[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 621 - 625

Chapter 621: The Celestial Intelligence

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Countless prismatic blades sliced through the air, their enchanted edges whistling as they converged on their targets.

David refused to be intimidated. With a fluid gesture, he summoned the power of dusk. Deep amber energy radiated from his hands, expanding explosively in a fraction of a second.

Darkness receded around them as twilight illumination engulfed the battlefield. Time itself seemed to stretch and slow within the affected area.

Dusk Realm!

David had long been fascinated by Lockhart's Dream Domain. This confrontation offered a perfect opportunity to test his own dimensional manipulation against it.

Drawing upon the residual power left by the Twilight God, David had crafted his own domain—a pocket of reality where the laws of physics bent to his will.

As the domain expanded, the incoming chromatic blades decelerated visibly until they hung suspended in the air. Their momentum abruptly ceased, as if they had struck an invisible barrier.

David observed with clinical precision as each blade became enwrapped in gossamer-thin filaments of dusk energy.

Then—

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Hundreds of prismatic blades shattered simultaneously, fragmenting into motes of colored light.

The area surrounding Lockhart immediately blazed with multicolored radiance as he manifested his Dream Domain in response. Beside him, Wanda unleashed waves of chaotic crimson energy that crashed against the boundaries of David's Dusk Realm.

Under this coordinated assault from two formidable opponents, David's dimensional pocket began destabilizing at an alarming rate. Fracture lines appeared in the amber illumination, threatening imminent collapse.

As the two Masters pressed their advantage, the figures of David and Strange began to fade from view, becoming increasingly transparent.

"Lockhart," David's voice echoed as his form dissipated, "when next we meet, I'll have a special gift prepared for you!"

With these parting words, both figures dissolved into phantoms. A final pulse of deep amber light flashed across the night sky, and darkness reclaimed the battlefield.

David was no fool. The commotion had already drawn Lockhart to their location; Arnold, the Guardian Sorcerer of the temple, would undoubtedly arrive any moment. Facing two Masters plus the empowered Wanda would be suicidal.

Strategic retreat was the only reasonable option.

Just as David had predicted, moments after their departure, a crimson portal materialized in midair. Arnold, Guardian of the London Sanctum, stepped through.

Lockhart and Arnold exchanged knowing glances, the slight upturn of their lips conveying wordlessly what needed no verbal confirmation.

Within the safe house at Tarot Town—established as temporary headquarters after the destruction of Dusk Castle—the main hall stood eerily quiet. Torches flickered along the walls, illuminating an empty chamber devoid of activity.

Suddenly, intricate patterns of amber light bloomed across the marble floor tiles. The lines activated simultaneously, interweaving into a complex sigil of arrival.

The surrounding space began to fluctuate as blood-red lines manifested on the adjacent walls, stabilizing the distortion and suppressing any potential dimensional tracking. The deeper spaces within the building shifted and distorted, creating magical interference to prevent scrying or mystical surveillance.

In the center of the hall, directly above the glowing sigil, David and Strange materialized.

"Well, Strange," David said with a satisfied half-smile, "you've made it to safety this time."

The situation couldn't have worked out better in David's estimation. The brilliant sorcerer now had only one viable path—the bridges to Kamar-Taj and the London Sanctum both thoroughly burned. As a branded traitor, Strange had no choice but to fully commit to the fallen sorcerers.

Strange surveyed the hall briefly before addressing David, who watched him with barely concealed amusement.

"Chief," Strange began with practiced deference, "I have intelligence to report."

Even as he spoke, inward pain lanced through him. Why had events accelerated so rapidly? If only he'd secured the promised resources from David before his cover was compromised. Now all leverage was lost.

Though his heart ached with frustration, Strange maintained an expression of eager subservience. When sheltering beneath another's roof, one must inevitably bow their head.

David noted Strange's fawning demeanor with quiet satisfaction. He placed a reassuring hand on Strange's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Strange. Abandoning the London Sanctum to join us will prove advantageous. The Sorcerer Supreme closely guards their most valuable secrets."

David's voice took on a seductive quality as he continued, "In our possession lies the complete path to godhood. Many sorcerers have already embarked upon this journey."

Strange's expression registered appropriate surprise, and he prepared to respond.

Before he could speak, Grindelwald's voice whispered in his mind: "Don't improvise. Maintain your sycophantic tone and follow my lead exactly."

Though confused by these instructions, Strange obeyed without hesitation.

"Chief," he said with exaggerated enthusiasm, "I have long yearned to join your headquarters. I couldn't wait to escape the London Sanctum."

"To my perception, Kamar-Taj's sorcerers differ little from worshippers of dark entities. They merely cloak themselves in Vishanti's righteousness while expelling followers of rival pantheons."

"Earth's native sorcerers prove far more trustworthy. Those Vishanti devotees will eventually abandon our world!"

Strange paused momentarily, noting David's pleased expression before continuing.

