"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 386: ...It's Grindelwald...
"Oh? Not standard holy light—there's a trace of... mental branding woven in."
Even as he cast his spell, Douglas spoke with a detached, almost academic air, as if he were analyzing a spell in a Hogwarts classroom rather than standing at the heart of an ambush.
"Impressive. Your research has come a long way since last time—you've managed to fuse psychic attacks into the environmental aura. Shame, though. It still lacks a certain finesse."
His words did exactly what he intended: the female knight's attention flickered his way. She made no move to interrupt his casting—whether out of confidence or a spark of curiosity, it was hard to say.
"It seems we still underestimated you."
The knight—Agnese Vieri—regarded the seemingly languid man before her with new gravity.
"Douglas Holmes, you are charged with stealing Vatican secrets, inciting werewolf tribes against the holy light, and conspiring with corrupt elements in the Italian Ministry of Magic to undermine magical order across the Apennine Peninsula."
Her voice rang out like a judge's gavel, every word crisp and unyielding.
"I, Agnese Vieri of the Sacred Shield, Commander of the Third Squadron of the Order of Saint Sebastian, offer you one final chance.
Surrender. Return with us to face judgment before the Sacred Tribunal. This is your only path to redemption."
Douglas's smile only widened.
He helped the weakened Lupin to his feet, letting him lean against his shoulder, then replied at his own unhurried pace:
"Judgment? Oh, no, no, Commander Sacred Shield. I'm afraid you've misunderstood me..."
Seeing that he had her attention, Douglas's wand hand, which had hung so lazily at his side, snapped into motion.
"Move in! Take him alive!"
Agnese's instincts screamed—she shouted almost in tandem with his movement.
But she was already a heartbeat too late.
The tip of Douglas's wand stabbed toward the earth. In an instant, a savage, invisible cyclone erupted outward, with the two men at its eye!
The whirlwind sucked up silver powder and dead leaves, spinning them into a roaring tornado. It didn't just shove back the mind-corroding holy light—it became an impenetrable barrier.
All around, knights raised their crossbows, silver bolts blazing with sanctified light.
But Douglas's wand was already raised high, aimed at the brooding sky above.
The heavens split open at his command.
Rain didn't fall in gentle sheets—it came as if hurled by a giant's hand, each drop accelerated into a barrage of icy arrows. The downpour hammered the knights' armor with a relentless bang-bang-bang, scattering their aim and breaking their focus.
"Fire!"
Agnese roared, slamming her kite shield into the ground. The sacred crest exploded with blinding light, forming a vast, golden dome that shielded the knights behind her.
Crossbow bolts flew, but their trajectories faltered in the howling wind and driving rain, sucked into the cyclone and dashed harmlessly aside.
A cold, ruthless smile flickered at the corner of Douglas's mouth. His spellcasting never paused.
With a third motion of his wand, a thunderclap louder than anything natural erupted right beside every knight's ear.
This was no mere sound magic—it was a psychic concussion, a blow to the mind. Several knights staggered, weapons slipping from their grasp.
And then came true destruction.
"Lightning."
He spoke the word softly, but it was as if the gods themselves had passed sentence.
BOOM—!!!
Nine colossal bolts of deep violet lightning—like spears hurled by an enraged deity—tore the night asunder, slamming down with annihilating force upon the golden dome.
"Divine Protection!"
Agnese poured every ounce of power into the sacred crest, linking her strength with the others. The shield's radiance flared to its zenith.
Lightning and holy shield collided in a cataclysmic explosion.
For an instant, the world was nothing but blinding white—no sound, no color, only the raw clash of magic and sanctity. The shockwave tore trees from their roots, shattered stone, and sent the knights flying.
Agnese felt an irresistible force smash through her shield, driving her back meters, her boots carving deep furrows in the earth.
The knights behind her were scattered like leaves. Their formation was in ruins.
In that moment, Douglas had obliterated their meticulously prepared magic circle—overwhelming magic with even greater, more primal force.
He didn't linger. Wrapping an arm around Lupin's waist, he Apparated. The two vanished into the heart of the storm.
As the blinding light faded, Agnese steadied herself and looked up. All that remained was devastation: scorched earth, a whirlwind laced with icy rain still battering the trembling golden shield.
That spellwork—so stripped of ornament, so brutally direct in its command of the elements—made her eyes widen with a jolt of fear.
She clutched her still-hot kite shield, staring after Douglas with a wariness she'd never felt before.
No dazzling displays. No thunderous theatrics. Only the purest, most fundamental mastery of magic.
Such spellcasting—she hadn't even seen it from the Order's most elite instructors.
She'd thought the Vatican sending her was proof enough of their caution. Clearly, she'd been wrong.
He truly deserved his place on the Vatican's blacklist.
She'd once believed his victory over that faithless, God-forsaken cardinal was just luck and clever tricks.
Now, it was clear: his years at Hogwarts—his time under Dumbledore—had taught him much.
But this… this wasn't Dumbledore's magic.
She stared at the lightning-blasted wasteland, the air thick not with the crisp ozone of elemental spells, but with something else—an arrogant will that shattered rules and rebuilt order by force.
She'd seen this described in the Sacred Tribunal's Forbidden Archives: File GG-01—not Dumbledore's protection and order, but the revolution and destruction that once made all of Europe tremble.
Agnese's lips moved, dry and trembling, as she whispered:
"...It's Grindelwald..."
Not a question. A shuddering certainty.
The magical curtain of wind and rain slowly faded.
All that remained was devastation.
It looked as if an enraged Norwegian Ridgeback had torn through the land.
The air stank of ozone and scorched sanctity.
Across the shattered ground, a few knights struggled to rise—their once-fine armor charred and blackened, the sacred crests dim and lifeless.
Agnese moved among her battered knights, issuing orders to clean up the scene, her motions precise and measured—as if this had been a mere training exercise, not a battle for their lives.
Then came a series of sharp cracks, and Piero materialized from the twisting air, flanked by a squad of grim-faced Italian Aurors.
One Auror nearly tripped on landing, stumbling over muddy ground and a still-smoking crossbow fragment.
Piero strode forward, ignoring the wary glances of the knights. His eyes burned with suppressed fury, but his lips curled in a bureaucratic, undisguised sneer.
"Commander Vieri, conducting a military exercise of this scale on territory under the jurisdiction of the Italian Ministry of Magic—without so much as a courtesy notice—hardly seems in line with our agreements, does it?"
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