Valerius's face turned even darker than his midnight robe.
Of course he knew exactly who Douglas was talking about.
That "little bat" was his own younger cousin—the one who'd fled the family at his side, only to crawl back years later, so broken it took three full years before he could barely hold human form again.
Through the polluted memories in their shared blood, Valerius had seen Douglas's methods firsthand.
That wasn't combat. It was vivisection.
Douglas used Muggle scalpels to peel away his cousin's flesh layer by layer, studying the regenerative powers of vampire cells.
He drove Eastern silver needles into nerve clusters, testing how different acupoints responded to blood curses.
He even experimented with holy water and garlic extract, concocting a new potion that left vampire skin blistered and weeping, as if doused in acid.
Those memories had taught Valerius one thing: the wizard before him was no mere madman. He was something far more terrifying.
A scholar's mask over the soul of a dissecting fiend—driven by a bottomless, clinical curiosity for all things unknown.
Valerius couldn't answer.
To admit it would be to expose his own shame.
To deny it would be to admit he was weaker than the cousin who'd crawled back in disgrace.
That invisible humiliation set the air at the cave mouth crackling with tension.
"ROAR!"
The pig-faced brute could bear it no longer. With a beast's howl, he charged like an out-of-control lorry.
But after barely two strides, he tripped as if on an invisible cord.
Thud!
He crashed face-first into the dirt, his huge frame shaking the ground.
It was Lupin.
He hadn't even bothered to raise his wand.
As the brute lunged, Lupin simply nudged a pebble with his toe—a gesture so subtle, so human, it was almost childish mischief.
The stone rolled precisely into the path of the charging beast.
A simple act, yet it carried the weight of effortless mastery—using wit, not just magic or brute force.
The humiliation pushed Valerius's followers over the edge.
"You filthy mongrel!"
The witch shrieked, her wand spitting a thick, sickly green curse that reeked of rotting swamp.
"Splenectus!" (Spleen-Splitting Curse!)
The spell tore through the air with a teeth-grinding screech, aimed straight at Lupin's face.
Douglas didn't even bother to draw his wand. He just lifted his hand, almost lazily.
"Protego."
An invisible shield snapped into existence before him. The vicious beam struck it like a rotten egg against glass—splattering, dissolving, gone without a sound.
"Splenectus."
Douglas tilted his head, critiquing as if he were grading homework.
"Vicious enough."
"But your magical structure's all wrong—too much malice, not enough focus."
"You forgot to breathe before casting. That made the end of your incantation waver, wasted at least thirty percent of the power. Watch that next time."
His tone was so earnest, so sincerely pedagogical, it was almost cruel.
The witch's face flushed a mottled purple, too furious for words.
Watching Douglas brush off two attacks with effortless ease, even the last glimmer of hope in Valerius's eyes guttered out.
He drew a long, icy breath—one that seemed to carry the chill of a crypt.
He forced himself to calm down.
He might be mad, but he wasn't a fool.
Now was not the time for a fight—at least not before Greyback arrived. Not with this unfathomable man, risking mutual destruction.
He slipped his hand behind his back, digging his nails into his palm until pain sharpened his thoughts.
"We're not enemies… not yet."
All trace of theatricality vanished from Valerius's voice; he sounded like a businessman, cold and pragmatic.
He raised his hand, signaling his two followers to fall back.
"Fenrir Greyback is a true predator. He should be one of us—sharing the glory of the night."
His gaze flicked between Marco and Douglas.
"You want to tame him. We want to recruit him. In the end, our goal is the same: control."
"That's why I'm here—to make you an offer."
"What offer?" Marco growled, tightening his grip on his spear.
Valerius flashed what he must have thought was a charming smile.
"Hand over Lupin."
He pointed at Lupin behind Douglas.
"Let us deal with Greyback our way. He's the perfect bait, isn't he?"
"In return, the Red Moon Brotherhood will grant your tribe protection."
His voice dripped with temptation.
"Join us, Marco. Imagine it—vampire immortality and cunning, fused with werewolf ferocity and strength. Together, we could rule every magical creature on this continent."
"Otherwise—"
His tone turned cold as a blade.
"When the real war begins, you'll be ground to dust by both Greyback and us."
His voice swelled again with arrogant grandeur, as if bestowing a rare honor.
Catching the mocking glint in Douglas's eye, Valerius quickly added, almost pleading:
"Mr. Holmes, we don't intend him harm."
"We're only inviting him—as a guest. For his… protection."
"The werewolf leader in the Red Moon Brotherhood—the true madman—he's already on his way with his pack. We simply arrived first."
"Give us Lupin. You'll spare your Ash Tribe from war, and spare him from being torn apart by his own kind. It's the best choice for everyone."
Marco let out a low, guttural laugh.
It was hardly human—more like rocks rumbling deep in a cave, full of animal resonance.
"Protection?"
He rolled the word around as if tasting rotten fruit.
"Your protection is just a collar, Valerius."
He stepped forward, half a pace, his silver-dusted spearhead glinting cold as ice in the moonlight.
"We'd rather face the holy fire of the Church than wear it."
A flash of outrage cracked Valerius's handsome mask, but he quickly sealed it beneath aristocratic chill.
He shifted his gaze from Marco—as if he were nothing but inconvenient furniture—back to Douglas.
"Professor."
There was no trace of drama left in his voice, only a dry, businesslike frankness.
"Your methods… are extraordinary. Your power, beyond question."
He seemed to be searching for common ground, some way to speak as equals.
"Greyback is a blunt instrument. In my hands, he could become a scalpel. In yours, he's just a lab rat."
A slow curve tugged at Douglas's lips.
It wasn't a smile.
It was the pure, predatory curiosity of a child discovering a new and fascinating toy.
"He's not worthy of my research table…"
He spoke languidly, but his gaze raked over Valerius—from his deathly pale skin, to the blue veins peeking from his cuffs, to the ancient family crest on his ring.
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