The bow of the canoe already protruded over the edge of the cliff.
The white mist below resembled a gaping maw, waiting to swallow everything whole.
“Frey!”
Hermione’s piercing shriek echoed from inside the backpack.
Frey didn’t answer.
Reaching behind him, he zipped the backpack shut, sealing off the space within.
Standing at the stern of the tipping canoe, his eyes locked onto the emerald-green precipice.
The moment the boat pitched entirely into the empty air, he kicked off hard with both legs, launching himself into the sky.
At that second, time seemed to stretch.
As the boy fell, his body rapidly elongated and swelled.
Silver-blue scales swept across his skin like a rising tide, and a row of translucent, crystalline spikes along his spine caught the sunlight, glinting with a cold, sharp luster.
A pair of massive, tri-folded wings—large enough to shroud nearly half the waterfall—snapped open.
The thin yet leathery membranes vibrated violently against the howling wind, producing a low, rumbling roar like thunder.
This was a dragon over nine meters long: an Icelandic Blue-Ridge.
It possessed a sleek, streamlined body crafted like a work of art, resembling a sword forged specifically to slice through the air.
Its wingspan was nearly two and a half times its body length, with narrow, elongated wings shaped like slender sabers.
On its back was an unnatural bulge, faintly outlining the shape of a backpack.
*Roar!*
A draconic roar erupted, sending the wildlife in the forests on both banks scattering in sheer panic.
Meanwhile, at the edge of the waterfall.
The first raft of the Third Salem could not stop its momentum, tumbling into the abyss amidst terrified screams.
The second raft desperately turned sideways, its timber grinding against the rocks with a screeching scrape, barely halting at the very brink.
However, the third boat close behind—the one carrying the bald leader and the Shuar—slammed hard into the side of the second.
The sheer momentum ruthlessly shoved the second boat over the cliff.
“Th-that’s…” The Shuar, blowpipe still clutched in his hand, stared with eyes bulging so wide they nearly popped from his skull.
The bald leader didn’t speak.
His slick dome, glistening with cold sweat, looked paler than ever.
He stared at the dragon hovering in midair, his mind completely blank.
The dragon inhaled.
Between the scales of its slender neck, a blinding blue fire lit up, segment by segment.
The next instant, a torrent of deep blue flame swept toward the top of the cliff.
Without a second thought, the Shuar abandoned ship and dived straight into the rushing river.
The bald leader froze for a second before barking the order to jump, but that brief hesitation sealed their fate.
The agonizing screams lasted for less than two seconds before abruptly cutting off.
The raft erupted into a massive fireball, and a few charred, humanoid silhouettes writhed and dissolved within the flames.
Without so much as a backward glance, the dragon tucked its wings and dove.
It keenly sensed a slight warp in the space near the shore, but it had no time to spare.
Before they could even recover from the shock of the fall, they felt the light above them dim.
A draconic shadow swept by.
Razor-sharp claws tore through the churning waves, shredding the chests of a few unlucky souls in the process.
Vibrant plumes of red blood blossomed in the emerald pool.
The remaining hunters went mad with terror.
Letting out subhuman shrieks, they swam for their lives toward the shore.
Yet in the shadows of the shore, Death had long been waiting.
A large, black-furred, long-tailed cat materialized out of thin air without warning.
The Taowu had arrived.
It pinned a hunter who had just crawled ashore with its powerful forelimbs.
Its saber-teeth sank precisely into the man’s cervical spine, delivering a clean, fatal strike.
With a flick of its long tail, it leaped nimbly toward its next prey.
In less than five minutes, this squad of hunters—who boasted of being able to hunt down Ministry Class XXXXX beasts—was utterly decimated before they could even form up.
Silence returned to the deep pool, save for the splintered wood spinning in the blood-red ripples.
The dragon hovered just above the water’s surface, its golden, slit-pupil eyes staring coldly at the Taowu on the shore.
The beast raised its head in kind, staring back at the dragon.
