Buzz!
The dark green goblin eyes flickered continuously, releasing faint yet intricate spiritual ripples with each blink.
The secondary headquarters of the Magic Congress continued its quiet expansion outward. Every goblin who entered its boundaries immediately relaxed, their expressions softening with contentment, as if they had finally returned home. In stark contrast, the wizards accompanying them remained completely unaware of this subtle yet pervasive effect.
"Moll, the magic firearms you developed played a critical role in this mission."
"Haha, absolutely! That Saint barely had time to react before we put a bullet straight through his skull."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. What a miserable way to go."
"Hahaha!"
On the road leading to the headquarters, three wizards and a goblin walked side by side, engaged in cheerful banter. They laughed freely, their camaraderie defying the short span of time they'd known each other—less than a month.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!" The tall, lanky wizard named Ram made a pistol gesture with his fingers and mimicked the sound of gunfire, pretending to shoot into the distance.
"Haha! Goblins truly are the most talented alchemists," Ram continued, shaking his head in admiration. "I remember some wizards trying to replicate Muggle firearms with magic, but they all failed miserably."
Moll the goblin puffed out his chest with pride, his dark green eyes gleaming. The other two wizard teammates chimed in, heaping praise upon him. With the aid of goblin magic guns, their battles had become significantly easier. Previously, they had struggled against the Saints, often fighting at a disadvantage. But now, with this newfound advantage, the playing field had been leveled—if not tilted in their favor.
Goblins had played a crucial role in this shift, especially their mastery of magical firearms, which had become game-changers in combat.
The most revolutionary aspect of magic firearms was their ammunition—specially crafted bullets infused with enchanted properties. Each bullet was the equivalent of a spell. Wizards needed to recite incantations before casting magic, and only a rare few were capable of silent spellcasting. Goblins, however, could now unleash rapid, near-instantaneous spells simply by pulling a trigger.
More importantly, there was the issue of magical expenditure. Wizards relied on their own reserves of magic power, which could be depleted. Magic guns, on the other hand, drew energy from goblin-crafted fairy gems.
What did that mean?
It meant that as long as goblins carried a sufficient number of these gems, they could continue casting spells indefinitely, far outlasting wizards in prolonged battles.
Of course, reality wasn't quite that exaggerated, but the implication was clear—goblins had drastically enhanced their combat capabilities. And when dozens, even hundreds, of these magic firearms were fired in unison, the sheer firepower was staggering, comparable to the most destructive black magic.
Ram had seen it firsthand. It might be a stretch to claim it could rival the legendary Dark Lord's Flame'—the spell that had once set all of Paris ablaze—but it was close enough to make his heart race just thinking about it.
He turned to Moll, feigning nonchalance but clearly eager for information. " Moll, your uncle is a renowned goblin master. Any updates on the magical firearms being developed for wizards? Do they need field testing? Our team would be happy to assist."
His tone was casual, but the underlying eagerness was impossible to miss.
Due to differences in magical properties, current magic guns were only suitable for goblins. However, the Magic Congress, in collaboration with goblin alchemists, was working to adapt them for wizards as well. If successful, this breakthrough would revolutionize warfare.
As soon as Ram finished speaking, the other two wizards perked up, anticipation shining in their eyes. They knew experimental weapons often came with risks, but the raw power of these firearms was too tempting to ignore.
Moll straightened his posture, his pride evident. As they approached the Congress headquarters, he spoke with assurance. "Leave it to me. When my uncle makes a breakthrough, our team will be the first to get our hands on it."
His dark green eyes blinked again, sending another wave of unseen ripples through the air.
The group passed through the entrance of the Magic Congress without noticing a faint white glow that flickered and vanished the moment they stepped inside. It was subtle—so subtle that an untrained eye might dismiss it as a mere trick of the light.
Dumbledore stood within the grand hall, watching the group disappear into the corridors. His piercing blue eyes then shifted toward the blinking fairy eyes embedded within the walls. A quiet sigh escaped him.
Anyone familiar with Albus Dumbledore—or rather, with Gellert Grindelwald—would recognize that while he appeared to be sighing in contemplation, beneath the surface, his mind seethed with fury and cold determination.
There was no hesitation in his stance, only resolve.
His sigh was not for his enemies, but for himself. He lamented the path he had to walk, the choices he had to make, the blood he would have to spill. He had long accepted that his mission required ruthlessness, but that did not make the burden any lighter.
The weariness in his expression gradually faded, replaced by unyielding firmness. Then, it softened once more into the familiar kind smile that concealed the storm raging within him.
His gaze flickered back to the Goblin Eyes, and for a brief moment, a glint of pure, unfiltered murderous intent flashed in his eyes.
Without hesitation, he turned and made his way toward the upper levels of the headquarters, his footsteps steady and unrelenting.
He had questions.
And he would have answers.
---
New York, MAC Headquarters.
The former parliamentary headquarters lay in ruins. Jagged stones and shattered debris littered the landscape, a silent testament to the ferocity of the battle that had taken place. Deep craters marred the ground, remnants of powerful spells and explosions.
Logic dictated that such ruins held little interest—after all, there was nothing left to salvage. Yet, members of the Saints' organization had apparated here, lingering for a while before departing.
They had not come to admire the wreckage.
They had come to bear witness—to revel in the destruction, to bask in the overwhelming power of their leader.
Once, the Congress headquarters had been an impenetrable fortress of magic. But it had fallen, razed to the ground in a single attack by Grindelwald. The Saints saw this as an affirmation of their faith, a symbol of their inevitable victory.
Near the edge of the ruins, several figures—transparent and ghostly—stood in silence, watching with cold, calculating eyes.
They were ghosts, remnants of former Congress members. Every ghost had a reason for lingering in the mortal world, and for these particular specters, that reason was tied directly to the Magic Congress.
Some had perished in political struggles, their ambitions left unfulfilled. When they saw the Congress reduced to rubble, many faded away, their unfinished business resolved.
But some remained.
And they had a purpose.
"Putton, what are those ghosts doing?" A Saint, stepping carefully over the ruins, asked his companion.
Putton cast an indifferent glance at the spirits before scoffing. "What can ghosts possibly do? They can't even touch the living."
He closed his eyes, focusing instead on sensing the lingering traces of Grindelwald's magic. A rumor had spread among the Saints—meditation in the ruins would grant insight into their leader's power. Whether true or not, many sought to uncover its secrets.
So engrossed were they in their studies that none noticed the ghosts forming a vast circle around the ruins.
And then, the ground beneath them glowed.
A pale, silvery light shimmered, followed by pulses of red, green, and blue. The Saints, sensing the shift in magic, snapped to attention—too late.
The ghosts were no longer ghosts.
They were Congress Aurors and officials in disguise, their magic converging into the ancient spellwork embedded within the ruins.
A trap had been sprung.
The air howled with chaotic magic, severing the Saints' connection to their spells. An elite Auror shouted, "Fire!"
Dozens of goblins emerged, magic guns blazing. The Saints recoiled under the relentless barrage, yet strangely, few fell. Wounds, yes—but deaths were suspiciously rare.
Director Sammo of the Aurors narrowed his eyes. A dangerous thought crept into his mind.
Had the goblins... betrayed them?
Far from the battlefield, in a grand office, Chenos, the de facto Speaker, swirled a glass of water, ignoring the glare of goblin elder Nass. He knew the goblins' ambitions, and he was already formulating a plan.
Then, the door burst open.
"Speaker Chenos! The counterattack failed. Grindelwald appeared."
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