The attackers froze, horror flooding their eyes.
"What—what the hell is that thing?!"
"Protego!"
"AAAAHHH!"
The black tide swallowed them like a living storm.
Their shields shattered instantly beneath the onslaught—curse after curse pummeled them, but every spell sank uselessly into the writhing darkness. And every drifting shred of blackness cut like a razor, biting deeper than steel, moving faster than their eyes could follow.
Within seconds, their protective charms crumbled. The swarm of shadows pierced through robes and flesh alike. Their screams ripped through the alley as if they were being sliced apart by a thousand invisible blades.
A violent gust surged, lifting all six into the air, their bodies thrashing in agony.
And then—silence.
The storm dissipated.
They lay sprawled across the stones, twitching and moaning. Their fine robes hung in bloody tatters. Dozens—no, hundreds—of cuts oozed crimson, pooling into a wide slick of blood that soaked through splintered wand shards.
The shadows twisted, re-forming, and Tom stepped out from the mass—untouched, expression cold. He gazed down at them as though at insects writhing beneath a magnifying glass.
"Trying to catch a few ants alive is much harder than simply crushing them," he murmured.
The men whimpered.
"Monster! A monster!"
"You're not human—you're something else!"
Their eyes held only terror now. Not even hatred—only the recognition that they had crossed a force they could never comprehend.
Tom raised his hand. The ground split with a thunderous crack. Stone shards spun and fused into a massive sarcophagus of rock, swallowing the six groaning men whole. With one step, Tom and his prisoners vanished from the residential district.
…
In a forest clearing outside the city, Tom drew out his WhatsApp and flicked a message. Within minutes, Vinda Rosier and Vogel Apparated into the clearing, dropping into deep bows.
"Lord Riddle."
Tom snapped his fingers. The stone coffin split open. The six mercenaries tumbled out in a heap, unconscious from blood loss, their bodies smeared with gore.
"They attacked me," Tom said flatly. "Mercenaries. Find out who hired them, where they took the job. Trace it back."
That was why one had subordinates—to deal with tedious chores unworthy of his time.
Rosier's face darkened instantly. Vogel's eyes blazed with killing intent as he glared down at the broken men.
"Be assured, my lord," Rosier said tightly. "We will dig this to the roots. Every single one of them—and whoever stands behind them—will pay."
But Tom merely lifted a hand, voice calm, almost detached.
"No. Don't rush. Be elegant."
The two exchanged startled glances. He—the target—was calmer than they were. Not a trace of anger in his tone.
"Killing them won't solve anything," Tom continued softly, eyes glinting. "Death is… too clean. What matters is making them regret ever being born. Make them realize their error. That is justice. Understand?"
A chill ran through both their spines. They bowed quickly, chastened.
Vogel forced a laugh, oily and sycophantic. "Lord Riddle… how wise. Killing solves nothing—ah, truly profound!"
Rosier arched a brow. When did this blunt ox learn to flatter so well?
Tom waved off the groveling. "Enough. Business. How goes the meteorite collection I requested?"
Rosier took over smoothly. "We've gathered about three tons so far. The rest is still trickling in, mostly small scattered sources."
"Three tons?" Tom's eyes lit faintly. "That'll do—for now."
Rosier hesitated. She knew what he would say next. Sure enough—
"I'll come to the Rosier estate to collect them myself."
Her stomach tightened. If Tom came openly to her home, and if anyone connected him to the so-called Saints… hearts would stop across the continent.
But he was already decided, and arguing was pointless. She swallowed her misgivings and inclined her head.
When Tom left, their masks of obedience fell away.
Rosier's eyes gleamed cold. She'd boasted just days ago to Tom that her grip on France was tightening—yet here, in her Paris, someone had dared attack him. This wasn't just an insult to Tom. It was a direct slap to her face.
She turned to Vogel, who looked faintly uncertain. "What's your move?" he asked. "I can lend muscle if you need."
Rosier's lips thinned. "We hunt. We trace every thread. They said mercenaries, so it's the Black Market. Only a handful of groups take those jobs."
Vogel nodded. "Then we interrogate them—drag the truth out."
"No," Rosier cut him off. Her voice was sharp as ice. "You're too brash. Those rats in the sewers have noses sharper than hounds. If one slips away, if a single leak reaches the wrong ears—how do I explain that to Lord Riddle?"
Vogel frowned. "Then what do you propose?"
Rosier drew in a slow breath. Her eyes gleamed with deadly resolve.
"We go to Norway," she whispered. "Bring out Grimmson."