The half-time whistle blew.
On the massive golden scoreboard in the center of the stadium, the numbers locked at Ireland 170, Bulgaria 160.
The score between the two teams was incredibly tight, and the spectators in the stands were in a state of extreme hyper-arousal...
Irish supporters were cheering, Bulgarian supporters were stomping their feet, and the entire stadium was like a boiling cauldron.
Krum had nearly caught the Snitch in a final dive just before the half-time whistle, but the Irish Seeker, Lynch, had rammed him out of the Snitch's slipstream with a near-suicidal interception.
The two tumbled three times in the air before stabilizing; the scene made the hearts of a hundred thousand spectators collectively skip a beat.
"Half-time break!"
The magically amplified voice echoed throughout the stadium.
"A fifteen-minute half-time break! Please take a moment to rest, ladies and gentlemen! An exciting second half is about to begin!"
The spectators in the stands began to stretch their stiff necks and arms.
Some got up to buy hot dogs and Butterbeer, some began discussing first-half tactics with strangers in neighboring seats, and others pulled out portable magical radios to listen to the on-site commentators' replay analysis.
In the VIP box.
Jerry was still leaning back against the sofa, his two short legs dangling in the air.
On the coffee table in front of him sat three empty Butterbeer bottles and a half-eaten bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.
Molly knelt beside the sofa.
Her deep chestnut dress had been rearranged, but the spot where the collar had been torn still revealed two distinct rips, the two massive orbs playing peek-a-boo at the edges of the holes.
Tear tracks and sweat still lingered on her face, and a small patch of dried white residue marked the corner of her mouth.
Hermione stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of the box, holding the Omnioculars, observing the activity in the center of the pitch.
"Here it comes."
She said.
Jerry's grey eyes looked toward the center of the stadium.
Over the pitch, the attention of a hundred thousand spectators was drawn to a newly appearing object.
It was an airship.
A massive, silver-gleaming alchemical airship, descending slowly from directly above the stadium.
Written in flowing, iridescent magical font across the hull of the airship were three large words.
"Rozier Alchemy Workshop"
The airship was about one-third the size of a standard Muggle blimp, but its design was exquisitely intricate.
The silver hull was carved with dense alchemical runes, each rune emitting a soft blue glow.
The bow of the airship was shaped like a giant alchemical cauldron, the opening of the cauldron aimed directly at the pitch below.
"What is that?"
A wizard in the stands voiced the question.
"An advertisement, maybe? Aren't there supposed to be ads during half-time?"
"But isn't this a bit too big..."
The airship descended to an altitude of about fifty meters above the pitch and hovered.
Then, a row of windows opened along the side of the airship.
From the windows extended over a dozen long pipes flashing with golden light. The ends of the pipes aimed in all directions across the stadium... east, south, west, north, and straight down.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!"
A magically amplified female voice broadcasted from the airship.
The voice was crisp, confident, and carried an extremely professional broadcaster's tone.
It was the advertising copy Hermione had designed, read by a professional announcer.
"Welcome to... the Rozier Alchemy Workshop... Quidditch World Cup Special Project!"
One hundred thousand pairs of eyes were entirely focused on the silver airship.
"In the next ten minutes... we will present a special gift... to every single spectator in attendance!"
"Please... hold out your hands... and prepare to receive!"
The moment the words fell.
The alchemical cauldron at the bottom of the airship opened wide.
Whoosh...!!!
Countless glittering little objects poured out from the cauldron like a golden rainstorm.
The small objects flipped, spun, and traced brilliant arcs in the air, scattering in all directions.
They had been imbued with precise tracking magic; every single object automatically sought out the nearest spectator, landing steadily in their hands.
"What is it?"
"For me?"
"Good heavens, how exquisite!"
Gasps of amazement erupted one after another from the stands.
The gifts falling from the sky were figurines.
Extremely exquisite, hyper-realistic figurines of Quidditch players.
Each figurine was about the size of a palm, crafted from a special resin synthesized through alchemy, feeling warm and smooth like jade to the touch.
