Price

Werewolf Camp.

Fenrir held the medicine bottle without opening it, but instead slowly ran his sharp fingernails along the crystal bottle, producing a faint, sharp scraping sound.

His gaze swept over the Werewolf standing below, his grey-green eyes shining like two cold lights in the dim light.

The room was completely silent.

Some Werewolf wore disdainful expressions, their lips slightly downturned, clearly scoffing at this so-called "improved potion"; others remained silent, their expressions unchanged; still others had shifty eyes, but quickly looked away the moment they met Fenrir's gaze, or simply lowered their heads, unable to meet their leader's eyes...

Fenrir observed the reactions of each of his men.

"How many Galleon did you spend to buy it?" he suddenly asked, his tone unreadable.

Wald hesitated slightly before forcing himself to answer, his voice trembling with nervousness:

"Fifteen Sickle."

As soon as the number was mentioned, the expressions of the Werewolf present changed somewhat. Some frowned, some opened their mouths slightly, and some subconsciously exchanged glances.

However, they all had the same thought in their minds: it's too cheap.

The original Wolfsbane Potion was extremely difficult to make. Not only was the formula complex, but the brewing process had a very low margin for error. Only skilled potion masters could consistently produce it, and there were very few people in the entire Wizarding World who could do that.

In addition, the raw materials are expensive, with the prices of several key ingredients remaining high.

The combined effect of these two factors resulted in the price of a single bottle of Wolfsbane Potion being almost equivalent to a month's expenses for an average wizarding family.

Infected Werewolf wizards need one bottle every month to safely survive the werewolf transformation during the full moon.

Even wizards with stable salaries would find it difficult to afford such "treatment" long-term.

What's more, what about Werewolf wizards who are discriminated against and ostracized by wizarding society, struggling to make ends meet and living in poverty?

Wolfsbane Potion was indeed a groundbreaking potion, and Damocles was awarded the Order of Merlin for it.

But for the Werewolf wizards who truly needed it, it remained out of reach.

But this improved Wolfsbane Potion is too cheap.

It's unbelievably cheap.

Although the effectiveness was unknown, the price of just fifteen Sickle was enough to pique the interest of many Werewolf present.

Maybe—just maybe—this thing really can...

"Click--"

A crisp cracking sound suddenly rang out, interrupting everyone's thoughts.

Fenrir crushed the medicine bottle in one swift motion.

The crystal bottle shattered in his palm, and the crystalline liquid dripped through his fingers, falling to the ground and mingling with the tiny crystal shards.

The pale liquid shimmered faintly under the dim light, then quickly seeped into the cracks of the rough floor and disappeared.

The sharp crystal shards seemed unable to cut through his skin, and no trace of crimson was visible in the flowing medicinal liquid.

Fenrir didn't care about testing the drug's efficacy; he didn't need to know how effective this improved version of the potion actually was.

He didn't want the infected Werewolf wizard to have any hope of returning to a normal life.

If this cheap potion really works, those Werewolf wizards who were already wavering will flee their camp one by one, trying to reintegrate into the society that once abandoned them.

By then, what will he be able to use to control these people?

Violence and fear are the most reliable means of maintaining rule.

Fenrir shook his hand, flicking the shards of glass and liquid clinging to his fingers onto the ground. A few shards of glass bounced a few times and rolled to the feet of a Werewolf, who remained motionless.

"Having only been in the Wizarding World for a few years, you've already forgotten your Muggle origins? And you're still just an underage wizard," Fenrir scoffed, revealing his signature yellow teeth. "Because of those ridiculous rules from the Ministry of Magic, you can't even magically hide your Muggle home."

He slowly stood up, his tall figure casting a thick shadow on the wall that enveloped most of the room.

"I'd like to see," his voice was low, as if stating something pleasant, "That he can heal his own family with a potion?"

Upon hearing this, Wald's face paled slightly in the shadows.

Fenrir's eyes swept around the room. "Garm, you take care of this."

Upon hearing the sound, a Werewolf stepped forward from the crowd.

He was slightly shorter Fenrir, but equally strong and rugged, and in appearance, he bore a five or six-point resemblance to Fenrir.

"No problem, bro." Garm grinned, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"Hmm." Fenrir responded with satisfaction, then turned his gaze to the other side. "Wald, you come with me."

Looking down at the spilled medicine on the ground, with his eyes darting around, Wald didn't react for a moment when the leader suddenly called his name.

Realizing something was wrong, he quickly lowered his head, his voice tense. "Yes."

Looking down at Wald's bowed posture, Fenrir snorted coldly and said nothing more.

Wald was a Werewolf wizard who was infected by his bite. He was quite clever and better than the muscle-bound but brainless guys in the camp, so he was valued by Wald and helped him with planning and did a lot of dirty work.

Fenrir knew very well that, given a choice, most of these infected Werewolf wizards would want to live the life of a "normal person".

They were wizards to begin with; they could have walked in the sunlight with wands in hand, had respectable jobs, and stayed peacefully at home on the night of the full moon.

But Fenrir wouldn't allow it.

He wants to expand the Werewolf clan.

He was yearning, waiting for chaos.

Just like the one more than a decade ago—war, fear, and the collapse of the old order.

Only in chaos and war can Werewolf hunt for the benefit of his tribe, and only then does he cease to be a "wanted beast" and become a terrifying force.

Wald retreated back into the crowd, his face expressionless, but inwardly he was groaning.

Unlike wizards, Muggle do not have magical protection. Even if bitten by Werewolf, the probability of them becoming Werewolf is relatively small. They are more likely to die miserably from the high fever and excruciating pain caused by the curse and viral transformation.

Fenrir and Garm, being natural-born Werewolf, wouldn't care about that at all. In their eyes, the life or death of Muggle was no different from that of a hare.

But Wald dared not disobey, especially since Fenrir possessed a certain inexplicable and powerful "control" over him, Werewolf whom he had personally infected.

That kind of control wasn't entirely magic; it was more like a brand etched into one's blood and fear.

His body would obey Fenrir's command before his will could even react.

But this couldn't stop Wald from grumbling inwardly that these born Werewolf were no different from wild beasts, their brains practically useless.

Why bother attacking Lucien's family? They're just Muggle who know nothing about magic.

What's the point of revenge? The potion has already been developed!

Does doing this really make all the spilled medicine disappear?

He will only incur Lucien's wrath, have the Ministry of Magic increase the bounty on his head, and be further antagonized by the wizarding community...

But Werewolf are just that crazy, paranoid, and irrational. They don't care about the Ministry of Magic's sanctions—the amount on the wanted poster is nothing more than decoration on the wall to them, and they can even use it as a source of pride.

They were already fugitives being hunted; what difference would it make if they had one more charge or one less?

It is because of such a brutal leader that Werewolf are increasingly ostracized by wizarding society...

Wald felt a suffocating sense of powerlessness. As an infected Werewolf wizard caught between two worlds, he had no choice at all.