Hermione sat in the chair behind the desk, her hands gripping the edge, her entire body leaning forward. Her brown eyes stared at Jerry's face, opened wide, her pupils dilating slightly in the dim office light.
"Really?"
Her voice squeezed out from the depths of her throat, carrying a tremble of disbelief. That tremble wasn't fear, but the excitement of finally hearing good news after suppressing her emotions for too long.
"Is the Quidditch World Cup tournament really restarting?"
Jerry nodded. He stood opposite the desk, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, his grey eyes looking at Hermione's face.
"Malfoy told me. The Ministry of Magic has already released the news; the qualifiers begin next month."
Hermione's lips parted, but no sound came out. Her throat bobbed as if swallowing something, and then the corners of her mouth began to curve upward.
That curve started from the left side of her mouth, slowly extending to the right, finally stopping at the right corner to form a complete, brilliant smile.
She smiled.
That smile lingered on her face for about three seconds, and then the rims of her eyes suddenly reddened. It wasn't the redness of a loud sob, but a physiological reaction triggered by the sudden release of emotions that had been pent up for far too long. A tiny drop of clear liquid seeped from the corner of her eye, sliding down her cheek, pausing briefly at her jawbone before dripping onto the desk.
"That's wonderful."
Her voice became choked with emotion, every single word sounding as if it had been forcefully squeezed from the bottom of her throat.
"That's wonderful, that's wonderful."
She repeated it three times, the volume dropping lower with each iteration until the final one was merely the movement of her lips without any sound.
Jerry could understand why Hermione was so ecstatic.
Throughout the process of preparing for this World Cup tournament, Hermione had expended the most energy. Although Jerry had provided the capital, the daily operations, inventory management, promotional campaigns, and supplier negotiations for the Forbidden Eden and those erotic shops were all entirely on Hermione's shoulders. She slept no more than five hours a day; the rest of her time was spent processing an endless mountain of documents and reports.
Seventy-five percent of Jerry's assets had been invested entirely into this Quidditch World Cup tournament. That was an astronomical figure. When the news broke that the Quidditch World Cup was suspended due to the terrorist attack, Hermione hadn't closed her eyes for three straight days. She sat in the club office, staring at those mountains of inventory lists, calculating exactly how many gold Galleons they would lose if the World Cup was completely canceled.
The answer was: all of it.
If the World Cup was canceled completely, the souvenirs, team uniforms, omnioculars, and magical cameras custom-made specifically for the event would all turn into a pile of unsellable trash. Seventy-five percent of Jerry's assets would evaporate overnight, and Hermione would be the person who caused it all to happen.
Jerry had never blamed her. Even after learning the news of the World Cup's suspension, he had specifically come to comfort her, saying, "This isn't your fault; no one could have predicted a terrorist attack." But Hermione knew that if she had been a bit more cautious when drafting the plan, if she had left some margin when investing the funds, if she had immediately stopped restocking upon hearing rumors of the terrorist attack, the losses wouldn't have been this massive.
Every night she lay in bed, closing her eyes, her mind filled with nothing but those numbers. Seven hundred and fifty thousand gold Galleons, one point two million gold Galleons, two million gold Galleons. The numbers tumbled through her mind like a swarm of flies that could never be shooed away. She would open her eyes and stare at the ceiling until dawn broke.
Now, the World Cup was restarting.
That inventory wouldn't become trash. Those invested funds wouldn't go down the drain. She wouldn't be the person who ruined Jerry's career.
Hermione stood up from the chair. Her legs went slightly weak as she rose, her knees buckling for a moment before she braced her hands against the edge of the desk to steady herself. She walked around the desk, approached Jerry, reached out her hands, and hugged him.
"Thank you."
Her voice came from above his head, muffled, bearing the nasal twang of someone who had just been crying.
"Thank you for never blaming me."
Jerry pulled his hands from his hoodie pockets and patted Hermione's back. The pat wasn't heavy; it was merely a symbolic gesture of comfort.
"I told you, it wasn't your fault."
Hermione released her arms from around Jerry and took a step back. She used the back of her hand to wipe the residual tear tracks from the corners of her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned to walk over to the mini-fridge next to the desk. She opened the fridge door, pulled out a bottle of ice water, twisted off the cap, tilted her head back, and took several large gulps.
As the ice water slid down her throat, her Adam's apple bobbed multiple times. The water was so cold it sent a sharp sting down her esophagus, but she didn't stop until only a third of the water remained in the bottle before lowering it.
She wiped the residual water from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, turned around, and looked at Jerry.
Then she walked to the desk, bent down, and ducked underneath it.
Jerry stood where he was, his grey eyes watching Hermione's figure disappear beneath the desk. He didn't move; he simply shoved his hands back into his hoodie pockets and waited.
Hermione knelt on the floor beneath the desk. The floor was made of wood; when her knees hit it, it made a soft thud. Bracing her hands on the floor, she crawled forward two steps, directly in front of where Jerry was standing.
She looked up, gazing at Jerry from the shadows beneath the desk. The office lights cast down from above the desk, illuminating her face in a mix of light and shadow. Her brown eyes shimmered with a moist luster in the dark, her lips slightly parted, her exhaled breath brushing against the leg of Jerry's sweatpants.
