Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 562 If there's no choice, then there's no need to choose.

Geralt quickly concluded that the ground chicken tactic was no longer viable.

The Swiftness and Sprint spells rely on stable footing and a continuous rhythm to function, but Hilde can disrupt the stable structure of the ground.

He needed a different approach, one that didn't rely on ready-made spells but instead used magic to channel support into his legs. It wasn't precise, even crude, but it would work.

He adjusted his breathing and put it back on.

The intensity of the exchanges increased again, and Hilde's rhythm became more unstable, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, with the intervals between two attacks varying in length. Sometimes she would unleash two rapid strikes in quick succession with almost no gap in between, and sometimes she would pause for a breath after one strike before launching another.

Geralt's prediction model is constantly receiving new data, and each collision is correcting the parameters. He is beginning to be able to predict, not completely accurately, but with increasing frequency of appearing in the right place at the right time.

Swords and axes were exchanged at high speed between the two men, flashes of blue and crimson light interspersed. The ground around them was ravaged by the fighting, and a large area in the center of the training ground had been transformed into the surface of the moon, riddled with craters, cracks, crimson burn marks, and layers of soil churned up by the shockwaves.

In a close encounter, Geralt, using the force of the sweeping wake that pushed him outwards, reached out his left hand and touched Hilde's breastplate while losing his balance, instantly unleashing a short-range blasting spell from his palm.

boom.

The spell exploded close to the body, and the result was not unexpected. The giant's magic power seeping into the armor completely blocked the magical component of the spell, leaving only pure physical kinetic energy to be transmitted.

Hilde swayed back slightly, using the backward lean to shift her weight from her front foot to her back foot. She twirled the axe handle half a circle in her hand, changing it from vertical to horizontal, and then swung the middle section of the handle horizontally.

Geralt had no time to dodge. He was struck in the waist, the metal surface of the axe handle hitting his side. His body twisted and flew sideways, tumbling twice in the air.

He cast a slowing spell on himself, and after landing, he slid for a while before stopping, and felt a dull pain in the spot on his waist where he had been hit.

But this blow wasn't entirely in vain; in that instant of close proximity, his senses detected a change within Hilde's body.

Hilde resisted the spell in a way he hadn't expected; the impact wasn't directly absorbed by the armor.

When his Explosion Spell exploded, he felt the magic in Hilde's chest area undergo a rapid reorganization, with more power quickly converging from its diffused state towards the explosion site, forming a protective surface that blocked the force of the explosion.

In the extremely short time, he only caught a blurry signal during the flight, but the signal was definitely there, so the previous contact wasn't useless.

The ground at the site of the battle was completely unrecognizable, with scorch marks crisscrossing, and the marks left by dragging swords and the craters made by axe blades overlapping each other, the new covering the old.

Geralt took a deep breath, gripped the hilt of his sword again, and charged back.

This time, he didn't make any advance predictions; he waited until the axe was used before calculating.

Hilde's axe came from the side, the arc of the blade covering a radius of eight or nine meters in front of her.

Geralt completed the calculations in an instant, slicing horizontally from left to right, calculating speed, power, trajectory, and in a fraction of a second, he determined the optimal angle for the block and the inclination of the impact surface.

He swung the sword horizontally to meet the attack, while his left palm held a blasting spell ready to explode simultaneously.

Hilde's wrist suddenly flipped ninety degrees halfway through the axe's stroke, changing the blade and turning the horizontal cut into a horizontal slap.

It's so fast there's almost no process; one frame shows the axe blade slicing horizontally, and the next frame shows the axe face slapping horizontally.

During the same movement, the speed suddenly doubled.

As she flipped her wrist, Hilde's forearm muscles bulged, and the joints of her armor sleeves were stretched so hard that they made a metallic squeaking sound.

The giant's magic instantly converged in his forearm, combining with the contraction of his muscles to unleash its power, transforming the speed of the axe from fast to so fast that his eyes could barely keep up.

