Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 550 The Wicked Geralt

The wind in the canyon blew from behind old Avery, lifting the hem of his robe slightly to reveal dark gray leather boots underneath, their surfaces gleaming and clean.

His gaze lingered on Geralt's face for only a moment before he recognized who it was.

Long silver-white hair, amber vertical pupils, dark gray short vest, radiating heat, young.

After Dolokhov was beaten, the story circulated among the core Death Eaters.

Silver-white hair, unlike any hair color commonly seen in British wizards; amber vertical pupils; animal-like irises; no name, no origin; only a portrait and an oral report.

The features of the person in front of me match the description perfectly; it is him.

Old Avery's mind works very fast.

Dolokhov was brought close by this person, who punched him and shattered half of his face.

Dolokhov did not tell his subordinates the details of that day; his temperament did not allow him to recount his experience of being beaten as a story.

But these old buddies who had followed Voldemort for many years all knew what level Dolokhov was at. He was the Death Eaters' number one fighter, fearless in a head-on confrontation, and a master of duels.

Even if this guy ambushed Dolokhov, the fact that he could punch Dolokhov like that already speaks volumes.

Not to mention that Skipton Castle was blown up with some unknown spell; the blast's range and power far exceeded what could be explained by a sneak attack.

These two things alone are not enough to win. I brought three people with me, two of whom are somewhat capable, and one is a novice. Even combined, they are not enough.

Moreover, if you make a move here, the giants will drive you away regardless of who you are, and your mission will be completely ruined.

Another thing, which Dolokhov repeatedly used the word "bad" in his report.

Extremely vile, despicable, and using vile methods.

Dolokhov himself isn't exactly known for his good temper, so for him to repeatedly emphasize how wicked an opponent must be, then that guy must really be wicked to a certain degree.

Therefore, you should not only avoid hitting them, but also avoid provoking them.

Old Avery's expression remained unchanged; his gaze lingered briefly on Geralt's face before shifting to look behind him.

The Pwitt brothers stood there, one on the left and one on the right, in a guarded posture.

The two young men from the Pewter family are active members of the Order of the Phoenix. They are considered capable fighters among the younger generation, but only at a standard level, and not worth paying much attention to.

The Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore is also vying for the giants.

He then looked at the white-haired man in front of him, whose posture was very relaxed and lacked any dignity. The corners of his mouth were slightly crooked, and his amber vertical pupils were looking at him lazily, making it impossible to tell what he was thinking.

Old Avery spoke in a typical social tone, with a touch of polite distance: "What's your name?"

Geralt lifted his eyes from the rock, tilted his neck, and made a soft cracking sound: "Geralt."

Old Avery nodded slightly: "I am Argus Avery, from the Avery family."

After speaking, he stopped and waited for the other person to react to the surname Avery.

Anyone who has ever been in the British pureblood circle will react accordingly upon hearing this surname: either with politeness, wariness, or at least an expression of admiration.

Geralt lowered his eyelids, pursed his lips slightly, and grunted, "Oh."

Then he raised his right hand, stuck his little finger into his ear and picked at it, took it out and rubbed it on his vest, then blew on it.

Old Avery's expression remained unchanged.

It was appalling, truly appalling; Dolokhov was not exaggerating at all.

His tone remained unchanged, neither warm nor cold: "I didn't expect to run into you here."

Geralt's lips curled up, and his amber pupils stared at him with mockery in their eyes: "You knew all along, your little thing has been buzzing around in the crevice for ages."

Old Avery's expression finally showed a very slight change; his eyes narrowed slightly, the change being very minor.

The monitoring spell was detected, so he triggered it intentionally.

He was summoned.

Fabian and Gideon took another half step back, creating some distance between themselves on either side, their hands inside their robes, but not out.

Geralt didn't make the first move; he was negotiating with the other side. So they followed suit, ready to be prepared at any time.

The two brothers glanced at each other, then looked back.

Old Avery's gaze swept over the two brothers before returning to Geralt's face: "Your arrival on the giants' side, was it Dumbledore's arrangement?"

Geralt tilted his head and grinned. "Who said I work for Dumbledore?"

He raised one hand and waved it casually in the air: "I'm just running errands for him, he owes me a favor, but that's a different matter from doing the job."