She lifted her hands from the floor, her fingers hooking the waistband of Jerry's sweatpants.
"I've been holding back all this time."
Her voice drifted up from beneath the desk, muffled, carrying a huskiness from being suppressed for too long.
"Holding back until I felt like I was going crazy."
With a forceful yank of her fingers, she pulled the waistband of the sweatpants down to Jerry's thighs. That thing sprang free from the restraint of the waistband, casting a thick shadow in the dim light of the office.
Hermione's breathing grew ragged the instant she saw it. Her nostrils flared twice, inhaling the masculine scent emanating from it. That scent, a mix of sweat, pre-cum, and an indescribable hormone odor, drilled into her nasal cavity, coated the back of her tongue, and made her throat swallow involuntarily.
"Now I finally don't have to hold back anymore."
Her right hand wrapped around the base of that thing's shaft. Her five fingers encircled the thick cylinder, her fingertips just barely failing to meet. The temperature of the shaft was slightly higher than body heat; it throbbed within the enclosure of her palm, the veins bulging even more prominently under the pressure of her fingers.
Her left hand cradled those two heavy balls, her fingers gently kneading them. The skin of the scrotum was very thin; she could feel the two round objects inside shifting slightly under her kneading fingers.
She brought her face closer to that thing, her nose rubbing against the side of the head. The skin of the head was very smooth, the surface coated in a thin layer of pre-cum that left a small wet mark upon contact with her nose. Her tongue darted out from between her lips; starting from the base of the head, the tip of her tongue slowly traced a circle along the curve of the coronal ridge.
"Mmh."
She let out a muffled groan of satisfaction from her nose. That sound was very light, very short, but in the quiet office, it was magnified into a string of echoes.
Squelch.
The first wet sound spilled from the gap between her lips and the shaft. A massive amount of saliva secreted in her mouth—a volume far exceeding normal levels, triggered as an emergency response by the salivary glands reacting to a foreign object. The excess saliva leaked from the corners of her mouth, trailing down the shaft and dripping onto the floor where she knelt with a drip-drop sound.
Squelch...
Wet sounds continuously spilled from the gap between her lips and the shaft, echoing in the quiet office. She pushed in to about half the depth before stopping; the length of the cock exceeded the capacity of her mouth, and pushing any further would trigger her gag reflex. Her lips clamped around the midsection of the shaft, her cheeks hollowing and bulging with the sucking motion, the tip of her tongue licking the thickest vein on the underside of the shaft at the bottom of her mouth.
The speed of her head bobbing back and forth increased. With every forward thrust, her lips swallowed another half-centimeter of the shaft; with every backward pull, her lips would pause at the coronal ridge, the tip of her tongue tracing a circle around it before she thrust downward again.
Squish... smack... slurp...
The mixture of saliva and pre-cum was churned into a white froth between her lips and the shaft. The viscous froth gathered at the corners of her mouth, constantly shifting shape with the bobbing of her head. Her breathing rushed rapidly in and out through her nose, her nostrils flaring slightly with every inhale, the hot exhaled air brushing against the skin of Jerry's lower abdomen.
Jerry pulled his right hand from his hoodie pocket, resting it on the top of Hermione's head. His fingers threaded through her fluffy brown curls, the pads resting against her scalp, feeling the rhythm of her head bobbing back and forth. He didn't press down hard; he merely rested his hand there gently, as if soothing a cat intently focused on its work.
The speed of Hermione's head movements increased again. This time, the acceleration wasn't gradual, but sudden—as if a switch had been flipped. The frequency of her lips sliding along the shaft reached two to three times per second, her tongue frantically licking every corner of the head inside her mouth.
Squish-squish-squish...
The wet sounds grew frantic and dense, mixing with the rapid sound of her nasal breathing and the occasional muffled mmh spilling from the depths of her throat. Her right hand gripped the part of the shaft base that her mouth couldn't cover, her fingers jerking up and down in sync with the back-and-forth movement of her head, the pressure of her palm and the suction of her mouth forming a sort of alternating rhythm.
Jerry's waist tensed slightly. His right hand tightened a bit in Hermione's hair, his fingers gripping a small clump of curls, but without pulling hard. His grey eyes were half-closed, his breathing growing heavy and rapid, the muscles of his lower abdomen continuously contracting.
Hermione felt his change. The speed of her head movements increased yet again; the frequency of her lips sliding on the shaft reached its absolute limit, her tongue frantically licking every corner of the head inside her mouth. Throughout the process, her throat let out a string of muffled mmh groans, sounds that were blocked in her mouth by the shaft, transforming into a low, vibrating hum.
Squish-squish...
Spurt...
Bodily fluids erupted, flooding into Hermione's mouth.
"Mmh-mmph...!"
Her throat swallowed violently the instant the fluids flooded in, her Adam's apple bobbing far more dramatically than any time prior. A massive amount of bodily fluid gathered in her mouth; a portion was swallowed down, while the rest overflowed from the corners of her mouth, trailing down the shaft and dripping onto the floor where she knelt.
Her lips remained clamped around the shaft without letting go; her tongue slowly swirled the residual fluids within her mouth, rolling every last drop into her throat and swallowing it down.
