Only after a few seconds did Dawlish react sluggishly.
"Ah!" Pain racked his entire body as he clutched the charred, blackened stump where Fiendfyre had severed his arm. "My hand!"
Seeing Dawlish's tragic state, the surrounding Aurors raised their wands toward Kyle once more, intent on taking down both Kyle and Konan using far harsher methods.
None of them noticed that among the snow-white paper sheets fluttering across the sky, slip-like paper charms inscribed with the word "Explode" were quietly mixed in.
Gathering together in midair, the swirling paper condensed into the upper half of Konan's body.
She glared coldly down at the surrounding Aurors. If any of them dared to make a move, she would use these Paper Explosive Tags to send them bang-banging straight to heaven.
"Everyone, stop!" Rufus Scrimgeour's voice boomed from afar, preventing the tragedy from unfolding.
Upon receiving Kingsley's Patronus message, Rufus Scrimgeour, who had originally been monitoring the stadium side, rushed over at a near-hundred-meter sprint.
Fortunately, he made it just in time.
The moment he saw the person surrounded by the crowd of Aurors, Scrimgeour's pupils shrank violently, but he quickly recovered his composure.
Judging by the other party's appearance, things had not yet reached the worst possible outcome; there was still room to turn this around.
Taking three steps in two, Scrimgeour—a man fully capable of yielding when necessary—slightly bowed his head before Kyle.
"My apologies, Lord Grindelwald. They were unaware of your identity, so..."
It was truly difficult for Scrimgeour to lower his posture to such an extent.
Naturally, Scrimgeour had his reasons for doing so.
Not long ago, the International Confederation of Wizards held a meeting at the headquarters of the Magical Congress of the United States of America, only for Grindelwald to lead a force that ambushed and wiped out their home base. Although this incident had not been made public, anyone with a bit of influence in the wizarding world could easily look into it.
Scrimgeour was naturally aware of this as well.
The fact that the Anti-Grindelwald Alliance of Eighteen Lords was smothered in its cradle by Grindelwald before it could even form was only part of it.
More importantly, earlier this morning, Scrimgeour had personally seen two names on the visitor registration list: Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Dumbledore.
What in the holy hell was a Gellert Dumbledore?
Did changing a surname mean people wouldn't recognize him?
With both of Kyle's formidable fathers present right here in the campsite, Scrimgeour naturally chose to back down.
Forget his position as a mere Head of the Auror Office—even if the Minister for Magic himself were here, he would have to submit.
Kyle had no interest in listening to his nonsense, waving his hand to interrupt him. "Can we enter the campsite now?"
"Of course, naturally." Scrimgeour's attitude was exceptionally respectful.
This left many of his subordinates staring with wide-eyed shock.
Scrimgeour had always maintained an unyieldingly tough image to the outside world; when had he ever displayed such a low posture?
Even if the other party was the son of Grindelwald, surely it shouldn't warrant Scrimgeour putting on such an act, right?
Indeed, many among them were not unfamiliar with Kyle.
Back when Kyle became the youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class, in magical history, and when his identity as the son of Grindelwald was exposed, The Daily Prophet had dedicated massive front-page articles to coverage of his feats.
Naturally, the front page of the paper could not go without Kyle's photograph.
Later on, when Grindelwald steamrolled the French Ministry of Magic and raided the headquarters of the MACUSA, he continued to dominate The Daily Prophet's front page for a considerable period.
Coupled with Kyle's signature heterochromatic eyes inherited from Grindelwald, there were virtually very few people in the entire wizarding world who did not recognize him.
However, owing to The Daily Prophet's habitual tendency to exaggerate, most of them—aside from the group of Aurors who had directly faced Kyle in the Hogwarts Great Hall—did not believe a teenage boy could possess any truly formidable strength.
They all assumed Kyle was merely hyped up to such mythical heights because Grindelwald was backing him up.
So, when Grindelwald was not on the scene, their foolishness flared up.
Even while fully aware that this was the son of Grindelwald, like utter fools who lacked common sense, they refused to adapt, choosing instead to blindly follow Fudge's absolute orders to carry out a pat-down search on this young Demon King and his female companion.
If that wasn't seeking death, what was?
After walking just a few paces with Konan, Kyle paused again.
He turned back and pointed at the Ministry employee whose boots and trousers had been burned away—the very fellow who had initially tried to search them.
"That man—fire him."
Dawlish had merely used a somewhat harsh spell, and a Fiendfyre firestorm had consumed his arm.
This man was even more outrageous than Dawlish; if he wasn't made to suffer a little setback, was he supposed to keep him around for the New Year?
Faced with Kyle's proposition, Scrimgeour naturally didn't dare disobey. He agreed without a moment's hesitation, even though he was not that wizard's direct supervisor.
Who would dare disobey the young Demon King's suggestion?
Best to ask the two old Demon Kings lurking in the campsite first.
Watching Kyle and Konan cross the desolate marshland and disappear into the dense fog, Scrimgeour let out a long, heavy breath.
Sending off this little plague god, along with the two old monsters inside the camp, as long as no one was insane enough to provoke this family of three, even if the Dark Lord Voldemort were resurrected and came knocking on their door, it would still be impossible to disrupt the smooth execution of this Quidditch World Cup.
After walking through the vast, stark white mist for about twenty minutes, the two finally emerged from the fog.
Kyle's view opened up abruptly as a small stone cottage situated right beside the gates came into view.
Behind the stone cottage stood hundreds upon hundreds of strangely shaped tents. They stretched up the gentle slope of a vast field, an expanse that extended all the way to a dark forest on the horizon.
With a single glance, Kyle spotted the tent belonging to their household, situated at the very top of the slope—the largest and most eye-catching of them all.
Passing through the campsite gates, Kyle walked between two long rows of tents.
Most of the tents looked fairly unremarkable—at least when compared to those eyesore wizards in the campsite attempting to mimic Muggle attire, they appeared quite normal.
Clearly, their owners had gone through considerable effort to make them resemble Muggle tents as much as possible. Of course, some had added a few minor decorations to their tents, but nothing too absurd.
Except for the tent in the center of the camp, which clearly belonged to the Malfoy family.
It lavishly used a massive amount of striped silk, looking practically like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance.
Kyle swept his eyes over those peacocks; long-term luxury had not made them overly plump.
It seemed Lucius, that old peacock, had kept his house-elves busy exercising those birds.
Such peacocks had just the right balance of fat and lean meat, and their flavor was bound to be exquisite.
Kyle raised his hand to wipe the corner of his mouth—fortunately, it wasn't wet.
Right now, in broad daylight, it wasn't appropriate to make a move. Matters like this were best left for nighttime.
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