"Impossible!"
MacDuff's words burst out before he could stop himself.
Everyone knew that the great man was currently locked away in Nurmengard. The International Confederation of Wizards maintained an incredibly tight watch over the Nurmengard tower. On the surface, it looked as though only a single Squib handled the food delivery and daily watch. But in reality, the entire fortress was cocooned in layers upon layers of warding magic—trigger spells, restricting charms—constantly renewed and upgraded every few days.
Why not simply station wizards there as guards, instead of relying on rigid magical arrays?
Because someone had a history. A dangerous history.
Wherever he went, he bewitched minds. From the Head of the Auror Office down to the lowest clerk—once they were subjected to his words, their loyalty could crack in an instant. This problem was so severe that no country dared risk sending their own people as wardens anymore.
Only lifeless, incorruptible arrays could provide true peace of mind.
Of all the Saints in the room, the one with the deepest grudge was the unlucky man whose arm Tom had once pierced clean through with a cactus. He immediately snapped,
"Kid, Grindelwald's locked in Nurmengard. What, did you fly in to become his apprentice? I—"
He never finished the sentence. Halfway through, his throat seemed to seize up, as though an invisible pair of hands had closed tightly around it. The others showed the same expression, their eyes bulging in alarm.
In Tom's palm, a flame had appeared—dark, malevolent, and radiating a sinister aura. He kept it confined to a controlled size, letting it twist and reshape itself at will.
Before their eyes, the blue fire morphed into a horned demon-bird, its form both alien and terrifying, and it let out a piercing, inhuman shriek at them.
Death itself seemed to descend upon the café, and sweat broke out on every brow.
The Stymphalian Bird—messenger of the Underworld in Greek myth, a herald of the Pits themselves!
It had bronze beak and talons, razor-edged tail feathers it could launch with deadly precision—far sharper than any arrow. Whenever it appeared, it left swathes of corpses in its wake. To wizards and Muggles alike, it was an omen of doom, an envoy of Hades.
Curiously, the Stymphalian Bird was linked in strange ways to both Grindelwald and Andros.
The creature had truly existed in ancient times—until Andros slew the last of its kind, erasing it from the mortal world and consigning it to the realm of legend. That act became enshrined as the sixth labor of Heracles.
And Grindelwald? His Fiendfyre's chosen form was exactly the Stymphalian Bird. Because of this, Andros had never stopped teasing him.
Now, watching Tom, MacDuff and the rest felt their certainty waver.
The effortless grace with which he wielded Fiendfyre, the unmistakable, unique form it took… No one here could believe Tom had nothing to do with Grindelwald.
Could he truly be the great man's disciple?
Tom closed his hand, and the Fiendfyre vanished into nothingness. His gaze slid past the visibly shaken MacDuff and his group, toward the café door.
"Aren't the ones outside coming in? I've already proven who I am. Talking with these juniors is pointless. It's time for someone with weight to step forward."
A brief silence fell. Then, more figures appeared at the doorway. MacDuff and his companions quickly stepped aside.
Three men and one woman, all elderly, all with hair as white as snow, entered the room.
"Mr. Riddle," the leader greeted, inclining his head slightly. "Forgive our caution. These are not kind times for us. The Saints cannot afford any more losses."
Counting the people outside, there were around twenty in total—an impressive turnout.
Part of the reason was the signal Tom had used last time—they wanted to know the truth about him, and so their highest ranks had come.
The other part was fear: fear that this might be a sting operation by several Ministries of Magic, laying a trap just to punish them later. In that uncertainty, they had chosen to come in greater numbers. If it was a trap, then they'd be ready to fight their way out.
But after what Tom had just shown them, the suspicion melted away.
It wasn't just the appearance of the firebird—this elder had personally witnessed Grindelwald conjuring Fiendfyre before. That same air of absolute dominance, that same godlike presence of a "new age deity"… Such things could not be faked.
Only the great man himself could have trained such a disciple. And so, his tone toward Tom was one of deep respect.
"How should I address you?" Tom asked quietly.
"Anton Vogel," the elder replied.
"Hm?"
Tom's sharp gaze cut into him, as though piercing his very thoughts. Instinctively, Vogel wanted to throw up the Occlumency barriers in his mind—but he suppressed that reflex, forcing himself to remain still.
Tom saw what he needed to see, and his expression softened.
"My apologies, Mr. Vogel. I misunderstood."
Vogel shook his head quickly.
"The fault is mine. I should have explained sooner—my father and I share the same name."
Tom gave a slight nod.
Even after all his years in the West, he still found it strange that fathers and sons would use the exact same name. His first thought had been that Vogel was playing games with him.
Anton Vogel could be called both Grindelwald's subordinate and his partner.
In those days, Vogel had been the German Minister for Magic and also the President of the International Confederation of Wizards. It was Vogel who worked tirelessly behind the scenes for Grindelwald, lobbying on his behalf and even pushing for him to run for office.
At that time, Germany had been Grindelwald's logistical heartland, a place where his ideology had found wide acceptance.
Even after Grindelwald's electoral defeat, Vogel never wavered. He stood by him firmly, a figure second—or at least third—only to Grindelwald himself in the Saints' hierarchy.