Glug... glug...
Three swallows.
Her lips slowly slid off the shaft, emitting a soft pop as the head withdrew from her mouth. White fluid residue still clung to the corners of her mouth, and a few unwiped drops stained her chin.
She looked up, her brown eyes gazing up at Jerry from beneath the desk.
"I feel much better."
Her voice carried the languid tone of someone who had just been satisfied, every word sounding as if it were slowly squeezed from the depths of her throat.
"Now we can get to work."
Jerry released his right hand from her hair and pulled his sweatpants back up to his waist.
"When will the promotional plan be ready?"
"Tonight." Hermione crawled out from beneath the desk, using the back of her hand to wipe the fluid residue from the corner of her mouth. "I've already had the team prepare. As long as you confirm the news of the Quidditch World Cup restarting is true, we can act immediately."
She stood up, brushed the dust off her knees, walked behind the desk, pulled a roll of parchment from a drawer, and unrolled it on the desktop.
"This is the preliminary plan. We will run ads simultaneously in Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and all major magical communities. The budget is five thousand gold Galleons, estimated to cover eighty percent of the target clientele."
Jerry walked over to the desk, looking down at the densely packed numbers and plans on the parchment.
"Acceptable. Execute according to this plan."
The corners of Hermione's mouth curled up.
"Then I'll go notify the team right now."
She rolled up the parchment, shoved it into the drawer, and turned to walk toward the office door. As she reached the door, she stopped, turned her head, and looked at Jerry.
"Jerry."
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
The corner of Jerry's mouth curved.
"You're welcome. We're a team!"
Hermione nodded, pushed the door open, and walked out.
The door closed behind her, letting out a soft click.
When Catherine stepped out of the portal, her first sensation was that the gravity had changed.
As her right foot stepped onto the ground, her knee buckled downward about three centimeters the instant it took her weight—double the margin she had anticipated. Her body pitched forward; her left hand instinctively reached out, grabbing the metal frame of the portal's edge to steady herself. The temperature of the metal frame was incredibly low—so freezing cold that her palm flinched the moment it made contact—but she didn't let go. Instead, she gripped it tightly, using the leverage to pull her entire body out of the portal.
Her left foot landed, and her knee buckled another three centimeters. After finding her footing, she released the metal frame, raised her head, and surveyed the surrounding environment.
The sky was grey.
That grey was entirely different from the overcast grey of a London winter. London's overcast was a uniform, heavy grey, like being covered by a wet blanket. But the sky here was a layered, flowing grey, as if something were churning deep within the clouds. The bottom of the clouds was dark grey, the middle light grey, and the top an eerie color somewhere between grey and dark purple. The clouds were moving slowly—moving in a direction completely opposite to the wind, as if two forces were tearing at them simultaneously.
There was a smell in the air. That smell mixed earth, vegetation, some kind of metal oxide, and an indescribable, pungent odor that smelled like rotten eggs but also like sulfur. Catherine's nose wrinkled the moment she inhaled her first breath of air; a sudden urge to cough surged from deep within her throat, but she forcefully suppressed it, merely using the back of her hand to wipe the skin beneath her nose.
The ground was black.
Not the normal black of soil, but a charred, scorched black, the surface covered in a layer of fine ash. Catherine looked down at the ground beneath her feet. The ground was littered with countless craters of varying sizes, the edges jagged and uneven, as if they had been smashed from above by something. At the bottom of the craters pooled a shallow liquid, its color somewhere between dark red and green; floating on the surface of the liquid were various fragments. The shapes and colors of those fragments varied—some looked like charred wood, some like shattered stone, some like—
Catherine's gaze froze when it landed on one of the fragments. The shape of that fragment was a finger. To be precise, the first two joints of a human finger; the nail was still attached, but the skin beneath it had turned a greyish-white, like it had been soaked in water for too long.
The portal stood on a flat clearing. The clearing was about the size of two Quidditch pitches, encircled by a wooden palisade. The height of the palisade exceeded three meters, the tops sharpened into pointed cones like a row of spears pointing skyward. On the outside of the palisade, there was a guard tower every ten meters. The towers exceeded five meters in height, topped with simple observation decks. Wizards wearing dark blue Ministry of Magic uniforms stood on the decks, wands in hand, eyes fixed on the direction outside the palisade.
In the center of the clearing, besides the portal, a dozen large tents had been erected. The tents were olive drab, their surfaces coated with a layer of waterproof magical sealant that gave them an oily sheen under the grey sky. Flags of different colors hung at the entrances of the tents: red for medical, blue for logistics and supply, black for headquarters, and green for soldiers' quarters.
Catherine stood beside the portal, her brown eyes sweeping over the entire clearing. There were people everywhere: wizards in Ministry uniforms, combat wizards in robes of various colors, mercenaries in leather armor, and even a few individuals in Muggle military uniforms. Some were hauling supplies, some were repairing equipment, some were shuttling back and forth between tents. Everyone's face wore a mixed expression of exhaustion and tension.
"Catherine?"
