Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 447 Light, Do You Like It?

Regulus found Edgar at the edge of the wolf pack.

The guy was crouching behind a broken wall at the far end, looking down at the ground, with his hands folded on his knees.

Compared to last time, the location is slightly closer to the center of the wolf pack.

It's only a few steps, but in this group where hierarchy is based on claws and teeth, moving a few steps further in means a rise in status, or at least that no one will bother him anymore.

Last month, he was relegated to the outermost edge by all the werewolves, and even Greyback's henchmen didn't bother to kick him.

This time, several werewolves glanced at him as they passed by, one even baring his teeth, but they didn't make a move.

He didn't look up, just squatted there, neither causing trouble nor trying to please anyone. He moved his position forward, but he didn't seem too happy about it.

What Regulus did here last time worked.

The werewolves present couldn't hear or understand what he said to Edgar or what he did. They probably didn't even know what the final Fiendfire was.

But the deterrent effect remained; after he left, no wolf dared to touch the person he had singled out.

Greyback was even more afraid, and to this day he still doesn't know what that wizard cub and his wolf said that day, he only knows that after that, the wolf was different.

Edgar looked the same as always, his old robes unstitched, his nails cleaned, making him stand out awkwardly among a group of werewolves so filthy they were unrecognizable as human.

Just like last month, this sense of dignity has not been worn away.

Regulus's gaze lingered on him for a moment before turning to Dumbledore.

The old man's gaze also fell on Edgar, and a hint of pity flashed in his blue eyes—the kind of pity a bystander feels when they see someone trying to maintain their dignity being crushed by the world and still persisting.

He didn't ask who the person was, but simply sighed softly and watched quietly.

The moon had risen fully, large and round, its silvery light pouring down from the gaps in the clouds, sprinkling across the wasteland, turning the mud, rubble, broken walls, and bones into a cold, silvery gray.

Greyback's transformation began first.

He tilted his head back, his yellow eyes fixed on the moon, the veins on his neck bulging, his mouth wide open, letting out a howl that surged from the bottom of his chest.

There was no pain in his cries; his whole body was welcoming it, every bone in his body was embracing his animalistic instincts.

The body began to swell, the skeleton stretched open under the skin, and the popping sounds of the bones breaking apart exploded in a series.

The shoulder blades bulge from behind, the chest bulges outward, the spine arches, the skin tears and heals, and coarse gray hairs emerge from underneath.

The limbs lengthen and thicken, the joints bend in the opposite direction, and the nails protrude from the fingertips, turning into dark black claws.

His face was distorted and elongated in the moonlight, his nose and mouth forming a protruding snout, the human form splitting in the middle, the beast form pushing out from within.

A few seconds later, a huge werewolf stood where Greyback had been, its yellow eyes burning in the moonlight, and let out a long howl at the moon.

Then there are all the werewolves.

More than sixty werewolves simultaneously tilted their heads back, the sounds squeezing out of their throats filling the entire open space, the crisp cracking of bones rising and falling, one after another, snap, snap, forming a continuous sound.

The hissing sound of clothes being torn apart, the muffled sound of skin being ripped, and claws digging deep trenches in the gravel ground.

The humanoid figure twisted in the moonlight, its limbs elongated, its body swelled, its back arched, its fingers turned into claws, and its teeth burst out of its gums.

Every one of them is changing, every one of them is in pain, every one of them is howling as it is torn apart from human to beast.

More than sixty inhuman roars mingled together and exploded simultaneously, tearing apart the darkness under the moonlight and causing the glass shell on the scorched earth to shatter into pieces.

Dumbledore stood beside him, his blue eyes reflecting the moonlight and the silhouettes of the wolves.

They were human just seconds ago, but now they've all turned into beasts.

He took Lupin into Hogwarts, gave him the Shrieking Shack and the Whomping Willow, and protected the little werewolf for three years.

But the scene of more than sixty heads transforming at the same time, the howling and the sound of bones breaking under the moonlight, was probably something he had never seen before.

He did nothing but stand there, watching, staying under the moonlight with these suffering creatures.

Regulus watched quietly, and had to admit that more than sixty werewolves were quite formidable compared to a single werewolf.

The transformation is over, and the camp is full of beasts.

More than sixty werewolves rampaged across the open ground, their fur colors varied—gray, brown, black, and a mix of gray and white—their fur swirling and crisscrossing in the moonlight.

It's hard to say how the coat color is determined. Is it based on race? Or is it random? I don't have enough relevant knowledge.

A gray-black wolf rode on top of another, its claws digging into the other's shoulder, its teeth tearing a gash in the back of its neck, blood trickling down its gray fur.

The wolf that had been bitten rolled around and struggled free, then turned and bit back. The two wolves rolled on the gravel ground, their claws digging deep trenches in the mud.

Several wolves howled at the moon, their chins raised high. The sound waves crashed against the stone house and bounced back. Their vocal cords sounded like they had been sanded, hoarse and rough, not pleasant to hear at all.

