Chapter 69: My Influence Extends Beyond the School
With a flick of his thumb.
The Galleon spun rapidly in mid-air.
The cold metal engravings caught the dawn's early light, refracting a dazzling bright line.
The coin crossed its highest point and fell straight down.
Arthur opened his right hand.
With a soft "click".
The coin landed steadily in his palm.
He clenched his fist, the cold, hard metal edge pressing against his skin.
"Hogwarts is just a nursery for amusement."
Arthur's voice was scattered by the wind atop the spires of the Ministry of Magic in Berlin.
"What I want is the chains around their necks."
Vinda Rosier stood two steps behind him.
She lowered her head, looking at the puddle on the ground.
Not daring to make a single sound.
"Send a message to Lucius Malfoy."
Arthur turned around, the hem of his black trench coat kicking up a chilly breeze.
"And that widow from the Zabini family in Slytherin."
"Within a week, take full control of all European Potionsuppliers and broom manufacturers."
Vinda dropped to one knee.
"What if someone refuses to sell, Young Master?" she asked.
Arthur didn't even glance at her.
"Then make their names disappear from Gringotts' ledgers."
He strode off in his leather boots, walking toward the stairway.
Two days later. London. Diagon Alley.
The office of Britain's largest racing broom wood supplier.
The room was thick with heavy cigar smoke.
The boss slumped in his chair.
Sweat streamed down his fat face.
Drip-dropping onto several acquisition contracts on the desk, blurring the ink.
Lucius Malfoy stood in front of the desk, leaning on his serpent cane.
Standing beside him was a beautiful woman wearing a black velvet long dress.
The mother of Blaise Zabini.
A toxic widow who had outlived seven wealthy husbands.
"Mr. Malfoy... Mrs. Zabini..."
The boss's voice trembled so badly that he couldn't even cobble together a complete sentence.
"Thirty percent of market value... This is highway robbery! You can't do this..."
Lucius sneered.
He pressed the base of his serpent cane against the back of the boss's hand.
Applying just a little bit of force.
The bones on the back of his hand made a creaking grinding sound.
The boss groaned muffledly in pain, sweat streaming down his forehead even more fiercely.
"You think you're bargaining with me?" Lucius lowered his voice.
He recalled that blond Dark Lord who had blasted Travers away with a single wave of his finger.
A layer of cold sweat uncontrollably broke out across his back.
Even his gaze toward the fat man in front of him was filled with pity.
Mrs. Zabini twirled the emerald ring on her finger.
"Sign it, you fool."
Her voice carried a hint of a neurotic tremor.
"The lord standing behind us doesn't like to wait."
"If you don't sign, your lumber warehouse tonight will be burned to white ashes along with your family."
The boss's face instantly drained of all color.
Turning into a dead grey.
He had heard of those horrifying legends circulating in Knockturn Alley recently.
A shadow whose name no one dared to mention was devouring all underground business through bloody means.
He scrambled to grab the quill.
The nib scratched the parchment, and he tremblingly signed his name.
The same scene played out all over Europe.
The magical herb plantations in the Black Forest of Germany.
The alchemy material workshops in France.
Even including several underground banks secretly controlled by Gringotts Goblins.
The capital network tightened like a noose.
An underground casino deep within Knockturn Alley.
The boss hired a dozen or so thugs to resist this forced acquisition.
The door was just pushed open.
Several German Saints wearing old robes walked in.
Without any nonsense, they struck directly.
Green Killing Curses and cruel severing charms flew wildly across the hall.
In less than three minutes.
A dozen or so thugs were reduced to minced meat and mummified corpses all over the floor.
Blood smeared the gaming tables.
Galleons were packed into leather bags cast with an Undetectable Extension Charm.
And hauled away box by box.
An invisible, massive black capital network quickly choked the throat of the entire wizarding world.
Late at night. London.
The secret conference room beneath Borgin and Burkes magic shop.
The smell in the air was abysmal.
The stench of cigars, the sourness of cheap liquor, mixed with the body odor emanating from a large crowd of people.
Fermenting into a nauseating, muggy dampness.
The conference room was large.
In the middle stood a long dark wood table.
Both sides of the long table were filled with people.
Dozens of people.
All of them were prominent figures in the wizarding world or leaders of underground forces.
