Leighton recently felt that he was having good luck—
He caught a big one, completely fulfilling this month's target; during dragon hunting, none of his men suffered any major injuries, the most serious injury was just someone accidentally sitting down wrong and breaking their tailbone; barring any unexpected events, the next half month should be smooth sailing—
Unfortunately, something unexpected happened.
His good days ended before they even began.
However, the man didn't realize this yet.
Looking at the group approaching him, along with a small looking black dragon, Leighton didn't move aside. The man who just brought back a Ukrainian Ironbelly was now extremely overconfident, especially since the group opposite was of such low quality that their clothes weren't even worthy of poacher emblems, and who knew where they had picked up that fire dragon—
He thought these guys would have the sense to step aside, but things didn't go as he expected.
The group stopped in the middle of the road as well, their tall and orderly figures inexplicably causing some unease.
"Hey! You bunch of..."
"Crucio."
No reaction time was given; the cold spell was uttered, without any dazzling light, only an invisible, extreme pain instantly seized Leighton and his men behind him.
A dozen burly men fell to the ground, convulsing like marionettes whose strings had been severed.
Their muscles twisted and tensed, the faces contorted in pain under their masks turning purple, their sweat soaking through their inner clothing instantly. The air was filled only with heavy breathing and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground, the invisible shackles pressing their screams deep into their throats, turning them into desperate, hoarse gasps.
"..."
I must have misheard, right?
Charlie Weasley blinked in confusion—what the heck did he just hear? Was that an Unforgivable Curse?
He instinctively looked at Newt beside him, but Newt just lowered his head, eyes looking at his nose, nose looking at his heart… none of my business, none of my business.
Uncle Newt earned his fame for meddling in affairs—survived because he knew which affairs not to meddle in. After years of treading the line between black and white, Old Freckles was used to the Unforgivable Curses—
When necessary, he too had used the Imperio on people occasionally.
Charlie, who had only recently stepped out of the Ivory Tower, obviously found this hard to accept—the professors at Hogwarts using Unforgivable Curses on people, but just as the optimistic and bright Charlie Weasley was shocked and conflicted, William had already walked up to the masked man leading the group.
"Name."
William removed the brown mask covering the man's face, looking at that unrecognizable face, almost written with "I'm just a nobody", and asked.
"..."
Leighton wanted to reply, but he couldn't make a sound; the extreme pain almost drowned out all thoughts in his mind. He opened his eyes wide, trying to make out who was in front of him, but his blurred vision made it impossible to recognize the person.
It was only then that William, feeling it was enough, slightly relaxed the charm, and the man instantly grasped onto life-saving hope, blurting out his answer faster than his heavy breathing.
"Craw... Crawford... Leighton..."
The man forced his name out through gritted teeth, voice hoarse and shattered. The pain from the Crucio was like a red-hot iron shovel being pushed into his brain from the top of his skull and stirred around crazily—right now, he just wanted this damned spell to stop, or for the other to simply kill him.
For this, he was willing to pay any price.
"Identity."
William's pursued voice was like a balm, mending the man's shattered nerves.
"Blood, Bloodclaw Corps... squad leader of the third team."
"Poachers usually operate in groups similar to mercenary corps, with about two groups able to expand their influence to a whole nation—" Newt explained, "The connection between poacher squads is actually quite loose. If I remember correctly, the Bloodclaw Corps seems to be a local mercenary group in Greece."
Hearing that, William nodded knowingly, "Where did those potions that cause dragons to go wild come from?"
"Fur, Furnace Potion? Provided from above."
Leighton let out a sharp inhale, the stench coming through. William, who hadn't conducted such harsh interrogations in a long time, overdid the curse, causing the tortured man to soil himself. Meanwhile, he started using his subjective initiative, "This, this kind of potion can make any creature go mad, enhancing, strengthening their power..."
"Including wizards?"
"Yes, y-yes, including wizards..."
"The purpose of collecting fire dragons?"
"I don't know, but I suspect it's for wa-war..."
"With whom?"
"I, I guessed, no..." Leighton was almost about to cry, "Please... don't continue... I beg you..."
However, just then, an unexpected change occurred.
"... Why are you blocking the way?"
At some unknown moment, another lift had stopped, bringing a new team of poachers, along with an Antipodean Opaleye behind them.
"En—"
Leighton's word "emy" hadn't even come out before William kicked him in the jaw, sending teeth mixed with blood flying everywhere. Witnessing this scene, the new batch of poachers quickly prepared to call for reinforcements, but in the next second, the group of silent black-clad "people" behind William suddenly sprang into action—
They abruptly discarded their black robes, revealing rocky "skin" underneath, adorned with blue tattoos reminiscent of Viking Warriors.
Then, the blue tattoos shone brilliantly—
"Damn it! What the hell is that?!"
"Wait! We can nego—"
The "team" of Magic Patterned Stone Statues gained the upper hand, almost ignoring conventional magic, incredibly powerful, destructive, and capable of shooting blasts—these statues, when facing these poachers, were like Sun Wukong wielding the Golden Cudgel among a group of little demons, lethal at the slightest touch—
And William didn't even spare these people another glance, pointing his magic wand at the closest poacher among those lying limp on the ground.
"Imperio."
An invisible thread instantly entered the forehead of the small poacher.
The pain in his eyes was replaced by a dazed compliance; he silently untied the metallic badge with the strange reddish-brown rune pattern from his belt—the rune's pattern was similar to the poacher's emblems, but different in subtle details.
This was the insignia of the Bloodclaw Corps.
"From now on,"
William picked up the mask that had fallen on the ground, cleaned it, and then fastened it over his own face, "we are the Bloodclaw Corps... which squad was it?"