great-warnovel Chapter 387 The Position of Saints
Chapter 387 The Position of Saints
Chapter 387 The Position of Saints
"Blood contains power, blood breeds honor and prestige; Blake rose from blood, and he will live on in blood!"
Hermione walked along the pebbled lawn, slightly dazed. The fake magical sun felt both cold and warm. Kreacher was sent back to rest by her.
Black, once arguably the most powerful of the Twenty-Eight Holy Families, refined the second form of Purebloodism after switching sides.
They still believe in bloodlines, but combined with Grindelwald's theories, the reason purebloods are noble is...
It is not because of the bloodline itself, but because of the power within the bloodline. It is powerful because of the power, and noble because of the power!
They do not advocate relying on bloodlines to live a life of ease and complacency; on the contrary, because they possess great blood, they should strive even harder.
We should strive harder, tap into the potential within our blood, make the enemy bleed, and forge the ladder for our own ascent.
The Black family was not the first to follow Grindelwald, but in later battles, their bravery, strength, and fearlessness gradually won people's hearts, and they slowly replaced many old-line saints, becoming one of the most powerful forces within the cult.
"Why are you walking alone on this cold lawn?" an old voice sounded from behind.
Hermione turned her head and saw a familiar old man, dressed in a formal and solemn black suit, leaning on a cane.
I stood behind her with a smile.
They look familiar, but I can't remember who they are.
"Who are you?"
"Oh, this is really sad." The old man exaggeratedly clutched his chest.
"Old Najjar, we met once when you were surviving in the Loire Valley."
Hermione remembered Lockhart's inner demon battle during their second year. He led his students on a field trip to the Loire Valley in France, where old Najjar was the head of that cult stronghold, in charge of everything, big and small.
She looked surprised. "It's been a long time! You've come to the Blake family's funeral too?"
The old man shook his head: "It's not just the Blake family."
Hermione looked at her questioningly.
"My youngest son—also died in the nuclear explosion," he said in a flat tone.
"Huh!?" The girl was stunned.
"The valley was found by the Green Lantern Corps. I was reporting to New Paris at the time, and he was left in the settlement. A thousand people, thirty wizards, and him, all died."
Hermione remained silent. The information Professor Figg handed her consisted only of cold, hard numbers. Only by coming and seeing it for herself could she truly feel the approach of death.
Under nuclear weapons, all beings are equal. Whether Muggles or wizards, noble or lowly, they all silently turn into dust and smoke, becoming insignificant "the destruction of some settlements".
"I'm so sorry, please accept my condolences—"
Old Najr shook his head: "It's nothing. Our cause is always paved with sacrifice. It's just a pity that it wasn't me who died. That kid still has a bright future ahead of him."
He glanced enviously at the preparations underway at the cemetery not far away; old Blake was dead, but Regulus was still alive.
"Let's not talk about that. My colleagues want to get to know you, but they're hesitant to approach you directly. Luckily, I've met you once before." He pointed towards the corridor, where some well-dressed wizards raised their glasses in greeting.
"There's still some time before the funeral begins, perhaps we could sit in the reception room?"
Hermione did not refuse the invitation, which was precisely Grindelwald's intention.
The manor's interior was equally luxurious, with an unattended piano playing mournful and solemn music, and elves and Muggle servants moving about from time to time.
"This is old Carol, this is young Clara, old Abernathy, and young Kraft—" the old man introduced the wizards present to Hermione one by one.
Some were as old as him, while others were in their prime, but they were mostly descendants of the earliest group of people who followed Grindelwald.
Hermione glanced at old Carol, who was the uncle of the deceased Carol siblings. She wondered if he had managed to expand the Carol family here.
"Vita didn't come, but you should know her very well."
Vita Rozier, Grindelwald's most trusted deputy and the vice principal of Durmstrang, spends most of the year at that school.
"There are fewer and fewer elderly people; the future belongs to the young." Several old men sipped their bitter red wine and sighed.
"Of the thirteen saints from back then, only a few of our families remain unreplaced."
Hermione asked curiously, "The Thirteen Saints? Will they change again?"
"Once a saint is chosen, they will not step down, but upon their death, a new person will be chosen to fill the vacancy. This is not limited to any particular family." Little Clara was a sharp-tongued woman with her hair piled up. She was blind in one eye, wore a large black robe, had a high-pitched voice, and looked very fierce.
"The old men who followed their master back then were killed or wounded in battle after battle. If their children were good enough, they could take over their fathers' names, but those who were unlucky soon died in later battles," old Najr sighed.
"Even with the protection of their fathers, no one can rest on their laurels forever. If their descendants are not up to par, they may even be impeached in the Council of Saints and stripped of their status and all power."
The competition within the UMNO party appears to be quite fierce. The system created by Grindelwald links merit with all power. To maintain a better life, to gain fame and status, and to provide a better life for one's family, one must fight hard and accumulate enough merit. The Thirteen Saints are clearly the most coveted and hold the highest positions.
"Old Blake is dead, and he has relinquished his sainthood," Little Clara chuckled.
"But Regulus Jr. probably won't be able to keep this position in the Black family so easily." In the eyes of the old Saints family, Black is also a newcomer and a competitor.
"Oh?" Hermione asked in surprise. Could there be someone who could compete with this prestigious family?
Old Najjar's gaze drifted through the window to Regulus, who stood wearily in the crowd.
"That boy is too gentle; he's not suited to be born into the Black family, nor to live in New Paris—"
"His elders have protected him too well. He has no combat experience or notable achievements. Relying solely on the connections left by his father, it will be difficult for him to pass the saints' evaluation."
"Do you see that man over there?" The silent old man, Abernathy, pointed in another direction.
Hermione followed the gaze and saw a group of witches and wizards huddled together, surrounding a man like stars around the moon.
He had typical Scandinavian features: a large beard, a bald head, and his face was covered with magical tattoos. His imposing figure made him stand out from the crowd.
His gaze was fixed on Regulus like that of a hawk eyeing its prey.
"Sven Hakonson, Durmstrang's best graduate before the rise of Krum, an orphan brought back from a pile of corpses, is hostile to Muggles and the Soviet Union because his parents died in a witch hunt," Kraft Jr. explained at the opportune moment.
"Courageous and fearless, invincible, cunning black magic, unwavering will, and outstanding tactical mind."
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"He's very popular among young people and has been eyeing the saint's position for a long time, just waiting for someone to die," the sarcastic woman said coldly.
In other words, this big guy is Regulus's rival and could very well displace the Black family from the title of Saint—Hermione thought.
"They've already made a bet to determine the winner in the next battle to destroy Volgograd, based on their military achievements."
The witch shuddered: "The next battle? Volgograd?" She remembered the name; it was the place that had been ravaged in Lupin's tales of the Wolf King's army, but which the Muggles had apparently rebuilt.
"It's a response to the Green Light Corps." Old Nigel revealed a cruel smile, his grief over the loss of his son, which he had previously concealed so well.