"Incidentally, Chief, I've obtained critical intelligence during my assignment. I suspect I inadvertently left traces that Lockhart detected, prompting their pursuit."

His voice grew hollow with carefully calculated regret. "I wish to contribute this information freely to our cause!"

David observed Strange's pained expression with interest. After brief consideration, he patted Strange's shoulder comfortingly.

"Fear not. We always reward meritorious service. The items outlined in our prior agreement were earned through your risk-taking."

"There's no need for unpaid contributions!"

Those who recognize the changing tides are truly heroes, David reflected. Strange had demonstrated remarkable adaptability and political acumen.

Moreover, the slogan Strange had earlier proclaimed—"Earth belongs to its people! Vishanti followers, leave our world!"—still resonated powerfully in David's thoughts.

Such rhetoric positioned their cause on the highest moral ground. Strange was indeed talented, and such talent required proper cultivation. The resources previously negotiated seemed insignificant compared to having Strange permanently among their ranks.

Strange's face brightened visibly at David's words.

Don't appear too eager when reclaiming what was lost! Grindelwald cautioned mentally. But impressive—a few carefully chosen words, and he offers the resources willingly.

"Strange, what are you waiting for? Demonstrate your loyalty immediately!" Grindelwald prompted.

"Thank you, Chief! Your generosity stands in stark contrast to Arnold's miserly nature," Strange effused. "That old man constantly guards his knowledge like a miser hoarding coins..."

While Strange continued his performance—alternating between declarations of loyalty and complaints about the London Sanctum and Kamar-Taj—David grew increasingly satisfied with his new recruit.

"What intelligence have you gathered from the London Sanctum?" David eventually interrupted, having heard enough flattery. "Tell me everything."

Lockhart's personal involvement in Strange's pursuit had only intensified David's curiosity about the information at stake.

Strange leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Chief, are you familiar with the Celestial Race?"

"Asgard has come to London—did you know?"

"And they seek a god..."

Chapter 622: The Seeds of Revolution

"Teacher, are you certain David trusts me?" Strange whispered into the mystical connection.

"Trust is perhaps too strong a term," Grindelwald replied from within the sling ring's pocket dimension. "However, he has invested considerable resources to secure your loyalty. Under normal circumstances, he would protect such an investment."

"That's reassuring," Strange acknowledged. "Teacher, which magical disciplines interest you most? What resources should we prioritize?"

"Let's use this opportunity to our advantage," he added eagerly.

Having arrived at the fallen sorcerers' stronghold, Strange recognized he could trust no one around him. His only lifeline remained Grindelwald, concealed within the sling ring—his sole hope for eventual escape.

After working diligently to ingratiate himself with David, Strange naturally turned his attention to cultivating his relationship with Grindelwald. Indeed, he felt compelled to demonstrate complete subservience to the hidden Dark Lord.

"Don't concern yourself with my needs," Grindelwald responded with casual indifference. "Continue as instructed. If I require something specific, I'll inform you."

Though relegated to the role of Strange's mystical handler—a position far beneath his dignity—Grindelwald acknowledged the contractual obligations binding him to this task. Besides, Lockhart's advance compensation had been substantial. The resources and knowledge provided had largely satisfied his immediate requirements.

Had the arrangement been less favorable, he might have been tempted to put forth minimal effort. After all, one couldn't expect a horse to run without proper feeding.

Deep beneath central London, David had returned to his true sanctum.

The underground chamber's walls and floor pulsed with alternating blood-red and amber illumination. Seated in meditation with eyes closed, David utilized the blood sacrifice ritual to sense the ephemeral concept of dusk.

His objective remained consistent: fully integrating the dusk concept into his magical core to establish initial control over its authority. This pursuit had consumed him for months.

But today...

BZZZT!

The crimson light surrounding him flickered erratically before abruptly vanishing. David reluctantly opened his eyes, staring at the ritual patterns carved into the floor as he sank into contemplation.

He had intended to maintain perfect mental clarity—to immerse himself in conceptual understanding as usual. Yet his mind refused to settle.

Surprisingly, it wasn't the recent confrontation with Lockhart that disturbed his concentration. Rather, the intelligence Strange had delivered proved so shocking that it dominated his thoughts completely.

The Celestial embryo. Asgardian gods.

As a veteran Kamar-Taj sorcerer before his defection, David comprehended the profound significance of the Celestials perfectly. He recalled his first encounter with their description in ancient texts—how envy had bloomed within him instantly.

The pinnacle that most sorcerers spent lifetimes pursuing represented merely the starting point for such beings. The Celestials embodied this truth perfectly.

They didn't merely claim godhood; they were born divine.

David reflected bitterly on his own journey. He had pursued transcendence relentlessly—cooperating with elder entities, betraying Kamar-Taj, disrupting cosmic order, and now planning to sacrifice an entire nation. All for what? A mere glimmer of hope for divinity.

Yet Celestials emerged from creation already embodying what he desperately sought.

