In a stretch of water in the northeastern Atlantic, there stood a small isolated island that appeared on no map. Even photographs taken by Muggle satellites could not capture it.
The fortress-like structure on that island was Azkaban, a name known throughout the Wizarding World.
Today, Azkaban received some uninvited guests.
A wooden sailing ship, styled like something from centuries ago, was making its way toward the island.
A bald Goblin stood on the deck, gazing out at the fortress on the island.
His pupils were a bottomless crimson, as though steeped in blood, and his entire right hand was encased in a savage suit of red-and-black barbed armor.
An elderly Goblin emerged from the cabin and asked hesitantly, "Lanlock, are we really going to do this?"
The war four hundred years ago had stripped Goblins of the right to wield wands. Since then, Goblins had rapidly fallen behind humans in the field of Magic, and in the subsequent conflicts, human Wizards had won with overwhelming force.
The elderly Goblin was deeply worried. With every defeat, the losers' room to survive was cut down. If they failed again this time, what would Goblins have left?
Lanlock did not turn around. "We have no way back. You have lived through several Goblin wars yourself. You should know better than anyone how much weaker Goblins have become compared to centuries ago."
"We control Gringotts, and Wizards entrust all their wealth to our care, but what use is that?"
"Without strength, wealth cannot last."
"This time, the ones who massacred Goblin Village were Dark Wizards who hated Goblins."
"Next time, it will be Wizard armies that hate Goblins massacring Goblin Village."
"Even if we do nothing, we will not escape disaster in the end. By then, we will be lambs waiting for the