The designs of the figurines were of the most highly anticipated stars of this World Cup... Ireland's Troy and Moran, Bulgaria's Krum and Volkov.
Every figurine's facial expression, the wood grain of their broomsticks, and even the sweat stains on their jerseys were meticulously replicated.
But the most ingenious design was not there.
Embedded in the base of every figurine was an alchemical crystal the size of a fingernail.
Sealed within the crystal was a short holographic recording... a replay of that player's most spectacular goal or save during the World Cup qualifiers.
With a light tap of a wand against the crystal, the figurine would project a holographic video of about ten seconds into the air.
"Wow! Krum's Wronski Feint!"
"Troy's reverse bicycle kick! Too cool!"
"These figurines are so realistic! Even finer than Zonko's!"
In the stands, nearly all one hundred thousand spectators held a figurine; gasps of amazement and cheers were everywhere.
But Hermione's design didn't stop there.
On the back of every figurine's base, a short advertisement had been seamlessly "stitched" using magical fusion.
The stitching was incredibly clever. It wasn't a simple sticker or relief; the advertising information was directly integrated into the alchemical structure of the figurine's base.
When you admired the front of the figurine, you couldn't see any trace of an advertisement.
But when you flipped the figurine over to check the base, the advertisement would present itself to your eyes in an incredibly natural way.
Some figurine bases bore a small line of text: "Rozier Alchemy Workshop... Letting Magic Light Up Life."
Some bases featured a miniature product catalog, listing a few of the workshop's most popular alchemical products... portable holographic projectors, automatic temperature-control scarves, and those magical badges capable of recording and replaying highlights.
And some figurines... about one-tenth of the total... had much bolder advertising content on their bases.
"Rozier Alchemy Workshop... Adult Series... Adding Magic to Your Private Moments."
This slogan was printed on the base in an elegant flowing script, accompanied by a miniature alchemical symbol...
That was the exclusive logo for the Rozier Workshop's adult product line: a pattern composed of two crossed wands and a heart.
Below this symbol, in an even smaller font, it read: "For details, please consult authorized Rozier Workshop dealers in your area, or refer to Owl-Order Catalog No. AD-001."
"What's this?"
A young wizard flipped over the base of his figurine and saw the advertisement.
He blushed.
Then he brought the base closer, carefully reading the small text.
His girlfriend beside him also leaned in, and the two of them studied the advertisement together, their faces bearing expressions weaving curiosity and excitement.
"Adult series? The Rozier Workshop makes this kind of stuff too?"
"Looks pretty professional..."
"Owl-order? Well, wouldn't that be convenient..."
Conversations like this were happening simultaneously in every corner of the stands.
One-tenth of the figurines meant about ten thousand figurines bore advertisements for adult products.
Ten thousand figurines falling into the hands of ten thousand spectators meant every pair of eyes would read that ad, and every couple might develop a desire to purchase.
And...
This was just the first wave.
The alchemical cauldron on the airship opened again.
"The second wave of gifts... is about to drop!"
The female voice rang out again.
This time, what flew out of the cauldron were not figurines.
They were boxes.
Tens of thousands of palm-sized, exquisite cardboard boxes, each printed with the logo of the Rozier Alchemy Workshop.
The boxes had been charmed with Cushioning Charms, falling as lightly as snowflakes into the hands of the spectators.
"Open it and see!"
"What is it?"
The spectators eagerly opened the boxes.
Inside the box was a scarf.
But not an ordinary scarf.
It was the "Magical Cheering Scarf" designed by Hermione... an alchemical product capable of automatically changing to the supported team's colors based on the wearer's body temperature and emotions.
When you were excited, the scarf would turn a brighter, more vivid color; when you were disappointed, it would shift to a duller, softer tone.
Both ends of the scarf were also embroidered with miniature team logos that could automatically switch depending on who the wearer supported.
"Good heavens! This scarf changes color!"
"So warm! Much better than the one I bought myself!"
"Free? Truly free?"
One hundred thousand scarves.