A voice called out from behind her. Catherine turned around and saw a middle-aged wizard wearing a dark blue Ministry of Magic uniform. The wizard had already begun to go bald, the wrinkles on his forehead deeply etched, with two dark bags under his eyes looking like he hadn't slept well in a long time. In his right hand, he held a piece of parchment; in his left, a quill, the nib still wet with ink.
"That's me." Catherine nodded.
"Excellent." The wizard drew a checkmark on the parchment. "I am the head of the frontline logistics department, William Harris. The Ministry assigned you here as an Overseer; I've already received the notification."
He rolled up the parchment, shoved it into his uniform pocket, and turned to walk toward the center of the clearing.
"Follow me. I'll take you to headquarters to report in."
Catherine followed him, walking along the muddy paths trampled into the clearing. Her boots made squish-squish sounds against the muddy ground; with every step, the soles of her boots sank about two centimeters into the mud, pulling up small chunks of sticky black dirt when she lifted her feet.
"This is the rear base of the Frontline Third War Zone," William said as he walked, his voice flat, as if reciting a pre-prepared briefing. "The portal transports supplies and personnel in three daily batches: one at 6:00 AM, one at 12:00 PM, and one at 6:00 PM. You arrived at 12:00 PM, right on time for the second batch."
He paused, turned his head, and gave Catherine a glance.
"Is this your first time here?"
"Yes." Catherine nodded.
"Then you're quite lucky." The corner of William's mouth curved into a tiny arc, one bearing an ironic "You have no idea how lucky you are" vibe. "The Third War Zone is the safest of all the war zones. The front line is still fifty kilometers from here, and the attack range of Cultivators generally doesn't exceed thirty kilometers, so we practically never come under direct attack here."
He turned back and continued walking forward.
"Of course, 'practically never' and 'absolutely never' are two different things. Last month, a Cultivator's flying sword flew over from the front line and cleaved a medical tent clean in half. Killed thirteen people, wounded twenty-seven."
Catherine's footsteps faltered.
"Flying sword?"
"Correct." William nodded. "The weapon of a Cultivator. They use something called 'spiritual power' to control swords, making them fly through the air to attack targets. Extremely fast, incredibly powerful, and with almost zero warning. The Shield Charm is terribly ineffective at defending against flying swords, because the attack method of a flying sword is entirely different from a magical spell."
He paused.
"You'd best pray you never encounter a flying sword."
Catherine didn't answer. Her gaze shifted from William's back to the palisade at the perimeter of the clearing. Beyond the palisade was a wasteland stretching to the edge of the horizon. There were no trees on the wasteland, no grass, only countless craters of varying sizes and bulging mounds of dirt. The shapes of the dirt mounds were irregular; some looked like they had been blown out by bombs, others like they had been pushed up from beneath the earth by something.
At the end of the wasteland lay a continuous, unbroken mountain range.
The height of those mountains exceeded Catherine's imagination. Visually estimating, even the lowest peaks were over three thousand meters tall, while the highest peaks pierced straight through the clouds, their summits shrouded in mist, leaving only a blurred outline visible. The color of the mountain bodies was dark grey, the surfaces covered in something resembling a metallic sheen, glinting with a frigid light under the grey sky.
From between the peaks, a roar would occasionally echo.
That roar wasn't human, nor did it belong to any animal Catherine had ever heard. It was a low-pitched, continuous vibration, like something rumbling up from deep underground—a frequency so low it resonated in the chest. Every time a roar sounded, the wizards in the clearing would stop what they were doing, look up toward the mountains, and then, after the roar faded, lower their heads and resume their tasks.
"What is that sound?"
Catherine's voice squeezed out from the depths of her throat, carrying a suppressed tension.
"Demonic Beasts," William said without looking back. "Creatures of the Cultivation World. Massive size, immense strength, low intelligence, but extremely aggressive. There are massive numbers of Demonic Beasts in the frontline war zones; they are tamed by Cultivators and used to assault our defensive lines."
He paused.
"The roar you are hearing is a Demonic Beast declaring its territory. There are Demonic Beast nests on those peaks; they roar every few hours to warn other Demonic Beasts to stay away."
Catherine's brown eyes stared at that continuous mountain range, her pupils constricting slightly under the grey sky.
This was the Cultivation World.
A world entirely different from the wizarding world.
Another roar echoed from the direction of the mountains.
This roar was louder, longer, and the frequency of its vibration even lower than the last. Catherine's chest resonated with the vibration of the roar; she could feel the beating of her heart thrown out of rhythm by the vibration, becoming erratic.
She swallowed hard, suppressing the urge to turn and run.
"You'll get used to it."
William's voice came from ahead. He had stopped walking and turned around to look at Catherine.
"Everyone who comes to the front line for the first time is terrified by the roars of the Demonic Beasts. But you'll get used to it. Give it a week, and you'll be able to fall asleep right through the roaring."
He turned back around and continued walking forward.
"We're at headquarters. Go on in and report."
Catherine pushed past the flap of the headquarters tent.
The flap was made of heavy canvas coated in a waterproof magical sealant, letting out a rustle as her palm pushed it aside. The space inside the tent was much larger than it appeared from the outside—a result of the Undetectable Extension Charm. The ceiling was over five meters high, the floor paved with wooden planks, upon which sat several long tables piled high with maps, parchment, magical instruments, and flags of various colors.
