Meanwhile, the Purebloods on this side had already retreated back into the conference room. A few who were slower on their feet had been shut outside and were knocking at the door, but the people inside had long since reached a tacit agreement. The guards their distant relatives had left in the room had already been cleared out by them, while the other guards were constantly layering protective magic over the room's doors and windows.
The room was filled with panic and unease, as if the end of the world were about to arrive, and quite a few people began to sob.
For these Purebloods, who had always lived in comfort, their usual struggles with one another basically never involved their lives. More often, they were contests over wealth and power. Even when killing was involved, they would not personally step forward to do it. So for many of them, what had just happened was the first time they had faced death at such close range, confronted with such a bloody scene.
During the escape, Bulstrode had seen one of his bodyguards die right before his eyes. It left him trembling all over, his mouth half-open as he let out a hoarse scream, as if a blade had split open his chest. He had been carried into the conference room by his guards—and now the lingering terror brought on by the knocking from those shut outside only intensified his fear.
Borgin no longer wore the expression he usually had as a shopkeeper. He looked a little better than the others, but his teeth were clenched, and he had not spoken for a long time.
"Calm down, all of you!" Herbert Borgin's face was ugly as he sat in his wheelchair. Being pushed back and forth so quickly just now seemed