All That's Missing Is You, Fenrir

Inside the Werewolf camp.

Fenrir violently kicked open the door, the wooden door slamming against the wall with a loud cracking sound.

What comes into view is a soaring, deep blue.

Flames rose from all around the camp, completely enveloping the entire building.

There was no thick smoke, no explosions; the blue wall of fire burned silently, like a huge curtain hanging from the sky, or the stomach wall of a giant beast, trapping all life inside.

The moment Fenrir saw those blue flames, his pupils dilated violently.

His body began to tremble uncontrollably, the trembling so sudden and so violent, as if all the strength had been drained from his robust frame in an instant.

The largest open space within the camp.

A young wizard was standing there.

He was wearing a dark robe, the hem of which was still slightly damp.

His dark golden hair shimmered with an eerie luster under the blue firelight, and his face was calm to the point of being indifferent.

On the ground between the young wizard and the pack of Werewolf lay several blood-soaked figures. The Werewolf lay sprawled on the ground, their wounds varying in size, clean and sharp, as if they had been instantly sliced open by a sharp weapon. Blood gushed from the wounds, forming several dark red streams on the ground.

The Werewolf were still standing, once known for their arrogance, wildness, and ferocity, were now as quiet as a group of frightened Werewolf. They huddled together, some still in a half-squatting position, but no one dared to raise their eyes. An extreme fear permeated the air, making everyone hold their breath to the shallowest possible level.

A stack of wanted posters floated in front of the boy, the pages swirling slowly around him like a flock of docile paper birds.

The boy's gaze shifted back and forth between the wanted poster and the crowd, slowly comparing the portraits. Occasionally, he would lightly flick his wand, and several Werewolf would be pushed aside by an invisible force, standing on the other side. The movement was as casual as a shepherd counting a flock of stray sheep.

Fenrir recognized the uninvited guest.

Lucien Grafton.

How did he end up in the camp?

What about Wald and Garm? Didn't they avoid the boy and act alone?

Have they already—no, now is not the time to think about these things.

Normally, Fenrir wouldn't hesitate to show its fangs and claws when facing intruders.

Half of his reputation was built on tearing apart those "hunters" who dared to trespass on his territory.

But at this moment, all he wanted was to retreat.

Fenrir's stomach churned violently, as if something was stirring deep within his abdominal cavity.

nausea.

Nausea caused by fear is worse than fear itself.

Werewolf possess almost beast-like instincts, and their perception of danger is far more acute than that of ordinary wizards.

Fenrir could clearly sense how immense the magic emanating from the boy was, like a dark, deep sea hanging overhead, ready to collapse at any moment.

That sense of oppression told him that charging forward meant certain death!

But all around were those blue flames; the wall of fire left no gaps.

Suddenly, as if it understood Fenrir's thoughts, the flame abruptly "spit out" a ball of something.

The thing rolled off the wall of fire and onto the ground, tumbled twice, and then lay motionless.

A smell of burning protein wafted through the air. Then, the mass visibly shrank, turned black, and disintegrated, turning into ashes in just a few breaths.

Smelling the faint scent wafting from the ashes, Fenrir recognized the original identity of the ashes, and his expression darkened even further.

Lucien, who had been standing still, finally raised his gaze and glanced in Fenrir's direction.

The wanted poster in front of him began to flip through the pages again, making a rustling sound, before finally settling on a portrait.

The person in the portrait had a long, narrow face, disheveled gray hair, and an unusual set of sharp teeth.

"You're the only one missing."

Lucien's voice wasn't loud, but it traveled clearly across the entire open space, like a stone thrown into still water.

Fenrir Greyback.

Outside the Werewolf camp.

The blue wall of fire that encircled the entire camp vanished abruptly, as if an unseen hand had extinguished its wick.

There was no gradual weakening, no lingering sparks; one moment it was burning quietly, the next it was completely gone.

The night wind blew back into the area, carrying a bit of warmth, and reached the Auror who remained on guard on the hillside.

The Auror exchanged bewildered glances, many with hesitation on their faces. The blue flames that had just soared into the sky had vanished without a trace; no one knew what had happened inside.

Finally, Scrimgeour took his first steps.

He gave no orders, Auror behind him exchanged glances before following suit.

Upon arriving at the camp, everyone was stunned.

The buildings in the camp still stand, but with a thin layer of ash, as if blown in from elsewhere.

Several ragged people stood in the center of the open space.

They were awkward and looked bewildered, like a group of people who had just been woken up from a dream and didn't know where they were.

There were men and women, young and old, all of them extremely thin, with sallow complexions.

Seeing this, without Scrimgeour's order, several Auror quickly stepped forward and surrounded the Muggle.

A spell danced around them, its light flashing incessantly.

After a thorough inspection, an Auror trotted back to Scrimgeour and reported in a low voice:

"Master, these are all Muggle captured by Werewolf." He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, "... there are no signs of infection from bites. But..."

He glanced up at his superior, seeing Scrimgeour's expression still grim, and quickly continued, "But they don't remember what happened just now. We couldn't find any related memories either; they must have been subjected to Obliviate. And the perpetrator's methods were quite sophisticated; for now... there's no way to restore them."

Scrimgeour did not respond.

He stood there silently, his gaze sweeping across the empty Werewolf camp.

These Muggle were left behind, standing neatly in the most conspicuous open space, as if they were waiting specifically for them to take over.

But what about Werewolf?

They've all disappeared.

There were no corpses on the ground, only a faint, unsettling aura of anxiety.

This is likely the largest Werewolf colony in the Britain.

It was pulled out in just a short while?