There were seven or eight people inside the tent: some stood before the tables studying maps, some sat in chairs organizing documents, and others spoke in low voices in the corners. Everyone wore a different style of combat attire—the dark blue uniform of the Ministry of Magic, the black combat robes of an Auror, the leather armor of an elven mercenary, and even a wizard wearing a robe styled after the Cultivators.
Catherine's gaze swept over the tent, finally coming to rest on a person standing before the long table at the very back.
The person had their back to the entrance, their long black hair tied into a high ponytail that cascaded from the back of their head to their waist, the ends swaying gently as they turned. She wore a modified robe, the cuffs and hem shortened to facilitate movement during combat. A wide leather belt was cinched at her waist, from which hung a wand holster, potion vials, and a few small pouches.
She turned around, her brown eyes looking toward the doorway.
"Catherine?"
Isabella's voice drifted from the back of the tent, her tone carrying a mixture of pleasant surprise and unexpectedness. She set down the parchment in her hand, rounded the long table, and walked briskly toward the door.
A smile immediately broke out on Catherine's face. The smile started at the corners of her mouth and rapidly spread across her entire face, her eyes curving into two crescents, the freckles on her cheeks exceptionally prominent in her joy.
"Isabella!"
She stepped forward, and Isabella quickened her pace. The two met in the center of the tent, and Isabella opened her arms, wrapping Catherine tightly into her embrace.
Catherine buried her face in Isabella's shoulder, her nose brushing the skin on the side of her neck. Isabella carried a scent mixed with sweat, herbs, and the tang of metal—a scent entirely different from the faint perfume she wore back at Hogwarts, yet Catherine found this scent far more authentic, offering a greater sense of security.
"What are you doing here?"
Catherine's voice came from Isabella's shoulder, muffled, carrying a nasal tone from being squeezed in the hug.
Isabella released her arms from around Catherine and took a half-step back, resting her hands on Catherine's shoulders, her brown eyes looking at her face.
"I came here to study the Cultivators' arrays."
"Arrays?" Catherine's brows furrowed. "If Jerry knew, he'd be very worried."
Isabella laughed. The laugh leaked from the depths of her throat—very light, very short—but carrying a teasing "What silly things are you saying" vibe. Her right hand slid from Catherine's shoulder, reaching around behind her back, her palm landing on her right buttock, and her five fingers gave a forceful squeeze.
"Ah—"
Catherine hopped a small step forward the instant she was pinched, the muscles of her glutes contracting under the pressure of those fingers, and then she turned her head, glaring at Isabella.
"Jerry knows."
Isabella's hand moved away from Catherine's buttock, resting back on her shoulder.
"Furthermore, he told me you would be coming here to report in, and asked me to find you so we could look out for each other."
She paused, the curve of her lips deepening.
"Then our luck is quite good, being assigned to the exact same camp."
Catherine's expression shifted from surprise to relief. She nodded, her brown eyes brightening a degree under the dim light of the tent.
"So that's how it is."
Isabella patted Catherine's shoulder, then turned and walked toward the back of the tent.
"Follow me. Let me show you the good stuff I've got."
Catherine took two steps behind her, then stopped in her tracks.
"I still have to go report to the commander here."
Isabella turned her head, looking at Catherine, her eyebrow raised.
"Report to what commander?"
She paused for a second.
"Do you know who the commander here is?"
Catherine shook her head.
"I just arrived from the Ministry; I don't know who the commander is here."
Isabella's smile deepened.
"The commander here is none other than Vera."
Catherine's eyes widened.
"Vera?"
The image of that witch with flowing fiery red hair immediately surfaced in her mind. Vera—the combat wizard who had undergone the Red Dragon bloodline transplant surgery, one of Jerry's lovers, and whose adopted daughter Jerry had saved. Catherine had seen Vera a few times at Hogwarts; every time they met, Vera exuded a scent mixing sulfur and fire—a scent that instinctively made one want to take a half-step back.
"So it's her."
Isabella nodded.
"So you don't need to worry about the commander making things difficult for you."
She turned and continued walking toward the back of the tent.
"Come, I'll take you to see my collection."
Catherine followed Isabella, passing the long tables piled high with maps and documents in the center of the tent, and walked to a corner at the very back.
Isabella pushed aside a flap and walked in. Catherine followed, the flap falling behind her with a rustle.
The space in the partitioned room wasn't large—only about ten square meters—but it was packed with a wide variety of items. Several swords hung on the walls; the styles of those swords were completely different from those in the wizarding world. The blades were slender, the edges razor-sharp, their surfaces shimmering with a faint silver luster. Several wooden crates sat on the floor, their lids open, filled to the brim with differently colored stones, powders, dried plants, and things that looked like animal organs.
On the table sat a massive scroll of animal hide, unrolled to reveal complex patterns and symbols drawn all over it. The style of those patterns and symbols was entirely different from the magic circles of the wizarding world; the lines were more fluid, the structures more complex, and every symbol looked like some kind of living creature, writhing faintly on the surface of the hide.
"This is an array diagram of the Cultivators."
Isabella walked to the table, her finger pointing at the patterns on the hide scroll.
