At Last, They Were Here

Cassis, a two-story stone house behind the seaside tavern, with all the windows drawn with curtains.

Luc Charbonnier sat across the table, having just shown Delacroix the markings on the slate.

The stone slab rested on the table, the density distribution of the manor's Protective Charm outlined in a soft light, with the weak point at the junction of the south and west slopes being particularly noticeable.

Delacroix sat by the window, a glass of red wine in front of him, listening to Luc's report on his observations over the past few days.

Felix Laval, the Black family's security chief in the Southern France, is a retired Auror. He has handled the security of several large estates without ever making a mistake.

If a security supervisor with twenty years of experience knew that someone was watching his estate, he would strengthen security, adjust patrol frequency, increase manpower, and fill in any weak points; at the very least, he would show some degree of vigilance.

But Laval did nothing; for three days, the daily routine remained completely unchanged.

,??9

If he doesn't know, then he's unprepared; if he knows but deliberately doesn't show it, then he's more composed than one might imagine.

He had dealt with Laval, or more accurately, he had observed him from one perspective.

This person is disciplined and professional, but that's about it. The probability of someone who has been tending the manor for twenty years suddenly learning to fish is very low.

Delacroix picked up his glass, took a small sip, and put it down. "Where are the Black family boys?"

"During the day, I would not leave the main house, but sit on the second floor reading. I would sit there all day long. In the evening, a large spider would run back from the west slope. That spider had a web on the west slope, and Bai Guan was active there."

;

Luc thought for a moment, then added, "The boy himself never witnessed the Spellcasting."

Delacroix chuckled lightly, his tone casual. "Thirteen years old, a child still in school."

After a moment of silence, he said, "If you run into him, don't touch him. The Heir of the Black family is not our target. Take what you need and leave."

Luc nodded.

If something happens to this young master, the Black family's revenge will reach the ends of the earth. Smuggling is only for profit, not for making mortal enemies.

Delacroix sat up slightly and gave the order in an elegant tone, "The operation is scheduled for the night after tomorrow. Our men will break in through the weakest point, then split into two groups. Twenty men on the outer perimeter will make a commotion and drive the people inside towards the main house."

Luc asked, "What about the target, boss?"

Delacroix said, "The horn of the Special-Horned Beast is the first thing to know, and the Vine Snake sheds its scales irregularly. The things are under the old trellis, in an area far from the main house. We'll find as many as we can, depending on the situation."

Mooncalf only emerge during the full moon, so you can't catch one alive now. Find the cave entrance and cast Suffocation Curse directly inside, being careful not to damage its fur.

The cellar behind the main house has a separate entrance, allowing outsiders to enter and retrieve the items, choosing the older, better ones. Old vine branches are cut down while the house is being cleared.

Luc nodded, then asked, "What if there's resistance?"

Delacroix said casually, "Laval alone, plus a few manor employees. The employees can't fight; they'll cower in the main house at the sight of a battle. Laval can hold out for a while, but only for a while."

He picked up his glass and swirled it gently. "Those on the outside know what they should and shouldn't take, but what they want to know more is whether they can get the Galleon alive."

Tell them that once they get their hands on the goods, they will be divided proportionally: the horn of the Special-Horned Beast will be sold by the ounce, the fur of the Mooncalf will be graded according to its condition, and the vintage wine in the cellar will be sold by the bottle. Whoever gets their hands on the goods first will get the most.

But anyone who deserts during the operation will have their share taken by the others.

Luc continued to nod.

He understood what the boss meant: profit sharing, pricing by tiers, and first come, first served. The more detailed the explanation, the more the outsiders believed it. The boss always conducted business in a respectable manner.

Delacroix continued, "If things go wrong, with the outer perimeter blocking the way, our men will retreat along the original route, allowing enough time."

1

"Clear."

Luc stood up, nodded, turned and pushed open the door to leave.

Delacroix sat alone in the private room, picked up the remaining half glass of red wine, and slowly took a sip.

They acted two days later, got the goods, and left without a trace. Laval was caught off guard; a thirteen-year-old boy and a group of employees who only knew how to do the work posed no threat to him in the main house.

The day after tomorrow has become today. Delacroix stands in an abandoned warehouse in the Cassis Port, surrounded by about thirty people.

The core team of a dozen or so stood in twos and threes, each checking their equipment. They held their wands in their hands, their waist pouches hung on the same side, spare wands were tucked into their sleeves, and potions were clipped to their waists. No one whispered to each other.

