"The rules are completely different when it comes to my own people."
Douglas's gaze swept across the room. In the confusion on every face, he saw a spark beginning to kindle.
"I'm no longer here just to minimize risk."
"What matters now is maximizing our gain."
He spoke each word with a calm, unyielding authority.
"Your future, your dignity, your right to survive on this land—these are my responsibility now."
"So I won't let you live like hunted rats, forever cowering in the shadows."
His voice rose, gathering force, stirring something deep within their hearts.
"I want you to stand tall like lions—on your own territory, in the open—ready to tear apart any enemy who dares trespass."
"You've entrusted your fate to me. That means I'll fight for the very best future for you."
Douglas glanced around, the corners of his mouth curving into a mocking smile—one aimed at the unseen foes lurking beyond the cave.
"As for the Church and the Ministry of Magic? Let them watch."
"The more they see, the less they'll dare to act rashly."
"This game—ever since you chose to follow me, the rules of the chessboard are mine to set."
The cave fell utterly silent.
Only the campfire crackled in the hush.
Aldo stood quietly, the clouds of confusion finally clearing from his weathered face.
In their place was a clarity born of revelation—a shock that had settled into understanding.
He bowed deeply, not out of courtesy, but from a surrender of the soul.
"We… understand."
All doubt vanished from the eyes of the surrounding werewolves.
Awe and gratitude blazed into something higher: a near-fanatical devotion, an absolute trust.
At last, they understood. What they followed was not just a wizard of terrifying power—
—but a leader willing to shoulder the weight of their fate and dignity.
…
Night grew deeper.
Most of the tribe had already sunk into deep sleep, gathering strength for what lay ahead.
Only Marco and Aldo remained at Douglas and Lupin's side.
From his enchanted trunk, Douglas drew out a curious object.
It was a brass disk, palm-sized, its surface polished to a mirror shine. There were no hands, no markings—just a series of intricate, ancient Eastern cloud patterns etched in concentric circles.
"Marco."
Douglas handed him the disk.
"I call this little trinket 'United We Stand.'"
Marco took it. The brass felt warm in his palm, almost as if it held a heartbeat.
"What does it do?"
"It can't point the way or send messages," Douglas explained quietly. "But if my companions—or rather, if our tribe—ever faces betrayal from within, its surface will start to tremble, like boiling water."
Marco's eyes narrowed.
Internal betrayal.
No leader could ever ignore that threat.
Even the gentle Ashclaw tribe had known traitors in their history.
"But there's a catch," Douglas added. "Anyone who formally joins the tribe must sign the new loyalty pact."
"My magic is woven into the agreement. It records each person's scent, linking them to this disk."
"Only those recognized by United We Stand are protected by it."
Marco frowned. "Protected?"
"United We Stand. The meaning is literal…"
Douglas's tone was mild, but there was a meticulous, almost icy caution behind it.
He'd never believed in absolute loyalty—only in rules that could be balanced and enforced.
Marco gripped the disk tightly. What he felt wasn't just trust, but the solid security of being taken beneath someone's wing.
Douglas was thinking further ahead than any of them had dared.
As dawn approached, the atmosphere in the abandoned mine had utterly changed.
There was no more despair or confusion in the werewolves' eyes.
Instead, a sharp, determined light—one forged by a sense of sacred mission.
Their weapon-sharpening was steady and strong.
Their breathing, as they practiced control, grew deeper and longer.
The Ashclaw tribe—once a beast barely clinging to life in despair—was fully awakened now.
Its soul was forged of steel.
Its claws, laced with venom.
Now it waited, silent and patient in the darkness.
Waiting for that most vicious, arrogant mad dog to follow the scent—a mix of hope and blood—into this home-turned-hunting ground, prepared just for him.
A swiftest werewolf scout, carrying that magically enhanced, fatally tempting drop of blood, slipped into the night without a sound.
At the very same moment, in the Italian Ministry of Magic, International Magical Cooperation Office—
On the giant magical map in Lorenzo DiNovo's office, the region marking the heart of the Apennines suddenly lit up. A once-still point began to move, radiating faint but unmistakable magical ripples.
"He's really there!"
Lorenzo shot to his feet, knocking over his espresso.
He stared at the spreading ripples, as if watching a net being cast.
Ever since Douglas had made contact with the Church, his whereabouts had become impossible to track by magical means.
Clearly, some kind of concealment was at play.
"What's he up to? Exposing his location—waiting for Dumbledore?"
Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the desk, the sound sharp and restless.
"Or is he still gathering evidence?"
He dismissed the thought.
"No, he must have leverage on the Church, or that lunatic Piero wouldn't be so quiet."
In Lorenzo's mind, Douglas should be a dagger—driving deeper into the Church, bursting the abscess of the 'Adam Project' wide open.
But now, Douglas had stopped.
Not just stopped—he'd lit a beacon, as if daring the world to come find him.
This was nothing like the script Lorenzo had written.
For the first time, the master of the chessboard felt a piece move in a way he couldn't predict.
He couldn't fathom Douglas's motives, and that left him more off-balance than ever before.
…
Sicily, deep in a cave beneath Mount Etna.
The air was stifling, dry, thick with sulfur and the tang of blood.
A bare-chested werewolf, a blood-red crescent moon tattoo curling across his torso, was methodically cleaning his nails with a dagger.
His glare was more ferocious than the volcanic rock itself.
A wiry scout knelt before him, trembling as he recited news from the mainland.
"…A werewolf named Lupin. They say his curse has been cured. He's with those Ashclaw tribe people, and they—"
"Heh."
The tattooed werewolf let out a hoarse, guttural laugh, cutting the scout off.
He looked up, revealing a face crisscrossed with scars.
"A cured werewolf?"
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