How could anyone not covet such effortless power?

Strange's intelligence indicated that Asgard—led by Thor himself—had arrived on Earth specifically because of the Celestials.

These cosmic entities were so powerful that the birth of each Celestial typically consumed an entire planet—not just any world, but one rich in resources and mystical potential. A world precisely like Earth.

The revelation that Earth might be destined as sacrifice for a newborn cosmic god exceeded David's darkest imagination.

And what of the Sorcerer Supreme's response? The so-called protector who confronted dimensional invaders fearlessly apparently submitted meekly before these cosmic deities.

The Supreme Sorcerer, it seemed, practiced selective courage—bold against some threats, subservient before others. This realization further diminished the already limited respect David maintained for his former superior.

Yet questions remained. If Celestials required planetary sustenance, why had Asgardians specifically targeted England? What precisely was Asgard's mission? Were they opposing the Celestial's emergence, or facilitating it?

In David's mind, possibilities multiplied and collapsed as he analyzed the potential positions of the London Sanctum, Lockhart, the Sorcerer Supreme, and other factions within this cosmic game.

Celestials were born gods with unlimited potential. Such temptation proved impossible to resist.

It seemed Strange had become indispensable to his plans.

At the temporary headquarters in Tarot Town, activity had increased substantially by midday. The safe house gradually filled with sorcerers who had successfully escaped the London Sanctum's investigation.

The sanctum's crackdown had occurred without warning, leaving many without prepared refuges. In comparison, the temporary headquarters in Tarot Town offered relative security.

Strange stood in the central gathering area, book in hand, engaged in animated conversation with a group of recently defected sorcerers.

"We are family now—brothers and sisters united by fortune," he proclaimed. "We escaped the sanctum's purge while many of our compatriots were caught unprepared by their treacherous attack."

His audience nodded solemnly.

"Kamar-Taj's strength cannot be denied," Strange continued, "but we are far from powerless. Especially now that we can channel Chaos Magic—far superior to Vishanti's constrained power."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"My fellow sorcerers, beyond its ancient heritage, what value does Kamar-Taj truly offer? None whatsoever."

His expression hardened. "Their rhetoric about 'guarding Earth' and 'controlling magic' merely disguises their true purpose—securing contracts with Vishanti. How does this differ from the methods of elder entities cultivating followers?"

"At least those entities invest genuinely in their devotees' development. Vishanti demands specific prayers and ignores those lacking innate talent."

Strange's charisma seemed to captivate the assembled sorcerers.

"Brothers and sisters, together we form a new family. Dismiss any concerns about Kamar-Taj—they're merely watchdogs guarding Earth for their cosmic masters."

"Release your psychological burden," he urged. "We sorcerers who have severed ties with gods represent true orthodoxy. We are the power genuinely protecting Earth—not Kamar-Taj."

His voice rose passionately. "Earth belongs to us—to Earth's people and Earth's sorcerers! We must expel Vishanti's followers from our world!"

Strange's eloquence and confidence proved mesmerizing. The recently defected sorcerers gathered around him, nodding with increasing enthusiasm.

Unlike established fallen sorcerers who had mentally prepared for their defection, these newcomers had hastily abandoned the sanctum, tempted by promises of freedom. Now they found themselves adrift—worried, frightened, uncertain about their futures.

Strange's persuasive rhetoric filled their emptiness. His slogan—that Earth belonged to its people and its sorcerers—positioned them on a perceived moral high ground. Almost instantly, they developed genuine admiration for Strange and his ideological framework.

"Family members," Strange continued warmly, "we're fortunate to find ourselves together today. Let's become better acquainted to facilitate easier communication."

Had modern technology been available, Strange would undoubtedly have encouraged everyone to exchange contact information, forming a tight-knit organization built on familial bonds.

Each reference to "family member," "brother," and "sister" emerged without a hint of embarrassment—delivered with escalating enthusiasm.

His skill at indoctrination proved remarkably effective.

Of course, this wasn't actually Strange at all, but Grindelwald disguised as Strange.

The real Stephen Strange remained within the pocket dimension Lockhart had created within the sling ring, watching in astonishment as Grindelwald masterfully manipulated the gathered sorcerers.

Not mere brainwashing—this was systematic ideological unification.

A disturbing realization dawned on Strange: Grindelwald posed an even greater threat than David, the fallen sorcerers' leader.

Far greater.

Chapter 623: A New Order Rises

"Families, we need to unite!" The charismatic voice echoed through the chamber.

"We fight for freedom, not just for our own, but for the freedom of the entire planet." The speaker's eyes gleamed with conviction, scanning the crowd before him.

"Although we have successfully escaped the shackles of the gods, Earth has not yet broken free." His voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing the audience to lean forward. "As long as Kamar-Taj stands, Earth will never escape the watchful gaze of Lord Vishanti."

A moment of silence fell across the room before he raised his arms dramatically.

