"Wake up. Wake up."
A woman's voice echoed through Ryan's half-formed dreams, accompanied by a firm but careful shaking. His consciousness drifted back from darkness, and when his eyelids finally lifted, a blurry face filled his vision.
It was a young Black woman wearing a railway agent's uniform. Seeing her familiar outline, Ryan's muddled thoughts quickly aligned. He remembered now—he had specifically asked her to wake him when the appointed time arrived.
"I'm up," Ryan murmured, pushing himself upright. His voice was hoarse from sleep. "Thank you for the reminder."
He crawled out of his sleeping bag, retrieved a bottle of water from his pack, and splashed it across his face. The cold shock drove away the lingering fog in his mind. When he checked the pocket watch hanging from his vest, the faintly glowing dial told him it was already three-thirty in the morning.
It was time.
Ryan thanked the agent once more and instructed her to wait in the center of the tunnel, far from what was about to occur. Then he stepped onto the altar carved into the underground chamber and drew his wand.
Wrapped around his left arm like a bracelet, Xiaoqing stirred.
At Ryan's silent signal, the small serpent slid free and dropped onto the altar. Its body lengthened and thickened rapidly, emerald scales catching the light as it transformed into a massive green snake the size of a python. The snake circled the altar once, its heavy body pressing against the stone, before raising its upper half. Its triangular head rose until it was level with Ryan's face, golden eyes calm and alert.
Once the green snake had taken its position, Ryan lifted his wand and began to chant.
His voice echoed softly through the underground space, each syllable precise and deliberate. As the incantation progressed, the green snake began to move in response, its body rotating around the altar in perfect rhythm with Ryan's chanting, as though the two were bound by an invisible cadence.
One by one, the gold and silver runes embedded in the altar ignited. A hazy white glow seeped from the engraved symbols, spreading outward like mist trapped in stone. The light intensified steadily, growing bright enough to rival—and soon surpass—the emergency lamps lining the tunnel walls.
At the peak of its brilliance, the glow abruptly stabilized.
Under Ryan's guidance, the runes detached from the altar itself. Characters formed entirely of white light rose into the air, hovering and drifting. With a subtle flick of Ryan's wand, they began to rotate around the altar, weaving together into a luminous ribbon that spiraled gracefully through the chamber.
This was not ritual magic of the sort Ryan had used before to console the dead.
This was strategic magic.
Strategic magic was a nearly extinct branch of the magical arts—magic designed not for duels or small-scale engagements, but for warfare on a grand scale. It demanded long periods of stationary casting and extensive preparation beforehand. Once activated, it produced violent disturbances in the surrounding magical field, making concealment almost impossible.
If this world were a purely magical one, Ryan would never dare to use such a spell alone.
In ages past, strategic magic required entire teams of wizards working in coordination, supported by soldiers and defenses. Without protection, a caster would become a glaring beacon, an immobile target inviting concentrated attack. That was why, as wizards withdrew from the Muggle world and large-scale magical warfare faded into history, this form of magic slowly vanished.
The wizarding world of Harry Potter simply had no need for it anymore.
With a limited population and conflicts that rarely escalated beyond skirmishes, purely magical wars became small and brief. Strategic magic—once capable of reshaping battlefields and deciding the fate of nations—lost its relevance and was eventually forgotten.
Ryan, however, was an exception.
The ancient Viking wizarding legacy he had inherited preserved vast quantities of strategic magic, recorded in painstaking detail. Even so, compared to the legendary spells described in those texts—rituals that could raise armies of the dead or restore desecrated holy lands—the spell Ryan was casting now was nothing more than a weakened derivative.
The Fog of Fatigue.
In its original form, the spell could blanket an entire small city in magical mist from kilometers away, draining strength and consciousness from all who inhaled it. Casting such a version would require either enormous quantities of rare magical materials, an exceptionally powerful archmage, or dozens of trained wizards working in unison.
For practicality, ancient wizards had created abridged versions—lesser forms that a single caster could employ under limited circumstances.
