Undercurrents Surge

In the vast ocean, fierce winds swept across the dark clouds...

On the coastline of the British Isles, inside a cave on an unnamed island.

The cave entrance was wide open, but under the shield of magic, not a single gust of wind or raindrop drifted inside.

At the center of the cave was a warm, crackling campfire, while beyond the barrier, the rain curtain was like the open hatch of an airplane in a storm.

That thin layer of barrier created a world of difference between the two sides.

Yet, even the warm fire was flickering unsteadily, blown by the tailwind brought in by a group of uninvited guests.

The leader: "You called me all the way here. I hope you have good news for me, Bell."

Bell: "Yes, Commander Charles."

The leader was a man in a long black windbreaker, named Osmai Charles. He wore a ghost-face mask, with three horizontal stripes painted on his shoulder—the highest authority here.

The subordinate reporting to him wore a gray uniform with only two stripes on his shoulder.

As for the rest, standing silently around them in black uniforms with just one stripe on their shoulders.

The gray-uniformed man, Kleiman Bell, kept pace with Charles.

He continuously reported the intelligence he had gathered to his commander.

They reached the deepest part of the cave, where in the shadows, a bald, sleazy old man was tied up.

Charles stopped in front of him, slightly turning his head to ask Bell behind him.

Charles: "This is him?"

Bell: "Yes, Commander."

"Commander, what did I do wrong? Why are you arresting me..." The bald old man's face was pale, covered in sweat, his lips bloodless and trembling as he spoke.

Before Charles arrived, the old man had been subjected to extreme torture, though there were no marks on his body.

"No, no, no. You didn't do anything wrong. You just know too much. I ask, you answer. Less suffering, understand?" Seeing Bell's confirmation, Charles half-squatted in front of the old man, using an oppressive aura as he spoke.

The old man didn't answer, his attitude very stubborn.

Indeed, someone who had survived underground to such an age—if they weren't ruthless and strong-willed, they would have been devoured long ago.

Seeing this, Charles let out a light laugh.

He raised his hand, and a black figure landed on the old man's head.

The old man, who had been tough just moments ago, instantly broke out in cold sweat, his whole body trembling violently.

It was the instinctive fear of the body, something even willpower couldn't stop.

It turned out that the black figure was a pure black, red-eyed Swooping Evil, now perched on the back of the old man's head, its tiny nose lightly sniffing his few remaining strands of hair.

"Commander, why not just extract his memories directly?" Bell spoke up.

"With this kind of person, if you don't break his psychological defenses, he'll feed you false information and lead you right into his allies' hands."

Charles chuckled lightly, explaining to his subordinate.

Bell fell silent. He stepped back a few paces, deciding to keep his mouth shut and carefully observe how Commander Charles conducted the interrogation.

After answering Bell, Charles didn't speak again. Instead, he stood up straight, closed his eyes, and rested.

But under his windbreaker, something suddenly bulged and squirmed, occasionally revealing a monkey head with pus-filled bumps on its crown and a long, furry tail.

"Alright! Bell, let's see how much this old bastard's story matches your intelligence."

It turned out Charles was just waiting—waiting for the Grindylow Dung Beetle to inject its venom, an incredibly potent Veritaserum.

Unfortunately, the side effects were severe. After the interrogation, the old man would become a vegetable. Otherwise, Veritaserum would lose its market.

Charles stared intently into the old man's eyes, his voice low as he began to speak.

"Tell me, where did you transport the Norman Dragon Blood Grass?"

The old man's eyes were vacant, without any fluctuation, and his body showed no signs of struggle.

In a hoarse voice, he said, "The last Saturday before Halloween, at the Hog's Head Pub in Hogsmeade, there's an auction..."

As soon as he finished speaking, the old man went silent, drool beginning to trickle from the corner of his mouth.

There were no traces of Occlumency being used! Charles felt this information was highly reliable.

He stood up and looked at Bell with a questioning gaze.

Bell's face was wild with joy. He repeatedly congratulated Charles.

"That's right! That's exactly what my intelligence said! A herb auction at the Hog's Head Pub, with many rare herbs up for bidding."

Just as Charles was about to inquire about the background of the Hog's Head Pub, a voice cut into their conversation.

"Albus Dumbledore's brother, Aberforth Dumbledore, is the owner of the Hog's Head Pub."

"Don't be nervous!"

Seeing everyone staring at him with wary eyes.

The newcomer revealed a thin arm, marked with a swastika tattoo.

As the tattoo faintly glowed, the tension in the room eased.

"Advisor?"

Charles seemed to recognize something. He gestured for the others to lower their guard and spoke to confirm.

"Yes, I am the advisor for this operation."

Upon hearing this, Bell glanced at his commanding officer, Charles, who remained silent.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

"Advisor, sir, could you share all the information you have?"

The newcomer chuckled softly, answering in a hoarse, aged voice.

"I'm not here to seize power. Conduct the operation as you see fit. I'm merely afraid you'll be too reckless and fail the mission."

Within Charles's organization, there was a rule: an advisor's authority equaled that of the highest-ranking leader on an external mission.

In other words, if Charles held five stripes, the advisor held five stripes. If Charles only had three, the advisor matched that as well, but still ranked among the highest powers present.

"The Hog's Head Pub is in Hogsmeade, and Hogsmeade borders Hogwarts. Every weekend, students go to the village to buy supplies. So you won't have a chance during the day. As far as I know, the auction is at night. I'll have the British Ministry of Magic convene a wartime student disposition meeting. By evening, the students will be back in the castle, and the school's professors will feel confident enough to attend the meeting."

This advisor... Charles furrowed his brow. Why did he seem so familiar?

"I heard Hogwarts has been raising a batch of Diricawls?"

Charles tested the waters.

"Yes, last year Hogwarts acquired a batch of Diricawls. Word is they've already grown into a sizable population in the Forbidden Forest."

The advisor chuckled softly, seeing through Charles's probe.

Diricawls were currently a precious strategic resource. Their blood was the main material for drawing large-scale teleportation arrays.

Unless someone was a key member of Hogwarts, such information would be hard to come by.

Yet the advisor's mocking laugh only made Charles uncertain—was this advisor a mole planted by the British Ministry of Magic?

Seeing Charles's expression darken with indecision, the advisor shook his head.

His gray beard quivered as his raspy voice rang out again.

"Charles, do you have no trust at all in the leader's selection of advisors?"

The moment he finished, Charles's face changed.

"I would never question the leader!"

He declared with fervent passion.

Then what are you hesitating about? Charles's face flushed red. He understood the meaning behind the advisor's mocking gaze now.

"Brothers, let us reclaim the Norman Dragon Blood Grass together!"

A leader sometimes needed a thick skin. Charles decisively acted as if nothing had happened.

"For the eternal preservation of the soul!"

The crowd echoed in unison.

"For the eternal preservation of the soul..."

Charles murmured softly to himself.