The Liches

Upon reappearing, Artel found himself in the Grouse Mountains.

The air hung heavy with the stench of troll-scented socks, prompting Artel to crinkle his nose as he swiftly pinpointed his location.

Troll tribes usually nestled in remote, hard-to-reach spots, minimizing the risk of Muggle discovery. Even with a map, Artel had undertaken considerable effort to reach this mountain troll enclave.

Trolls, with their dimwitted brains and limited natural adversaries, lacked any sense of guarding against potential attacks. Despite a few trolls stationed outside the tribe, armed with massive sticks, they dozed off, their snores echoing in the mountains and forests.

Surveying the scene, Artel confirmed the tribe's substantial size. Numerous caves and nests crafted from wood and hay dotted the vicinity, suggesting a sizable troll population—perhaps in the hundreds.

"Time to get to work."

Artel raised his staff, uttered an incantation, and summoning circles materialized beside him, enveloped in a swirling black mist. From this eerie mist emerged dozens of undead creatures, cloaked in tattered black socerer garments, The Liches.

"Go ahead, wreak havoc as you please."

Artel uttered a soft command, and the liches glided forward. Raising their staffs, they unleashed undead magic upon the mountain monster tribe, their onslaught resembling cannonballs.

The pained howls of trolls reverberated through the mountains and forests. Artel closed his eyes, silently counting.

By the time he reached a hundred, the screams gradually subsided, leaving an eerie silence in the wake of the supernatural onslaught.

Artel opened his eyes, and chaos reigned among the troll tribe.

Liches, undead beings on par with death knights, differentiated by their magical inclinations, effortlessly handled the simple-minded mountain trolls.

Surveying the battlefield, Artel's gaze swept over the disarray. The liches dispatched the trolls without much effort, but the panicked creatures scattered in every direction, creating chaos in their flight and resistance.

"There were probably more than 400 trolls, and among them, hundreds were juveniles. If I want to complete this, I'll need to find over 100 more trolls."

Artel mused, recognizing that crafting a potent orc potion required the heart of an adult troll. Each heart could yield ten bottles, and excluding the young monsters, this harvest could satisfy his needs to produce over 3,000 bottles of potent orc potion.

"Let's deal with the rest later. The wizarding world is vast, with numerous troll tribes. Besides it's a significant project, and there's no need to rush."

With a snap of his fingers, dozens of liches gradually dissipated. In their place, hundreds of magic circles appeared on the ground. After a burst of light, rows of skeleton warriors emerged within the troll tribe.

"Get to work."

Artel commanded with a mere thought, and the skeleton warriors set out, systematically seeking targets to collect troll hearts for Artel.

Fortunately, the skeleton warriors lacked a sense of smell. Otherwise, whether they could endure the odor of sweaty socks, blood, and excrement as they worked remained a questionable matter.

After approximately ten minutes, all the troll hearts were gathered. Artel stowed these items in the system space and dispatched a few skeleton warriors to scour the trolls' caves. They unearthed various loot, including wizard belongings and gold coins.

While some precious materials were present, their quantity was limited. Artel declined to sift through them on the spot, opting to stow everything in the system space. With a Disapparition, he returned to the hotel in Geneva.

After returning to the hotel, Artel dispelled his transfiguration. Outside the suite, Sophia had prepared a comforting glass of hot milk for him. Contentedly sipping the warm beverage, Artel drifted into a peaceful sleep.

For the following days, Artel shed his wizard identity and reveled in the pleasures of Switzerland as an ordinary tourist. Christmas, an event typically celebrated at the Birmingham Manor in the past, marked Artel's inaugural venture beyond the family's protective walls. Now a wizard with the freedom to roam, he embraced the newfound liberty.

....

On Christmas Eve, Artel made his way to the Swiss Ministry of Magic. Armed with Christmas gifts and postcards, he splurged a few Galleons to rent international owl messengers. Before departing, he snagged a couple of recent editions of The Daily Prophet and casually left.

[The Liechtenstein troll tribe annihilated; not a single one of the 432 mountain trolls survived!]

[Is it a moral lapse or a human failing? Troll protection organization demands a thorough investigation of the Liechtenstein Ministry of Magic!]

[Magic Zoologist Newt Scamander urges rational consideration of the matter.]

[Liechtenstein Ministry of Magic declares December 20th as the annual Carnival of Trolls!]

[President of the International Federation of Wizards...]

Artel flipped through the newspapers from the past two days, a furrow forming on his brow. Saruman's name was conspicuously absent, and the omission didn't sit well with him.

.....

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