Silence...
At that moment, the chaotic battlefield suddenly fell quiet. Professor McGonagall and the Death Eaters alike all lowered their wands strangely and turned to look toward the center of the battlefield.
A gust of wind swept past, carrying an overwhelmingly pungent stench, like manure that had fermented in an underground storeroom for a week before finally seeing daylight again.
"Urgh..."
Every wizard present felt their stomach churn, even Professor Sprout, who dealt with manure regularly.
But they held it in. Especially the Death Eaters—every one of them kept their mouths tightly shut, with no trace of discomfort showing on their faces.
Because the smell was coming from the head of their great Dark Lord. They had a feeling that if they threw up now, they would definitely die...
As for everyone else, perhaps they simply felt that laughing at a time like this would be impolite.
The Dark Lord in the middle of the battlefield was dumbfounded as well. He might not have had a nose, but that did not mean he had no sense of smell.
That foul odor was far too aggressive, the kind that shot straight to the top of one's skull, while also tormenting his increasingly fragile nerves.
"Pfft..."
Two stifled laughs came from the crowd.
"Urgh... you dungbomb... that's got some kick!"
"Only you, Kyle!"
Fred and George raised their thumbs high, expressing their admiration for Kyle.
They were truly convinced—completely bowled over.
Over the past few decades, there had been no shortage of wizards who dared to confront Voldemort head-on... Dumbledore, the Hogwarts professors, and members of the Order of the Phoenix, for instance. Most of them had dared to raise their wands against Voldemort.
But Kyle was definitely the first person to throw a dungbomb at Voldemort's head.
More importantly, he had