Old Nott sat in the second seat on the left.
He placed his hands on his knees, staring intently at the wood grain in front of him.
His breathing was kept very light.
The fathers of Crabbe and Goyle sat beside him.
Their massive bodies shrank into their chairs, like two frightened livestock.
Sitting opposite were several gang bosses from Knockturn Alley.
Werewolf smugglers, dark Potion brewers, and assassination brokers.
These people were usually ruthless characters who licked blood off the edge of a blade outside.
Killing without blinking an eye.
But now, they didn't even have the courage to cough.
There was a deathly silence in the entire conference room.
You could hear a pin drop.
At the very end of the long table.
In the master seat.
Arthur leaned casually against the back of his chair.
The collar of his black trench coat was wide open, revealing a dark grey shirt.
He held that Galleon in his hand.
His five fingers danced rapidly.
The coin shuttled back and forth between his fingers, making a faint metallic friction sound.
This sound became the only movement in the conference room.
Every friction sounded like a steel blade scraping against the hearts of this group of people below.
Arthur didn't look at them.
Those odd-colored pupils, one black and one grey, were half-drooped.
No one dared to speak first.
The atmosphere was so oppressive it was about to explode.
A scar-faced smuggler's psychological defense collapsed.
He wanted to pick up the water glass in front of him to drink some water and moisten his throat.
His hand shook too badly.
The cup hit his teeth, making a crisp clanging sound.
All the water spilled, trickling down his chin into his neck.
He didn't even dare to wipe it.
The Galleon dancing between Arthur's fingers stopped.
He slowly raised his head.
His gaze swept across the trembling faces on both sides of the long table.
The smuggler who had knocked over the water cup stiffened all over.
He felt a chill shoot straight from his tailbone to the back of his head.
He even forgot to breathe.
His eyeballs bulged as if they were about to fall out, staring fixedly at the tabletop.
Arthur pressed the Galleon onto the tabletop.
His thumb pad pressed against the cold metal.
Making a soft "thud" sound.
"Everyone is here."
He spoke.
His voice carried a faint echo in the enclosed basement.
This brief sentence.
Made the dozens of pure-blood family heads and gang bosses present shiver in unison.
Everyone's backs were instantly soaked in cold sweat.
Chapter 70: That Surname Has Returned!
Arthur pressed the Galleon onto the tabletop.
The pads of his fingers pressed against the cold metal.
Making a soft thud.
"Everyone is here."
He spoke.
His voice carried a faint echo in the enclosed basement.
This brief sentence made the dozens of people present shudder simultaneously.
The air in the basement was as thick as a pot of boiling wax.
No one dared to respond.
The cigar smoke hung suspended in mid-air.
Everyone's gaze was fixed intently on the small patch of tabletop in front of them.
Fearing that even the slightest shift in their gaze would bring down fatal disaster.
Old Nott felt his collar was tight enough to choke his neck.
He wanted to reach out and loosen the top button.
His hand raised mid-air, then abruptly stopped.
Daring not to make the slightest rustling noise from his clothing, he could only slowly place his hand back onto his thigh.
His palms were covered in slick, cold sweat.
On the right side of the long table.
Sitting in the third position was a bald, fat man.
Burr.
The boss who controlled the transnational dark Potionsmuggling across the entire English Channel.
He held seventy percent of the Potion raw material supply lines in London's underground black market in his hands.
This was the confidence that allowed him to sit here today.
The flesh on Burr's face trembled.
Sweat rolled down his bald scalp and into his eyes.
A stinging, painful sensation.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple moving up and down laboriously.
Greed ultimately overcame his awe of death.
He felt that the chips in his hands were numerous enough to trade for a bit of the right to speak.
"Lord Grindelwald..."
Burr spoke.
His voice was hoarse, carrying a clear tremor.
"We are willing to hand over all smuggling channels and obey your orders."
He supported the edge of the table with both hands, his fingers digging forcefully into the wood.
"But the profit share..."
The atmosphere in the basement instantly plummeted below freezing point.
Old Nott slammed his eyes shut.
Lucius Malfoy lowered his head even deeper, almost pressing it against the tabletop.
They knew this idiot had crossed the line.
"Thirty percent... is too little."
Burr bit the bullet and squeezed out the remaining words.
