What appeared this time was a formation of marching squares, made up primarily of ordinary wizards.
Four formed a squad, and twenty squads formed a square.
Eight hundred people in total marched in ten squares, one behind another, moving like an enormous ruler.
The members of the Wizarding Army wore black woolen trench coats with upright collars, purple tassels streaming in the wind.
They all held their wands angled downward and wore dragon hide boots.
The leather cases at their waists glimmered with dense magical radiance. Who knew how many pieces of lethal, standard-issue alchemical equipment they held?
These members of the Wizarding Army.
Their eyes, too, looked straight ahead, bright and alert.
Their steps, too, were perfectly synchronized.
On the surface, the individual presence of these black-clad soldiers fell short of the werewolves'. That was without considering their formidable squad combat capabilities after Carrow-er's hellish training.
Their numbers alone were staggering.
An army of eight hundred well-trained soldiers might not have stood out in the muggle world.
But in the wizarding world, it was an entirely different matter. Many magical nations might not even have had that many people in their entire populations.
An ordinary Ministry of Magic dared call its country a major power if it had a few dozen elite Aurors.
Even the International Association of Wizards could mobilize only a few hundred Aurors from all its member nations.
That comparison alone showed just how enormous an army of eight hundred wizards was in the wizarding world.
With rigorous training and excellent equipment added to the equation, these wizard formations were nothing short of a true weapon of war.
Though the wizard formations were imposing, people did not harbor the same misgivings about them as they did about werewolves.
All the ordinary wizards craned their necks to