. They could resist spells, move with inhuman speed, and endure strikes that would fell most men. A fully trained knight could live over a century and still fight as if in his prime."
Voldemort's expression remained impassive, though his eyes narrowed in thought. "Decades of training, and now we face one who is both knight and wizard? Unusual. And deadly."
Magnus gestured dismissively. "Perhaps that explains his strength against vampires. While knights fell easily to wizards, they were said to be formidable foes for creatures like werewolves and vampires, who rely on physical superiority. He may simply be exploiting their natural weaknesses."
Voldemort's fingers tapped against the table as he turned his gaze to Marcus. "Are you certain it was a knight? You saw the battle clearly?"
"Yes, my lord," Marcus said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Vampires see well in darkness. I watched from the treeline. He never sensed me. But the others..." He shuddered. "They didn't stand a chance."
Vladimir slammed his fist onto the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber. "Eight of my best! Eight! And this... knight cut through them like wheat!"
The room fell silent, the weight of Marcus's account sinking in. Their foe was far more dangerous than they had anticipated.
"This changes everything," Magnus said quietly, his weathered features grave. "A knight who can wield magic... I've never even heard of such a thing. Mastering either takes years, but this man has achieved both. He's no ordinary foe."
Vladimir scowled, his ancient face etched with frustration. "What I don't understand is why he's targeting us. He seems like a lone hermit—someone without ambition or allies. How did we make an enemy of him?"
Voldemort's crimson eyes gleamed with cold malice. "It doesn't matter. He has killed too many of our forces. He's an enemy now, and there's no turning back. Between this knight and that cursed Blue Eyes, the wizarding world has changed while I was away. How have so many powerful individuals emerged from obscurity?"
Magnus folded his arms, his tone measured but resolute. "We'll only learn the truth once we capture and interrogate them. For now, we need to focus on neutralizing this new threat."
Vladimir turned to Marcus, his gaze piercing. "My kin demand vengeance. They've been humiliated. I cannot let this insult go unanswered. Marcus, tell me—what else did you see? Every detail is important."
Marcus trembled but obeyed, his voice halting. "He was precise. Calculated. Every movement had a purpose—there was no wasted energy, no taunting or theatrics. He trapped them first with anti-Apparition wards and boundary shields, then…" He swallowed hard. "Then he executed them. Like it was nothing more than a task."
Voldemort's expression darkened, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the table. "Professional. Methodical. This is no vigilante playing at hero."
Magnus nodded grimly. "And now he knows we can track him. He'll be even more cautious."
Vladimir began pacing, his ancient features twisting with a mix of fury and calculation. "We need overwhelming force. No more small teams, no more probing attacks. This time, we crush him entirely."
"I agree," Magnus said. "My Zirkel can provide combat specialists and ward-breakers. Combined with your vampires—"
"And the werewolves," came a guttural voice from the shadows. Fenrir Greyback stepped into the dim light, his feral grin baring jagged teeth. "My pack is eager to prove themselves. On the full moon, they'll be at their strongest. Let them join the hunt."
Voldemort raised a hand to silence the rising voices. "Numbers. Be specific."
Vladimir's lips curled into a predatory smile. "Twenty of my best warriors."
"I can provide twenty transformed werewolves," Greyback added, his tone dripping with eagerness. "The strongest of my pack."
"And the Zirkel will send three combat masters," Magnus said. "Capable of breaking through any wards he might set."
Voldemort's gaze flicked to Magnus. "And three of my Death Eaters?"
"Yes, my Lord," Magnus replied with a respectful nod. "A force of nearly fifty. Perhaps excessive for one man—but after our losses, we cannot risk another failure."
Still kneeling, Marcus spoke hesitantly, his voice barely audible. "My Lords… even with such numbers, do not underestimate him. The way he fought… it was like watching death itself."
"Then we'll respond with greater death," Vladimir snarled. "In two weeks, under the full moon, we'll end this."
Voldemort's expression remained distant, his voice soft yet commanding. "So be it. Crush him completely. Leave no survivors, no loose ends. When we move on the Ministry, I want no hidden knights waiting to interfere."
The alliance leaders nodded, their resolve hardened by vengeance. As the meeting adjourned, the room emptied, each faction preparing for the upcoming assault. But in the shadows, Marcus lingered, unable to shake the image of that silent, armored figure—relentless, unstoppable, and utterly without mercy.
The next full moon would bring either triumph or slaughter. Marcus only prayed he wouldn't be chosen to see which it would be.
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