Geralt's calculations were all rendered useless.

He saw the change, and his mind was already processing the new information, but his body movements were prepared according to the angle of the parrying blade. The direction of the sword, the position of his hands, and the distribution of his center of gravity were all for parrying.

In an instant, my brain calculated that the correct blocking angle should be 40 degrees upward and my center of gravity should be shifted backward, but my body couldn't keep up.

However, the thought process is quick enough.

A burst of blue light erupted as Betelgeuse's protection braced the sword's structure at the moment of contact. Crimson magic burned away a peak of impact from the leading edge of the contact, and Betelgeuse's sharpness thinned the force transmitted from the axe's surface.

The three forces acted simultaneously, each reducing some of the impact, but the remaining force still sent him flying off the ground.

His feet left the ground, his body was enveloped by that force and pushed backward, his direction was out of control, his body rolled continuously in the air, and the sky and the ground alternately flipped in his field of vision.

As he flipped, he slashed his left hand toward his chest, applying the first shock-absorbing spell to his chest and abdomen, followed by the second spreading to his torso and limbs, and then the deceleration spell, which took effect a step too late, as the ground was still moving rapidly below his field of vision.

He kicked off the air, used magic to flip his body over so his face was up, cast another slowing spell, and then added a depletion spell.

Its speed dropped rapidly during the flight of several hundred meters, and it crashed into the ground backwards.

He lay at the bottom of the ditch, clods of earth piled up on his sides, his back pressed against the hot, rubbed soil. His chest tightened, and the breath he had been holding in slowly escaped over time.

The silver light of the Constant Iron Armor Spell flashed briefly on the body surface before being suppressed.

The sky was directly above my field of vision, very blue and clear, with a few wisps of white clouds, torn into threads by the wind, drifting quickly overhead.

He let out a long groan: "...hiss." The sword was in his hand, its blue and red light flickering intermittently. The outline of the sword was blurred, but it hadn't dissipated yet, and his will was still holding on.

He lay in the ditch for a while, took a couple of breaths to catch his breath, then sat up, supporting himself on the ditch wall with his left hand. After catching his breath again, he stood up.

Geralt looked at Hilde a few hundred meters away. Hilde stood still, her axe already sheathed and slung over her shoulder, her icy gray eyes behind her visor watching him from afar.

He didn't run back; that's it for today.

In that final moment, his calculation system completely failed. Hilde changed her move midway through the swing of her axe, altering the direction of her force, the area of ​​impact, and the nature of the contact.

There's also speed. Hilde held back for the first ten or twenty rounds, but in the end, the magic in her forearm instantly converged, doubling her speed.

He underestimated the upper limit of the parameters in the predictive model he built using the data he had accumulated.

He can still fight. His body is indeed tired, but his spirit and magic are still abundant. However, there is not much point in continuing to fight. He should go back, analyze the situation, think it over, and prepare before coming back.

He glanced down at the sword in his hand. The blue and red light faded from the blade, the color dimming and eventually turning into fine particles that dissipated into the air.

He turned and walked toward the entrance of the passage. Fabian and Gideon came up from below the cliff. Neither of the brothers spoke, and they accompanied him into the shadows at the entrance of the passage.

The giant spectator below the cliff was still standing there, his eyes behind his mask watching the three humans disappear through the passageway.

The three of them teleported and landed in an alley in Bergen's old town.

Norway's wizarding community is different from that in the UK; it doesn't have enclosed commercial streets like Diagon Alley.

Wizards' shops are scattered in the narrow alleys of the old town. Muggles passing by see empty storefronts or abandoned warehouses that are never open. Only by pushing open the door can one enter the wizarding world.

It's small, quiet, and doesn't even have a sign at the entrance; only wizards can see the runes carved on the door frame.

