Before That, I'll Cure You

The Box World.

A newly completed prison cell.

The cold gray walls, with a few Magical Lamp embedded in the four corners, emitted a pale and even light, making the room resemble an operating room.

Fenrir lay on the cold stone platform. His entire body was firmly restrained; his wrists, ankles, waist, and neck—every joint was fastened with metal rings engraved with incantations. He couldn't move even a finger; the only thing he could move was his eyeballs.

He struggled to turn his eyes, staring at the figure standing beside the stone platform, his eyes filled with surprise and fear.

Lucien's young and handsome face was now completely covered by a bird-beak mask.

The mask was entirely black, with a bird's beak protruding forward. Two brown lenses were embedded in the eye sockets, and occasionally a magical glint would flash through them.

The mask looked like something out of a medieval plague doctor's portrait, appearing particularly sinister under the cold white light.

Fenrir let out a hoarse chuckle from his throat:

"Kill me if you want." His voice was rough, carrying the last bit of defiance a cornered person could muster. "It's just a matter of the strong preying on the weak. Or have you learned some kind of agonizing curse, like the one that Cruciatus Curse, and want to try it on me?"

Lucien ignored his provocation, his gaze fixed on Fenrir's body through his tinted glasses, as if examining a specimen.

"Of course I'll kill you," Lucien said, his tone flat and almost indifferent, "But before that, I'll heal you first."

The sound came through the bird-beak mask, sounding muffled.

Fenrir was stunned upon hearing this.

He never expected the young wizard to say something like he wanted to "heal" him.

Treat him? He's Werewolf, not someone with a cold.

After a moment of stunned silence, Fenrir suddenly remembered Lucien's improvement of the Wolfsbane Potion, understood what the other party meant, and immediately sneered:

"Are you crazy?" Fenrir grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, his fear temporarily replaced by mockery. "I'm a born Werewolf! It's not a disease, it's the power and wildness rooted in my blood! You think you can 'cure' me?!"

Lucien did not respond.

He turned around and took down various sizes of medicine jars from the shelf beside him. The jars were of different colors, some containing liquids, some containing powders, and a few were sealed tightly, with a faint light flowing inside.

He neatly arranged the medicine jars on the small table next to the stone platform, then took out his wand and slowly gestured a few times above Fenrir's body.

"A race born of a curse, and they're actually proud of it?" Lucien's voice came from behind the bird-beak mask, tinged with a hint of mockery.

Fenrir's laughter stopped abruptly, as if someone had grabbed his throat.

Lucien looked down at the Werewolf on the stone platform, a faint magical light shining through the brown lenses of his mask's eye sockets.

Runes were sweeping across the lenses, peeling away, marking, and restoring the aura of the curse layer by layer.

The Plague Doctor's bird-beak mask operated, helping Lucien decipher what was deeply rooted in Fenrir's bloodline.

Preliminary diagnosis suggests that the Werewolf Curse is more physical in nature.

This is highly consistent with the characteristics of Werewolf ' physical mutation.

The curse primarily affects the bones, flesh, skin, and sensory system, twisting the human body towards that of a wild beast.

Those superhuman self-healing abilities, strength, and sense of smell are ultimately nothing more than external byproducts of the curse.

At the level of Magic Circuit and the soul, the curse did not seem to have affected much, and was not as severe as it had been with Nagini.

However, these are only the results of static observation.

We also need to check whether the curse changes when transforming into Werewolf form. Oh, and the curse's state during the full moon period must also be observed and recorded.

If the curse's activity fluctuates over time, the optimal timing for treatment may also need to be tested.

Lucien quickly organized the treatment plan in his mind.

Actually, the Werewolf Curse might be cured faster.

In the six months prior, he had already amassed a vast amount of knowledge in the field of curses, and later obtained some curse-related magic books through Vinda.

Those books were treasures collected by the Acolytes from various places in the past, and their contents were extremely valuable, filling in some gaps in his research on curses.

Curses on the physical level are the easiest to deal with compared to curses rooted in the circuits and soul.

Moreover, there are a sufficient number of samples of the Werewolf Curse.

Besides Fenrir's cell, there were several other newly built cells outside, holding other Werewolf captured from the camp.

Lucien categorized the wanted persons according to the warrants, and those with innocent blood on their hands were all put away and now they are all in their respective cells.

As for the few wizards and Muggle who were unfortunately infected and turned into Werewolf, Lucien checked their memories and confirmed that they were simply victims. So he left them in this Box World for the time being, and they would be sent back to wizard and Muggle society after the Werewolf Curse was resolved and proper treatment was available.

As Lucien continued to analyze the curse, a quill pen and an open booklet hovered beside him. The quill pen moved automatically across the pages, recording information about the curse and various hypothetical experimental methods at an extremely fast pace. The ink spread across the paper, pausing occasionally before continuing to write.

"Don't worry," Lucien suddenly spoke, his calm tone chilling the air, "I will make the Werewolf race a thing of the past."

On the stone platform, Fenrir stood stiff.

The mockery in his eyes had completely vanished.

The young wizard wearing the bird-beak mask, with his demeanor and words, involuntarily brought to mind ancient legends—madmen who would indiscriminately capture creatures for magical experiments, and dark wizards who would dismember and reassemble living beings in castle dungeons.

Those mad wizards have long been buried by history, but their shadows have never truly disappeared.

Lucien's words sent a chill down Fenrir's spine.

The voice came through the bird-beak mask, muffled and calm as if devoid of malice, yet more like the whisper of a demon than any vicious curse.

Fenrir struggled with all his might, but the metal rings remained motionless. He couldn't even feel his own body; he could only manage a hiss from his throat.

"You're a madman!"

Lucien tilted his head slightly, causing the tip of his bird-beak mask to wiggle gently, his voice remaining as calm as still water.

"Of course, I can't avoid pain during treatment. But you, with your naturally 'strong and wild' nature, will definitely be able to get through it, right?"

Fenrir's pupils contracted sharply.

A few seconds passed.

A piercing scream erupted from the cell.

The sound was like the final howl of a dying wild dog, sharp, painful, and with a tearing quality that a normal human vocal cord could never produce.

The screams pierced through the cell door and reached the ears of the Werewolf in the other cells.

The Werewolf huddled in the corners of their cells trembled at the sound. Some instinctively shrank back, some helplessly hugged their knees, and others opened their mouths wide, but no sound came out.

Many of them used to make a living by creating fear, but now they seem to be nailed to the spot by fear itself, trembling with fear.

However, these screams could not be heard through the layers of space within this Box World.