The cost of each was about three gold Galleons. One hundred thousand scarves meant three hundred thousand gold Galleons.
And that was just the cost of the scarves themselves, not including the rental fee for the airship, the operating costs of the alchemical cauldron, and the production costs of those figurines.
But Hermione had done the math.
The global broadcast audience for the opening match of the Quidditch World Cup exceeded two hundred million.
Two hundred million pairs of eyes would see that silver airship, see those gifts falling from the sky, and see the image of one hundred thousand spectators simultaneously raising figurines and scarves in cheer.
These fifteen minutes of advertising time were worth over five million gold Galleons.
And the Rozier Workshop had spent less than five hundred thousand.
A tenfold return.
Hermione stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of the VIP box, watching the silver airship move slowly over the pitch.
She watched one hundred thousand spectators cheering with figurines and scarves in hand, watched those advertisements magically fused to the figurine bases being flipped, read, and discussed by countless pairs of hands.
The corners of her mouth turned up slightly.
"Perfect."
She said softly.
Jerry sat on the sofa, also watching the scene outside the window.
The reflection of the silver airship and the golden light flickering in the hands of one hundred thousand spectators gleamed in his grey eyes.
"Not bad."
He evaluated with two words.
Then he looked down at Molly kneeling beside the sofa.
Molly was still kneeling on the floor, her eyes hollow.
Liquid was still flowing slowly from between her legs, pooling into a dark wet stain on the velvet carpet.
The liquid flowed from the tunnel that had been stretched open by Jerry's massive object, a mixture of her own love juice and the fluids Jerry had left inside her.
Jerry pointed at the puddle of liquid on the carpet.
"Hermione."
Hermione turned around, looking at Jerry.
Jerry's finger moved from Molly, pointing at the puddle.
"Don't waste it."
Hermione blinked.
She looked at the puddle of liquid.
Then she looked at Jerry.
Jerry's grey eyes watched her calmly.
Hermione walked over to the coffee table and picked up the empty beer mug.
It was the mug Jerry had used when drinking his first bottle of Butterbeer.
The mug's capacity was about five hundred milliliters, and a thin layer of pale yellow beer foam still clung to the inner walls.
Hermione squatted down, aiming the mouth of the mug at the space between Molly's thighs.
"Mrs. Weasley."
Hermione's voice was calm and professional, as if she were executing a mundane work task.
"Please spread your legs a little wider."
Molly's body shuddered.
She slowly spread her knees apart, exposing that private area—still continuously leaking fluid—more completely to Hermione.
Hermione brought the mouth of the mug close to Molly's privates.
Transparent, viscous liquid flowed slowly from the opening of Molly's tunnel, dripping into the beer mug.
Drip. Drop.
The sound of the liquid hitting the bottom of the mug was clearly audible in the quiet box.
Hermione waited patiently.
The liquid flowed out very slowly.
Every time Molly's abdomen contracted slightly, a small stream of liquid would surge from her tunnel, sliding down her inner thigh and into the mug.
One minute.
Two minutes.
The liquid level in the mug rose slowly.
After three minutes, about three hundred milliliters of liquid had accumulated in the mug.
It was a semi-transparent, milky-white liquid—a mixture of Molly's love juice and Jerry's bodily fluids—shimmering with a faint pearlescence under the lights of the box.
Floating on the surface of the liquid were a few thicker, white flocculent strands... the byproduct of Jerry's fluids mixing with Molly's cervical mucus.
Hermione held the beer mug up to her eyes.
She scrutinized the liquid within.
Then she looked up at Jerry.
Jerry leaned against the sofa, his large grey eyes watching her.
"Drink."
Hermione brought the beer mug to her lips.
The edge of the mug touched her lower lip.
The scent hit her nasal cavity first... a complex aroma mixing musk, a fishy tang, and a faint sweetness.
It was the resulting product of Jerry's scent intertwined with Molly's scent.
Hermione tilted her head back slightly.
The beer mug tipped.
The liquid flowed from the mug, sliding over her lips and pouring into her mouth.