"I spent three days getting this out of a captured Cultivator."
Catherine walked to the table, looking down at the patterns on the scroll. Those patterns rotated slowly in her vision, as if something were tugging at her attention, making it impossible to look away.
"What kind of array is this?"
"Spirit-Trapping Array." Isabella traced a circle on the hide scroll with her finger. "An array used by Cultivators to trap spirits. The principle is similar to our Incarcerous Charm, but the effect is stronger and the duration much longer."
Her finger moved away from the scroll, pointing to the swords hanging on the wall.
"Those are flying swords."
Catherine shifted her gaze from the scroll to the swords on the wall.
"Flying swords?"
"Correct." Isabella nodded. "The weapons of the Cultivators. They use spiritual power to control the swords, making them fly through the air to attack targets. Extremely fast, incredibly powerful, and with almost zero warning."
She walked over to the wall, reaching out and taking one of the swords down. The blade vibrated faintly in her hand, emitting an incredibly soft hum.
"I took this sword off the corpse of a Cultivator."
She handed the sword to Catherine. Catherine reached out and took it; the weight of the blade in her hand was far lighter than she expected, like holding a feather. The hilt was made of a metal she had never seen before—warm to the touch, smooth, like living skin.
"Once a Cultivator dies, the flying sword loses its supply of spiritual power and becomes an ordinary sword," Isabella's voice came from beside her. "But the material of the blade remains; this material is harder than any metal in the wizarding world, and it possesses incredibly strong resistance to magic."
Catherine turned the sword over, the edge reflecting a frigid gleam under the dim light of the partitioned room.
"What do you plan to do with these things?"
"Research." Isabella's tone grew serious. "The power system of the Cultivators is entirely different from a wizard's. They use spiritual power; we use magic power. They use arrays; we use magic circles. They use flying swords; we use spells."
She paused.
"But the essence of power is interconnected. If I can thoroughly research the principles behind the Cultivators' arrays, I can integrate them into the wizarding magic system to create far more powerful magic."
Catherine handed the sword back to Isabella, who took it and hung it back on the wall.
"Have you produced any results yet?"
"Some." Isabella turned, walking over to the wooden crates on the floor, crouched down, and pulled a palm-sized stone from one of them. "This is a spirit stone. The energy currency of the Cultivators."
She handed the stone to Catherine. Catherine took it; the surface of the stone was smooth, its color a translucent pale green, and tiny specks of light flowed sluggishly within its interior.
"Spirit stones store spiritual power. Cultivators can absorb the spiritual power from spirit stones to replenish their own strength."
Isabella stood up, digging an even smaller stone out from a pouch at her waist. That stone was a dark, dull grey, its surface covered in cracks.
"This is a depleted spirit stone. Once the spiritual power has been completely absorbed, a spirit stone turns into this."
She held the two stones together, letting Catherine compare them.
"I am researching the energy storage principles of spirit stones. If I can replicate this principle, we can manufacture a wizard's version of a spirit stone to store magic power. That way, in combat, a wizard wouldn't have to worry about running out of magic power."
Catherine's brown eyes brightened a degree.
"That idea holds immense value."
"Correct." Isabella nodded. "But the problem is, the properties of spiritual power and magic power are not entirely the same. Spiritual power is more stable and easier to store. Magic power is more volatile and harder to control. I tried using magic circles to simulate the energy storage structure of a spirit stone, but every time it reached half capacity, it exploded."
She paused, a self-deprecating smile curling her lips.
"Exploded three times last week. On the third time, it nearly blew this entire room apart."
Catherine laughed.
"You're just the same as before; you never consider safety when running experiments."
"Safety concerns are left for cowards to ponder." Isabella tossed the two stones back into the crate. "A Slytherin wizard only considers how to get the job done."
She stood up, dusting off her hands, and turned to look at Catherine.
"What about you? The Ministry sent you as an Overseer; what exactly are you supposed to do?"
"Supervise the combat situation of the frontline troops, record combat data, evaluate tactical effectiveness, and report back to the Ministry." Catherine's tone shifted to a businesslike cadence. "To put it bluntly, I'm the eyes the Ministry sent to watch the frontline commanders."
"Sounds like a job that offends people."
"Correct." Catherine nodded. "But if Vera is the commander, she shouldn't make things too difficult for me."
"Vera won't make things difficult for you." Isabella's lips curved upward. "But the others might. The frontline combat wizards despise the Overseers sent by the Ministry; they feel Overseers just sit in the rear dictating orders without understanding the reality on the front lines at all."
She paused.
"So you'd better prepare yourself mentally."
Catherine's expression remained unchanged.
"I've seen all kinds of people. No matter how difficult the frontline combat wizards are to get along with, they can't be any harder to deal with than those old bureaucrats at the Ministry."
Isabella laughed.
"Now that's the Catherine I know."
She turned and walked toward the flap of the partitioned room.
"Come on. I'll take you to see Vera. Once you formally report in, you can settle down."
Catherine followed Isabella out of the room, the flap falling behind her with a rustle.
The two threaded their way past the long tables piled high with maps and documents in the center of the tent, walking to a separate partitioned room at the very back of the tent. The flap of this room was a deep crimson, embroidered with a golden dragon baring its fangs and brandishing its claws.