"Brothers and sisters... why do we exist?"

The response came thundering back, a unified chorus: "FOR FREEDOM!"

"FOR FREEDOM!"

The chant reverberated off the ancient stone walls of the secret chamber where dozens of mages had gathered, their faces illuminated by floating orbs of magical light. Their expressions ranged from nervous excitement to fervent dedication.

Standing on the elevated platform, Grindelwald—disguised as Doctor Stephen Strange through a complex glamour charm that even Polyjuice Potion couldn't rival—subtly waved his hand. A barely perceptible shimmer of magic rippled through the air as he deftly weakened the influence of the emotional enchantments he had cast earlier, allowing the crowd to gradually calm.

The art of persuasion was something Grindelwald had mastered long ago. In his experience, convincing someone during ordinary circumstances was challenging at best. But during times of crisis, when people desperately sought direction—when you could offer them even the faintest glimmer of hope—the process became remarkably simple. They would cling to your words like a drowning man to driftwood.

Of course, to maximize the efficiency of unifying their thoughts, certain rituals and spells designed to heighten emotions and shape the atmosphere were indispensable. The incantations he had woven throughout the chamber were subtle variants of the Captivus Mentis spell he had perfected during his rise to power in the wizarding world decades ago.

As the fevered passion of the mages below began to subside, Grindelwald, wearing Strange's face with uncanny precision, spoke again. His voice carried the familiar timbre of the Sorcerer Supreme while hiding the German accent that might betray his true identity.

"Though the road ahead is fraught with hardship and suffering," he paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle, "we believe the future must be bright!"

His voice rose triumphantly. "The future must belong to us!"

"Belongs to us!" the crowd echoed.

"Ours!" came the fervent response.

The psychological pressure of choosing betrayal was evident on their faces. The sudden pursuit by the London Sanctum had transformed them from respected guardians into hunted fugitives. One change after another had left many of these mages emotionally adrift, unable to reconcile their new reality with the life they had known.

They desperately needed psychological support—at least temporarily—to adjust to their dramatic shift in status from Earth's mystical protectors to wanted criminals. Grindelwald recognized this vulnerability and seized it, skillfully analyzing their psychological state and guiding their transformation with practiced ease.

He was turning these traitorous mages into his followers. No—it was too early to call them believers. But in this critical moment, they were a force at his disposal, malleable and eager for direction.

As Grindelwald prepared to deliver another rousing speech to the wizards below, his expression suddenly changed. His eyes widened slightly, as though he had received an unexpected message through some mystical connection. The words of incitement he had prepared were quickly replaced.

"Family members, brothers and sisters," he said, his tone shifting to something more intimate, "here's to a better tomorrow." He gestured broadly, encompassing everyone present. "We must always be prepared to continuously improve ourselves while weakening our enemies."

A knowing smile crossed his face—Strange's face. "I have discussed matters with Chief David and have secured new resources and more advanced magical knowledge to enhance our collective strength." His eyes glittered with promise. "Now, everyone come forward and receive your share."

Grindelwald understood human nature too well to rely solely on inspiring speeches. Spiritual nourishment alone would have only temporary effects. Once these mages had time to calm down and reflect, they would inevitably notice if nothing had materially changed. Distrust would follow as surely as night follows day.

Therefore, tangible benefits had to accompany the spiritual guidance. Like those saints in the wizarding world, there would always be some followers motivated by genuine faith and loyalty. However, even that loyalty needed to be maintained through concrete advantages.

What ordinary wizards and mages craved were resources and advanced magical knowledge. The pure-blood families who had followed him in the past had plundered the interests of many rival families. Through this process, the more benefits his followers gained, the more dependent they became, binding them ever deeper to his cause.

In time, they would convince themselves of his ideology because their interests were too deeply entwined with his own. If they ever attempted to leave, the backlash would be devastating enough to destroy them completely.

This was the truth of power and loyalty.

Chief David had indeed contributed some of the resources Grindelwald had just mentioned, but Lockhart—another pawn in his intricate game—had supplied far more.

When the mages heard Grindelwald's announcement, excitement bubbled through the gathering. After experiencing the hardships of their new life as fugitives, many had begun to reminisce about the comfort of their past. The abundance of resources, knowledge, and magical artifacts they once had access to—items of genuine value that were now beyond their reach—had become even more desirable in their absence.

Although these fallen mages had prepared for their defection by amassing resources beforehand, their new situation had still resulted in a significantly lower standard of living and a marked decrease in their ability to practice advanced magic. The contrast made Grindelwald's persuasion all the more effective.

The resources Grindelwald now offered couldn't compare to what they had enjoyed at the London Sanctum, but they were sufficient to alleviate their immediate concerns and inspire gratitude. Mages who had harbored doubts before now felt the warm glow of appreciation spreading through their chests.

After all, actions spoke louder than words. Tangible resources in hand were undeniable proof of commitment.