Glug.
The first swallow.
Hermione's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, swallowing that mouthful of liquid.
The warm, viscous liquid, carrying a strong fishy tang, slid down her esophagus into her stomach.
The sensation made Hermione's brow furrow slightly, but her hand didn't stop.
The beer mug continued to tip.
Glug. Glug.
The second swallow. The third swallow.
The liquid churned in Hermione's mouth.
Her tongue tasted that complex flavor... the intense salty-fishy tang of Jerry's fluids, the faint sweetness of Molly's love juice, and a unique, mellow taste produced by the mixture of the two, resembling fermented cheese.
Glug. Glug. Glug.
Hermione kept her head tilted back, swallowing in large gulps.
The liquid level in the beer mug dropped at a visible rate.
Three hundred milliliters.
Two hundred milliliters.
One hundred milliliters.
Hermione's throat bobbed continuously, sending every mouthful of liquid into her stomach.
Her cheeks flushed slightly from the head-tilted posture, her brown curls hanging over her shoulders, swaying gently with her swallowing motions.
Glug. Glug. Glug. Glug.
The final mouthful.
Hermione inverted the beer mug completely, bottom to the sky.
The remaining liquid flowed slowly down the inner walls, gathering into a final small stream, pouring from the mouth of the mug and falling into her open mouth.
Glug.
Swallowed.
Hermione set down the beer mug.
A trace of residual white liquid hung at the corner of her mouth; her tongue darted out unconsciously to lick her lips.
"Mmh."
She let out a short nasal sound, as if evaluating the taste of some beverage.
Then she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, wiping the corners of her mouth and the rim of the beer mug.
"Jerry, the advertising effect should be very good."
Her voice returned to that professional, work-discussing tone, as if what had just happened was merely some bizarre wine-tasting ritual.
Jerry looked at her.
"How many orders do you think the adult product ads will bring?"
Hermione thought seriously for a moment.
"The advertisement on the figurines reached approximately ten thousand people.
Calculating with a five percent conversion rate, that should generate about five hundred preliminary inquiries.
Thirty percent of those will convert into actual purchases, which is one hundred and fifty orders.
The average ticket size per order is about fifteen gold Galleons..."
"That's a conservative estimate."
Jerry interrupted her.
"Why?"
"Because you used the 'Owl-Order' channel on the figurines."
Jerry's short legs swung.
"Owl-Order implies privacy. No one knows what you bought.
No one will see you walking into an adult shop.
You just need to fill out a form, send it off, and a few days later an owl drops a completely unmarked package at your doorstep."
"This level of privacy will double the conversion rate. At least ten percent."
Hermione's eyes lit up.
"You're right! My previous model didn't factor in the privacy element.
If it's a ten percent conversion rate..."
She began to calculate rapidly in her head.
"One thousand preliminary inquiries, thirty percent conversion, three hundred orders, average ticket size fifteen gold Galleons... four thousand five hundred gold Galleons in direct revenue.
But that's just the impact of the opening match. The subsequent word-of-mouth spread and repeat purchase rate..."
"Conservatively estimated, during the entire World Cup, the total revenue of the adult product line will exceed two million gold Galleons."
Jerry nodded.
"And what about the other product lines?"
Hermione's eyes shone even brighter.
"The mass-production cost of the smart cheering scarves can be pushed below two gold Galleons.
If we officially list them for sale during the World Cup, priced at eight gold Galleons..."
"Two hundred million global viewers, even if only one percent purchase..."
"Two million scarves. Six gold Galleons profit each. Twelve million gold Galleons."
Hermione's voice trembled slightly with excitement.
Jerry leaned against the sofa, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.
Outside the window, the silver airship was conducting its final round of drops.
This time, the drop consisted of magical badges... those alchemical products capable of recording and replaying three seconds of match highlights.
One hundred thousand badges drifted down from the bottom of the airship like fireflies, each blinking with a faint light in the air.
The one hundred thousand spectators erupted into deafening cheers once again.