Isabella knocked on the wooden frame beside the flap.
"Vera, Catherine is here to report."
The flap was pulled open from the inside. A tall figure appeared behind it, fiery red hair cascading down both shoulders, gleaming with a dark red luster under the dim light of the tent.
"Come in."
Vera's voice came from behind the flap, low, carrying a suppressed sense of power.
Catherine took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Catherine had barely stepped into the room and found her footing before Vera stood up from behind her desk, rounded it, and walked briskly over to her.
Vera was a full head taller than Catherine. As she walked, her fiery red hair swung from her shoulders to her back, the ends swaying gently at her waist. She opened her arms and pulled Catherine entirely into her embrace, the force of the hug lifting Catherine's toes half a centimeter off the ground.
"Did you bring extra body wash and shampoo?"
Vera's voice came from above Catherine's head, carrying a desperate, clutching-at-straws urgency. Her chin rested on top of Catherine's head, her hot breath brushing across Catherine's hair.
"I have no way to go back and buy any right now. The time flow in this world is three times faster than in the wizarding world, and I'm almost out of shampoo and body wash."
She released her arms from around Catherine, letting her feet drop back to the ground, but kept her hands resting on Catherine's shoulders, her fiery red eyes staring intently at Catherine's face.
"Right now I'm mooching off Isabella's, but Isabella doesn't have much left either."
She paused, her brows furrowing, the corners of her mouth pulling down into a distinct frown.
"It is truly aggravating. Why does the time flow have to be so much faster?"
She moved her right hand from Catherine's shoulder, bringing it up to her face to flick a stray fiery red strand of hair away from her cheek.
"It's a good thing our lifespans are relatively long, otherwise staying here for a year or two would probably leave us covered in dense wrinkles."
Her tone grew more agitated, her volume rising an octave.
"This world is simply too unfriendly to us wizards. I really want to just blow this entire place to pieces."
Watching Vera rattle on, the corners of Catherine's mouth curved upward. That smile started at the corners of her mouth and slowly spread across her entire face, her eyes curving into two crescents, the freckles on her cheeks exceptionally prominent in her joy.
She unfastened the Undetectable Extension Pouch from her waist, opened the mouth, thrust her right hand inside, rummaged around for a few seconds, and then pulled out two bottles. The bottles were made of transparent glass, containing pale green and pale blue liquids. Handwritten labels were stuck to the bottles, reading: "Produced by Forbidden Eden—Lavender Shampoo" and "Produced by Forbidden Eden—Rose Body Wash."
She placed the two bottles on the desk, the bottoms making two thumps against the surface.
"These are all produced by us ourselves."
Her voice was calm, carrying the relaxed vibe of "This problem is easily solved."
"I have plenty more here. If you run out, just ask me for more."
Vera's eyes brightened a degree the instant she saw the two bottles. She immediately released Catherine's shoulder, turned to the desk, picked up the bottle of lavender shampoo, unscrewed the cap, and brought the mouth of the bottle to her nose for a sniff.
"Lavender."
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let out a satisfied "Mmh—" from her throat.
"I haven't smelled anything this wonderful in three weeks."
She opened her eyes, screwed the cap back on, and clutched the bottle to her chest as if holding a precious treasure.
"You are my savior."
She turned around, looking at Catherine, her fiery red eyes shimmering with a moist luster under the dim light of the room.
"If I had to use Isabella's mint shampoo one more time, my hair would have been fumigated green."
Catherine laughed.
"Isabella's mint shampoo does have a rather pungent smell."
Vera set the bottle of shampoo back on the desk, then turned and walked over to a cabinet in the corner of the room. She opened the door, pulled out a roll of maps, and unrolled it on the desk.
"Alright, enough idle chatter. Let's get down to business."
Her tone shifted from complaining and whining to completely professional, her voice growing low and forceful.
"You are the Overseer sent by the Ministry of Magic. Your duty is to supervise the combat situation of the frontline troops, record combat data, evaluate tactical effectiveness, and report back to the Ministry."
She paused, tapping her finger twice on the map.
"But I do not need an Overseer here who only knows how to sit in the rear writing reports."
She looked up, her fiery red eyes locking onto Catherine's face.
"If you are willing, you can join the legion directly and participate in frontline reconnaissance and combat missions."
The corners of her mouth curled up, the arc bearing the trust of "I believe in you."
"I have faith in your abilities. Your average Cultivator would be absolutely no match for you."
Catherine nodded.
"I want to participate in the war as well."
Her tone was resolute, devoid of any hesitation.
"Sitting in the rear writing reports is far too boring for me."
Vera's smile deepened.
"Excellent."
Her finger dragged across the map, pointing to an area near the top labeled "Zhongshan Mountain Range."
"Then I actually do have a mission for you right here."
She paused, tracing a circle on the map with her finger.
"This mountain range ahead is called Zhongshan. It's the name those Cultivators gave it."
Her finger moved outward from the center of the circle, tracing along the contours of the mountain range.
"The reason is that sounds echo through these mountains like the tolling of a bell."
Her finger stopped at a location marked with a red cross on the map.
