"Protego!"
Seeing Dudley's fist hurtling toward him, Macken froze for a split second before conjuring his Shield Charm.
Using fists to attack—no rational wizard would ever do this. It was suicide, abandoning the very essence of magical combat. This fool calling himself Justiciar must have felt so assured of victory that he wanted to show off his physical prowess. And that overconfidence was exactly the opening Macken needed.
If he could just withstand this one punch, he could wave his wand and blast this arrogant bastard into oblivion.
Yet something felt wrong.
He had heard Dudley's whisper moments before—not English, but some strange, ancient pronunciation that made the air itself seem to shudder. Recalling how he had been hurled across the room after that earlier incantation, Macken did not dare underestimate what was coming.
The moment those foreign words left Dudley's lips, Macken felt it—a connection forged between them, as if fate itself had locked onto him with inexorable certainty.
His Shield Charm activated successfully. An invisible barrier materialised between him and Dudley's approaching fist.
Then Dudley's fist arrived.
CRACK.
The barrier exploded under the impact, briefly flashing visible as silver fragments before vanishing. Dudley's fist punched through the ruined protection without slowing, slamming into Macken's chest with devastating force.
CRACK.
Macken's ribcage caved inward. Every bone shattered like pottery dropped on stone. Blood erupted from his mouth and nose in a dark fountain, mixed with fragments of pulverised organs. His chest collapsed into a grotesque hollow, and he crumpled backward, gasping soundlessly.
One punch. One strike had brought him to the edge of death.
Without that Shield Charm, he would already be a corpse.
"Imprison!"
Dudley's attention shifted to the wizard still duelling with Borgin. His hand thrust forward.
Hum.
A viscous transparent substance materialised from nothing, expanding and solidifying into massive amber that encased the wizard completely. The man's eyes widened in terror as he struggled against the crystalline prison, but his body would not respond. Even his spirit was trapped, frozen within that supernatural cage.
"Expelliarmus. Expelliarmus."
Two casual flicks of Dudley's wand sent the imprisoned wizards' wands flying across the room. Their last vestiges of resistance vanished with those wooden instruments.
Only then did Dudley turn his cold gaze toward Gins, who had retreated to the corner, trembling violently.
His face was ghost-pale. He had never imagined the situation could reverse so catastrophically. Even now, he could not comprehend where it had all gone wrong.
This wizard called Arbiter was impossibly strange and terrifying. He had not used his wand once and had not recited a single conventional spell. Those eerie whispers were not incantations—they were something else entirely, something older and more fundamental than magic itself.
Gins grabbed his fallen wand from the dusty floor, preparing to flee. He could not stay in this nightmarish place for even one more second.
"Anti-Apparition Zone!"
Dudley spoke again, his voice resonating with absolute authority.
Hum.
The surrounding space rippled as if receiving a divine command, then sealed shut like a vault door slamming closed.
"Apparition!" Gins gasped the spell without hesitation, abandoning his accomplices to their fate.
Nothing happened.
The space remained inert, unresponsive. This place was sealed. His escape route had been severed.
"You... what did you do?" Gins's voice cracked with terror, his eyes locked on Dudley.
"Trying to run? Not so easy."
"Seal!"
Dudley thrust his right hand forward. An invisible barrier materialised around the entire room, transparent walls rising from floor to ceiling, sealing every exit. No one could leave through physical means or magical transportation.
His prohibition decrees could forbid specific actions that aligned with order and law. He could prohibit Apparition, but he could not simply forbid all magic use—just as he could not forbid others from using extraordinary abilities. There were rules, even to his power.
"Imprison."
The amber prison formed around Gins as well, freezing him mid-panic.
With all threats neutralised, Dudley turned his attention to Borgin.
Everything that had just transpired was because of the buyer he had contacted.
"You..." Fear bloomed in Borgin's eyes.
He looked at Dudley as if staring into an invincible abyss. Beneath that hood was no longer the blonde, handsome youth from their earlier dealings, but something far more dangerous—a terrifying force masquerading in human form.
Borgin's mind raced. He had to prove himself; he had to demonstrate he was not complicit in this ambush. Otherwise, he would not escape Dudley's wrath.
Those horrifying abilities—he had no idea how they functioned, no conception of their limits. The defensive artefacts he carried might be worthless against such bizarre power.
Worse still, he had just tested it—this place could no longer be escaped via Apparition. And after Dudley's last whisper, invisible walls had sealed the room completely, cutting them off from the outside world.
"Mr Justiciar, I did not expect this situation. I swear, everything they did has nothing to do with me!" Borgin said immediately, his voice tight with desperation.
"You saw it yourself—he cast a curse directly at me. If I had not defended in time, I might already be dead from their spells." He pointed at the wizard imprisoned in amber.
"Who knows if you are all just acting?" Dudley said, his tone utterly indifferent.
He knew well that what the eyes see is not necessarily truth.
Even if that person had genuinely attacked Borgin, it proved nothing. After all, Borgin stood here completely unharmed—those curses had failed completely.
Borgin's expression flickered between panic and calculation.
He understood Dudley did not trust him. Worse, he had witnessed far too many of Dudley's extraordinary abilities in battle—private secrets that made him a dangerous liability.
Most damning of all, he also knew Dudley's true identity.
That was potentially fatal.
He knew some people would stop at nothing to protect their secrets—killing was routine for those with power and much to lose.
Gripping his wand, Borgin considered violent resistance for one fleeting moment, then abandoned the idea. That path led only to death.
"How can I prove myself?" Borgin asked his voice stripped of pretence. He tossed his wand aside, letting it clatter across the stone floor—a gesture of surrender.