The three of them found a corner of a small tavern and sat down. The ceiling was low with wooden beams, and a few candles were stuck on iron frames on the wall, swaying gently in the breeze.

The tables and chairs were crooked and the wood was so dark it looked almost black; it was impossible to tell how many years they had been used.

The wizard owner behind the counter was a bald old man. He didn't hand out menus or let customers order. He just brought out a pot of stewed fish, a basket of toast, and three glasses of ale.

Bergen in August evening, at a high latitude, is still bright outside the window. The window is small, and you can see a section of the mountain ridge towards the fjord.

Geralt's vest was torn in several places during his fight with Hilde, the left sleeve was almost ripped off, and the back of the vest was worn out.

But Professor McGonagall's craftsmanship was truly impressive. The Geralt suit created by her permanent transformation had its fabric repair function constantly working. It had already repaired itself before they even finished walking through the tunnel at the bottom of the mountain, and the dust and dirt were squeezed out bit by bit.

By the time they arrived in Bergen, the vest had been restored to its original state.

The three young people sat in the corner, none of them speaking, eating in silence.

Geralt broke a whole loaf of bread in half, dipped one half in the stewed fish broth and put it in his mouth. After chewing it a couple of times, before he could even swallow it, he broke off another piece.

Febian was no slower than him, stuffing pieces of fish into his mouth, his cheeks bulging high.

Gideon didn't eat as fast, but his plate emptied at about the same rate as the other two.

The three of them chewed for a while, then Fabian scraped the last piece of fish in his bowl into his mouth, took a big gulp of ale, and put down his glass.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glanced at Geralt, then glanced at him again, and hesitated for a moment.

Geralt finished eating, picked up his cup, took a sip, and glanced at him with his amber vertical pupils: "Ask whatever you want."

"What you said in front of the giants during the day—" Fabian's tone was uncertain, hesitant, "What were you really thinking?"

Geralt put down his cup and glanced at him sideways. "Which part of what I said is a lie?"

Fabian opened his mouth and thought about it seriously for a while: "It seems like it's not true... but it also seems like it's not entirely false. Some of the words are quite accurate, while others are too harsh."

"I know you should curse the Death Eaters, and you should," he frowned. "But you cursed us too, and you cursed the entire wizarding community."

Geralt shrugged. "Each group set up a table for the giant. If you sit at your table, you're on their side; if you sit at the other table, you're on their side."

He clapped his hands and then spread them out: "I overturned both tables, and the giant saw what was hidden under them, so naturally he didn't want to sit down anymore."

Ferrian opened his mouth, then closed it again, pondered for a moment, and then opened it again: "Fine... but you insulted the Order of the Phoenix too."

Geralt asked matter-of-factly, "If the giants don't choose anything, has Dumbledore completed his mission?"

Fabian closed his mouth, thought for a long time but couldn't find a rebuttal, then picked up his ale and took a sullen swig, slammed the glass down, and shouted, "Boss, refill!"

The bald boss behind the bar lifted his eyelids slightly, slowly rolled his eyes, and muttered, "Kjeften."

på ein jævel—

""

Shut up.

A short, thick wand tapped the edge of the bar, and the cork of the barrel in the corner popped out. A stream of dark golden liquid shot into the air, arced through the air, and landed perfectly in Fabian's glass, stopping right at the rim.

Fabian glanced down at his full glass, then at the owner, and muttered in English, "What kind of damn service is this?"

The bald boss, sharp of hearing and sight, waved his wand again, and half the wine in Fabian's glass vanished: "Dufårdet"

du betaler for, din jævla turist! "

You get what you pay for, you fucking tourist.

Fabian looked down at the half-empty cup, then looked up at the bar. He didn't understand what he was hearing, but he got the gist of it.

She blinked and said, "Then we can only pay half the price."

Geralt whistled a short, loud whistle and gestured to the boss with his chin.

The bald boss showed no mercy: "Uoppdragenengelskmann".

""

Rude Englishmen.