"The brothers under us also need to eat. If you can guarantee to leave us fifty percent..."
His voice cut off abruptly.
Arthur sat in the master seat.
Without even lifting his eyelids.
His gaze still fell upon the Goblin head insignia on that Galleon.
He didn't even bother listening to what conditions this fat pig was talking about.
Bargaining with prey was a foolish act performed only by low-level predators.
"So noisy."
Arthur spat out three words.
His voice exuded pure annoyance.
Vinda Rosier, standing slightly behind and to his side, moved.
She was wearing that black vintage long dress.
No incantation was chanted.
No wand was drawn.
With a flip of her wrist.
A pure black alchemical dagger slid from her cuff into her palm.
Her movements were as fast as a black flash of lightning.
Crossing directly over more than half of the long table.
Instantly pressing close behind Burr.
The short blade carved out a cold, hard arc in the dim candlelight.
The sound of cutting through flesh and skin was muffled.
"Puff."
Just like cutting through a piece of fully ripened butter.
Fresh blood followed the severed trachea and arteries.
Gushing out in a fan shape.
Splattering directly into mid-air.
Burr's head was cleanly severed from his neck.
The severed edge was as smooth as a mirror, and even the bones had been instantly sliced through.
That bald head rolled twice in mid-air.
"Thud."
Smashing heavily onto the dark wood long table.
The head rolled half a meter across the wood-grained tabletop.
Stopping right beside Old Nott's hand.
Burr's eyes were still wide open, his eyeballs protruding.
His mouth remained half-open in the posture of bargaining, with his tongue hanging outside.
Warm fresh blood flowed down the edge of the table.
Drip, drop.
All of it smashed onto Old Nott's expensive Dragon-hide leather shoes.
Old Nott froze in his chair, the blood throughout his entire body congealing.
He even forgot how to breathe.
Burr's headless, fat body.
Stiffened rigidly in the chair for two seconds.
The arteries at his neck were still crazily spurting blood outward.
A mist of blood splashed across the faces of several gang bosses opposite him.
Their entire heads and faces were covered in fishy, hot liquid.
"Bang."
The headless corpse lost its balance and smashed onto the floor.
Its limbs twitched a couple of times before completely stopping moving.
The blood gushing from the wound quickly gathered into a pool of dark red water on the floor tiles.
The smell of blood instantly overwhelmed the smell of cigars and sour wine in the basement.
So intense that it made one nauseous.
That smuggler whose face was splashed with blood.
Warm blood flowed into his eyes, dyeing his vision a brilliant red.
He clenched his back teeth tightly, fearing he would make the slightest sound.
He didn't even dare to make a motion to reach out and wipe away the blood.
Allowing the blood droplets to slide down his chin and onto his collar.
Arthur picked up a snow-white linen square handkerchief from the table.
Wiped the pads of the fingers that had just pressed against the coin.
"Does anyone else's brothers need to eat?"
His voice echoed in the dripping-blood basement.
Calm, indifferent.
Without any hesitation.
Not even for half a second.
The people on both sides of the long table pushed their chairs back simultaneously.
The wooden chair legs scraped a chaotic, piercing noise against the stone flags.
Dozens of people.
High-and-mighty pure-blood heads of families, merciless gang leaders.
All knelt down at the same time.
"Thud, thud, thud."
The sound of knees slamming onto the floor merged into one.
Old Nott knelt directly in Burr's pool of blood.
The dark red blood soaked through his trouser legs, feeling sticky.
He knocked his head deeply into the bloody water.
His forehead pressed against the cold stone bricks.
"The Nott family... obeys the master's every command."
The old man's trembling voice broke the dead silence.
Carrying a crying tone and complete, thorough despair.
Immediately following that.
Voices of allegiance and begging for mercy rose and fell one after another.
Those gang leaders banged their heads with a thudding sound, scraping the skin off their foreheads.
Bloodstains mixed with cold sweat remained on the ground.
They completely recognized reality.
What benefits, what territory.
In front of this Dark Lord, being able to keep one's head stay on one's neck for one more day was the greatest reward.
The surname Grindelwald.
Was no longer just a terrifying legend existing only in the mouths of the older generation.
It had turned into a tangible, blood-stained noose.
Tightly looped around the necks of all the powerful and elite in Europe.