"Rozier! Rozier! Rozier!"
Someone in the stands was shouting the name of the Rozier Workshop.
The chant spread rapidly.
"Rozier! Rozier! Rozier!"
One hundred thousand people shouted in unison.
The silver airship slowly ascended amidst the cheers, disappearing into the clouds.
But its effect had been achieved... the name of the Rozier Alchemy Workshop was deeply branded into the minds of everyone present, as well as the two hundred million viewers watching the match via magical broadcast.
Hermione stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the rain of golden badges outside.
A smile hung on her lips.
Molly knelt beside the sofa, staring blankly at Hermione's back.
Jerry leaned against the sofa, taking a sip from a freshly opened Butterbeer.
"The second half is about to start."
He said.
In the center of the pitch, the fourteen players remounted their broomsticks.
The Golden Snitch was released once again.
The match resumed.
Jerry's brow suddenly furrowed.
It was an extremely subtle movement.
His grey eyes shifted away from the pitch, his gaze landing on an uncertain direction outside the floor-to-ceiling window of the box.
On his left index finger, the ice-blue alchemical ring suddenly emitted an extremely faint glow.
The glow was so weak that only Jerry himself could see it.
But Jerry's body tensed instantly.
"Jerry?" Hermione noticed his abnormality and lowered the Omnioculars. "What's wrong?"
Jerry did not answer.
He stood up.
His two short legs slid off the sofa, his toes touching the ground.
His height only reached halfway up the sofa's armrest, but his posture as he stood there was like that of a fierce beast preparing to strike.
His grey eyes swept over the surroundings of the stadium.
The cheers of the one hundred thousand spectators were still deafening.
The Irish team had just scored another goal, the numbers on the scoreboard ticking up to 180.
Emerald green flags waved frantically in the stands, and the air was filled with the smell of Butterbeer and roasted chestnuts.
Everything looked completely normal.
But Jerry felt it.
It was an extremely obscure fluctuation, almost impossible to detect.
It was a kind of... older, more violent, more unreasonable power.
That power was gathering at an extremely slow pace in some corner of the stadium, like an ancient behemoth awakening in the deep sea; its breathing was so faint it could barely be heard, but every breath caused an extremely slight vibration in the surrounding seawater.
Jerry's alchemical ring could sense this vibration.
"Hermione."
Jerry spoke.
His voice was very soft, but his tone held a seriousness Hermione had never heard before.
"Turn on the protective shield. Highest level."
Hermione's expression changed.
She knew Jerry too well. This boy was usually always in that lazy, careless state.
He would drink Butterbeer and watch a match while doing that sort of thing, and wouldn't even bat an eyelid when people pointed fingers at him, calling his family Death Eaters.
But now, there was something in his voice.
An absolute, unquestionable sense of urgency.
Hermione did not hesitate.
She drew her wand and waved it three times in rapid succession toward the perimeter of the box.
"Protego!"
"Impedimenta!"
"Fianto Duri!"
The three spells stacked together, forming a pale-gold, semi-transparent protective shield around the exterior of the box.
Jerry walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
His grey eyes stared fixedly at the opposite side of the stadium.
That was Section C of the general admission stands, the area most densely packed with Bulgarian supporters.
Deep red flags and massive portraits of Krum covered the entire stand, and tens of thousands of spectators were stomping their feet and shouting frantically there.
Jerry's alchemical ring flashed once again.
This time, the light was brighter than before.
That gathering power... was right in that sector.
"Too late."
Jerry said softly.
Hermione heard those words, and her heart contracted violently.
"What do you mean too la—"
She didn't finish her sentence.
Because in that very instant.
In Sector C of the stands, on the opposite side of the pitch.
In some inconspicuous corner.
A middle-aged wizard wearing a deep red Bulgarian team jersey suddenly stopped cheering.
His body went rigid.
His eyes... ordinary brown eyes... turned a bizarre golden color in that moment.
That gold was entirely different from any human eye color.
It looked more like fire burning from deep within his sockets, carrying a spine-chilling pressure that did not belong to this world.
