Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 436 Geralt

Regulus glanced at it briefly before looking away and heading straight for the bar.

The soles of my boots thudded against the wooden floor with each step.

In some places, the floor was sticky with glue, and when you stepped on it, your boot soles made a squelching sound when you pulled them up.

He walked to the bar and placed one hand on the bar.

The bartender had to look up at him.

The dirty cloth in his hand was still swirling in the cup, his eyes scanning down Regulus's hair, finally lingering a little longer on the vertical pupils.

This godforsaken place is frequented by all sorts of people: poachers, herb gatherers, contraband smugglers, those being hunted, and those hunting others.

The bartender has been standing here for at least twenty years. He has a keen eye for people and can tell at a glance who is easy to mess with and who is not.

But it's rare to see someone dressed like that, exuding such a powerful aura, and they're probably not here to drink.

The bartender looked away from him and continued wiping the glasses.

Regulus braced himself on the bar, leaned forward, and said in a deep, slightly rough voice, "Fire Whiskey."

The bartender didn't even look up, his voice thick with a local accent, mumbled and trailing off: "No."

He tossed the dirty cloth over his shoulder and tapped his greasy fingers on the table twice: "Butterbeer, ale, water, that's all."

Regulus glanced down at the row of glasses on the bar.

The glass was covered with stains of varying shades, the marks left by the evaporation of the liquor in concentric circles, some of which had turned brownish or black, just like the marks on the table.

Some cups still had unwashed food residue stuck to the bottom, and several cups had chipped rims, yet they were still placed in the row of cups waiting to be used.

The things you can drink here are just as rough as the containers that hold them.

He withdrew his hand from the bar, straightened up, and tilted his head to the side.

His amber-colored vertical pupils narrowed slightly, his lips twisted to one side, and his face clearly showed impatience. His tone was contemptuous: "Butterbeer? That's for women."

Behind the bar, the bartender's expression darkened; he ultimately didn't dare to lash out.

Running a tavern in a place like this, it's common to run into a few bad-tempered people every day, but this one in front of you is clearly more difficult to deal with than all the bad-tempered people combined today.

He glanced at Regulus, then looked back down and continued wiping the cup.

At the table to the right, there were two wizards in thick robes, one of whom was holding a glass of butterbeer, the glass pressed against his lips, half-drunk.

Behind the rim of the cup, a pair of cloudy eyes turned from above the foam and landed on Regulus's back.

He took the cup away from his mouth, tapped the bottom of the cup on the table, and foam overflowed from the rim, dripping down the side of the cup.

Another person nudged him with their elbow and whispered something in his ear, probably trying to persuade him, but to no avail.

The chair holding the cup was pushed back, its wooden legs scraping the floor with a sharp sound, and it stood up.

He was quite large, a whole size wider than Regulus, half a head taller, with shoulders as thick as doors, and stubble on his face like wires sticking out of his cheeks.

The fur robe was open, revealing a shiny black collar to the shirt underneath.

He walked over here, his feet stomping so hard that the floor shook, each step making a dull thud.

He stopped half a meter behind Regulus, his voice rough and heavy, with a thick northern accent, every vowel laced with provocation.

"What—what did you just say?"

Regulus turned his body first, his heel slammed down, and his shoulder followed.

Looking up from below with amber-colored vertical pupils, the person is noticeably shorter, and looking up at others gives the impression of looking down from above.

He grinned, revealing a row of teeth, and his tone became even more aggressive: "Are you a woman?"

The wizard's face flushed red from his neck upwards, the blood on his dirty face was dull and dark under his skin, rising to his cheeks and forehead.

His right hand had already reached to his waist, his fingers resting on the wand.

In the corner, the white-bearded old man turned his head, his blue eyes peering over his half-moon-shaped glasses at the bar, his smile deepening, showing no intention of getting up.

The wizard pulled his wand halfway out, the tip still stuck in his belt, and pulled his right arm back, straining to pull it out.

Regulus's left hand was already gripping Regulus's right wrist, his fingers tightening, twisting outwards, and pressing down at the same time.

His wrist was twisted to its limit, his entire arm was locked, he couldn't even hold the wand, the tip of the wand was pointing towards the ground, he couldn't lift it at all.

His mouth was wide open, probably wanting to curse something, but he didn't say anything.

At the same moment, Regulus swung his right fist.

A straight punch, delivered from a short distance, upwards, striking the area slightly to the left of the jaw.

When the trigeminal nerve branch on the side of the mandible is struck at this angle and with this force, the brain will experience an instantaneous shock, and vision and balance will be disrupted simultaneously.

The wizard's head snapped back, his mouth was stuck halfway open and he couldn't close it, and his eyes rolled upwards.

He staggered back two steps, his knees buckled, and his buttocks hit the edge of the table behind him, causing him and the table to fall backward.

Cups and plates clattered all over the floor, and butterbeer spilled onto his leather robe, running down his collar.

