"Cough, cough..."
As Snape coughed and climbed up from the ground, the hall erupted with thunderous cheers that almost seemed to blow off the ceiling filled with clouds.
This unprecedented Hogwarts professor showdown completely overturned the image of professors in everyone's mind—
Granted, William's final act was indeed exaggerated, but the performances of the other professors completely defied their previously exhibited images—just like no one would believe a wizard under four feet tall could be the champion of the Wizard Dueling Competition; or believe that an old farmer always buried in the greenhouse could have such a strong combat prowess.
As the dust settled, the air still lingered with the scorching smell left by the fierce collision of magic power, and the once tidy hall now looked as if it had been plowed, dust swirling, shattered stones sharp, tables and chairs piled against the walls long since turned to wood chippings, and not a single intact floor tile remained—
And the "instigator" of all this—William Richard, was at this moment casually dusting off his wizard robe with a carefree expression of "a bit troublesome but nothing major." Behind him, a few professors were also released from the vines; Professor McGonagall tidied her somewhat messy bun and stepped forward.
"Alright, students."
Professor McGonagall's voice rang out again, successfully calming the surrounding clamor, "Although Professor Richard has demonstrated a... spectacular performance for you all, I must remind you," she adjusted her glasses, her gaze sweeping across faces full of excitement, "The strength demonstrated by the professors today is a testament to years of study and skill, not to be easily replicated—"
"Yes."
William seamlessly took over the topic, "As I mentioned before, the core of the Dueling Class lies in teaching you basic battle logic, survival skills, and ways to handle unexpected situations, not encouraging you to blindly pursue destructive power or reckless bravery—"
Seeing no change in the expressions of the crowd, William chuckled, "If I find out anyone is dueling clandestinely in abandoned classrooms or halls, not only will the participant's house lose fifty points, but they will also be given a term's detention, and Mr. Filch would undoubtedly be eager to keep an eye on you—"
"Ah—"
The little wizards instinctively started to look bitter, evidently, the fight just now had shocked many into wanting to practice themselves.
"Due to the special nature of the course and Hogwarts' resources, Headmaster Dumbledore has decided that the formal classes are only open to third-year students and above."
Seeing William finish speaking, Professor McGonagall spoke again, her gaze particularly focused on the higher-grade student area, "Students interested and eligible for this course must submit the completed application form by the end of this weekend—" With a light wave of her magic wand, countless pieces of parchment flew accurately to each third-year and above student, "—hand it to me in person before the deadline, of course, selection criteria will not only consider personal willingness but also reference your grades in Charms, Transfiguration, Magic Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts as well as your school performance."
As soon as she finished speaking, the hall once again burst into excitement.
The sound of excited discussions, sighs, and the rustling of pages turning intertwined.
"Do you think... I can get selected?"
Ron, holding the parchment, looked a bit nervous as he glanced around—he suddenly realized that the circle of people around him, from Harry to Hermione, then Neville, the twins—even Ginny, were all already members of the Duel Club.
He seemed to have single-handedly isolated himself from everyone.
...
Thousands of miles away, at the Romanian Fire Dragon Reserve.
The forest air still carried the lingering summer heat, scorching, dry, filled with a pungent mix of sulfur and rock dust.
In truth, according to common sense, the temperature here shouldn't be so extreme, after all, the Sub-Alpine Mountain Climate is characterized by low temperatures and high precipitation—so the reason for the heightened temperature here is naturally inseparable from human activity—after all, whose forest could naturally gather so many fire dragons?
The dense, primal subtropical jungle here had long been replaced by steep crimson rock walls, exposed crustal fissures, and some lowlands flowing with rolling lava, in the wizarding world, this is a paradise for fire dragons.
And in this "paradise," a slender figure was slowly advancing along the rock wall.
Newt Scamander—
The elderly man's signature curly grey hair was covered with red dust; the hem of his wide, brownish-yellow coat was torn by thorns. Even in such a dangerous environment, his right hand remained firmly "welded" to a small brown suitcase—
He was cautiously progressing along a path long untraveled by humans, his expression exceptionally focused.
"Roar—"
A deep, low roar sounded from the spot behind his neck, and then a grey fire dragon head poked out from his collar.
But this fire dragon head was pitifully small.
"Quiet, Lina—"
Newt raised his hand to pat this head, the shrunken Ukrainian Ironbelly shook its head in dissatisfaction, "The territory division here is very meticulous, I have to find you a better spot, understand? Little one..."
Looking at the gradually descending sun, Newt sighed, took a breath, and paused at the entrance of a cave—
"I don't think there are any fire dragons in here..."
Newt touched the dry stone wall, furrowed his brows, "But... why is it so..." Hesitating for a moment, he gently waved his magic wand, "Lumos." In the next moment, the wand tip burst into a steady strong light; he took a deep breath and ducked into the entrance, which seemed a bit overly narrow for a fire dragon.
Initially narrow, barely passable, then after dozens of steps, it opened up suddenly.
Soon, Newt noticed a change in the surrounding space, appearing to be a huge natural cave formed by volcanic rock.
However, on the cave walls, marks of artificial chiseling were clear—coarse stone steps spiraled downward, extending all the way to a relatively flat open area at the cave's bottom, where stood a rough altar-like structure made of crimson rocks, surrounded by several broken gigantic stone columns.
"Merlin's wig..."
Newt murmured, his eyes wide behind the goggles, "What is this?" He quickly walked down the steps, "…Could there be ruins underground in Romania?" He looked around again, "Makes sense, how could those folks sitting in their offices possibly discover this—"
But as he spoke, his initially excited mood quickly calmed, even freezing into ice.
"Poachers..."
Looking at the fallen banners and emblems on the ground, the old man's eyes couldn't help but narrow.