His mouth opened.
Not to shout, not to scream.
His mouth opened to an angle that human facial bone structure fundamentally could not support; his jaw let out a crisp crack as it dislocated.
From that gaping, cavernous mouth, a ball of golden light surged out.
At first, the ball of light was only the size of a fist.
But in the next instant, it began to expand.
Centered on the middle-aged wizard's body, the golden light was like a frantically growing tumor, expanding outward at a speed visible to the naked eye.
One second.
The diameter of the light expanded to one meter. The middle-aged wizard's body was completely swallowed by the golden light; his skin, clothes, and bones rapidly decomposed, dissolved, and were absorbed by the golden light.
Two seconds.
The diameter of the light expanded to five meters.
The three or four closest spectators finally realized something was wrong. They tried to flee in terror, but their bodies were torn to shreds the instant they touched the golden light.
Flesh, bone, wands, clothes—all matter was reduced to nothingness before the golden light.
Three seconds.
The diameter of the light expanded to twenty meters.
This entire corner of Sector C had been completely engulfed. Hundreds of spectators were swept into it, their screams erased by the golden light before they could even be voiced.
The other people in the stands finally reacted.
"Explosion!"
Someone let out a heart-rending scream.
But it was already too late.
Four seconds.
That golden sphere of light... that terrifying suicide spell, using the body and soul of a cultivator as fuel... finally reached its critical point.
BOOM!
An earth-shattering explosion.
The entire stadium trembled.
A golden shockwave expanded frantically in all directions, centered on where the middle-aged wizard had stood.
The speed of the shockwave far exceeded the speed of sound.
Sector C bore the brunt of it.
That massive stand, constructed of a pure gold metal skeleton and tiered stone steps, was as fragile as a sandcastle before the shockwave.
As the golden energy swept through, the first three rows of the stands were instantly vaporized... not blown to pieces, but vaporized.
Tens of thousands of spectators completely vanished from the world in that instant, leaving not a shred of cloth nor a drop of blood behind.
The structure of the stands from the fourth to the tenth row was ripped to shreds by the shockwave.
Massive stone blocks and metal fragments flew in all directions like shrapnel, every piece carrying devastating kinetic energy.
Those fragments smashed into the crowd, causing secondary damage that was even more horrific than the shockwave itself.
A metal crossbeam weighing about half a ton sheared off the stands, spinning as it flew into the adjacent Sector D.
It crashed straight through a row of seats, grinding the seven spectators sitting there... a family of seven, from a white-haired grandmother to a swaddled infant... into meat paste.
Sector D suffered a chain collapse under the impact of the metal beam.
Row upon row of seats toppled like dominoes; thousands of spectators plummeted from the thirty-meter-high stands, screams intertwining with the sound of snapping bones.
The defensive arrays around the stadium finally activated.
Those arrays, set up before the match by the Ministry's top rune masters and touted as "capable of withstanding dragon fire," activated automatically the instant the shockwave arrived.
Pale blue curtains of light rose from the edges of the pitch, attempting to block that terrifying golden energy.
The arrays did work.
But only partially.
The shockwave was weakened by about forty percent by the arrays.
That golden energy, originally sufficient to level the entire stadium, decayed significantly against the barrier.
But the remaining sixty percent was still a catastrophe.
Sector C no longer existed.
That massive structure, which once held over twenty thousand spectators, was now just a giant, smoking crater.
The edges of the crater were twisted metal skeletons and scorched rubble; the center was an empty void about fifteen meters in diameter.
That was ground zero of the self-detonation; all matter there had been completely erased.
The area around the crater was a living hell.
The spectators who weren't directly vaporized but were caught in the blast wave were now scattered among the ruins in poses too gruesome to look at.
Some had lost limbs, white shards of bone jutting from their wounds as blood fountained out; some were burned, their skin charred and peeling away to reveal the raw red muscle tissue underneath; some had taken shrapnel to the head, brains leaking from cracked skulls.
Blood was everywhere.
