Chapter 1276 Purgatory Difficulty Dungeon
Narcissa gripped Lucius's hand tightly, her nails almost digging into his skin.
Her eyes blazed with ferocity and despair. "We can't... Lucius, we can't just sit here and wait to die! If you're forced..."
“We haven’t chosen to refuse,” Lucius interrupted her, “but we can choose how to carry it out, and what will remain afterward.”
He lowered his voice and quickened his pace: "If the attack was destined to happen, and if my role was destined to be the killer, then the details are crucial."
Time, place, method… the executor can improvise on the spot. An attack that seems insane, but actually minimizes the possibility of truly irreversible casualties? A scene that leaves obvious flaws, allowing the Aurors to quickly stop and apprehend the killer? Or even a clue that subtly steers the investigation towards other possible leads?
Narcissa instantly understood what he meant.
In an unavoidable and devastating mission, he tries to control the destruction as much as possible, sowing the seeds of a reversal, even at the cost of his own capture and sacrifice, in exchange for the maximum protection of Draco and any minor disruption to Voldemort's plans.
“This is too dangerous, Lucius. What if he notices…”
“So it needs to be real.” Lucius’s gaze drifted out the window. “My fears and resistance, and my eventual, unavoidable surrender, must all be real, and in private…”
He slowly withdrew his gaze. "I would intentionally or unintentionally spread some remarks in safe places. Because Draco was young, he received Dumbledore's 'brainwashing education' at Hogwarts, and he developed naive doubts about certain 'ancient traditions,' which caused a 'rift' between us, father and son."
I will create a character influenced by Hogwarts, completely different from his father who committed terrible crimes. When my 'crimes' are exposed, Draco's difference will be foreshadowed; he will be an unfortunate victim implicated by his father, not an accomplice. This will not only garner sympathy from some members of the public but also allow Dumbledore to indulge his penchant for saving lost sheep.
This is like dancing on the edge of a cliff; every step could lead to a plunge into the abyss.
Narcissa fell silent.
After a long while, she nodded.
She didn't cry or break down; she simply let go of Lucius's hand and gently placed it on the back of his hand.
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The entire Maxma unit passed the final assessment, marking a new beginning.
Hunter returned from the military with a somber expression, as if he had encountered some trouble.
Vincent asked him, but he wouldn't say anything until evening, when he finally managed to get him to talk after using two bottles of Scotch whisky.
“Today I went to the military headquarters to officially register Maxma’s information… Robert, that old man, came over mysteriously and told me… he said that the higher-ups are very interested in my unit.”
Hunter was only a lieutenant colonel, and Maxma's secrecy was excellent, so the army high command shouldn't have paid much attention to his unit.
But secrets don't stay hidden forever. The fact that Hunter was able to return safely proves that they didn't have much intelligence, or at least no crucial evidence.
"Kid... if I end up in a military court... you have to come and bail me out..."
After Hunter finished speaking, he slammed his head heavily onto the table.
Vincent shook his head, took a sip of hangover medicine, and then dragged him to the bed.
Actually, letting the army's top brass know about the Maxma Unit isn't necessarily a bad thing. The existence of magic will be made public sooner or later, and then they will only be more eager to improve their military strength.
Mass-produced magical weapons...
Vincent sobered up instantly and dared not think any further.
The use of magic must be strictly limited. Given the massive population, it's hard to guarantee that there won't be madmen like Voldemort among the Muggles.
After daybreak, Vincent went to 10 Downing Street.
The Prime Minister's stance is clear: he personally does not want magic to be misused.
But this is just his personal opinion, and he can only represent this current British Muggle government.
Although not explicitly stated, the Prime Minister hinted that pressure and restrictions could be exerted through the United Nations.
While the United Nations cannot control large countries, it still has the ability to restrain small countries.
Before leaving, the Prime Minister had a thorny matter he needed Vincent's help with.
The British Muggle government and the British Ministry of Magic are currently operating in a state of non-interference, but a few days ago, an unrecorded leak of magical items occurred in London.
Fortunately, the incident did not have a serious impact on Muggle society, but unfortunately, a fourteen-year-old boy came into close contact with the magical item.
His health is deteriorating, and he is currently receiving treatment at St. Thomas' Hospital in the city center. If his condition worsens, the Prime Minister will have no choice but to ask the Ministry of Magic for help.
Vincent did not refuse. Although the current relationship between the Muggle government and the Ministry of Magic was not entirely his fault, he would do his best to cure the boy.
Stepping out of the Prime Minister's residence, a bone-chilling wind blew through the quiet streets.
Vincent suddenly remembered a joke from his past life, about the hellish difficulty of the five permanent members of the UN Security Council.
Oliver Twist, Raging Sea, Winter Is Coming, The Great Wall Watches, The Iron Tower Remains.
He shivered inexplicably, perhaps because he was thinking of Colonel Gaddafi.
Let's forget about the copy issue. Now that he has the bargaining chip of controlled nuclear fusion, he might be able to sit down and have a proper talk with them.
That evening, at St. Thomas' Hospital in central London.
The hospital corridor should have been quiet in the early morning, but the isolation area on the seventh basement floor was shrouded in a tense yet expectant tranquility.
The air here is filtered through multiple layers and smells of metal and disinfectant.
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There are no windows here; all the light comes from the shadowless lamps embedded in the ceiling, which illuminate the silver-gray walls in a stark white light.
At the end of the corridor, the heavy lead alloy door slid open slowly.
Vincent did not wear his signature white eponymous cloak, but instead wore a well-tailored dark gray suit with a white lab coat over it.
Beside him were Sir Sarah Chesterton, the UK's Chief Medical Officer, and two senior MI6 officers who looked tense but had sharp eyes.
Before them was a transparent isolation chamber containing a fourteen-year-old boy named Aidan. His skin was a color between gray and dark purple, and he was in an induced coma with dozens of tubes connected to his body.
The monitor screen displayed the diagnosis: an extremely rare form of cell collapse induced by unknown radiation.
Modern medicine has exhausted all means, but it can only delay, not stop, the slow apoptosis of his cells throughout his body.
“Mr. Wayne, this is the patient.” Sir Sarah’s voice was low as she pointed to the red alert flashing on the screen. “His cells are breaking down at a rate of 200 micrometers per minute, nearly seven times that of a normal person.”
Vincent didn't speak. He raised his hand and gently placed it on the high-strength transparent glass of the isolation chamber.
Aidan was the boy who came into contact with the magical artifact. There was an unusual dark magic aura emanating from his body. Rather than an illness, it was more like a curse, a curse caused by directly triggered dark magic.
This curse is not uncommon in the magical world. Some ruthless dark wizards particularly like to use this method to kill people. Once cursed, cell apoptosis will not only cause large-scale skin ulceration, but also symptoms such as organ failure, ultimately leading to death.
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