Novel Chapter
Valerius froze, then felt a faint, unexpected relief.
As long as the conversation didn't circle back to that revolting cousin of his, he could handle anything.
Eager to prove his worth—and to appease this terrifying new colleague—he gathered his thoughts in an instant.
He lifted his head, his voice rough with forced composure, yet tinged with a desperate allure:
"Professor Holmes... perhaps you'd be interested in the true power core of the Red Moon Brotherhood. A core that, for decades, has never truly been unified."
It was a substantial bargaining chip.
"Our last leader was a totem werewolf of immense strength—his bloodline traced all the way back to Fenrir, the great wolf of Norse legend."
"But when Grindelwald rose to power, that Dark Lord killed him with his own hands, simply because he refused to submit."
There was a note of awe in Valerius's voice—reverence for both the fallen werewolf leader and for Grindelwald himself.
"Since then, the Brotherhood's been fractured. No one has the power or the reputation to keep all the factions in line."
"Factions?" Douglas caught the word at once, though his pace never slowed.
"Yes," Valerius replied quickly, hurrying to keep up.
"There are three main forces. First, the vampires—my faction. We control intelligence, wealth, and all outside connections. We're masters of strategy and infiltration."
"The second are the totem werewolves."
He glanced at Douglas's back, choosing his words with care.
"They're the Brotherhood's fist—pure brute force and military might. We keep each other in check; neither side can truly dominate the other."
"Three factions, but you've only named two," Douglas said mildly.
Valerius stiffened. After a brief hesitation, he lowered his voice to a near whisper:
"And then there are the dark wizards. The most secretive, the most twisted. They handled forbidden magics, ancient rituals, and... communications with certain entities."
"But that faction vanished... a few years ago."
His voice began to tremble as he stopped in his tracks.
A memory he'd tried to bury surged back, unstoppable as a flood.
The destruction of the dark wizard faction... his cousin's disgraceful flight from Bucharest... the timing was almost identical!
The few surviving dark wizards had spoken in hushed, broken tones about the attack. Their assailant was a British wizard, wielding spells they'd never even heard of.
A British wizard...
Valerius's breath caught. He jerked his head up, staring at the calm figure ahead of him. A terrifying suspicion, cold as ice, took shape in his mind.
"That... that British wizard..." His teeth chattered. "I heard—"
Douglas finally stopped.
He turned, moonlight illuminating half his face, his deep green eyes glinting with a knowing smile.
"What is it you want to ask?"
Valerius met those eyes, but the words stuck in his throat.
He understood. He understood everything.
Douglas seemed amused by his reaction, reading the unspoken question in his gaze.
At the same time, he pieced together a long-missing fragment of the puzzle.
So, the lair he'd destroyed all those years ago was actually a major branch of the Red Moon Brotherhood.
And the mysterious leader of that group...
Douglas could still recall the moment he pulled back the hood and saw that face—not a typical dark wizard, but the pale, fanatical eyes of a Cardinal of the Church.
A Cardinal, leading a faction of the Red Moon Brotherhood.
What did that mean?
It meant the vast, chaotic Brotherhood had always been under the Church's watchful eye—perhaps had always been a hound bred in darkness by the Church itself.
They used the Brotherhood to deal with heretics the Church couldn't openly touch, and kept their leash tight all the while.
No wonder Lorenzo was so anxious. The Italian Ministry of Magic was facing a far more tangled web than anyone had guessed.
"Before you answer my question," Douglas said, stepping forward and looking down at Valerius from above, "let me answer yours."
"Yes."
"I destroyed that dark wizard organization."
His tone was calm, almost casual—but each word landed like a sledgehammer on Valerius's heart.
Valerius's vision went black. He staggered back two steps, catching himself against a rough-barked tree just in time to keep from collapsing.
It was over.
Everything was over.
He'd once dreamed of surviving this crisis, using his hidden cards to slowly seize control of the entire Brotherhood.
Now he realized: the organization he'd taken such pride in was, to this man, as transparent and fragile as a child's toy.
If Douglas wanted to break it, he could—he already had.
"Now," Douglas's voice dragged him back from the brink, "it's your turn to answer me."
"Who was the totem werewolf who attacked us? What's his standing in the Brotherhood?"
Valerius gasped for breath. He knew he had no bargaining chips left.
This man didn't care about the Brotherhood's fate—he just needed a guide.
"His name is Butcher Ulrik," Valerius rasped.
"One of the Brotherhood's most brutal, deranged werewolf leaders. His bloodline's impure, but he's used dark wizard methods to devour his own kind and forcibly make himself stronger. Most of the Brotherhood's werewolf forces answer to him."
"He and I have always fought for control of the entire organization."
He paused, almost involuntarily. His mouth snapped shut.
He thought of his true trump card—the flesh amalgam locked in the deepest chamber, created from his cousin.
His ultimate weapon against Ulrik—even to devour him.
But the thought had barely formed before a needle of pain stabbed from the contract's brand in his soul.
He realized, with a jolt, that in front of Heaven's Net, any deception or scheming was suicide.
Douglas watched the rapid play of emotions on his face, lips curling in a wry, mocking smile, but he didn't call him out. He knew this new assistant still needed time to truly understand what honesty meant.
He turned and continued toward the mine.
"Looks like our guests tonight will be... more enthusiastic than I expected."
Valerius stared after that retreating figure, his heart icy cold.
He could already picture the bloody, almost farcical scene that would unfold when Ulrik's violence-worshipping werewolf army collided with this wizard who'd turned hunting and dissection into an art.
The Red Moon Brotherhood—a behemoth lurking in the Apennine shadows for centuries—was about to meet its end in this very valley.
And he, as the sole survivor, would bear witness to it all.
Perhaps this, more than anything, was the cruelest torture hidden in the contract's blank clause.
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