Severed limbs were everywhere.
The air was filled with crying, screaming, and those unearthly howls that humans only emit in extreme agony.
"My leg! My leg is gone!"
"Help! Someone save my child!"
"Mom... Mom..."
A little girl, about five or six years old, sat at the edge of the ruins, covered in blood.
In her arms, she cradled an arm snapped in two... it was her mother's arm, the wrist still bearing a cheap, carved wooden bracelet she liked very much.
The little girl wasn't crying; she just stared blankly at the arm, her lips opening and closing as she called out "Mom."
Her mother was three meters behind her.
Or rather, her mother's upper half was three meters behind her.
The lower half was missing.
Intestines trailed from the severed waist, spread in a long line across the ground.
The little girl didn't look back.
She didn't know she should.
In the center of the pitch, the players descended from the air.
Some crashed to the ground; some barely managed to steady their brooms.
They looked around in bewilderment, not knowing what had happened.
"Terrorist attack!"
Someone used magic to amplify their voice, roaring across the stadium.
"It's a terrorist attack...! Run...!"
Panic spread among the hundred thousand spectators like a plague.
The orderly stands instantly turned into a whirlpool of chaos.
People surged frantically toward the exits, shoving and trampling one another.
Some were pushed to the ground, then trampled by countless feet, never to stand up again.
Some tripped over their own robes while fleeing, falling from the stands and breaking their necks.
"Don't run...! Don't push...!"
The Ministry's security personnel tried to maintain order, but their voices were insignificant against the panic of a hundred thousand people.
In the VIP box.
Hermione was knocked to the floor by the tremor.
Her Omnioculars flew from her hands, smashing against the wall and breaking in two.
Her ears were ringing; she couldn't hear a thing.
The three layers of protective shields around the box did their job when the shockwave hit.
The pale-gold light curtain flickered violently but ultimately held.
Aside from a few bottles of butterbeer toppling over, the interior of the box suffered almost no damage.
Jerry stood before the floor-to-ceiling window.
His grey eyes looked at Sector C across the way.
Looking at that massive crater.
Jerry recognized that golden light.
According to the intelligence provided by Su Chan.
In the Cultivation World, when a Nascent Soul stage cultivator was driven into a corner, they could choose to detonate their Nascent Soul, releasing their lifelong cultivation in an instant to inflict devastating damage.
It was a mutually assured destruction technique; the user would undoubtedly die, but its power was enough to destroy a mid-sized city.
And today, this technique was used in the arena of the Quidditch World Cup.
Used on a hundred thousand unarmed wizard spectators.
"Jerry..."
Hermione scrambled up from the floor and walked to his side.
Her face was deathly pale, her lips trembling.
"That was..."
"A self-detonation from the Cultivation World," Jerry's voice was freezing. "Nascent Soul detonation."
Hermione's eyes widened.
"That spy... she said the Cultivation Realm would send people..."
"More than one."
Jerry's grey eyes continued to scan the stadium.
His alchemical ring flashed again.
This time, the frequency of the flashes was faster than before.
"There's more."
He said.
The moment he finished speaking.
Sector B.
In another corner, a person dressed as an ordinary spectator suddenly had their eyes turn gold.
"Here it comes again!"
Jerry's voice spiked.
"Hermione! Maximum area protection! Now!"
Hermione frantically waved her wand.
"Protego Totalum!"
A golden light curtain several times stronger than before erupted from her wand tip, tightly encasing the entire VIP box.
The second explosion.
BOOM!
Another corner of Sector B was swallowed by a golden shockwave.
This time, the arrays reacted slightly faster.
The shockwave was weakened by about fifty percent, but the remaining fifty percent still caused horrific casualties.
Another stand was torn apart.
Thousands more were killed or injured.
Countless more families were shattered in that instant.
Two Nascent Soul cultivators.
Two suicide bombers.
They disguised themselves as ordinary spectators, infiltrated the Quidditch World Cup stadium, and then, during half-time when the audience's guard was lowest, simultaneously detonated their Nascent Souls.
