The group dispersed into their rooms, the noise level rising with the flurry of movement. Still, no one complained about their accommodations. Once Agatha had handed out the keys, she was the first to return downstairs, where Blake and Old Lepp were already waiting.
Soon, the rest of the newcomers who had stashed away their belongings began to gather in the open space before Blake. Grindelwald, who had just received his own key, discovered that his room was perched on the top floor—with a magnificent view.
He loved it.
High places had always appealed to him, and to his delight, this one included a balcony. From it, he surveyed the entire mountaintop base and felt a surge of pride. Below, he spotted Blake and smiled.
"This place is amazing... must be at the summit of some mountain…" he muttered. "I wonder… does that old fool Dumbledore know about this place?"
After thinking it through, he concluded Dumbledore likely didn't. Otherwise, Blake wouldn't have chosen it as his headquarters.
That thought made Grindelwald even happier.
Blake had built something powerful—and hadn't excluded him. He grinned down at Blake with renewed satisfaction. I must mean more to him than Dumbledore ever did.
Then, suddenly—knock knock! A crisp rap echoed through the door, carrying the scent of fresh wood.
Grindelwald quickly wiped the smug grin from his face and opened the door in a smooth motion. Outside stood Old Bolton.
"I live across the hall," Bolton said, pointing.
"Oh? What a coincidence," Grindelwald replied with forced cheer.
"It's not," Bolton said flatly. "I swapped rooms with someone. Spoke to that little girl."
Grindelwald blinked. "Why?"
"You're too weak. Someone's got to keep an eye on you," Bolton said matter-of-factly.
"Wha—uh…" For once, Grindelwald was speechless. No one had ever called him weak to his face.
Bolton, stoic as ever, continued, "Can't even fix your own constipation. Had to ask Master Blake for a potion. And you say you're not weak? Honestly don't know why he picked you."
Grindelwald stood there, stunned.
The "constipation" excuse had been something he'd thrown out without thinking. But... Bolton wasn't wrong. A wizard unable to solve such a basic issue—how pathetic did that look?
He sighed inwardly. Why did I say that? And why did this old man have to see right through me?
Bolton turned and began walking away. "If you're done sulking, let's go. Master Blake's gathering everyone."
Snapping to attention, Grindelwald quickly shut the door behind him—only to be betrayed by his own stomach.
Grrrrgk—
His eyes widened. That sound wasn't good. He gave an awkward smile and slowly backed into his room.
BANG!
The door slammed in Bolton's face.
Bolton rubbed his nose and muttered, "So weak…"
Inside, Grindelwald's face turned green.
That damn potion! It caused diarrhea!
He didn't even bother with spells—he knew they wouldn't help. If Blake wanted your insides to run, they would run.
Could he have done it on purpose?
No, no… My disguise is flawless! Even Vita didn't recognize me. Blake couldn't have seen through it so quickly... right?
Meanwhile, more staff poured into the square below. Soon, everyone had gathered—except for one.
"Old Bart's not coming," Bolton said calmly to Blake.
"Oh?" Blake raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Did the medicine work?"
Bolton nodded. "Yes."
"How's he doing now?" Blake asked, trying not to laugh.
Bolton hesitated. "...It stinks."
Ding!
[System detected: Depressed mood.]
[Congratulations! You've obtained a golden treasure chest!]
Blake scanned Bolton. He didn't look depressed.
Which meant… Grindelwald was!
Snap! Blake's fingers popped.
Mission success! Not that Blake was cruel… but treasure chests didn't collect themselves. And if it cost Grindelwald a few toilet runs? So be it.
As Blake savored the moment, Bolton asked quietly, "Master Blake, why did you choose him? He seems too weak. If our next mission is dangerous, I fear he won't hold up. I suggest… retiring him to Puremengard."
Blake chuckled. "You're a kind man, Mr. Bolton."
