Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 435 Wasteland Tavern

Phoenix flames exploded in a narrow stone alley, and a golden light flickered.

The alley was too narrow, and the heat from the flames was trapped between the stone walls on both sides, dissipating as soon as it rushed upwards without disturbing anything.

Regulus landed, his boots sinking into the wet stone slabs, a wisp of white steam rising from a shallow puddle beneath his feet from the lingering heat of the flames.

Fox released his grip, not even glancing at him.

With a flap of its wings, the golden-red figure swept away from the alley entrance, disappeared around the corner, and left without a sound.

The noble phoenix departs as soon as the goods are delivered, never lingering for even a second longer.

Regulus shrugged, used to Fox's bird-like manner.

The alley was so narrow that two people couldn't walk side by side. The stone walls on both sides were old, and the cracks in the stones were covered with old moss, some deep and some shallow, which covered the walls from the base to the corner.

Several dry shrub branches stretched out from the top of the wall, hanging overhead, half broken off and swaying in the wind.

A few dry leaves fell from the branches, swirled a few times, and drifted into the puddle at my feet.

There was light at the alleyway ahead, and I could vaguely hear voices coming from afar, along with the clinking of cups and saucers.

Regulus sniffed.

The air smelled of peat, thick and heavy, followed by the coolness emanating from damp stones, mixed with the bitter smoke from cheap firewood burning in the distance, even more pungent than London's coal smoke.

He adjusted his belt, his long, silvery-white hair blowing down to his shoulders in the breeze of the alley.

I walked to the alley entrance and glanced outside.

The dirt road, unpaved with flagstones, was worn smooth by footsteps and tires, riddled with potholes filled with rainwater from the previous days, leaving the ground a muddy mess.

Scattered on both sides are several low stone houses with roofs covered in gray slate of varying sizes and uneven edges, piled together in a jagged pattern like dog teeth.

The stone walls were plastered with mortar, most of which had peeled off. Some windows were boarded up, while others had no boards at all, leaving them wide open and dark.

The chimneys were crooked, some emitting blue smoke and others emitting black smoke.

In the distance, rolling hills stretch out, covered with yellowish-gray grass, a vast expanse of which is devoid of trees, and even shrubs are sparse.

As the wind blew past, the withered grass bent down in unison, then bounced back.

The sky was overcast, with low-hanging clouds, as if it were about to rain but couldn't, just holding back like that.

The whole world was devoid of color; the sky was gray, the ground was gray, the houses were gray, the roads were gray, and occasionally a little bit of yellow from withered grass was mixed in, making it all gray and drab.

The photinia serratifolia spreads from the foot of the slope to the top, lying low to the ground with reddish stems and small, thick leaves covered with a layer of downy hairs on the back.

This variety only grows well in acidic peat soil, and it's rare to see such a large patch south of the Scottish border.

The humidity of the air, the concentration of peat, the shape of the hills, the variety of heather, and the oppressive atmosphere of the sky can roughly define a range.

Northern England, or near the Scottish border.

It's hard to pinpoint the exact location, as the space burned by the phoenix leaves no trace, but the general direction is likely correct.

It's far from Hogwarts, and even further from London.

This place would probably just be an unnamed little settlement nestled among the hills on a map.

A few dirt roads, a dozen or so stone houses, a tavern, a blacksmith shop, a general store that also serves as a post office, and a few owls.

The wizards living here maintain their connection with the outside world through owls and flying brooms; the nearest FlooNet node is about ten miles away.

There were few people on the road. Occasionally, one or two figures wearing old robes would come in and out of the houses, their necks hunched and backs bent, their steps dragging, and the hems of their robes stained with dried mud.

An old witch carrying a tin bucket half-filled with muddy water walked across the dirt road. She glanced at the alley entrance and met Regulus's gaze, then looked at him again.

Her gaze lingered for a moment on his white hair and vertical pupils before she lowered her head and quickened her pace.

To the right of the alley entrance is a house made of stone and wood, half a story higher than the one next to it, with thick walls, narrow windows, a crooked door frame, and iron hinges on the wooden door rusted to a brownish-red.

A wooden plaque hangs above the door frame, badly weathered, with seven or eight tenths of the paint peeling off and only half of the pattern remaining.

It looks like a crucible or a large pot, with a blurry claw remaining on the rim, probably some kind of local mythical creature.

The stone steps at the entrance were worn smooth and shiny from being walked on, but several pieces were chipped off at the edges, revealing the rough, broken edges underneath.

The steps were covered in muddy footprints, some dry and some wet, piled together. Next to them was a pile of pipe ash, with a few used matchsticks stuck in the ash.

Regulus glanced around and pushed the door open to go inside.

As soon as the door was pushed open, a complex smell wafted out.

The spiciness of tobacco, the mushy, overcooked stew, the greasy smell of smoked salted meat hanging in the air, and the sour, rancid smell fermenting in the cracks of the floor after splattering malt liquor.

Several flavors mixed together are so sticky they could knock you over, and so thick that adding cornstarch makes it a dish in itself.

The light was dim, the windows were small and dirty, and the glass was covered with a thin, yellowish-gray film that was hard to tell whether it was from cooking fumes or rain stains.