"Within this mountain range are over hundreds of Cultivator sects, as well as various danger zones, forest lands, and ruins of ancient Cultivator sects."
Her finger tapped three times on the red cross.
"And one of those ruins, located near our camp, is about to open very soon."
She looked up at Catherine.
"This ruin has attracted a massive number of Cultivator sects coming to explore. According to our reconnaissance reports, at least twenty sects have dispatched disciples, preparing to enter and hunt for treasure when the ruin opens."
She paused.
"Wizards need more live Cultivators to conduct experiments."
Her tone became more direct, devoid of any euphemism or concealment.
"Therefore, I want to organize a capture squad. We will go over there, cause some chaos, and simultaneously capture a massive number of low-level Cultivators."
Her finger moved from the map, pointing at Catherine.
"Are you willing to participate?"
Catherine's brown eyes narrowed when she heard the word "capture." The squinting motion lasted for about a second before she nodded.
"I am."
Her tone was as calm as if she were saying, "I'm willing to go to the library and check out a few books."
"What is the specific plan?"
Vera's smile deepened.
"The ruin will open in three days. The opening time is exactly twelve noon, and it will remain open for approximately six hours."
Her finger returned to the map, drawing a few small circles around the red cross.
"These are the temporary camps of the Cultivator sects. They will gather here before the ruin opens, waiting to enter."
Her finger moved away from the small circles, pointing to a blank area between the red cross and the camps.
"Our plan is to lay an ambush in this area before the ruin opens. Once the Cultivators enter the ruin, we will seal the exit, trapping them inside."
She paused.
"Then, when they come out of the ruin, we knock them out one by one and capture them."
Catherine raised an eyebrow.
"What is inside the ruin?"
"We don't know." Vera shook her head. "The Cultivators keep information about the ruins strictly confidential. All we know is that it is the ruin of an ancient Cultivator sect; there might be magical treasures, cultivation methods, elixirs, and the like inside."
She paused.
"But to us, what's inside the ruin isn't important. What's important is that a massive number of low-level Cultivators will be gathered there."
Catherine nodded.
"Understood."
She shifted her gaze from the map to Vera.
"How many people are in the capture squad?"
"Ten." Vera raised her right hand, spreading her five fingers open, closing them, and spreading them again. "Including you, me, Isabella, and seven frontline combat wizards."
She paused.
"We can't have too many people. Too many, and the target becomes too large, making it easy for the Cultivators to spot us. Too few, and we won't have enough manpower; if we encounter a strong enemy, we won't even have time to retreat."
The corners of Catherine's mouth curled up.
"Ten people capturing dozens of Cultivators. Sounds very challenging."
"Correct." Vera nodded. "Which is exactly why I need you."
Her finger tapped twice on the map.
"Your combat experience is far richer than those fools on the front lines who only know how to trade spells head-on. Furthermore, you're from Slytherin; you know how to achieve the objective using the minimum cost."
She paused, her fiery red eyes staring into Catherine's face.
"For this mission, I need you to formulate the specific tactical plan."
Catherine's brow lifted.
"Me?"
"Correct." Vera nodded. "I will handle the overall command; you handle the tactical details. Isabella will handle the array deployments, and the others will handle execution."
She paused.
"How about it? Confident?"
The corners of Catherine's mouth curled up.
"I am."
Her voice was calm, but her tone carried a suppressed excitement.
"Give me one day. I will have the tactical plan written out."
Vera's smile deepened.
"Excellent."
She rolled up the map and handed it to Catherine.
"This is a detailed map of the Zhongshan Mountain Range. It marks the locations of the Cultivator sects' camps, the entrance to the ruin, the surrounding terrain, and our retreat route."
Catherine took the map, rolled it tight, and shoved it into the Undetectable Extension Pouch at her waist.
"Is there anything else I need to be aware of?"
"There is." Vera nodded. "A Cultivator's perception is stronger than a wizard's. They can sense fluctuations in spiritual power around them. Therefore, when we lay our ambush, we must completely conceal the fluctuations of our magic power."
She paused.
"Isabella has researched a cloaking array that can isolate magic power fluctuations. But the range of this array is limited; it can only cover a radius of about ten meters. Therefore, we must group together and cannot scatter."
Catherine nodded.
"Understood."
Vera turned, walked to the cabinet in the corner of the room, opened the door, pulled out a small pouch, and handed it to Catherine.
"This is a Stunning Potion. Cultivators have stronger physiques than wizards; ordinary Stunning Spells don't work well on them. Using this potion, a single drop can render a Cultivator unconscious for six hours."
Catherine took the pouch, opened the top, and glanced at the dozen or so small glass vials inside.
"Is this enough?"
"It's enough." Vera nodded. "Two vials per person. If it isn't enough, just use spells to knock them out."
She paused.
"Also, during the capture, try your best not to kill anyone. Live Cultivators are far more valuable than corpses."
Catherine tied the pouch shut and shoved it into her Undetectable Extension Pouch.
"Understood."
Vera turned back, looking at Catherine, her fiery red eyes gleaming with a warm-toned luster under the dim light of the room.
"Then that's it. Three days from now, at twelve noon, gather at the North Gate of the camp."
She paused, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile.
"Welcome to the front line, Catherine."