Chapter 1243 Professor Lane’s Concern
As the debate continued, Eve's resolve crystallized into action. With a casual flick of her wrist, her hammer, intricately engraved with various runes, materialized in her grasp. The room watched in silent awe as she swung the hammer above her head and propelled herself through the roof, leaving a trail of lightning bolts in her wake. The boldness of her departure left her companions in a momentary state of stunned silence.
Once the echoes of her departure faded, Azazel broke the silence, his voice carrying a weight of responsibility. "I'll talk with my contact in Mazeroth. We'll have extra eyes on Harry at all times," he declared, his tone leaving no room for doubt about his commitment to their safety.
Trista, ever cautious, voiced the concern that lingered unspoken among them. "And how sure are we that this contact of yours won't betray us?" she asked, her skepticism evident.
Lenora, leaning forward with interest, added to the inquiry. "Yeah, you and Eve never even told us who this mysterious contact of yours is," she pointed out, her curiosity piqued.
Hearing the two elder vampires' question, Azazel allowed a rare chuckle to escape before replying with a hint of mischief in his tone. "Let's just say he's someone very bloody important in Mazeroth," he teased, his assurance doing little to quell the curiosity but enough to instill a sense of confidence in his judgment.
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Meanwhile, inside Headmaster Wulfric's office at the Mazeroth Academy, Wulfric and Professor Lane stood side by side at the window, their gazes fixed on the dark rain clouds that shrouded their academy. The ominous rumble of thunder filled the air, a stark contrast to the absence of rain. Since Michael's defeat of Rainar, the god of rain, the mortal realm had been left puzzled by the persistent storm clouds that yielded no rain. Yet, Lane and Wulfric were far from ordinary; they knew all too well the truth behind the phenomenon. The god responsible for rain had been slain, a fact the Empress of the Awor continent, Nithroel, was certain of.
Gazing out at the brewing storm, Lane's voice, cool and measured, broke the silence. "There is a storm approaching us, Wulfric," he observed, his tone betraying no emotion.
"And Harry finds himself in the center of it once again," Wulfric, his eyes still fixed on the darkening sky, nodded in agreement. A note of concern in his voice for the boy who seemed perpetually caught in the eye of tempests not of his own making. Updated from novelbIn.(c)om
Lane, his expression unchanged, responded with a cold clarity. "It seems Harry is the only chip in the Dark Lord's armor," he remarked, his words heavy with the implication that Harry's unique position could be both a vulnerability and a strength in the present and future. As the storm clouds gathered ominously outside, Lane's thoughts drifted to the past. "I can still remember him in my classroom, meticulously learning the art of potion making. Despite being naturally adept, he always sought to refine his skills further," Lane reflected, his voice betraying a hint of nostalgia.
Wulfric, intrigued by this glimpse into the past, queried with a half-smile, "Had you known then that he was to become the Dark Lord, would you have ceased teaching him?"
Lane's response was measured, his tone even. "All I saw was a student who, albeit better than most, strived for excellence. Yet, beneath the surface, there was always a shadow, something... darker," he admitted. "His thirst for power and knowledge was evident even then. That very pursuit has now entangled innocents like Harry and Layla in the web of dangers that pervade our world."
The conversation took a turn as Lane considered Harry's current predicament. "As for Harry," he began. "I've always been wary. He could sway towards darkness or light, depending on the choices he makes. It's a damn tightrope walk, and the winds are picking up."
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