At the top of the waterfall, the raft that had lagged behind after being hit by a falling tree during the chase was now pulling survivors from the water.
The bald leader, his face completely blackened by soot, was dragged aboard, a hideous burn branding his forehead.
Standing at the edge of the cliff, clutching his head, he looked down at the two formidable beasts.
Spitting a mouthful of bloody saliva, he turned and retreated.
On the bank, the Taowu sniffed the lingering scent in the air, and its form began to warp.
It seemed to melt into the air, the sunlight refracting strangely where it had just stood.
*A Disillusionment Charm.
What a clever beast.*
Once the dragon confirmed the threat was gone, it flew toward the capsized canoe.
Flipping it over with its talons, it nudged the vessel gently toward the shallow beach.
“It’s good to be alive… Like I said, even being an ornament is better than feeding the crocodiles,” the navigator’s raspy voice grumbled from the wooden post.
The dragon touched down, and with a flash of blue light, Frey materialized back on the beach.
He knelt on one knee, his left hand pressing hard against his temple as the veins on his forehead pulsed.
He hissed through his teeth.
His head felt as if it were splitting open.
In Albus Dumbledore’s words, these were “growing pains”—a consequence of his dragon form growing too rapidly for his nervous system to adapt.
Once the dragon form stabilized, the pain would fade.
*That old fraud.*
Frey cursed silently.
An adult Icelandic Blue-Ridge grew to twelve meters.
When would this ever end?
With trembling fingers, he pulled out a Gold Galleon.
His fingers were already back to their slender, human form, but they remained stiffly curled like dragon talons.
Prying his fingers open one by one, he tried to mechanically roll the Gold Galleon across his knuckles, using the metallic sensation to distract himself from the pain.
After resting for about five minutes, he surveyed his surroundings.
He stepped into the blood-red pool to drench himself in a disheveled mess, even scraping two bloody cuts onto his arm before finally unzipping his backpack.
“Frey!”
Hermione scrambled out the moment she hit the ground, her face even paler than Frey’s.
Staring at the charnel house before her—the deep pool littered with floating charcoal and gory chunks of flesh—she tremblingly produced a handkerchief to wipe Frey’s face.
“Are you alright? There’s so much blood… Heavens, what happened here?”
“I’m fine,” Frey said with a weak, strained smile.
“The Taowu showed up. It went into a frenzy and slaughtered all the hunters. I got lucky and hid at the bottom of the pool, so it didn’t spot me.”
Newt stared at the pool for a moment but said nothing.
A Taowu would never roast its prey to ash.
Terrified of giving himself away by talking too much, Frey quickly changed the subject and looked at Newt, who was being supported by Hermione.
“How is Grandfather?”
“I’m alright now. Hermione forced plenty of water and antidote down my throat inside the bag.”
Newt waved his hand weakly.
“But I still can’t muster any strength, and my magic is unresponsive due to the nerve paralysis. I’m afraid it will take at least a week or two to fully recover.”
The great magizoologist leaned against a rock and let out a long sigh.
“Frey, it seems I really am getting old. Once we return from this trip, it might be time for me to consider retirement.”
A pang of sorrow hit Frey’s heart.
He was about to crack a joke to comfort him when his eyes inadvertently caught a severed limb floating on the water.
He retched.
The stress of his first kill, the side effects of his transformation, and the gruesome sight before him all hit him at once.
He doubled over and threw up violently.
“We… we need to rest,” Newt said, looking at the two exhausted children.
“But not for long. The Third Salem lost so many men; they won’t let this slide.”
Hermione wrapped a bath towel around the dripping Frey, helped him sit on a nearby rock, and let him lean against her as she gently massaged his shoulders.
His muscles were still twitching in faint spasms.
“Hermione,” Newt said, “while it’s still fresh in your mind, record the situation. Include the flow speed of the water and the topography.”
Without looking back, Hermione held up a small notebook.
“Already done, sir.”
Just then, that familiar, cool scent of sandalwood drifted from the edge of the forest once again.
Frey straightened his spine and gripped his wand once more.