Chapter 162: Kneel, You Mongrels

As night falls over Wilshire, an ancient castle stands solemn.

The dim glow of candles casts heavy shadows throughout the spacious hall.

Silence has gripped the robed wizards gathered around the round table for some time until, suddenly, one of them stands up in defiance. "I've had enough; I'm out," he declares.

"Stop!" commands a towering man from the head of the table. "Where do you think you're going?!"

"To run away, of course! Or should we just wait here for Arlo to take us?!" retorts a gaunt man with wisps of beard at his lips, panic in his voice. "First the Karlo siblings, then Koban, and Avery... If we don't leave now, we'll all end up in Azkaban!"

"They won't find this place," Albert Roncorn reassures.

"But they've surely betrayed us by now. How long can we hide?"

"Damn Barty Crouch!" curses another man, his face marred by a lump. "What madness possessed him to turn on us?!"

"Why even ask?" says a handsome man with golden hair. "He's sided with Murphy!"

"Fear not! What can he do to catch us? Does he have evidence? If he dares to catch me, I'll accuse him of abuse of power!" another challenges.

"Fool!" counters someone. "Did they need evidence to catch the Karlo siblings, to catch Acksley?!"

"Barty Crouch needs no evidence! Murphy Darkhome can make anyone confess anything he wants to hear!"

"Don't you see what became of Lasim? Are you not clear yet?!"

A momentary silence falls in the hall, broken only by distant thunder, heralding rain.

After a while, someone suggests, "Maybe we should just give up? Even Crouch fell to him; we can't beat him."

"After all we've done, surrender now? And you think they'll spare you?"

"It was just a few muggles bitten by werewolves. At worst, we can pin it all on Greyback. That fool claims to be the king of werewolves, yet gets chased around by the watchers, pathetic!"

"Damn it! Are we really out of options against that boy?"

"What else can we do, fight him head-on? Who among us can defeat him?"

"Wait... maybe Greyback can make it. With so many werewolves, if they all attack at the full moon, not even Murphy could survive..."

"I don't believe it! Just a nobody's son, what can he do! If he dares to come before me, I'll make him taste the agony of the Cruciatus Curse!"

"Oh?"

Suddenly, a magnetic male voice intervenes, "Bold of you."

Unnoticed before, a tall figure now sits on the windowsill, his silhouette and golden eyes illuminated briefly by a flash of lightning.

"Who?!"

Panic spreads as wands are drawn.

But the figure remains unfazed, "Ah, sorry, carry on, don't mind me."

"Fluorescent flicker!"

A spell instantly doubles the room's brightness, revealing the young wizard sitting by the window.

"Murphy?!"

Murphy turns to the chubby man who called out his name, "Ansethus Rosier? Were you the one challenging me to a duel?"

"No, no..." the latter shakes his head frantically.

"Murphy..." Albert Roncorn is in disbelief, "Why are you here?"

"Why am I here?" Murphy sighs, looking up, "Well, it's a funny story."

"The phoenix flies from the Southern Sea to the Northern Sea; it does not rest except on the phoenix tree, does not eat except the solid fruit, does not drink except from the sweet spring. So, when the phoenix sees a rotten mouse, it simply says, 'Scary!'"

He hops down from the sill, pulls up a high-backed chair, and sits with a leg crossed over the other.

"I know you don't understand, so let me translate."

"A few wild dogs find a piece of rotten meat, lick it every day, smell its stench, and think it's the finest delicacy. Seeing a tiger nap nearby, they bark furiously."

"The tiger, thinking it's new to the area and there's no need to cut short others' lives, throws a few bones to the dogs, letting them entertain themselves away from its sleep."

"But guess what? The dogs then think the tiger is afraid of them."

"—This guy came to our territory, surely to steal our rotten meat!"

"—He gave us treats, he must be afraid!"

"So they think, why not kill the tiger and have more meat to eat?"

"What do you say, aren't these dogs laughable?"

Albert Roncorn stands up furiously, not finding it funny at all, "You're calling us..."

"Are you Albert Roncorn?"

Murphy suddenly asks.

"It's me..."

Before Albert can say more, Murphy commands, "Kneel!"

His voice, as if crossing the distance instantly, penetrates Albert's mind.

Albert shudders, staggers forward, and falls to his knees before Murphy, hands clutching Murphy's feet, tongue nearly touching the shoe sole before snapping back to reality and retreating in horror.

"What did you do to me?!"

"Ah," Murphy sneers, "We could have been friends, but some prefer to be dogs. How's that, interesting?"

Albert, both scared and furious, draws his wand in a bid to regain dignity, casting a deadly spell.

But Murphy simply raises his hand, dark scales covering his palm, neutralizing the spell with a burst of colorful sparks.

Barehanded against spells? This isn't magic!

But with no turning back, Roncorn urges, "He's alone! Attack together! Kill him, and we win!"

Hesitation fades as spells are hurled at Murphy.

"Ha!" Murphy laughs.

Black scales cover his body, wings spread, emitting precise lightning strikes, shattering incoming spells, while those hitting him cause no harm.

He steps forward, covering meters instantly, a scaled hand piercing a wizard's abdomen, then using the corpse as a shield against another deadly spell.

"Boom!" Murphy crushes the skull in his hand.

He then attacks another wizard, his claw turning the head and chest to mush, and with a wing strike, pins another against the wall. Turning, he spits venom at another, petrifying him.

"Monster! Monster!" screams fill the air.

Murphy grabs another, twisting off his head.

Blood covers him, reveling in the cruelty, he nearly bursts into laughter.

"Demon! He's a demon! Run!"

The remaining wizards realize the gravity, attempting to escape, but Murphy's lightning precision knocks their wands away.

"Too late to run."

"P-please, mercy..."

Some are too terrified to move, one crashes through a window, fleeing desperately, only for Murphy to summon a lightning bolt, reducing him to ash.

Murphy then breaks through the roof, flying up as storms gather, dark clouds rolling in, eclipsing the sky.

Raising an arm, he commands lightning, striking like divine spears, reducing the castle to ashes.

Amidst deafening thunder and pouring rain, the survivors cower, looking up at the godlike figure amidst flashing

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