Harry swallowed hard. "What the hell is that?"

"We believe in the Trinity — Magic, the Divine, and Bloodline. This is the sacred divine blood granted to us by God… magical spirit blood," the old man explained.

"Oh. I respect that. But, uh, sorry—I'm underage, can't drink alcohol." Harry took a step back.

"I'm well aware. This is for me."

Harry let out a sigh of relief.

"I made you orange juice," the old man added, dropping the line like a bomb.

"Huh?" Harry stared in disbelief as the old man pulled out what looked like a juicer—no cleaner than a goblet from the Hog's Head. Inside was a thick, orange-yellow liquid.

Another glass of blood-tinged orange juice was placed in front of Harry.

"Please, drink this juice. It signifies the binding of your magic and your bloodline with the divine from this day forward." The old man didn't speak in a threatening tone.

"Oh... Can I choose not to drink it?" Harry took another cautious step back.

"You might think we're a closed-minded, backward magical order… Don't bother denying it—I can see it in your eyes. But rest assured, the Templar Brotherhood simply does not pursue indulgence of the flesh. What you'll gain is peace—of spirit and soul."

Harry frowned, but his expression quickly relaxed—because he noticed a figure behind the old man, wearing a monocle, who hadn't been there a moment ago.

With his backup now present, he immediately launched into a full display of his rhetorical flair. "To be honest, I have a lot of doubts."

"I can enlighten you," the old man replied with a smile, completely unaware of the shift in atmosphere.

"You say your Templar Brotherhood is far more powerful than ordinary wizards? Then why is it that they control all of Europe, and you're hiding out in some tiny forest?"

"..."

"And you claim to protect Muggles because it's the duty of those gifted with magic—then why, thirteen years ago, when Voldemort was persecuting Muggles in England, weren't you there? Why was it those so-called 'godless' wizards—Dumbledore, the Ministry—who stood up and fought him?"

"..."

"And if I remember correctly, didn't your group once work with the Church on witch hunts? You lure young wizards in with sugar-coated sweet talk while burning adult wizards alive—so is the god you worship the same as the one the Church believes in? If it is, then why hasn't that god given magic to his true, faithful believers? Why give it to people who don't even worship him?"

"And if it's not the same god, then why did you align yourselves with a bunch of heretics in the first place? Don't tell me you're not just licking the Church's boots for two measly gold coins—wagging your tails at their power while cracking down on unaffiliated wizards with brute force to eliminate dissent."

"But the moment ordinary wizards unite, you all scurry off like sewer rats to hide in some forest in Sicily, spouting vague nonsense about 'sacred duty'—when in reality, you're nothing more than villains snatching children from their parents."

Harry paused, took a deep breath, and continued, You're worse than the medieval Church—at least their chapels gave kids candy. All your churches do is mass-produce magical child soldiers."

"So basically, the Statute of Secrecy has become your cover—your fig leaf. It's the only reason you can sit around in this little forest, pretending everything's noble and justified, content in your own delusions. And when one of your confused followers dares to ask, 'Why don't we go out and wipe out all the heretics?' you can just say, 'Because of the Statute of Secrecy.'

But the sad part is, that very statute—crafted by ordinary wizards—is your enemy, your shield, your armor. A cloak they unknowingly wove to protect the likes of you."

"Compared to people like you, I'd honestly rather march up to Voldemort with my wand and duel him one-on-one. At least I'd get a chance to curse him out before I die—maybe even rip a chunk off him on the way down."

"But you—you're the ones drinking from the festering pus that leaks out of Muggle society's darkest rot, all while waving your blades at innocent wizards. Voldemort, at least, is straightforward. He's never pretended his crimes were anything but what they are!"

"If you ask me, the real tragedy—the thing I'll never understand—is how that goddamn Mount Etna, on this poor innocent island of Sicily, didn't erupt that night and just melt the whole lot of you into the most rancid piece of obsidian this world has ever seen!"

Harry spat it all out in one furious breath—only to realize, tragically, that there wasn't even a drop of water around to soothe his throat. "Haah.. haa.."

The old man took a deep breath, clearly preparing to clap back hard. But just then, a small silver flask flew from behind him and landed neatly in front of Harry.

"You're welcome. I filled it with grape juice today, not wine."Kasen reached out and patted the old man on the shoulder. "Now then, shouldn't we talk about something a little more... grown-up?"

Oh.. The old man let out a sigh.

He glanced at the silvery mark on his right wrist. Both Kasen behind him and Harry in front knew that mark housed his wand.

But instead of reaching for it, the old man simply lowered his right hand—then suddenly raised his left.

On his left wrist, there was a much wider silver slit.

From it, a blade shot out—silver and sharp—like a hidden dagger from beneath a sleeve.

"Hm? Templar Brotherhood… You lot should really be called the Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood," Kasen said with a sneer, catching the rapidly incoming hidden blade between two fingers like it was nothing.

"Perhaps," the old man sighed. "I am old now. It's an honor to meet you, Professor Kasen."

"Still can't figure out how a random alchemy nerd like me ended up with such a massive reputation…" Kasen muttered, picking his ear with his pinky, visibly unbothered.

"The Brotherhood has always shown leniency to those with talent."

As he listened to the old man, Kasen, who had just finished picking his ear, stuck the same hand back into his pocket.

He was seriously starting to wonder if this cult had rotted their brains as well as their theology. Because if anyone here should be begging for mercy, it should be this old fossil in front of him—not the other way around.

"What are you trying to say?" Kasenhis asked with a bored expression.

The old man spread his hands with a smile. "I'm offering you a chance to join the Templar Brotherhood."

Kasen nodded. He really shouldn't have wasted a single word on this clown. But now that he was in it, he figured he'd at least maintain the bare minimum of manners.

"How about this—you withstand nine of my spells."

The old man smiled back. "And then I'll let you in?"

"If you can take them," Kasen replied, "I'll bring out the Sky-Piercing Anti-Dragon Cannon."

With that, he struck without a frame of hesitation.

"Charge up!"

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