His companion jumped to his feet, his hand already touching the wand, but his eyes followed, and he froze.

In the blink of an eye, the person was lying down, head tilted to one side, chin red and swollen, eyes unfocused.

The man stood beside the table, one hand still resting on the wand sheath inside his robe, unsure whether to pull it out again or sit back down.

He looked ahead at Regulus, then down at his companions on the ground, and then back at Regulus.

Then he released his hand from the wand, squatted down, grabbed his companion's arm, pulled him up, put his arm around his shoulder, and walked towards the back door.

I quickened my pace as I passed the bar, not daring to turn my head or utter a single word.

The back door opened, and two figures, one tall and one short, squeezed out. The door swayed twice behind them before closing.

Regulus withdrew his left hand and looked at it over.

My fingers had some sticky stuff on them, from that guy's cuff; I couldn't tell if it was oil or something else.

He frowned slightly, his fingers curled up, and a tiny orange-red flame flickered at his fingertips. The heat traveled across his skin, and the dirt on his hands was steamed into a wisp of smoke by the high temperature, leaving them clean.

He shook his hand and looked back at the bartender.

The bartender huddled behind the bar counter, finally letting down the dirty cloth. He braced himself against the counter with both hands, leaning back with an expression that suggested he'd seen this kind of thing many times before but still wanted to hide.

"Malt liquor".

Since we're already here, we should at least have some alcoholic drinks.

The bartender paused for a moment, then shakily reached for the bottle on the shelf behind him, tapped the bottle neck against the rim of the glass twice, poured a full glass, and pushed it over.

Regulus picked it up, turned around, walked through the tavern, and headed towards the corner.

The eyes of everyone else in the room followed him.

Next to the two empty tables with thick fur robes, there was another table where an old man in a felt hat and a thin middle-aged witch watched him walk by.

No one came up to speak. Just now, he knocked one down with a single punch, without even pulling out his wand. Everyone who saw it knew what was going on.

Regulus pulled out a chair, sat down opposite Dumbledore, placed the ale on the table, rested one hand on the edge of the table, and leaned back in a relaxed posture.

Dumbledore's smile deepened a little more than before.

He looked at Regulus's face, then at the glass of ale in front of him, and then back at his face.

With the change in appearance, the way he interacts with people has also changed. He takes direct action, resolves the issue with a single punch, and then complains about the mess.

This doesn't match up at all with Mr. Black from Hogwarts.

Regulus looked back, and the amber met the blue, separated by a cup of tea and a cup of malt liquor.

His tone was casual, with a relaxed air that came from being used to being out and about: "I heard you're hiring?"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow above his glasses, tilted his head slightly, and a smile flashed in his blue eyes: "That depends on your abilities."

After saying that, he glanced at the glass of ale in front of Regulus, his expression becoming somewhat complicated, and he also had a slight headache.

A smile still lingered on his lips, but his brows were slightly furrowed.

It's not quite appropriate, but I don't want to lecture you directly.

Regulus sensed something was wrong.

Dumbledore turned to the side and waved his hand toward the bar.

The bartender peeked out from behind the counter, looking over cautiously.

The white-bearded old man nodded slightly to him and made a gesture.

The bartender frowned, bent down and rummaged under the bar, then straightened up and shook his head.

Dumbledore blinked, seemingly a little surprised, and then made a gesture.

The bartender rummaged through the bottles again, this time pulling out a dusty bottle from the corner. He opened it, smelled it, and his face scrunched up.

After smelling it, I hesitated for a moment, then poured myself a glass and placed it on the table.

A glass of sparkling water.

It wasn't very clean; it was yellowish and cloudy, with a very thin layer of limescale on the cup wall and a few tiny white particles floating on the surface, probably from the alkaline residue at the bottom of the cup that hadn't been cleaned properly.

But it is indeed a glass of sparkling water.

Dumbledore pushed the glass of ale from Regulus to the corner of the table, then raised his blue eyes over the edge of his half-moon spectacles with a bright, mocking look.

"It's too early for you to be into malt beer."

Regulus looked at the sparkling water in front of him, then at the malt liquor that had been pushed to the corner of the table, and then at the expression on Dumbledore's face.

The expression on his face was hard to tell whether it was helplessness or a desire to laugh, but it eventually changed to something that was hard to put into words.

The old man confiscated the wine; he couldn't very well take it back.

Of course, we need to drink water; people can't live without water. But we can't drink it now; it would be too embarrassing.

If he doesn't drink, can the old man force him to drink by pressing his head down?

He reached out and pushed the glass of water aside, to another corner of the table, where it and the ale each occupied opposite corners of the table.

Dumbledore looked at his expression, a clear smile on his face, his blue eyes curving behind his half-moon spectacles.

Then he held out his hand: "Dumbledore."

Regulus reached out and clasped his hands together above the table.

Geralt.

Dumbledore blinked, smiled at him, and said in a light tone, "I am indeed hiring. Shall we talk?"