The intruder, Ian Stanley, and the wizards in the wooden house raised their wands in unison.
In a flash, the room erupted into chaos—a wizard duel breaking out in the cramped space!
A wizard's duel was nothing like a Muggle—or No-Maj—brawl. Among Muggles, physical prowess set the ceiling, and the gap between individuals was rarely insurmountable. Legendary fighters who could "take on ten at once" were rare as phoenix feathers, and anything beyond that was the stuff of myth.
But with wizards, the rules changed. Magic could push their limits sky-high—maybe even boundless. Even Dumbledore, hailed as one of the most powerful wizards alive, wouldn't dare claim he'd reached magic's true ceiling. And then there were those like Voldemort, always searching for new, forbidden ways to shatter every limit.
So, the gulf between wizards could be as vast as the sky and the earth. One was a prodigy ready for Oxford, the other still struggling with basic arithmetic.
As someone who had once shared a body with Steven Swinton, Ian Stanley possessed all of Professor Swinton's knowledge—every spell, every secret. And where Swinton might have hesitated to cast certain dark magics, Ian Stanley wielded them without a second thought.
In some ways, this made the mad and ruthless Ian Stanley even more terrifying than Hogwarts' former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—because he truly didn't hold back.
Of course, "not holding back" didn't necessarily mean killing.
Facing a dozen or so wizards with shaky resolve and wildly uneven magical skill, Ian Stanley opened with a sweep of Fiendfyre, forcing most of them against the walls.
He followed up with a rapid Binding Curse, then chained a Stunning Spell—dropping the burly, bearded leader before the man could even finish a single Expelliarmus. The thud as he hit the floor echoed through the room.
With their leader out cold, the rest of the wizards' resistance crumbled.
Ian Stanley strolled through the house as if out for a walk, casting spell after spell. Screams and groans filled the air.
"Confringo!"
The Blasting Curse exploded a chair hurled at him into splinters, and a couple of unlucky wizards were struck down by flying shards—bloodied, whimpering, and out of the fight.
In less than two minutes, Ian had put down every wizard in the room.
"Pathetic. Truly a bunch of trash," he sneered, running his fingers over his wand, which was only slightly warm to the touch. He almost felt disappointed.
"If only I had a proper magical sword—now that would be fun," he muttered, almost wistful.
His mind drifted back to a younger self, overjoyed at wielding a real sword, and to that moment when three blades crossed and sang in harmony. (See Chapter 61.)
A pang of nostalgia struck him.
No. That wasn't "him."
That was Steven Swinton—not Ian Stanley.
Even if he remembered every moment of Swinton's life, he was not that man.
He'd left Swinton's sword behind in a mysterious Egyptian pyramid, buried with the mummy and the past, deep in the darkness. He'd discarded everything of Swinton's—save the body. Even his wand was new. That sword? Never.
Objects were easy to cast aside. But memories—those were harder to shake. Just now, he'd even found himself missing the time spent with that "Eastern kid."
Ridiculous.
How could he possibly miss that pretentious, smooth-talking, all-flash-no-substance brat?
The thought soured his mood. The satisfaction of the fight faded, replaced by irritation.
He gave the bearded man a sharp kick to wake him, then swept his gaze around the battered room, voice cold as ice:
"Remember this: This Saturday, eight o'clock sharp, you all gather here. If anyone's missing, what you suffered today will be nothing compared to what's coming."
As he spoke, Ian flicked his wand, inscribing a Salem address onto the floorboards with a burst of magic.
Without waiting for a response, he blasted a gaping hole in the door and strode out, not looking back.
His exit was the very opposite of his polite entrance—brutal, abrupt, and utterly unconcerned.
But compared to the pain he'd just inflicted, destroying a door was hardly worth mentioning.
…
"Who on earth was that?" the freckled witch groaned, clutching her stomach as she staggered to her feet, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth.
The whole thing had been so sudden—so utterly senseless.
If it had been the Magical Congress, they'd at least have accused them of slandering the government. If it were an old enemy, there'd be some declaration of vengeance, a demand, a reason.
But this "Ian Stanley" had just barged in, called them "trash," and started swinging. Even Merlin would be left speechless.
"No idea. Never heard the name…" The bearded man rubbed his aching head, thinking hard. "But I vaguely recall hearing from some friends in Brazil—a group calling itself 'G.A.' has been gathering power in secret. Maybe he's one of theirs."
"G.A.? What's that supposed to be?" someone asked, bewildered.
"Grindelwald's Army," the bearded man said at last.
The name "Grindelwald" silenced the room. Everyone knew it. He'd once thrown the North American wizarding world into chaos. Even now, locked away in Nurmengard, his legend lingered.
"But isn't Grindelwald still in prison?" the freckled witch asked, voice trembling.
All eyes turned to the bearded man. How could someone locked away be organizing an "army"?
"Maybe he escaped?" someone whispered, dread in their voice.
A collective gasp rippled through the group.
Grindelwald—the nightmare that once loomed over every wizard. If he'd broken free, who knew what storm would follow?
"If he did escape, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing. The corrupt Magical Congress needs to be torn down…" A quiet young man's words dripped with cold conviction.
His reminder brought back Grindelwald's old rallying cry—"For the Greater Good!"
"That's exactly what we want, isn't it? The 'Greater Good'?" The young man's voice grew feverish.
"Roman, you're still too young…" the bearded man said, coughing painfully—the kick from Ian Stanley had clearly done some damage.
He steadied himself, then continued, "Grindelwald's ideas are too extreme. He cares nothing for human life. For his so-called 'greater good' for wizards, he'd sacrifice anyone—wizard or No-Maj. He's no hero… cough, cough…"
"Necessary sacrifices are inevitable…" the young man—Roman—muttered, unable to hide his admiration for the legend.
"Roman!" the bearded man snapped, anger flashing in his eyes.
"Sorry… I didn't mean to upset you…" Roman mumbled, backing down.
"Alright, let's get back to the point." The bearded man looked around at the battered group. "According to my friend, this 'Grindelwald's Army' started in the jungles of Brazil. It's not actually led by Grindelwald. Official sources confirm—Grindelwald is still locked up in Nurmengard. Dumbledore himself verified it. The prison's tighter than a dragon's hoard. There's no way Grindelwald's running things from there."
"Then who are they?" someone asked.
"No idea. Maybe they're just using his name for influence…" the bearded man admitted.
"What about this Ian Stanley? What does he want?" the freckled witch asked softly, helping the leader sit up.
"My guess? He's here to recruit us. Or rather—force us to join his group," the bearded man said grimly.
…
A heavy silence fell.
They'd always been a loose, ragtag bunch—more likely to grumble about the Magical Congress than actually do anything radical. Now, a powerful stranger had beaten them into submission and might be dragging them into a mysterious organization. It was a lot to take in.
Yet, for some, it was tempting—a chance to finally do something, to make their mark. Roman, for one, looked almost eager.
The bearded man saw it all, but said nothing.
"In any case, speculation's pointless. We'll know the truth on Saturday. Go home, everyone."
So they left, each lost in their own thoughts—some anxious, some excited, all dreading the wait.
But waiting, as ever, would be its own torment.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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