As long as anyone dared to harbor any little ulterior motives, the noose would instantly tighten.
Arthur threw the handkerchief he had used to wipe his hands onto the table.
The white fabric rapidly absorbed the spreading blood.
Dyed into a large patch of glaring dark red.
He stood up.
Without even looking at this group of dogs groveling in the bloody water.
He strode with long legs toward the basement door.
His leather boots stepped on the floor tiles with a steady sound.
Vinda Rosier shook off the blood droplets on the short blade.
The blade instantly vanished into her cuff.
She quietly followed behind Arthur, her high heels stepping past that headless corpse.
The basement door was pushed open.
The night wind outside poured in, dispersing a bit of the pungent smell of blood.
Arthur walked up the damp stone steps.
Returning to the slick, moss-covered streets of Knockturn Alley.
The air outside was still muggy.
A few stray cats rummaged through the garbage piles for food, making hoarse cries.
Control of the commercial territory had already been obtained.
But those overt businesses and black market cash flows were not yet enough to support his upcoming plan.
"Check Gringotts' ledgers."
Arthur's voice melted into the gloomy night.
"Those hardcore elements locked up in Azkaban."
"Lestrange, Carrow."
"Dig out the locations of all their vaults stored at the very bottom."
Vinda Rosier stood in the shadows, lowering her head to receive the command.
She was well aware of how massive a fortune that was.
The pure gold, magic gems, and ancient relics accumulated by those ancient families over hundreds of years.
Were all locked hundreds of feet underground, guarded by Dragons and curses.
Arthur raised his head.
Looking at the waning moon half-covered by dark clouds in the night sky.
The grey mist deep within his right eye slowly swirled.
He needed a colossal, astronomical sum sufficient to subvert national regimes.
To prepare the most perfect sacrifices for an upcoming grand festival.
Chapter 71: All Death Eater Funds Are Under My Control
The bluestone pavement of Diagon Alley was baked scorching hot by the sun.
But as they walked up to the crooked white marble building of Gringotts, the temperature in the air plummeted.
Arthur walked up the wide steps.
The hem of his black trench coat swept across the stone steps in the wind.
Lucius Malfoy leaned on his snake-headed cane, following closely half a step behind.
Further behind were two rows of Saints wearing retro black robes.
This group of old murderers carried an unwashable scent of blood on them.
The two Goblin guards in front of the Gringotts main gates wanted to step forward to question them.
Two Saints directly drew their wands.
The brutal magic turned into an invisible giant hand, pressing the two Goblins firmly to the ground.
The Goblins' long faces were pressed against the scorching stone slabs, unable to even let out a scream.
The Wizards coming to deposit money in the hall were all scared out of their wits.
Someone's Galleon dropped to the ground, rolling around with a clatter.
No one dared to bend down to pick it up.
Everyone pressed against the counters on both sides of the hall, holding their breath.
Making way for this group of jinxes with a wide passage.
Arthur looked straight ahead, walking straight through the hall.
Deepest inside the hall was the Goblin director's office.
The two heavy wooden doors covered in sheet iron were tightly closed.
Lucius walked forward, raised his snake-headed cane, and smashed it fiercely onto the door lock.
"Boom!"
The wooden door was blown open directly by brute force, and wood splinters flew into the room.
Slamming onto the expensive mahogany desk.
The Goblin director jumped down from the tall chair.
He had a long, pointed nose and wore gold rings on his ears.
"This is a robbery!"
He pointed at the crowd at the door, his sharp voice echoing in the office.
"This is Gringotts! Protected by the Neutrality Treaty!"
Lucius walked over.
Slamming a parchment filled with names onto the desktop.
"Lestrange, Carrow, Dolohov."
Lucius looked coldly at the short man.
"Hand over the highest clearance of these vaults."
The Goblin director saw those names clearly, the flesh on his face twitching twice.
Those were the most dangerous Death Eaters locked up in Azkaban.
He raised his chin, revealing jagged, sharp teeth.
"Without the master's personal authorization and key, no one can ever hope to open Gringotts' underground vaults."
He brought out the confidence that the Goblin race had guarded for centuries.
"Even if you put a knife to my neck, Gringotts' anti-theft curse will burn you to ashes."
