Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 489 Let the Sky Burn

When the protective barrier was torn open at the weakest point on the southern slope, the commotion was quite significant.

About twenty people, in groups of three or four, simultaneously cast spells, bombarding the area with explosive and shattering spells in alternating fashion. The golden light membrane went from bright to dark, and from dark to shattered, turning into specks of light that tumbled in the air before dissipating.

They rushed in, assuming there were only a few employees working inside, maybe a few apprentices, and at most a butler too old to run.

That's how the briefing the smugglers showed them was written.

Jean-Pierre blocked them in the narrow alley between the workshop and the pergola.

He took off his straw hat as soon as he heard the first explosion, and his wand slid from his sleeve into his hand. The alley was narrow, with stone walls on both sides tightly blocking the way. If he stood in the middle, he could block the entire passage.

Three outsiders rushed over, laughing and joking, thinking that what could an old man who looked like he only knew how to do farm work do?

Jean-Pierre raised his wand and roared, "Merde!"

A barrier spell struck the first person directly in the chest, sending him flying backward and crashing into the second person, the two of them rolling around in a heap.

The third man had just raised his wand when Jean-Pierre's petrification spell struck him, and he froze instantly.

Jean-Pierre swung his wand fiercely, casting a repelling spell. The man was sent flying backward, rolling five or six times at the alley entrance before coming to a stop.

"Allez—vous en, sales cons!"

As he cursed, he cast a stun spell, knocking out the first person who was getting up from the ground.

Jean-Pierre's spells aren't fancy; they're basic things like knockback, petrification, and obstacles. But in such a narrow passage, if one person blocks it, their momentum is enough to prevent three or five people from getting through.

Madeline crouched on the stone steps outside the brewery. She had put out her cigarette as soon as she heard the noise and was holding her wand in her hand.

His expression was even more sour than usual, with the corners of his eyes and mouth drooping down, and the vertical line between his eyebrows so deep that it could hold a match.

The other three outsiders climbed over the low wall on the side of the brewing room, crushing a row of fermentation barrel lids that were drying at the base of the wall when they landed.

Madeline stood up, pointed her wand, and cast the first Cutting Charm, slicing the thigh of the person in front, splattering blood everywhere.

The second Shattering Curse struck the knee of the man behind him, the sound of bones breaking crisp and brief in the night.

The third person turned to run, but Madeline's Obstacle Charm struck him on the back, causing him to stumble forward and slam his face against the low wall, breaking his nose and causing blood to gush from his nostrils and mouth.

"Dégagez de ma putain de cave!"

Her voice was louder than Jean-Pierre's, echoing between the stone walls of the brewery.

After cursing, he added a swear word: "Putain de merde, Bordel de merde!"

And then, an insulting remark: "Trou du cul, Face de cul!"

Then comes the harshest blow: "Filsdepute!"

Then came the vicious remark: "Va te faire enculer!"

Finally, the dirtiest, most insulting, and cruelest thing: "Nique ta mère! Nique ta race!"

He felt relieved after cursing, so he lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled smoke from his nostrils. His face returned to its usual foul but calm expression.

Felix's defenses were in the main house's ground-floor corridor, where he had turned the ground into a swamp. The entire stone floor sank simultaneously, covered with a layer of sticky mud. Boots would get stuck if you stepped in.

Several outer guards who rushed in were stuck at knee-deep depth and couldn't pull their legs out. Felix used a disarming charm on the other side of the swamp to take away their wands one by one.

One of them reached for the spare wand on his belt, and Felix tapped it. Suddenly, the door frame of the corridor squeezed in from both sides, wedging his arm between the door frame and the wall.

On the second floor of the main building, two young employees were hiding under the windowsill. One was squatting, holding a palm-sized crucible filled with powders of all sorts of colors, while the other was peering down from the windowsill.

"Coming, coming." The voice of the one lying down trembled slightly, it was hard to tell whether it was excitement or fear.

The one who was crouching took a deep breath, threw the crucible out of the window, and it landed in the middle of a group of people rushing towards the main house, then exploded.

Thick smoke billowed out from between the shattered crucible fragments, swallowing half the path in the blink of an eye.

The smoke contained powders of pepper and ghost peppers; inhaling it made you cough, and once you started coughing, you couldn't stop, coughing until you were bent over and tears streamed down your face.

Coughing and mumbled curses could be heard from within the thick smoke.