Naturally, these simplified spells were far weaker.
Ryan's version of the Fog of Fatigue could only cover an area roughly the size of a fortified base, and it had to be cast from close proximity. Still, for tonight's operation, it was more than sufficient.
Because this was his first time using the spell in a real combat scenario, Ryan proceeded with extreme caution. He employed a segmented casting technique recorded in his inheritance—a method that allowed the required magical power to be infused gradually rather than all at once.
The advantage was safety.
The disadvantage was everything else.
Segmented casting dramatically increased total mana consumption and extended casting time severalfold. A spell that should have taken ten minutes to complete now required thirty. In a duel, such a technique would be suicidal—ample time for an enemy to reduce the caster to a corpse riddled with curses.
But here, in the hidden depths beneath the airport, Ryan had no opponent pressing him.
As the ritual continued, time slipped by unnoticed. Half an hour passed, and the casting reached its critical stage.
At the crescendo of Ryan's incantation, the massive green snake raised its head and opened its jaws. Wisps of pale green mist poured forth, spilling across the altar and spreading through the chamber like breath on cold glass.
Guided by Ryan's wand, the mist intertwined with the floating runes. White light darkened, shifting into a sickly, ominous green. The characters pulsed, absorbing the mist until they glowed with an eerie vitality.
Moments later, the entire basement was flooded with green radiance.
The green snake ceased its emission and slumped slightly, its massive body sagging with exhaustion. Ryan fared no better. Sweat soaked his brow, his arms ached as though filled with lead, and every breath burned his throat raw.
Still, he did not stop.
Teeth clenched, Ryan forced the final verses from his lips.
At last, the spell completed.
The glowing green runes rose upward, phasing effortlessly through layers of stone and concrete. When they reached the surface, their brilliance faded rapidly, dissolving into faint, nearly invisible white mist that drifted outward toward the nearby airport.
Had it been daylight, such an anomaly might have drawn attention.
But it was night.
The sentries were less alert, and the airport's coastal location meant heavy fog was a common occurrence after sunset. By sheer fortune, tonight was already thick with sea mist. The magical fog blended seamlessly into the natural haze, indistinguishable from its mundane counterpart.
No alarms were raised.
As the mist enveloped the Brotherhood's base, its effects became immediate. Members staggered, muscles locking without warning. Vision dimmed, thoughts scattered, and one by one they collapsed, slipping into deep unconsciousness. No amount of shaking or shouting could wake them.
Eight hours of enforced sleep.
That was the promise of the Fog of Fatigue.
When the final threads of magic dispersed, Ryan collapsed backward onto the altar. Exhaustion washed over him, bone-deep and merciless. Beside him, the green snake lay completely still, its sides barely moving.
But the night's work was not yet finished.
After several minutes, Ryan forced himself to move. He whispered a command, and the green snake shrank rapidly, returning to a thin, earthworm-sized form. Ryan placed it gently into a bottle filled with sun crystals tucked inside his jacket pocket.
Then he reached for the rope hanging along the wall and gave it a firm pull.
Far above, in the safe house, a bell rang.
That sound was the signal.
Ryan had already explained everything beforehand. If the bell rang, it meant the spell had succeeded. Anyone affected would remain in an unrousable coma for eight hours. The only remaining threat would be the Brotherhood's automated weapons.
Leaning against the wall, Ryan rested briefly before dismantling the ritual setup. He erased traces of magic, packed away his tools, and finally began the slow walk back through the passage toward the safe house.
When he emerged from the tunnel, pale and unsteady, he found everyone waiting. Militiamen sat tensely, eyes fixed on the entrance. The moment they saw movement, one of them rushed forward and pulled Ryan fully into the room.
"What are you all staring at?" Ryan asked quietly, managing a faint smile.
"We sent out the scout," Nate replied, nodding. "We're waiting for his report."
Ryan exhaled slowly.
"Then," he said, "let's hope he brings good news."
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