Chapter 331: Ethan: Do You Even Know How Many Sickles a Loaf of Bread Costs Now?
In the next second, there was a loud clatter.
The old drunk lurched to his feet, having flung his mug aside. His legs wobbled as he staggered towards that lone "young follower" in the corner, then slammed a palm down on the table.
Slurring, he shouted, "O-only ignorant idiots like you lot believe in disaster… in some 'crisis in the wizarding world'!"
"Pah! I don't buy it!"
"That bloke called E-Ethan, or whatever… who does he think he is? Let him come! I'm not scared of him!"
The rough shouting drew every eye in the pub.
The followers stopped praying and crowded over, grabbing the drunk's arm as someone scolded him sternly. "Everyone has their own beliefs and their own way of living. Don't you go disturbing other people."
"Bollocks!" The drunk yanked his arm free.
Fuming, he rummaged inside his coat and dragged out a filthy wand with splinters in it, then jabbed it towards the young follower, bellowing, "Crisis? It's all lies! Ethan and the Ministry made it up to control us!"
"I'm not falling for it!"
No one answered.
Even with a wand pointed at him, the young follower remained silent.
No, more than silent.
He behaved as if the drunk did not exist at all.
He kept calmly sipping the strange liquid from his tin cup.
That complete, effortless disregard stung worse than any insult.
The drunk's face went red all the way down his neck, swelling purplish as if he might burst.
"A-are you mute?!" he snapped.
He prodded the wand forward. A spray of sparks shot out, streaking straight towards the tin cup.
Bang!
And then something deeply wrong happened.
Right in front of everyone, the sparks passed straight through the cup, hit the tabletop, and left a scorched black mark.
As if, for a heartbeat, the space itself had slipped out of alignment.
The drunk froze, blinking at the untouched cup in confusion.
Had he… missed?
A shocked shout rose from the crowd. "Merlin, that cup… that cup is a painting?!"
From a slightly different angle, it became obvious.
The tin cup that had looked so vivid and real in the young follower's hand was nothing more than a painting propped against the wall.
The twist in space was what had made the spell "pass through" and strike the table instead.
The pub erupted.
The followers' heads snapped up, and something fever-bright flared behind those gold masks.
At the same time, the young follower finally seemed willing to acknowledge them.
He rose slowly.
His shadow climbed with him, and the light seemed to pull back, as though the room itself was giving him space.
As if he were a rising sun.
And at the same time, the deepest darkness.
That shadow spilled over the troublemaking drunk. An invisible pressure settled across the air.
The drunk stumbled back two steps, eyes wide, fear spilling through the alcohol haze.
But his mouth still fought. "Y-you want a fight? I'm not afraid of you!"
He waved his pathetic wand like a club.
The young follower turned his head and regarded him without the slightest concern.
When he spoke, his voice was clear and steady.
"Do you know how many Sickles a loaf of bread costs now?"
The drunk blinked. "Huh?"
Before he could even process the question, the young follower clenched his fist. His voice surged, suddenly sharp with conviction.
"Nine Sickles. For a single loaf of bread."
"And once upon a time, a mug of Butterbeer cost two Sickles."
"The whole wizarding world is on edge because of the enemy rising in the dark."
"Every corner of our world has people preparing for the storm that's coming, working, fighting, holding the line."
Then his tone softened.
Almost gentle.
"But you, my dear friend…"
His gaze, behind that gold mask, fixed on the drunk who had gone stiff on the spot. Under the candlelight, diamond-blue eyes glimmered.
"You can still sit here in peace, enjoying your morning beer and indulging your temper, because someone is doing everything they can to keep order."
The drunk swallowed. "I… I…"
His head cleared by half in an instant, as though he had finally realised what he was looking at. His voice began to shake.
The young follower continued, "And this peace isn't bought with alcohol. It isn't earned by roaring at younger people, either…"
He lifted a hand and tore the gold mask from his face.
A young, handsome face was revealed, bright with confidence and life.
Ethan Vincent.
The drunk's knees buckled. He rolled his eyes back and collapsed, fainting on the spot.
A yellowish liquid leaked between his twitching legs.
After today, he probably wouldn't touch drink again.
Ethan glanced down at him with airy indifference and flicked a small hex onto the man for his foul mouth.
Nothing dramatic.
Just nightmares for a while.
Then Ethan turned to the followers, who were trembling with excitement.
He raised his fist, as if he meant to hammer his words straight into every heart in the room, and his voice rang out.
"It's bought with resistance. With every unyielding will!"
"Wooooo!" the followers roared, as one.
They dropped to their knees in front of Ethan. Hot tears streamed from beneath those gold masks.
"Saviour! End all disaster and lead us into the new world!"
"We offer you our loyalty, sir!"
"Please, look at me!"
[You delivered an inspiring speech. More people will benefit because of it.]
[Brightness increases. For a period of time, it will illuminate hidden extraordinary objects for you.]
Ethan's mouth curved upward.
Bathed in their shouts, he spread his arms wide, almost like a merciful god, and spoke clearly.
"When darkness falls, I will guide you to a safe refuge."
"Now, I will grant you the blessing of light."
As he spoke, golden magic flowed out, drifting through the followers.
Clarity washed through them, body and mind.
They fell quiet, bowing their heads in reverent silence as they received the gift.
Across the room, Tom the barman gaped at the frenzy.
For a moment, it was as if he could see Ethan descending like Merlin himself, glowing with light.
After a long beat, Tom quietly slid under the cupboard.
He covered his ears, face crumpling.
He took back everything he had ever thought.
He was absolutely not used to followers being this terrifying.
Ethan Vincent in person was on an entirely different level.
At the same time, Harry arrived as agreed, then silently pulled his foot back before stepping into the pub.
Ron frowned. "What's wrong?"
Harry shot him a look that was impossible to describe.
Ron leaned forward to peek inside.
Then he, too, went quiet.
He pulled back and said to Harry, "Maybe… we should come back later."
Harry nodded grimly. "Yeah."
Whatever was happening in there looked like the sort of thing that might end with Aurors turning up to "check in".
Typical Ethan.
Even on the way to buy school supplies, he could still whip up a crowd with a rousing speech.
Mr Weasley, who had come along, pulled a face and muttered with heartfelt awe, "Merlin's beard. Now I finally understand why every Minister for Magic ends up getting wary of Ethan."
With an ability like that, almost like an Imperio on people's minds, it was no wonder he could shake the foundations of anyone in power.
Unless…
Ethan replaced the Minister for Magic with one of his own people.
Beside them, Hermione stared at the brilliant golden light, longing written plainly in her eyes.