"One more!" shouted the one lying down.

The one who was squatting picked up another small bottle from beside his feet, uncorked it, and poured it out the window, the clear liquid splashing into the thick smoke.

A few seconds later, the curses below turned into screams, and several outsiders began frantically scratching their arms and necks, scratching until they were covered in blood but they couldn't stop.

At the corner, two young people worked together.

One crouched on the inside of the corner, using an Ironclad Charm to shield himself with a shield half his height, blocking the incoming spell. The other huddled behind him, extending his wand from the side of the shield and aiming it at the person opposite him.

The first stun spell missed, hitting the wall and exploding into a shower of red sparks. The second spell hit, and the person opposite collapsed.

"Yeah!" the one in the back shouted quietly, only to be glared at by the one in front holding the shield.

Claire was deep in the corridor when an employee whose shoulder had been scratched by a spell leaned against the wall, blood dripping down his shoulder. Claire squatted down next to him and pressed a clean rag against the wound.

Footsteps approached from the other end of the corridor. She looked up and saw a figure on the periphery walking toward her, holding a wand.

She pulled out her wand and tapped it against the ceiling, cutting the cord of the old oil lamp hanging from the hallway ceiling.

A copper oil lamp fell from above, and the person on the outer edge jumped back to avoid it, stepping into Felix's swamp.

The Black family's six backup forces began to intervene, but remained hidden in the shadows, silent and unnoticed.

The lean man on the olive tree on the east side disappeared from the canopy and reappeared as a shadow against the back wall of the brewery.

As one of the runners was heading towards the workshop, a silent petrification spell shot out from the shadows the instant he passed the edge of the shadows. The runner, still in his running posture, froze on the spot and fell forward.

On the south slope, the woman with her hair tied back was squatting on a rock at the edge of the old vine area.

Several outsiders ran in, trying to circle around to the back of the main house from the south slope. As they passed under the rocks, she stood up and looked down. With a slight flick of her wand, several stun spells shot out from the tip of the wand silently.

Several people on the periphery collapsed almost simultaneously, their wands rolled off the ground, and the woman squatted down again, turning her gaze towards the west slope.

A signal spell flashed over there, and dark red sparks were dissipating. The intruders were gathering, heading towards the west slope.

The man in the dark gray robe, hidden in the shadow of the north stone wall, also saw the signal, stepped back from the edge of the shadow, and then disappeared back into the darkness.

The middle-aged witch next to the bushes put down her pruning shears, stood up, dusted off her robe, and walked towards the west slope.

The signal from the observation point at the highest point of the ridgeline indicates that the intruders are retreating from the south slope and converging on the west slope.

They left a path for these retreating people, neither intercepting nor blocking it, but occasionally flashing the faint light of their staffs in front of someone who had run in the wrong direction, guiding them back to the right direction.

They even broke the curse on those who were unconscious and petrified.

Go find your boss and our young master.

In less than fifteen minutes, the intruders were driven out of the manor from all directions.

Of the twenty-odd outsiders, some were injured, some were terrified, and some were still scratching themselves uncontrollably.

They ran outwards along the west slope, collided with the rearguard group coming from the north, and were pushed forward again.

In the end, thirty or forty people were crammed into an area of ​​less than two hundred square meters on the gravel open ground outside the western slope protection boundary.

Delacroix straightened himself up, his robe covered in dirt, a piece of his left sleeve torn off, the blood already congealed, dark red scabs running from his wrist down to his forearm.

He looked around and saw that only three of the core team members were still able to move, and none of them could stand.

Luc leaned against a rock, the wound on his severed arm sealed by his own spell, his face almost devoid of color.

The crowd on the outside was packed together. Some people were scratching themselves, some were trembling, some couldn't even hold their wands properly, and some were dragging their companions in by the arm, calling out someone's name.

The rearguard was in slightly better shape. They hadn't engaged in direct combat and were being driven this way by the reserve forces during their retreat. They still had their wands in their hands, but their faces were full of confusion.

Delacroix switched his wand to his left hand, wiped the blood off his robe with his right, and spoke in a slightly trembling voice, but for the moment he could only try to remain calm.

"Focus! Connect the Ironclad Spells! Don't run around, running means death!"

No one was really gathered together. People on the periphery were pushing, shoving, crying, and trampling on each other. Some people were squatting on the ground, holding their heads and refusing to get up.