Without anyone noticing, Grindelwald created a mystical duplicate of himself—a technique that combined the Gemino curse with aspects of Astral Projection—and began distributing resources to each mage personally. He spoke with them individually, listening to their difficulties and cataloging their suffering. With each interaction, he planted seeds in their minds that would later bloom into unquestioning loyalty.

Meanwhile, Grindelwald's true form remained hidden within the Eye of Agamotto (which the Mystic Arts practitioners occasionally referred to as the "Hanging Ring"), while Strange opened a portal using his Sling Ring and walked toward another location.

"Chief, the task you assigned me has been completed," Strange reported to David, his tone carefully calibrated to convey both confidence and deference. "I have successfully won over the group of newly joined mages. They will undoubtedly prove invaluable to our cause."

Strange hesitated, an expression of mild embarrassment crossing his features. "However, regarding resources..." His voice trailed off, as though uncertain whether to continue.

Recruiting the new mages had been Strange's suggestion to David. Successfully integrating them into their ranks would demonstrate Strange's value to the organization. Additionally, this fresh contingent of magical practitioners represented a powerful asset that both David and Strange—or rather, Grindelwald—needed.

From within the Eye of Agamotto, Grindelwald observed David's facial expressions, attempting to discern the true nature of the man. He had decided against confronting David directly, not out of fear of exposure, but because he found the prospect of paying homage to such a mediocre mage deeply repulsive.

Though he could perform such obsequious acts when necessary, his pride rebelled against it. Instead, he allowed Strange to serve as his proxy, puppeteering the sorcerer's actions from a safe distance.

"Resources?" David's face showed momentary discomfort at the mention.

He understood that recruiting mages required investment. However, the demands for materials and magical artifacts were substantial and would need to be sustained over time. Even with his family's considerable business holdings, the strain was evident in his hesitation.

"I'll provide an initial batch," David finally said, his tone betraying his reluctance. "We'll reassess when supplies run low."

From his hiding place, Grindelwald shook his head in disappointment. Leadership required certain talents that David clearly lacked. At minimum, a leader should never display such obvious uncertainty before his subordinates. Such displays inevitably undermined confidence.

Strange nodded, tactfully changing the subject. "Chief, may I ask why you summoned me here so urgently?"

David considered the question, his expression growing serious as he studied Strange intently.

"Strange," he said, leaning forward slightly, "you mentioned earlier that you had formulated a plan. Is there any way for us to obtain information directly from Asgard?"

A flicker of interest passed through Grindelwald's consciousness. Asgard—the realm of Thor and Odin. Perhaps this mundane leader might prove useful after all.

Chapter 624: Warriors of Asgard

Kewell Bar, London

As a classic British pub, the Kewell Bar never lacked patrons. Especially at night, when viewed from the entrance, almost every chair at the bar and surrounding tables was occupied. Most of the customers were young or middle-aged, with a fair number of attractive women scattered throughout the establishment. The warm amber lighting cast a cozy glow over the dark wooden furniture, and the cheerful hum of conversation blended with faint strains of music from the vintage jukebox in the corner.

However, the most eye-catching figures among the crowd were three burly men seated at the bar. Each was unusually tall and muscular, exuding an aura that clearly warned others not to cause trouble. Though their faces weren't traditionally handsome, their commanding presence attracted admiring glances from many women in the pub.

These three were warriors from Asgard: Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun—members of the legendary Warriors Three, companions of Thor.

"Fandral," Hogun said, raising a bottle of beer, "though Midgardian spirits lack magical energy, the taste is surprisingly good." He took a long swig, his normally stoic expression softening slightly.

Volstagg laughed heartily, his voluminous red beard quivering. "As long as it tastes good! Their materials are too low-grade to contain much magical energy anyway."

"You're right," Fandral agreed, stroking his blond mustache with a charming smile. "We hardly lack for energy ourselves. The taste is what matters here."

"Hahaha!" Their boisterous laughter rang out, voices carrying without restraint through the bar.

The Asgardians spoke loudly, seemingly unconcerned about being overheard by the mortals around them. Strangely, none of the nearby patrons appeared to notice anything unusual about their conversation. Some even raised their glasses in friendly acknowledgment to the three of them before downing their drinks in one gulp, oblivious to the otherworldly nature of the men they toasted.

This peculiar lack of reaction was due to the enchanted jewelry they wore—artifacts given to them by Lockhart. The magical accessories, based on research into Muggle-repelling charms, effectively blocked ordinary human perception of anything unusual. If the warriors had chosen to increase the energy output of these magical items, they could have driven away every remaining guest in the establishment.

However, the three Asgardians had no desire to do so. After all, what was the pleasure in drinking without the bustling atmosphere of a crowded pub?

"We've been touring the Woldstadt and central London areas all day," Hogun remarked, taking another sip of his drink, his dark eyes surveying the room. "What did you discover today?"

Volstagg poured himself another generous glass of whiskey and downed it in one impressive gulp. He sighed wistfully, "It's a pity that here in Midgard, the tradition of throwing cups for revelry has disappeared."