Some rolled on the ground, rubbing their backs against the gravel, and digging in the mud with their claws, digging for a long time without knowing what they were digging for.

Some squatted behind the broken wall, sniffing the air, their noses twitching, their eyes darting left and right, and making low gurgling sounds.

A wolf was chasing its own tail, spinning in circles for seven or eight times without stopping. It bumped into another wolf, who slapped it to the ground with a paw. The wolf rolled twice, got up, and ran away.

Several wolves were fighting over a bone. They grabbed it and ran away, with others chasing after them. They pounced on each other, knocking one down and continuing to fight. In the end, the bone fell to the ground, and no one got to eat it. It was taken away by a third wolf.

Everywhere there were howls, stomping, biting, and chasing—a scene of raging chaos.

Among these ferocious werewolves, one crouched in front of the broken wall, not joining the rampaging pack.

Edgar had changed too. He had gray fur, a robust wolf-like body, and two strong muscles bulging at the shoulder blades. However, he was smaller than other wolves overall, with lighter fur, a grayish-brown color. His tail hung down at the base of the broken wall, and the tip of his tail lightly brushed the muddy ground before stopping.

White breath was coming out of his mouth, his thick chest was rising and falling rhythmically, and his body was still trembling slightly. His bones and muscles had not yet recovered from the shock of being torn apart and reassembled.

A low howl rolled out of his throat, not loud, muffled in his chest, and did not burst out.

Crouching in front of the broken wall, its two front paws pressed together on the muddy ground, its hind legs tucked under its body, it didn't rush into the wolf pack to tear at them, didn't chase after other wolves to steal bones, and didn't howl incessantly at the moon.

His eyes are different from those of other werewolves.

All werewolves' eyes are cloudy, a mixture of anger, fear, bloodlust, and pain, indistinguishable as human remnants or animal instincts.

Edgar's eyes also had these, but deep within, there was a very faint light, flickering and turning, so faint that it was only noticeable when placed next to other werewolves.

It's unstable; every flash is pulled back by something more powerful, and the beastly nature is suppressing the light, threatening to swallow it back at any moment.

But this glimmer of light is still there; it is moving, not confronting the beast head-on. It is retreating, shrinking itself into a smaller, more solid point, less likely to be scattered.

It shrank, but didn't break; it wasn't much, but it was enough—a small part of myself.

The anchor point was at work; Betelgeuse's protective will enveloped the hardest part of Edgar's soul—memories of his family, self-awareness, and the obsession with rotting away rather than harming the innocent—all of which sustained him amidst the onslaught of his bestial nature.

Regulus looked into those eyes and saw a glimmer of blue-white light.

The second full moon has arrived, and the anchor point has withstood two transformations and two full-force attacks from the beast.

Making it through the first time might be luck, but making it through the second time is not.

Edgar's humanity remains; his shell hasn't broken, and his light is still shining.

He relied on that unique Hufflepuff quality: clumsy, heavy-handed, stubborn, but incredibly resilient.

This path is feasible.

He looked at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore's gaze had already fallen on Edgar.

Among the ferocious werewolves, he found one who was different; deep within his soul, a faint blue-white light flickered.

Blue eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze passing through the wolf pack, through the tearing gray shadows and flying dust, and landing on the gray wolf crouching in front of the broken wall.

He saw it: the blue and white guardian will, stable and constant, condensed into an extremely thin, transparent dome, enveloping a smaller, darker flame.

That flame represented the werewolf's humanity, his self-awareness, and his unwavering resolve not to harm others.

This shell is struggling to hold on. Every time the beastly nature surges up, the shell trembles, and the blue and white light is impacted, almost shattering.

But it didn't break. It dispersed the impact to the edge of the shell, rippling outwards in concentric circles, using its constant protective will to dissipate the shock.

The flames inside the shell flickered in the beastly storm, but they did not go out.

Dumbledore stared at him for a long time, then turned to look at Regulus.

There are many things in blue eyes: recognition, surprise, and a deeper sense of satisfaction.

He didn't know Edgar, didn't know who the wolf was, didn't know he was a Hufflepuff graduate, and didn't know his name.

All he knew was that Regulus had planted a protective will in the wolf, using the brightest part of his power to preserve humanity for a werewolf he had no connection with.

Last year, outside the screaming shed, this kid asked him what werewolves really were, whether they were human or beast, and whether willpower could override instinct.

What did he say again?

Willpower overrides instinct; self-awareness is the foundation of everything.

Now this child has shared some of the best things with others.

Dumbledore could certainly see that it had nothing to do with sympathy or pity.

Even if it's just to verify a path, this is already more than most people do.

Regulus felt Dumbledore's gaze.

He didn't turn around or say anything; his lips twitched slightly as he continued to look at Edgar.

Guangming, old man, do you like it?

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