Arthur stepped over the broken wood on the ground.
Walking up to the desk.
He looked at this short creature who was still trying to talk about rules.
Use treaties to restrict predators?
Ridiculous to the extreme.
Arthur did not even say half a word of nonsense.
He raised his right hand, his index finger flicking slightly.
A drop of pure black spark fell from his fingertips.
Landing on the marble floor near the Goblin director's feet.
The moment the spark hit the ground.
"Boom!"
A wall of black fire directly burst open.
Fiendfyre did not spread around, but was tightly controlled by Arthur within a narrow circle.
Exactly trapping the Goblin director right in the middle.
The oxygen in the office was instantly sucked dry.
The wind breathed into the lungs felt like red-hot iron sand.
The marble floor under the Goblin director's feet simply could not withstand this law of destruction.
The surface of the white stone directly turned black.
Then melted into a pool of rolling, scorching magma.
"Sizzle——"
The table legs of the mahogany desk came into contact with the heat wave and carbonized on the spot.
The parchment records of accounts on the desk didn't even touch the flame.
They directly spontaneously combusted in mid-air, turning into black flying ash.
The Goblin director was trapped in the circle of fire.
His sharp, long nails desperately dug into his own face.
That pair of protruding eyes was filled with despair toward death.
The heat wave scorched his eyebrows and hair.
The defensive array set up underground in Gringotts for a thousand years sensed the threat.
Trying to initiate a counterattack.
But in front of Fiendfyre, those ancient runes shattered like fragile glass.
A harsh cracking sound came from deep underground.
Cracking and popping.
The Goblins' proud trump card didn't even last a second.
The Goblin director completely collapsed.
The greed and neutrality in his bones were burned by this mass of black fire until not even scum was left.
A stream of yellow liquid flowed down his trouser legs.
He peed his pants.
The urine just dripped onto the scorching magma.
Instantly turning into a wisp of white smoke emitting a foul, reeking smell, rushing straight into his nasal cavity.
His leg bones went soft, and he directly knelt at the edge of the circle of fire.
The fabric on his knees was instantly burned away, and his skin and flesh emitted a charred, stinky smell.
"I'll give it! I'll give it all!"
He screamed, his voice cracking, carrying an ugly crying tone.
"Stop! Please stop!"
He flurriedly pulled a large bunch of golden backup master keys from his bosom.
With trembling hands, he raised them high above his head.
Arthur waved his hand.
The circle of black fire enveloping the Goblin director instantly contracted inward.
Burrowing back into the air and disappearing.
The magma on the ground was still exuding a pungent sulfur smell.
Lucius walked forward.
Snatching that bunch of golden keys.
He glanced at the shivering Goblin director kneeling in the muddy water and urine, his eyes full of mockery.
Arthur turned and walked outward.
Dozens of die-hard Death Eater vaults sealed by the Ministry of Magic and ignored by everyone.
Mountains of gold coins and Dark Arts antiques inside.
The massive wartime reserves left behind by Lord Voldemort back then in preparation for a comeback.
At this moment, all changed owners.
Becoming a bit of pocket money used by Arthur to expand his underground empire.
The Saints in the corridor kept up their pace, the sound of leather boots stepping on the stone slabs uniform.
Time, in years of possessing absolute power, passes quickly.
Seasons passed.
In the blink of an eye, it was the end of the fourth-year summer vacation.
The Dartmoor wilderness in Britain.
This place was originally an uninhabited patch of weeds.
But now it had changed completely.
One hundred thousand Wizards rushed from all over the world, gathering here.
Densely packed tents pitched on the hillsides, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Some tents had chimneys growing on top, while others had live peacocks hanging in front of their doors.
Magical flags of various colors fluttered in the wind.
The air was full of the smell of roasted sausages and the sour stench of cheap beer.
Vendors selling binoculars and various miscellaneous magic items shouted loudly in the crowd.
Several Irish fans with green paint on their faces laughed loudly on the grass holding wine glasses.
The entire wilderness was filled with the commotion of holiday revelry.
The final of the Quidditch World Cup was about to kick off.
The sky gradually darkened.
The huge stadium in the distance lit up with golden magiclights.
No one noticed that beneath this bustling camp, undercurrents were silently rolling.
Waiting for more chapters on WTR-lab