He set his empty glass down on the bar with unusual gentleness for his massive frame and continued with evident frustration, "As for discoveries—nothing of value. I fear there must be no entrance to the London Sanctum in this area."

His companions looked at him, noting the irritation evident on his broad features.

"Curse it all," Volstagg growled, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Where is this entrance? It's unnaturally well-hidden."

With that exclamation, his fist came down hard upon the bar with a resounding boom!

Fortunately, the quality of the bar's construction was substantial, and Volstagg hadn't intentionally sought to damage it. Still, his momentary lapse in control left a distinct indentation and several small cracks spreading across the polished surface.

Yet just as before, when the jade amulet at Volstagg's waist flashed with prismatic light, everyone's attention in the pub returned to whatever had occupied them before. No matter what they might have witnessed seconds earlier, none registered anything unusual about the three warriors from Asgard's Golden Palace.

Such was the power of magic—ordinary mortals stood little chance of resisting its influence.

However, while Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral continued their conversation and complaints, they failed to notice two middle-aged men in nondescript clothing sitting not far away. These unremarkable figures sipped their drinks while carefully observing the Asgardians.

"Master Milton," said one of them quietly, "you've now seen all three of these Asgardians. Because of their enchanted items, their movements go almost entirely unnoticed by ordinary people. And with the naturally arrogant character of Asgardians, they rarely bother to consciously conceal information."

The speaker was Strange—no, Grindelwald—who took a measured sip from his glass while instructing Milton, the trusted confidant he had chosen for this task.

"What I require of you is quite simple," Grindelwald continued in a low voice that wouldn't carry. "Observe their actions and document everything. Every word spoken, every movement made—all must be recorded for later examination."

He spoke with casual authority, his eyes never leaving the Asgardians. "You needn't engage with them; observation alone is sufficient."

Grindelwald's tone hardened slightly. "Note that you should change your appearance frequently to avoid drawing their attention. They display almost no vigilance now, but should they sense anything unusual or determine the risk has passed, our probability of gathering intelligence will drastically diminish."

"I understand completely, sir," Milton replied respectfully, his posture indicating rapt attention. "I will record everything they say with utmost diligence."

Hearing this, Grindelwald nodded with satisfaction. He had expended considerable effort to unify the thoughts of these mages and provide them with benefits and resources.

For what purpose? Certainly not merely to have them step in when trouble arose.

Of course, he would fulfill whatever David asked of him. After all, even Grindelwald's time held value.

"Pay particularly close attention to any mention of the Celestial Clan," he added, his voice dropping even lower. "Report such news directly to me, without intermediaries."

His eyes locked with Milton's. "Rest assured, valuable intelligence will be rewarded according to the system of incentives we've established."

At these words, a bright smile spread across Milton's face. He turned his attention fully toward the three Asgardians, his gaze filled with anticipation. All his future resources for magical advancement now depended on these three unwitting "gifts" from Asgard.

The Celestial Clan? Milton silently pondered the unfamiliar name. Despite his confusion, he listened attentively to the exchange between the three warriors, determined not to miss a single detail.

Seeing Milton fully engaged in his assignment, Grindelwald nodded with satisfaction and prepared to depart.

"Should you encounter any difficulties, contact me directly. Concern yourself with nothing else," Grindelwald instructed as he rose from his seat. Milton nodded to indicate his understanding.

"For freedom!" Milton intoned with quiet intensity, a gleam of fanaticism flickering in his eyes.

"For the greater good," Grindelwald responded softly, the familiar phrase from his past slipping out before he could consider its implications.

"For the greater good," Milton echoed reverently, feeling as though a flame had ignited within his chest. He remained seated at his solitary table, watching the three Asgardians closely from the corner of his eye.

Grindelwald departed silently, slipping away unnoticed—a skill he had perfected over many decades of clandestine operations.

The Vientiane World

Lockhart sat comfortably in his study, lifting a cup of freshly brewed tea to his lips. The aromatic steam curled upward as he savored the flavor with evident appreciation.

"Grindelwald," he offered, gesturing to the teapot, "you really must try this. It's a new blend given to me by the Supreme Mage. The taste is quite exceptional."

Responding to Lockhart's invitation, Grindelwald lifted the delicate porcelain cup and took a measured sip. He closed his eyes momentarily, seeming to analyze the complex flavors. The magical energy within the tea leaves was nourishing, and the taste refined—clearly, this was no ordinary blend, and its price would reflect that quality.

After this brief assessment, Grindelwald set down his cup and addressed the matter at hand.

"Lockhart, I've now established a firm position among the fallen mages," he stated without preamble. "David oversees my activities from above, while I command support from the ranks below."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "However, to penetrate deeper into their organization and uncover their secrets, I require more valuable intelligence and resources from you."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I need to gain David's complete trust."