This was a meticulously planned terrorist attack.
The targets were not military installations, not Ministry agencies, not any target with strategic value.
The target was ordinary wizards.
The ordinary people who came to watch a match, unarmed, bringing their wives, children, and parents to enjoy the weekend.
"A third."
Jerry's alchemical ring flashed for the third time.
His grey eyes looked toward the east side of the stadium.
There, somewhere in Sector E, a third golden sphere of light was forming.
But this time, Jerry didn't just watch.
He raised his left hand.
The ice-blue light on his alchemical ring bloomed suddenly.
"Lock."
His voice was very light.
But the power contained in those two words caused the air in the entire box to freeze for a moment.
A beam of ice-blue light shot from Jerry's ring, piercing the protective shield of the box, piercing the defensive arrays of the stadium, and shooting toward Sector E at a speed exceeding light.
The beam hit the expanding golden light-sphere with pinpoint accuracy.
VMMMM...!
An extremely sharp, high-frequency vibration.
The ice-blue beam and the golden light-sphere collided in mid-air over Sector E.
Two completely different energies frantically devoured and canceled each other out.
The expansion of the golden light-sphere slowed abruptly.
The self-detonating cultivator... his Nascent Soul burning, his soul perishing, on the verge of turning into nothingness... felt an unprecedented terror in the final moments of his life.
Because that ice-blue beam was drawing out, dismantling, and annihilating his detonation energy bit by bit.
"Extinguish."
Jerry said.
The ice-blue beam suddenly tripled in intensity.
Pfft.
An incredibly faint sound.
The golden light-sphere, having expanded to about two meters in diameter, suddenly went out.
Like a candle blown out by the wind.
The body of the self-detonating cultivator fell from mid-air, landing on the seats of Sector E.
His body was already mutilated... although the Nascent Soul detonation had been forcibly interrupted by Jerry, the majority of his physical form had already burned away.
His limbs were gone, his torso charred black; only his face barely maintained a human shape.
His eyes had returned to an ordinary brown, but his pupils were rapidly losing focus.
His lips parted slightly, as if trying to say something.
Jerry's hearing was exceptionally sharp; before the cultivator breathed his last, he heard the final two words he spoke.
"Heavenly... Dao..."
Then the cultivator died.
Jerry withdrew his hand.
The ice-blue light on his alchemical ring gradually faded.
The chaos in the stadium continued.
The screams of the wounded, the shouts of the rescue personnel, and the wails of those who had lost loved ones merged into a suffocating elegy.
Jerry stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, watching it all.
"Jerry... why would they do this?"
Jerry didn't answer immediately.
He looked at the smoking crater in the distance.
He looked at the survivors struggling in the ruins.
He looked at the little girl cradling her mother's arm... she had finally started to cry, that heart-rending wail that only someone who had lost their entire world could make.
"Because they want to win!"
Jerry's voice was very soft.
"They want to tell us that if they don't get what they want, they can kill our ordinary wizards. Twenty thousand, a hundred thousand, it's not enough."
He turned and walked back to the sofa.
Molly was still kneeling on the floor, her face streaked with tears and terror.
She had heard the explosions, seen the flashes outside the window, perhaps even seen the blown-apart corpses... but she could do nothing. She was just a woman bound and kneeling on the floor.
Jerry picked up his grey hoodie jacket from the sofa and draped it over his shoulders.
"Let's go."
He said to Hermione.
"Where?"
"To Sector C."
Hermione's eyes widened.
"It's a disaster zone..."
"I know."
Jerry walked toward the door of the box.
But looking at his back, Hermione felt a sense of reassurance she had never felt before.
That small figure had just used a single ring to stop a Nascent Soul detonation capable of destroying half the stadium.
"Wait, Jerry."
Hermione chased after him.
Jerry stopped and looked back at her.
Hermione's brown eyes stared directly into his grey pupils.
"I'm going with you."
Jerry looked at her for a second.
Then he nodded.
The two of them walked out of the VIP box.
Into the chaos and smoke.