Someone leaned against the wall, squatted on the ground, and repeatedly drew the same Rune with the tip of their wand, drawing it, erasing it, erasing it, and drawing it again. Several people checked the receiving distance of the Signal Charm with each other and nodded in confirmation.

The group on the outer perimeter was clustered in another group, about twenty people, of varying quality.

There were poachers, smugglers, and people who had fled to France after racking up huge debts in Knockturn Alley. Some were counting on their fingers whether tonight's earnings would be enough to pay off last month's gambling debts, while others were wiping their magic wands with their sleeves.

A few others had their eyes darting around and were muttering to themselves.

"I heard the wine in the cellar is hundreds of years old; one bottle is enough for people like us to eat and drink for a whole year."

"What's alcohol? An ounce of Special-Horned Beast horn is more expensive than gold."

"Where's the big spider? I have a big spider, who's going to deal with it?"

"Spiders aren't dragons; they can't be burned to ashes in a single fire."

"Listen carefully, don't touch the main house. The things inside aren't for us."

"So what if I touched him? He's just a little brat."

"You touch it, I'll go to the cellar."

The group of people who were speaking exchanged glances, grinning with barely suppressed excitement and greed that had not yet been quenched by fear.

They had never actually fought an operation of this scale before, and they assumed that having more people meant having an advantage, and that rushing in, grabbing the loot, and running away was the only tactic.

Delacroix glanced at the group of people on the periphery, his gaze unwavering, his eyes devoid of warmth.

Luc walked over and stood next to him for a while, neither of them speaking.

Delacroix raised his hand to straighten the eagle-shaped brooch on his collar, his fingertips tracing the edge before putting it down.

Let's go.

In the living room of the manor house, Felix pushed open the door and entered. Regulus was sitting by the window, flipping through Beauxbatons ' seventh-grade textbook.

"Young Master."

Regulus looked up from the pages of the book.

Without any further preamble, Felix stated directly, "About forty people, a few more than previously estimated, divided into three groups. The group facing south on the main slope consists of about twenty people."

There are about ten trails along the west side, and another group remains on the north ridge, presumably for support or to cover the rear. The trail along the south slope has already crossed the Cassis -Aubagne highway and is heading into the mountains.

The route on the west slope comes from the Alpine Foothills, so it's a bit slower; we should reach the outer perimeter around dark.

He continued, "Delacroix himself followed the route of Westpo."

Regulus closed the book and placed it on his lap.

"Tonight, if we're going to make a move at the defensive line," Felix continued, "It'll be after the moon goes down, around two or three in the morning when it's darkest."

Regulus's lips twitched slightly to the side.

I've been waiting for almost three weeks.

Felix, observing his expression, confirmed, "When will the Auror in France notify us?"

"After they crossed the protective line..."

Felix nodded.

Dupont stood in the Entrance Hall of the main house, raised his wand, and pressed it against his throat.

The lips moved, the sound enveloped by Magic Power, compressed into an extremely thin beam, passing over the workshop, over the trellis, over the stone wall between the south and west slopes, precisely drilling into the ears of every employee.

Jean-Pierre, who was pruning vines, stopped using his shears, tilted his head, then tucked the shears into his leather holster, dusted off his hands, and turned to walk towards the main house.

Madeleine Bernard, who was squatting by the irrigation canal, finished her last cigarette, stubbed it out on the stone steps, and stood up to straighten her apron.

The apprentice washing the fermentation tanks in the brewing room turned off the tap, wiped the water droplets from his hands, and left with the others.

In less than twenty minutes, all the employees were in the main building, Dupont counted them one by one to confirm that everyone was present.

Jean-Pierre leaned against the wall, his straw hat off and in his hand, his usual leisurely humming expression gone.

Madeleine sat in a chair against the wall, her expression as sour as ever, her fingers resting on the handle of her wand resting on her knees.

After counting the last person, Dupont nodded to them, turned, and walked into the Corridor.

Baruk wandered the Corridor, his route longer than usual today, going down from the second floor to the first, turning into the Kitchen, coming out of the Kitchen, and passing through the Entrance Hall.

It climbed up the stairs again, and each time it passed the door of the storage room, it would stop and tilt its spider head to peek inside.

Claire was checking the crucible label when she felt something touch her heel. Looking down, she saw the tip of a dark red claw gently resting on the surface of her shoe.

Baruk had entered at some point; the entire spider lay crouching less than a step behind her, its eight legs tucked in, its head raised, staring at her face with its amber eyes.