Upon hearing Grindelwald's request, Lockhart remained silent. He simply added more tea to Grindelwald's cup, the liquid streaming in a perfect arc from the spout of the ornate teapot.

Then, retrieving his own cup, Lockhart sipped contemplatively, seemingly lost in thought.

Grindelwald showed no impatience. He observed Lockhart carefully, waiting in practiced silence. The relationship between them was complex—more than allies, perhaps, but certainly not friends. Each man knew too much about the other's capabilities to ever relax fully in their presence.

After what seemed an eternity, Lockhart finally set down his teacup. The gentle clink of porcelain against wood sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet study.

"Very well," he said, his voice carrying a weight of decision. "I shall provide you with a gift that should prove useful in your endeavors."

His eyes met Grindelwald's with unusual intensity. "And I wish you success in your mission."

The unsaid portion of that sentiment hung in the air between them—success for Grindelwald ultimately meant success for their shared, greater purpose. A purpose that neither man needed to articulate aloud, for it had driven both of their lives for longer than either cared to admit.

Chapter 625: Thunder Over London

The Tower of London, England

The Tower of London stood as a historical landmark on the north bank of the Thames River, a millennia-old symbol of British royal power throughout the ages. From a distance, the towering White Tower appeared majestic against the London skyline, its pale stone walls catching the afternoon light.

Upon closer inspection, one could see King William's coat of arms intricately carved into the white stone brick exterior. The ceremonial Yeoman Warders stood guard at the entrance, their elaborate Tudor uniforms meticulously maintained, their posture suggesting readiness.

However, an astute observer might notice a hint of complacency in their expressions. This was hardly surprising in the 21st century, where true power had long since shifted from the monarchy to Parliament and the Prime Minister. The royal family, while maintaining cultural influence, wielded minimal true authority.

The Tower of London, once the ultimate symbol of British royal might, had been transformed into a tourist attraction at the behest of the government. For the guards who worked there, the concept of "royal prestige" held little meaning. They had been selected primarily for their physical appearance and ability to wear the distinctive uniform, not for their vigilance or combat prowess.

Entering through the King's Gate at the main entrance led visitors into the vast atrium. The walls were adorned with reliefs depicting royal emblems of dynasties past, with doorways branching off to various sections of the historic fortress.

At this moment, standing before one of these royal emblems on the left wall of the atrium, a muscular figure examined the heraldic design with mild interest. His blond hair and unmistakable heroic bearing identified him immediately as Thor Odinson—the mighty prince of Asgard and future God-King of the Nine Realms.

Thor turned to observe the guards stationed at the main entrance, his expression shifting to one of barely concealed disdain. Though he understood that the monarchy which once ruled Britain had now relinquished most of its power, the sight of the former king's palace being guarded by men with no martial prowess, no alertness, and only apparent indolence struck him as utterly pathetic.

It wasn't just the guards Thor found wanting—in his estimation, the entire British royal institution had fallen into disrepute. For a king to compromise with usurpers rather than fight to the death against betrayers was the height of dishonor. In the eyes of the warrior culture of Asgard, such weakness was unforgivable.

For Thor, who had been raised with the strict martial values of the Asgardian royal house, his heart filled with contempt. To his mind, such a royal family would be better off extinct than living in disgrace. At least then, they would not dishonor the legacy of the kings who had established their line.

Utterly worthless, he thought. Complete incompetence.

After these dismissive thoughts, Thor strode through the atrium toward the main structure of the White Tower. Looking up at the tall, imposing building, he gave a slight nod of approval. Whatever else might be said, this structure at least commanded a certain respect.

Then, with purposeful movements, Thor gazed upward toward the Tower's pinnacle. He extended his right hand, and into it materialized Mjolnir, the legendary hammer of Asgard.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The dark gray hammer began to rotate at tremendous speed, creating a roaring vortex of wind around Thor's powerful form. Strangely, the tourists and pedestrians nearby seemed oblivious to the magical weapon. They sensed only a sudden, powerful gust that sent them scattering in all directions, clutching at hats and scarves.

This peculiar lack of reaction was, of course, Lockhart's handiwork. Thor had come to Earth—and specifically to London—at Lockhart's invitation. As host to the Asgardian prince, Lockhart believed it inappropriate to impose too many restrictions on his guest's activities.

From Lockhart's perspective, the matter of concealing extraordinary abilities from Muggles was trivial. A few well-placed spells from his arsenal could easily manage any unwanted attention, sparing Thor the inconvenience of restraint. Even if the Asgardian's actions caused significant disruption, Lockhart remained confident in his ability to erase all evidence within moments.

With a powerful thrust of his legs, Thor launched himself skyward. Dark blue energy crackled across Mjolnir's surface as the hammer pulled him high into the air. Within seconds, Thor had ascended to the Tower's uppermost point.

From his aerial vantage point, Thor surveyed London's sprawling expanse. The city unfolded beneath him: Big Ben standing vigilant, the Tower Bridge spanning the Thames, and the dense spires of historic buildings with ravens circling ominously above, adding to the atmosphere of ancient mystery.

