Chapter 142

A voice suddenly sounded in his head, very low and hoarse, shouting: "Wait."

"If the Purgers killed the execution team at the beginning, why didn't they continue to kill Malfoy?" Quirrell asked.

"Because I was protecting him." Prout said on the side, "When William fell, I immediately used the Shield Charm, but Muggles can release dozens of spells at a time. I couldn't resist and Malfoy was seriously injured."

Scrimgeour praised: "Good reaction, you are very suitable to be an Auror."

Although this was not a good time, the two members of the reconnaissance team still showed a little happiness. I don't know whether Scrimgeour was telling the truth or was kind enough to boost their morale.

"Then Savage used the Disarming Charm to knock off the Muggle's wand, and just when we took him down, the result was... Boom!"

"How did he commit suicide?" Nietzsche said, "Did he take out or pull anything?"

"He was suppressed and couldn't move, so he exploded for no reason." Savage pointed to half of his body, "If we got closer, we would be killed on the spot... By the way, the explosion came from the man's body."

Very good, if it was ordinary explosives, exploding from the human body, the lethality to the outside world would not be so great.

In order to produce a huge power, a person must hide at least several kilograms of high explosives and detonators in his body, but if this is done, the person who hides explosives in his body should die on the operating table and cannot take a step.

And the dark magic...

"Okay, okay, I know you are working, but please go out." A therapist came in and urged, "They need to change the dressing."

They can only go out temporarily.

Scrimgeour admired their ability to respond to danger, so he went to the teahouse on the sixth floor and bought some cakes to comfort the two.

"It seems that this group of purgers have planned it all." He ate the snacks and flipped through the record book, "Human bomb... The purgers back then were much kinder than this, at least they didn't dare to die on their own."

Back then?

Nietzsche suddenly thought of the origin of the purgers, but what's the use of it.

He watched every patient's family member come in and out of the teahouse, some sat down to rest; some numbly carried gift bags, leaned against the wall and covered their faces and cried.

"Who would have thought that the descendants of those wizards would become so hateful of the magic world, how ironic... What's wrong, did you think of anything?" Nietzsche sighed.

He found that Quirrell suddenly stared at the teacup in a daze.

"Silently." Quirrell suddenly muttered.

"What?"

"It is an unstable and uncontrollable dark force that will suddenly erupt and then disappear without a trace..." Quirrell desperately squeezed the knowledge in his head, "Those injuries were left on them by the Obscurus."

"That's impossible. If it was the Obscurus, the entire Diagon Alley would be destroyed." Scrimgeour said.

"But apart from this, what else do you think could cause such injuries?" Quirrell said, "As for the power... maybe the magic power of those purgers is not that great."

But even the Ministry of Magic knows very little about the news about the Obscurus.

The only thing Nietzsche knew was that Professor Binns mentioned it when he talked about the history of the American Magical Congress in the History of Magic class. Apart from that, even the "Most Toxic Magic" in the restricted book section did not mention it.

It seems that no dark wizard is willing to try this kind of thing that cannot be controlled in any way, even if it has great power.

"Go and ask Dumbledore!"

Scrimgeour immediately thought of a solution.

When they returned to the fifth floor, they found three more people at the door of Prout and Savage's ward, walking around the corridor. There were two middle-aged men and a woman in a headscarf. They were watching Nietzsche and others vigilantly.

"I am their boss. You are relatives of Prout and Savage, right?"

"Yes... yes, that's right." The woman covered her face and sobbed.

"Don't worry, they are fine." Scrimgeour was a person who cared about his subordinates at this time. He patted her shoulder and comforted her, "The therapist here is changing the medicine for them."

Scrimgeour handed over the cake he had bought.

"Nothing?" The woman hesitated for a moment, and after taking the gift, she buried her head again, "That's great, I just want to be alive."

But just as the woman took the bag of gifts, he found that there were obvious scars on the other party's wrists, and the cheap cotton cloth was exposed at the cuffs, and the headscarf tied around the neck was even rougher.

After she buried her head, Nietzsche quickly moved his eyes to the two men sitting next to him.

One of them stood up from time to time and looked anxiously at the window, while the other one faced the ward, but his eyes were fixed on the other side, and he was holding a slightly bulging lady's cloth bag in his arms.

