The primary reason Alan was willing to assist the centaurs was tactical; he knew they were the werewolves' target, so he used them as a fixed point to anchor the battlefield. If the pack were to scatter and flee into the dense timber now, hunting them down individually would be an exhausting ordeal.
Secondly, Alan knew Hagrid maintained a respectful relationship with several of the tribes, so he was willing to lend a hand. However, the Elder's attempt to shoo the werewolves away was actively working against Alan's interests.
"My werewolf friends, please don't run. I've sent so many of your brothers to their graves; it wouldn't be right if you didn't stay to settle the debt," Alan muttered, staring across the clearing and offering a silent prayer for their stubbornness.
"Old fool! How dare you mock the pack? I will use your flesh and bone to mourn my fallen!" The werewolf wizard's reaction was exactly what Alan hoped for. The alpha, who had been weighing the option of a retreat, was instantly consumed by a blind, prideful rage.
*Brilliant,* Alan thought, casting a sideways glance at the worried Centaur Elder. *Was the old man actually using a provocation tactic? Perhaps I underestimated his grasp of psychology.*
The furious werewolf leader gritted his teeth and pulled several vials from his bandolier. With a guttural howl, he summoned the remaining wolves to his side and distributed the draughts. The wolves didn't bother uncorking them; they tossed the vials into their maws, crunching the glass and swallowing the liquid and shards in one savage gulp.
Alan's expression darkened. He fired off several curses to interrupt the process, but the distance was too great, and the wizard intercepted the spells with a pair of rapid Protego charms.
The transformation was instantaneous. The wolves threw their heads back in long, agonizing howls, their claws raking deep furrows into their own hides. Blood welled up where they tore at their fur, but they seemed oblivious to the pain, as if something volcanic was erupting beneath their skin.
When they lowered their heads to face Alan again, their eyes had changed. The pupils were dilated to the absolute limit, their muscles pulsed with unnatural volume, and thick, twitching veins throbbed visibly beneath their matted coats.
*What is that? A Berserker Draught or a Blood Frenzy Potion?* Alan cursed silently. Kiki hadn't mentioned that her master dealt in such high-risk forbidden alchemy.
Alan had seen the effects of a Blood Frenzy Potion before. It forcibly overwrote the body's limits, skyrocketing physical strength and magic resistance at the cost of the user's sanity. These werewolves were already agile; if they gained a massive speed boost, landing a spell would be nearly impossible. He wasn't even certain if the current loops would hold them now.
"Rotate," Alan commanded, sweeping his wand. The Thunderstorm Orbs began to orbit the centaur group, slowly picking up speed until they were a blurring ring of silver light. This would make it harder for the drugged wolves to time their leaps over the circuits.
The wolves, now devoid of any lingering rationality, let out a final, collective roar and charged. They ignored the electrical barriers that had previously stalled them. When they hit the current lines, they didn't recoil; they snarled through the agonizing shocks, their momentum carrying them through the pain.
Even the lightning striking down from the Stormeye cloud failed to drop them. Where a bolt would usually send a wolf cartwheeling, these monsters merely stumbled for a fraction of a second. Charred, smoking scars zig-zagged across their backs, but they didn't slow down.
"Sectumsempra!"
Alan fired twice. The first was dodged by a wolf whose reflexes were now supernaturally sharp. The second hit its mark, but the blade failed to penetrate deep; the werewolf's muscles were so engorged and dense that they acted like organic armor, clamping shut around the wound to halt the spray of blood.
Alan realized that standard spellcasting wouldn't end this quickly enough. He abandoned his conservative approach; it was time to bring out the heavy arsenal.
He swiped his left hand across his chest, producing two metal talismans which he hurled into the path of the charging pack. Next, he activated a silver metal sphere that began to orbit his head with a low hum—a wingless, metallic Snitch. Finally, he uncoiled a silver chain from his belt. It hissed through the air, transforming into a metallic serpent that twisted with predatory grace. This was the upgraded Soul-Binding Serpent.
Alan opened his left hand, and the heavy metal magic book materialized in his palm.
The two talismans detonated simultaneously as they reached the front line of the pack. The first released a high-frequency sonic pulse that made the wolves stagger, clutching at their ears in temporary disorientation. The second erupted in a wave of dark magical energy.
The effect was profound. The werewolves began to stumble blindly. One tripped over a flat stone; another began frantically clawing at his own eyes, drawing blood as if trying to remove a physical veil. They had been cast into total, sensory-deprived blindness by the Endless Darkness talisman. The pack fell into a chaotic heap, snapping and lunging at shadows.
In the confusion, the Soul-Binding Serpent struck. It coiled around a thrashing wolf with terrifying speed. Once the grip was secure, the silver scales flared with light, unleashing a continuous Wild Lightning discharge. The werewolf collapsed, his body jerking in the dirt as the serpent began to systematically drain his magic and stamina. The new runes were working perfectly—extracting energy from the victim to power the very electrical shock that kept him incapacitated.
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