Someone is cursing, "Delacroix, you piece of shit from a brothel, you deserve to be analed!"

Then the group slowly squeezed towards the center. About ten people who were still capable of fighting formed a shield that covered most of the people.

The rest huddled behind the shields, like a herd of livestock penned in a fence.

Delacroix stood with difficulty in the middle of the defensive line, his wand held horizontally in front of him, the ash and bloodstains on his face diminishing his elegance.

He glanced into the distance; there was little movement on the south slope, while the west slope was covered in scorch marks and rubble.

Then he turned back, his gaze passing over the formation he had barely managed to maintain, and landing on the figure of the boy in the open space directly in front of him.

Regulus stood alone on the opposite high ground, the night wind blowing from above the western slope, causing the hem of his robe to flutter gently.

He spread out his magical perception, sweeping across the entire open space. Thirty or forty sources of magical energy were crammed together, some chaotic, some weak, and some still trying to mobilize their magical energy in preparation for an attack.

No more new people are coming this way; the manor has been cleaned up and everyone is here.

Baruch perched on his shoulder, the spider's head facing the crowd, all eight eyes fixed on it.

Regulus's lips slowly parted, his eyes brightened, and his pupils contracted briefly in the darkness.

He raised the wand, without chanting a spell or making any standard wand-swinging motion, and simply held the wand and twirled it above his head.

Untranslated magic surged from the tip of the staff, pouring directly into the air above.

Then, flames appeared.

Blue and white flames suddenly ignited, rising into the air and spreading horizontally, one after another, spreading outward from the center. The will directly guided the shape and direction of the flames, spreading outward to the east and west sides simultaneously.

The firelight shone down from overhead, covering the entire area. Within a radius of two hundred meters, the rubble, the remnants of bushes, the people lying on the ground, and those still standing were all shrouded in flames.

The air temperature soared within seconds, and the air around the edge of the flames twisted and deformed.

The distant starlight was broken into tiny flashes by the curved air currents, and the withered grass and shrub fragments on the ground began to curl and char, and several smoldering fires reignited.

The dry moss between the pebbles emitted wisps of smoke, then hissed and caught fire.

A piece of granite that had been heated to high temperatures for more than ten seconds began to turn red on the surface, and cracks extended from the edges to the center, making a fine cracking sound.

The heat radiation presses down from the sky and hits the skin directly.

My hair started to dry out and curl, the fabric of my robe clung to my skin and became hot, my bare face and the backs of my hands were scorched and wrinkled, and every breath felt like I was opening my mouth by a furnace.

Thirty or forty people were crammed underneath. Some looked up, some looked down and hunched their necks, some covered their faces with their robes, and some pulled their injured companions to themselves, trying to shield them from the heat.

The few people who were still holding their wands pointed them at their heads, but they didn't know what spell to cast.

Delacroix looked up at the blue and white sky above, his face pale in the firelight.

Luke's severed arm wound dried out from the heat, and the scabs cracked open under the high temperature, causing blood to seep out again.

Regulus stood beneath the firelight, wand still held aloft, his will infused into the curtain of flames, maintaining its form and temperature.

Dumbledore did something similar in the Infernal Cave, using the power of fire to drive away hordes of Infernals, but at that time Dumbledore was under a massively weakened status.

Voldemort's curse on Gaunt's ring had already caused his right hand to wither and turn black. Snape sealed the curse in his arm to slow its spread, but his life force was being constantly depleted.

The poison in the stone basin brought him to the brink of mental and physical collapse. Even in that state, he still managed to swing the flaming lasso and push all the corpses back into the water.

If it were any other wizard, that level of weakness would prevent them from even casting a glow spell.

Moreover, the Flame Lasso is designed for the Shadow Corpse, which fears fire. It doesn't require extreme heat or sophisticated magic; it only needs precise control of the field.

Regulus is in perfect condition and full of magic power. He is simply using pure high-temperature flames to output the power directly, bypassing the spell.

It covers a much larger area than Dumbledore's attack, but in essence it is just a deep mastery of basic fire magic.

One is precise control of the field after being weakened to the extreme, and the other is area suppression when the state is at its full strength. The difficulty levels are different.

But no matter what, he did it.

The flames burned silently, with only a low hum as the air was heated to its limit.

The blue-white light illuminated the entire area, making the distant hills, ridges, and the outline of the manor house clearly visible.

What used to be night is now brighter than day.

The sky is on fire.