The light that came in was filtered by the smoke floating in the room, and by the time it fell on the table, it was barely bright, and everything looked grayish.

Seven or eight tables were scattered around the room, their wooden tabletops old and worn, almost as old as the door frames.

The paint on the tabletop was long gone, and the surface was covered with messy marks.

The cup has burnt rings on the bottom, deep lines drawn by the tip of a knife, and graffiti with unreadable words. Some of it has been rubbed, and the more it is rubbed, the dirtier it gets.

The table legs with chipped corners were propped up with stones, and even the ones without chipped corners were crooked; there wasn't a single table in the entire tavern that could be laid flat.

The fireplace was at the very back, the fire burning weakly, the flames languishing limply in the pile of embers, and a lot of smoke was spilling out.

The chimney was probably blocked; grayish-blue smoke was pouring out of the fireplace, spreading along the ceiling and slowly diffusing in all directions.

The bar is on the right, with a thick wooden plank resting on several wine barrels, and the surface of the bar is covered with a layer of oil.

Behind him stood a short, stocky wizard with broad shoulders, a short neck, and a large head. The stains on his apron were almost the same color as the floor. He was wiping cups with a rag that should have been thrown away long ago, and the more he wiped, the dirtier it became.

There were people in the tavern, three or four tables, scattered around.

Two wizards in thick fur robes sat at the table near the door. Their skin was rough and thick, their cheekbones were red, their lips were chapped, and the marks of wind and sun were deeper than those on the stones outside the wall.

His fingers were as thick as tree roots, with large joints and dirt stuck in his fingernails that he couldn't wash off.

Regulus's senses swept over it.

The magic was crude, lacking any sense of control or restraint from an academic training program; it was rough, scattered, and impossible to control or suppress.

On their table were two glasses of butterbeer, the foam mostly gone, with dried beer stains clinging to the sides of the glasses.

An old man was squatting by the bar, his back hunched, his shoulder blades protruding from his old robe, his whole body huddled into a small ball.

There was a dark-colored liquid in front of him, its surface completely still. He stared at it but didn't drink a drop.

Regulus looked up.

The old man's body contained remnants of dark magic, some kind of curse, a dark, murky mass that had been there for quite some time. The magical pathways were eroded and fragmented, the edges were dark, and it was slowly seeping outwards.

He probably knew he was close to death.

In the corner, at the table against the wall, a person sat there.

The travel robe was dark gray with brownish undertones. The hood was off, and it was draped over the shoulders. The material was nice, but the dark color made it less noticeable in the otherwise drab room.

White hair, white beard, crescent-shaped glasses perched on his nose, a cup of tea in front of him.

He sat in a relaxed posture, with one hand resting on the table and the other holding a teacup.

The surrounding tables were all empty, and he occupied the entire corner by himself.

Probably no one here knows him. The wizards who come and go don't read newspapers, don't care what the Hogwarts headmaster looks like, and don't care what the wizarding world is arguing about.

All they cared about was how many copper nats they could earn today, whether it was enough for a drink, and when the rain outside would stop.

Sitting in the corner was an old man with a white beard. He was quite old and either traveling or taking a rest. He wasn't dressed in rags, so he probably had some savings.

That's it.

The moment Regulus entered, the atmosphere of the entire tavern changed, and a sense of oppression rushed in.

Betelgeuse's scorching heat has been unleashed; the magic on its surface, carrying heat, pushes outwards, distorting the air with the heat emanating from its skin, creating a subtle distortion within half a meter of its body.

For most wizards, magical perception is a delicate skill.

But Regulus was not holding back his magic at all; it was surging outwards.

In this tiny room, there's no need for any specific perception.

My skin felt hot, the air was scorching, my chest felt tight, my scalp tingled, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

Before the brain could even process what was happening, the body was already giving warnings: something dangerous was about to appear.

The two wizards in thick robes turned around at the same time. The shorter one pulled back first, lowered his head, and nudged his companion with his elbow.

The one with the wider hair glanced at it a couple more times, his gaze sweeping from the hair to the vertical pupils, then from the pupils to the belt, and finally landing on the boots. He muttered something and looked away.

The two exchanged a glance, then pulled their hands under the table closer to the wand.

The old man at the bar didn't react; he was still staring at the cup.

In the corner, the white-bearded old man raised his eyes.

Blue eyes, peering through crescent-shaped glasses, fell upon the young wizard with long, silver hair standing in the doorway.

His gaze lingered on the doorway for a moment, then swept down from the long, silvery-white hair.

Her hair was coarse and stiff, lacking any of the smooth, aristocratic shine of the Black family; her amber vertical pupils were a completely different color from her original gray.

Dark stripes on the shoulders, a dark gray vest, a wide belt, and dragon-skin boots—it was a complete battle outfit.

He's a completely different person from head to toe.

He paused for a moment, somewhat dazed.

Then the corners of his mouth slowly curved upwards, the light in his blue eyes became very lively and bright, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes squeezed out, full of fun and interest.

He put the teacup back on the table, leaned back, and tapped the edge of the table with his index finger.

Those blue eyes kept following the figure at the door, and the eyebrows were slightly raised above the glasses.