"Let's go, I won't bother you anymore..." Scrimgeour sighed, shook his head, and prepared to return to the Ministry of Magic.

But Nietzsche did not turn around with Quirrell. He imitated Scrimgeour's actions, patted the woman's shoulder, and then took the opportunity to press down hard, raising his knee to hit her chest.

The woman couldn't even shout, and her painful wails were blocked above her chest, turning into a dull sound.

"What are you doing?!" Scrimgeour turned his head and was shocked by the sudden change.

But the next second, the two middle-aged men moved faster. They took out two short and peculiar pistols from the ladies' bags.

One shot at him, and the other slammed open the exclusive ward of the execution department.

"Armor to protect yourself!"

Nietzsche drew out the wand with his backhand, blocked two red lights, and twisted his left hand to twist the arms of the person who blocked him to 180 degrees. The scream instantly ran through the corridor of the magic injury department.

"What's going on? What's going on?!"

"What else can it be? Isn't it obvious that this is murder to silence people!"

Chapter 207 Explosion of the silent

First of all, in the magic world, as long as it is not some special black magic, all kinds of injuries can be solved by a spell or potion for wizards. Are they studying black magic as family members of the execution team?

Secondly, the scratch on the wrist is very new, and old wounds will not form blood scabs, and the surrounding skin color is light yellow or light red, not accompanied by swelling and bright red, while the back of the hand is very clean.

The woman should be a disguise for young people with serious mental illnesses. The headscarf covering the Adam's apple is a sinner kneeling to repent, a Catholic Puritan.

"Purifier!" Quirinus Quirrell kicked Scrimgeour's old waist with some emotion.

Scrimgeour fell to the ground, and the red light flew past his scalp and hit a therapist in the middle of the corridor behind him. The part of the therapist that was hit exploded like a stone.

The innocent therapist lay on the cold ground, and the warm blood dyed the green coat into dark green.

The fifth floor was in chaos. The remaining therapists formed a temporary defense line. After evacuating the rest of the people, Quirrell snapped his fingers and twisted the entire corridor on the fifth floor, turning it into a rolling kaleidoscope.

"Upside down!" Wherever his wand pointed, things began to be misplaced.

It was not space magic, but a very precise transfiguration. The seats came to the ceiling because of the twisting of the floor, and the Purger whose "wings" were broken by Nietzsche was also caught in the gap between the walls and crushed into slag.

The room of the members of the Executive Division Reconnaissance Team was like a Rubik's Cube, shrinking layer by layer to the end of the corridor.

"Ahhhh!!"

Prout and Savage held the bed. The two of them were hanging above because of the upside-down, avoiding the attack of the Purger who crashed into the room.

Nietzsche held the magic wand, unfolded the lightsaber, and inserted it into the wall to make himself stand firm.

The single-minded Purger ignored him, staring at the bed above his head with cold eyes. While leaning back because of the twisting of the floor, he aimed the compact and easy-to-hide E-11 at them.

Is it faster to recite the spell or to pull the trigger?

Of course it is the latter. The energy of the explosion spell was stimulated by the rune, and E-11 quickly fired three bursts.

One shot broke Nietzsche's armor spell that protected the two people, the second shot blew a hole in the ceiling (floor) due to the shaking of the floor, and the third shot followed and went to Prout and Savage who fell in midair.

"There are many obstacles!"

Nietzsche used the barrier spell to stop the explosion spell that followed in the air, and at the same time, he kicked his feet hard, and with an upward strike, he lightly cut off the right arm of the young Purger.

The wound burned by the temperature of the lightsaber could not bleed a drop of blood.

He stretched out his left hand, pinched the opponent's neck with magic, and lifted him up in midair.

"Leave no one alive..." He spat out a mouthful of blood foam, and said his absolution with the remaining oxygen, "Clear the sins... of this land, and save our... souls."

Then, he looked at the door, nodded to the Purger disguised as a woman, and closed his eyes, looking like he was waiting.

Before Nietzsche could make the next move, the ‘woman’ who had just been hit in the chest by him pulled off her headscarf, pinched it with the index and middle fingers of her left hand, and then trembled with her right hand from her forehead to her chest, from her left shoulder to her right shoulder, and made a big cross.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”

“Leave here!!” Nietzsche waved his lightsaber, used magic to throw the unconscious members of the reconnaissance team and the healer out of the window, and turned his head to shout at Quirrell outside the door.

