Mobilization (Part One)

On Azkaban Island, the scene from Ryan's television began to play out.

Every movement, every line, even every tone, was identical.

Soon, it reached the moment Ryan had deliberately cut off.

"Isn't seven the most magical number? I told you, the Dark Mark contains my power. When the time comes, you need only—" Voldemort paused. "Only call my name. My name—leaping over death—is the shortest, most powerful spell. Then you will understand what power truly is. What invincibility truly is. Before us, there shall be no enemy!"

"But..." Old Mulciber trembled as he raised a hand.

"Hm?" Voldemort, as though behind fogged glass, widened his blood-red eyes.

An overwhelming magical pressure, accompanied by the wails of dead creatures, bore down on Old Mulciber.

He had already developed the intent to kill.

If not for his obsessive need to have exactly seven subordinates to bear his power—

Old Mulciber would likely already be dead.

Old Mulciber naturally understood this as well.

But for his son's sake, he still decided to ask.

So even when he was pressed onto the stone floor, his mouth against the ground, he still struggled to say, "Master, we have no wands."

A wizard without a wand was useless.

That was common knowledge in the wizarding world.

Only a small number of wizards could overturn that rule.

Even the wizards of Africa's Uagadou, who cast magic with their fingers or gestures, could only perform minor tricks.

They could only deal with ordinary creatures with frail bodies.

They were useless against Care of Magical Creatures with powerful flesh or unusual anatomical structures that could ignore blades.

Against wand-wielding wizards, they could only catch them off guard.

In a real duel, they still relied on their unique local self-transfiguration, turning into elephants or cheetahs resistant to spells.

So when