Claire's shoulders jerked upwards, and the label in her hand scattered onto the floor with a clatter.

She clutched her chest, leaning against the storage shelf. The shelf wobbled, and a roll of Hemp Rope from the top shelf rolled down, hitting Baruk on the head, bouncing, and falling to the ground.

Baruk looked at the roll of Hemp Rope, then at Claire, and stretched out one of his forelegs to nudge the Hemp Rope toward her.

"You—" Claire's voice caught in her throat, and she took two breaths before continuing, "I—"

Baruk pushed himself up from the ground and strode away.

Claire stomped her foot in annoyance, and with a thud, was startled by the spider again.

She walked toward the Entrance Hall on the first floor and bumped into Jean-Pierre, who was walking in from another direction. The two met in the Corridor.

Claire asked in a low voice, "What's going on?"

Jean-Pierre shook his head and wiped his hands on his apron. "Just a rehearsal."

Claire leaned closer. "Is it really a drill?"

Jean-Pierre shook his head again, said nothing, and continued walking inside.

Claire stood in the Corridor, stunned for a moment.

The emergency plan has been activated for several days. Dupont said there might be a problem. She's been at the estate for almost a year now, and this is the first time she's gone through this process.

She noticed her fingers were trembling slightly. She wasn't exactly afraid; before coming here, she knew the Black family estate might be in trouble. What family's centuries-old property wasn't coveted?

When she applied for the job, Dupont told her that the job was quiet, but not necessarily peaceful.

I thought it was pretty cool at the time, and now that I think about it, it wasn't uncool, just that my hand was shaking a little.

She took a deep breath and continued walking towards the Entrance Hall on the first floor to see if there was anything she could do to help.

The manor is surrounded by six directions.

Above the protruding limestone rock on the south slope ridgeline, a figure crouches atop the rock; it's the same woman.

He held the wand in his hand, its tip hanging at his side, his gaze sweeping over the hillside and landing on the distant hills being swallowed by the night.

On the east side, on the same thick branch at the top of the old olive tree, a lean man sat with his back against the trunk, his posture relaxed and casual, one leg dangling in the air and swinging gently, his wand resting horizontally on his knee.

Above the abandoned sheep pen at the end of the gate driveway, next to a small patch of wild Rosemary, a short wizard lay prone on the ground.

Beneath him lay a moisture-proof Dragon Hide rug, and in front of him was a palm-sized bronze mirror, reflecting the complete picture of the gravel road leading to the manor gate from beginning to end.

At the edge of the Baruk's Spider-Web Radiation Zone, a middle-aged witch stood between trellises, holding a pair of scissors, trimming a few dead branches on the vines beside her.

On the north side of the main house, in the shadow of the stone wall, stood a man in a dark gray robe, his position carefully chosen, right at the boundary between the moonlight and the shadow cast by the stone wall.

At the highest point of the ridgeline, behind a weathered, riddled limestone rock, a sixth person crouched.

From his highest vantage point, with a view covering the slopes to the north and south, he could see the locations of his five companions. He propped his wand upright on the rock, the tip pointing skyward, and every now and then it would flash a silent blue light.

It was late at night, and the moon had already set.

The lights on the second floor of the main house were off. Regulus stood by the window, the night wind blowing his robes backward.

Baruk, who was lying on the floor, saw Regulus stand up and propped himself up as well. His spider head shook, his spinnerets rose and fell, and his big buttocks wiggled back and forth.

Regulus turned around, straightened the front of his robe, and looked down at it.

Baruk brought the spider's head closer, its chelicerae clicked twice, and in the darkness, the fine white spots around its eyes began to glow faintly, the light shining upwards from under its carapace.

Regulus pointed his finger, casting Transfiguration spell.

Baruk's body began to shrink, its carapace area decreased, its bristles transitioned from coarse bristles to fine down, its eight legs gradually shortened, and the warm-colored markings at its joints flashed in the darkness.

Before it had fully shrunk, it couldn't wait any longer. With all eight legs pushing off the ground, it sprang up and landed on Regulus's shoulder, already the size of a palm.

It circled his shoulder, adjusted its position, its eight slender legs gripping the seam of his robe, its spider head pressed against his neck, its chelicerae gently clamping a strand of his hair, tugging at it, then letting go.

Eight tiny eyes stared at him, and its chelicerae opened and closed rapidly, making a clicking sound.

Regulus walked to the door, his Magic Power surging within him. He cracked his wrist, and his joint snapped.

(And there's more!)