While Bolton's bluntness made him sound harsh, Blake could tell the concern was genuine. He appreciated that.
Still, it was funny—Grindelwald, of all people, being called weak.
But revealing the truth was not an option. If Bolton learned Bart's true identity, Grindelwald might pick up on the shift. And Blake wasn't ready to expose Grindelwald's return just yet.
"Don't worry," Blake said smoothly. "Mr. Bart isn't weak. His strength just lies elsewhere."
Bolton nodded, seemingly reassured. He hadn't known Bart well before, and Blake's comment helped it all make sense.
Ah, so he's a specialist of some kind! he thought. No wonder Blake picked him.
A good team needed variety, after all—not just fighters.
Without further comment, Bolton rejoined the group.
Upstairs, Grindelwald finally staggered out of his room. "I'm late!" he gasped, rushing toward the stairs.
Then—GULU—
"Fark!"
He turned and sprinted back inside...
Down below, Blake was practically glowing.
[System Alert: Treasure chest received!]
He couldn't stop smiling.
To Grindelwald's dismay, Blake hadn't called everyone to give a rousing speech. Instead, he simply gestured to a nearby man.
"This is Old Lepp. When I'm not around, he's in charge."
Then Blake stepped back.
Old Lepp, dressed in jaw-dropping magical gear, took the stage. The veteran wizards' eyes lit up instantly.
Even the least fashion-conscious among them could tell—this was no ordinary gear. It was rare, powerful, and practically priceless.
"I know some of you are skeptical," Old Lepp began. "But you don't have a choice."
"I was the first to follow Master Blake. Look at me now."
He spun slowly, showing off the armor, cloak, boots—every piece an alchemical masterpiece.
The crowd gawked. They weren't greedy for Galleons, but this? This kind of enchanted gear was legendary. Armor that could take a Killing Curse head-on? Boots that could outrun Fiendfyre?
Some of them were nearly drooling.
Then, Old Lepp grinned and began removing his robes. Piece by piece, the gear floated beside him until he stood in simple underclothes, barefoot.
"Want it?" he asked.
"Do you want this equipment?"
"If you do… come and get it. But you'll have to beat me."
The crowd fell silent—then immediately turned to Blake.
He gave a slight nod.
And chaos erupted.
Everyone wanted a shot, but they agreed to challenge him one by one. Fair and square.
Bolton stepped forward first. The crowd offered no objections—he was clearly the strongest among them.
"Come," said Old Lepp.
They squared off. A hush fell over the area.
Even before the duel started, the tension was palpable. The veterans could feel the power between them.
Bolton, despite his usual composure, was sweating. He sensed that Old Lepp had weaknesses—but couldn't exploit any of them. The man seemed to invite attack and yet offered no true opening.
He had to strike first.
WHOOSH—BOOM!
Their spells clashed midair—and Bolton was blown back five meters.
He landed, unharmed, but clearly defeated. His shield had shattered. Old Lepp stood where he'd been, untouched, no protection spell visible.
"I lost," Bolton said simply. "I submit."
"You're strong too," Old Lepp replied, tugging up a sleeve to show a small tear in his garment. "Your spell made it through. From now on, you're my deputy."
Bolton nodded. "Happy to serve."
Old Lepp turned to the others. "Anyone else?"
The ex-witch cultists, their blood stirring, began stepping forward.
Ten minutes later, Old Lepp remained unbeaten, smiling as ever. The crowd now looked at him with awe—and loyalty.
Blake observed quietly. Respect is earned through strength. He needed someone who could command these wildcards in his absence—and Lepp had just proven he was that man.
Finally, a pale, staggering Grindelwald arrived.
"Sorry I'm late."
"You beat your constipation and returned," Blake said, smiling. "But you look dehydrated. Pumpkin juice?"
Grindelwald looked at the glass. His stomach churned.
As if I'd ever drink anything from you again…
"No… no thank you. I… I don't have a drop left…"
=============
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