He paused, the golden light in his amber pupils flickered, and the curve of his lips widened slightly: "If you have any good jobs over there, we can talk about it."

Old Avery frowned slightly; his first reaction was disbelief.

A man who could beat Dolokhov like that suddenly appeared on the outskirts of the giants' camp, followed by two Order of the Phoenix Pewters, saying he was running errands for Dumbledore, and then added that they could talk if there was any good work available.

Anyone who believed him was a fool, but he decided to go along with the conversation.

Dealing with someone who is both malicious and powerful enough is pointless; it's better to listen to them talk more. The more they talk, the more flaws they'll reveal.

Moreover, what if, by any chance, even with a one in ten thousand probability, this statement is true?

This person truly only cares about the job, not the person; he takes on whoever's job is easiest. Therefore, he's not completely closed off from their side; such a powerful force—

Even a one in ten thousand chance is worth continuing the discussion.

“In that case,” old Avery nodded, “we certainly have something to talk about.”

He had barely finished speaking when a voice came from behind him: "We have all kinds of jobs here, we're just afraid you won't be able to handle them."

The voice was young, carrying an uncontrollable restlessness and a forced confidence. The meaning behind the words was probably to follow up Geralt's earlier comment about being good at sex and having a good conversation, but the tone was completely off track.

Old Avery tensed the muscles at the back of his head when he heard the voice.

Geralt didn't look at the person; his amber pupils were fixed on old Avery's face, and the corners of his mouth slowly twitched to one side.

The smile grew wider and wider, revealing a row of white teeth. The corners of his eyes curved upwards, and the light in his vertical pupils became very bright and focused.

A nasty laugh.

Old Avery's heart pounded, but it was too late to reach into his robe.

Geralt remained seated on the rock, his posture unchanged. He raised his right hand, which was resting on his knee, and extended his index finger. The movement was slow and casual, as if he were flicking a speck of dust from his fingertip.

A wisp of crimson light emerged from the fingertip, very bright and thin, tearing the air apart with a sharp whistling sound the moment it shot out.

Almost without any delay, the masked man who was speaking was no longer in his original position.

A crimson beam of light, leaving afterimages, pierced through twenty meters of space, penetrating his right shoulder. The sound of flesh and bone being pierced was short and muffled.

The man's entire body was thrown backward, his feet leaving the ground and forming a line in the air. His black robe billowed in the air, and his mask was ripped off by the airflow, revealing a young face filled with terror that hadn't yet shown any signs of pain.

It flew through the scree slopes of the canyon, through the shadows of the rock walls, flew hundreds of meters, and finally crashed into the distant rock wall, taking about two seconds in the middle.

Bone and flesh struck the granite simultaneously, producing a heavy thud. A crimson light burned a half-meter-deep crater through the rock wall, its edges melting and emitting red light and white smoke.

The person was stuck in the pit, face down, with blood seeping from his shoulder, which was hissing and smoking from the high temperature of the rock surface.

The person was still alive, howling there. The sound came from hundreds of meters away and was amplified by the echo in the canyon. It wasn't exactly melodious, but it was pleasant enough.

Geralt withdrew his fingers, letting them rest on his knees. His amber pupils were still fixed on old Avery, that wicked smile still lingering, the curve of his lips unchanged. He kindly reminded him, "It's alright, you won't die. Remember to take it with you when you leave."

Old Avery's hand stopped in the inner pocket of his robe, his fingers touching the wand handle. He looked at Geralt's expression and withdrew his hand.

It was fast, too fast. From the moment the light appeared at his fingertips to the moment he was sent flying, there were no warning signs, no spells, and no magic wands.

If that blow were aimed at him, he wouldn't be able to dodge it.

Moreover, that level of magical control, which can send a person flying hundreds of meters, embedding them in a rock wall, and burning through granite without killing them, is much more difficult than simply smashing their head.

If the situation is controlled to this level, it means that the opponent is using intimidation rather than aiming to kill.

And he didn't kill anyone, just like he didn't kill anyone in the Dolokhov incident.

This person, or rather Dumbledore behind him, is still guarding that line.

Both sides are exercising restraint, avoiding initiating killings and escalating the conflict. Whoever breaks off relations first will be at a political disadvantage.