Thor descended onto the Tower's roof, taking several steps toward the parapet. From this position, he overlooked the full panorama of London: the sinuous path of the Thames with ships moored densely along its banks, bridges teeming with traffic, and modern skyscrapers rising among centuries-old architecture.

The prince of Asgard had to admit that the city possessed a unique beauty. Even for one raised amid the golden spires of Asgard's eternal realm, London presented an impressive vista.

Thor stood silently, his gaze sweeping across the metropolis. Then, with sudden determination, he raised Mjolnir toward the heavens.

BOOM!

Dark storm clouds materialized with unnatural speed, gathering directly above the Tower. Bolts of dark blue lightning arced across the rapidly darkening sky. Within moments, Thor had summoned a storm that cast the entire city into premature twilight.

Pedestrians below began to disperse hurriedly, sensing the imminent downpour. The magical nature of the gathering tempest went unnoticed, mistaken for merely an unexpected weather system.

Pitter-patter! CRASH!

Rain began to fall—first as isolated drops, then quickly intensifying into sheets of water driven by howling winds. The deluge swept across the once-glorious city, drenching streets and buildings alike.

Thor raised Mjolnir high, his eyes closing in concentration. He extended his consciousness outward, allowing his thunder field—an extension of his divine power—to envelope all of London. Through this mystical connection to the storm, he sought to detect something specific—something hidden.

This was the mission entrusted to him by his father, Odin Allfather, God-King of Asgard. As Odin's eldest son and heir, Thor was duty-bound to execute this task with unwavering dedication.

He was searching for the Celestials—ancient cosmic entities of immense power.

More specifically, he needed to ensure that any Celestial presence remained dormant. Asgard had no desire for such primordial beings to awaken and bring chaos to the Nine Realms.

Kamar-Taj, Bamboo Forest Tea Room

As Thor unleashed his divine storm over London, Lockhart sat in the serene Bamboo Forest Tea Room within Kamar-Taj, his gaze turned toward the distant city. Though physically separated by thousands of miles, his magical senses easily detected the atmospheric disturbance caused by the Asgardian's hammer.

A flash of resignation crossed his features. He had naturally perceived everything unfolding in London.

Thor, your impatience remains your greatest flaw, he thought. Would waiting not have been wiser?

The god of thunder had tasked Lockhart with locating traces of the Celestials. While Lockhart possessed knowledge of these cosmic beings, he had thus far discovered no concrete evidence of their presence.

The only leads he had uncovered were rumors of ten false gods—puppet entities dispatched by the Celestials to manipulate certain forms of power on Earth. However, either due to time constraints or because these false deities had somehow sensed Lockhart's investigations, he had yet to pinpoint their locations.

Unable to provide Thor with the answers he sought, the Asgardian had predictably resorted to his own methods. In truth, Thor hadn't placed much faith in Lockhart's abilities from the beginning. The Celestials existed on a plane far beyond the typical reach of even accomplished human sorcerers.

Lockhart had traveled to the Bamboo Forest Tea Room in Kamar-Taj with two distinct purposes. Primarily, his curiosity regarding the Celestials had brought him to seek the Ancient One's counsel. He found it difficult to believe that the Supreme Sorcerer who safeguarded Earth would remain ignorant of any Celestial presence. Naturally, he hoped to extract relevant information from this meeting.

Additionally, Lockhart needed to ascertain Kamar-Taj's official position regarding these cosmic entities. Thor had maintained minimal caution in Lockhart's presence, allowing him to glean Asgard's attitude toward Celestial embryos with relative ease.

However, the stance of Kamar-Taj—and particularly that of the Ancient One—remained unclear to him. This knowledge gap concerned Lockhart greatly, especially regarding beings like the Celestials who utilized planets as incubation chambers, their birth invariably resulting in planetary destruction.

What position would Kamar-Taj adopt toward such existential threats? The question demanded an answer.

Lockhart required clarity because his fate was now intertwined with Kamar-Taj. Their position would necessarily determine his own. The politics of cosmic powers were delicate, and one misstep could prove catastrophic.

As he sat waiting for the Ancient One to arrive, Lockhart absently traced a finger along the rim of his teacup, the enchanted liquid within reflecting images of Thor's storm over London. The magical infusion allowed him to monitor the situation while simultaneously preparing for the delicate conversation ahead.

The Celestials use Earth as food, he contemplated, born at the expense of planetary destruction. Surely the protectors of this realm would oppose such beings at any cost.

Yet experience had taught Lockhart that when dealing with entities of such cosmic significance, no assumption was safe. After all, in his long life as both wizard and sorcerer, he had witnessed supposed guardians make unthinkable compromises for the sake of what they termed "the greater balance."

He could only hope that the Ancient One's priorities aligned with the preservation of Earth—and by extension, with his own interests.