The purger, who looked very vicissitudes of life, exuded a black oily substance all over his body.

“Amen.”

In an instant, the entire spell damage department was washed away by the black oil-like fluid, and everything was torn apart, but the magical thing was that the magic power that Quirrell called ‘dark power’ could not destroy a wall of St. Mungo’s.

Even though a certain amount of magic power was absorbed by St. Mungo’s, its destructive power still made Nietzsche unable to open his eyes.

The rubble and chairs in the corridor were rolled up by Obscurus and rushed into the room. He was like a can being hammered with a hammer, and the screams of the Purger were still in his ears.

It was not until the scream stopped that the uncontrolled energy disappeared...

Because of the adrenaline, Nietzsche did not feel much pain. He trembled and climbed up from the rubble. His face was covered with blood. He moved to the door little by little. Then, he could only hear his own breathing.

"Quirinus?!" He turned his head and shouted.

"I'm here..." Quirrell crawled out of the debris and said, "How are you? I just saw Obscurus rushing into your room."

"It seems that I was saved by the basilisk."

Nietzsche took off his clothes that had become rags, revealing the black and green "anti-curse clothes" underneath.

Fortunately, Obscurus was still a magical energy in nature, so he knew what the feeling of being beaten meant - it was the impact caused by the dark energy being blocked outside by the scales of the basilisk.

All the power disappeared, and black cotton wool floated in the air, like feathers, looking particularly beautiful under the broken windows and sunlight.

He covered his chest and squatted next to the purger, examining him regardless of the dirt.

There were traces of surgery behind his ears, probably because he had undergone plastic surgery. His actual age should be about the same as the other two young purgers who died. The wound on his wrist should be playing the role of a "saint" to suppress Obscurus.

'Damn it, Irish guy...' Nietzsche sighed in his heart.

Last December, the British Prime Minister had just issued a peace statement with the Republic of Ireland, each taking a step back to let the Northern Irish Republican Army permanently stop using violence and save Downing Street from mortar attacks.

After this bombing, he could not continue to ask Mycroft to carry out the work openly, so he could only investigate secretly.

Nietzsche did not tell Scrimgeour the origin of the Purgers, otherwise when Fudge found the British government, the two Muggle countries would start fighting again.

"Fortunately, the Obscurus could not rush out of St. Mungo's." Quirrell helped Scrimgeour up.

"War... I must tell Crouch of the Department of International Magical Cooperation about this." The head of the Auror had not yet recovered from the sudden attack, "Since 1927, there have been no Obscurus!"

Quirrell carried the body of the Obscurus on his back and went back to his own place.

They found an empty portrait with the name of Delis Devonte written below.

Nietzsche knocked on the frame and shouted twice inside. Because the portrait here is connected to the principal's office, it took only a minute for Principal Delis to rush out from the left side of the frame.

It was as if she had just run over from a distance.

"Little Nietzsche, there is something that cannot be discussed before school starts."

"Just now, St. Mungo's Hospital for Magic was attacked by the Obscure."

"What?!"

Chapter 208 Transition before the Summer Vacation Travel

"Boring, boring, extremely boring~~"

In 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was like an old man who was about to die, lying on the sofa and switching between various programs, offering his own opinions on the various news and entertainment scraps that happened inside: boring.

There were commissions, but he was so conceited that he was almost arrogant, and he shirked all of them with various excuses.

"He hasn't gone out for a week." Mrs. Hudson stood at the door, worriedly inside, "He didn't come to open the curtains, and didn't talk to others. If he died here, no other tenants would come."

And standing next to the landlady was Nietzsche, who had just come down from upstairs.

"Don't worry, if he died in this room, I would rent it... Although I won't live here, I will at least come back occasionally to miss it." Nietzsche made a bad joke.

"Oh~ Thank you, you are so thoughtful~" Hudson rubbed his head.

The table was full of various wine bottles, and the light from the TV made Sherlock look even lazier.

Nietzsche sniffed, and he smelled a rotten smell, then found a relatively clean place to sit down, and threw the invitation sent by owl at Sherlock's face.

"Is something dead?" he said.

"Death is an inevitable fate, and how sweet~" Sherlock imitated Shakespeare's opera, opening the envelope and singing in a sarcastic way, "You are talking about John...right?"