He confirmed this, but instead of relaxing, he became even more nervous.

This person is truly despicable. It was just a single sentence; why did it have to come to this?

The two masked men behind old Avery stood frozen in place, their heads not even turning in the direction the young man had flown out, not daring to move an inch.

Fabian stood behind Geralt, his mouth opening and closing briefly.

The red light was so fast that he didn't have time to react. By the time he realized what was happening, he was already pinned to the rock face.

He glanced at the figure still howling a few hundred meters away, then looked away, looked at Geralt's back of the head, and moved his lips twice, as if he wanted to speak.

Then he noticed the masked man behind old Avery looking at him, and he composed himself, his facial muscles tensing instantly.

A flicker of surprise crossed Gideon's eyes, but he quickly concealed it.

His hand remained inside his robe, still holding his wand. He glanced back and forth between old Avery and the two masked men, making sure no one was about to make a move, before slightly relaxing his shoulders.

The air was quiet for a while, and the distant howls turned into groans, intermittent and broken.

Old Avery spoke again, his tone exactly the same as before: "Your abilities are indeed outstanding."

He didn't turn around to look at his pinned-down subordinate; even a glance would be tantamount to showing weakness, tantamount to telling Geralt that what he had just done had affected him.

"I'm curious," his expression became slightly more polite, it was hard to tell whether it was a compliment or a probe, "why would someone like you run errands for Dumbledore?"

Geralt shouted impatiently, "I told you, he's only doing errands because he has good jobs. I judge people by the job, not the person."

"6

"So where do you usually find good jobs?"

Geralt gave a thoughtful look, tilted his head slightly, rolled his vertical pupils upward a little, and pursed his lips: "Traveling around a lot, spending most of the time on the main roads."

Old Avery's gaze narrowed slightly: "Which way?"

"To the east, in the mountains," Geralt grinned, revealing his teeth. "I chatted with some old guys in Germany the other day; the people there are more interesting than you guys."

Old Avery's pupils contracted slightly.

Germany, old man, a mountainous place.

The UMNO's area of ​​activity was in the Austrian and southern German Alps. After Grindelwald was imprisoned in Neumunga, his former followers were scattered throughout the European continent, but the core remnants continued to operate in the mountainous region.

Is this person connected to the remnants of Grindelwald's forces?

Or is he just talking nonsense again?

This person is wicked. Nine and a half out of ten things a wicked person says cannot be believed, but what if the remaining half is true?

His physical characteristics were quite distinctive: silver-white hair, a Nordic-style name, and extremely high combat power. He wasn't listed in any wizarding archives in the UK; it was as if he had appeared out of thin air.

His first appearance was at Dolohoff's stronghold, and his fighting style was not typical of the British mainland. What elegant and dignified wizard would resort to fists?

Moreover, this guy wasn't even wearing a robe; he was just wearing a short vest and long trousers, which definitely made him look like he came from the mainland.

Is he really an outsider? Was he an outsider invited by Dumbledore? Or did he come to England on his own to stir up trouble?

Regardless of whether what he said was true or false, his tone was very arrogant.

The person who could make Dumbledore owe a favor must be of a high rank. As for the later comment about being good at sex and having a good conversation, was it a test? Or did he genuinely not care about his position?

Old Avery looked at Geralt's face, and Geralt looked back at him, his amber vertical pupils filled with composure and indifference, his face saying, "I said it casually, believe it or not."

He couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what was fake.

Fabian stood slightly to Geralt's left. When he heard the words "Germany," "old man," and "the continent," a look of surprise flashed across his face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then noticed out of the corner of his eye that someone else was watching him, so he quickly closed his mouth and tried to appear serious.

My mind was reeling. So Geralt came from the continent, from Germany. No wonder he was so powerful. Wizards on the continent are different from those in England; their style is wilder and their methods are more diverse.

He believed it completely.

Gideon stood to the side, looking at Geralt's profile.

Geralt spoke these words with a serious expression, a casual tone, and full of detail, just like when he was making up the Siren's Adventures.

Gideon shook his head inwardly and glanced at Fabian again.

The younger brother's face clearly showed his understanding, and Gideon shook his head inwardly.

But where did Geralt come from?

It's definitely not Germany.

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