"Unblemished lamb, please raise your right hand."

In a daze, Harry heard a calm voice. As if under a spell, he instinctively raised his right hand—only to feel a sudden stab of pain at his wrist that made him want to cry out.

But just as the sound reached his throat, it was forcibly suppressed by an even stranger surge of magic.

Then came another wave of something that sounded like a hymn, though he couldn't make out any actual lyrics…

…

"Urg.. What the hell is going on…" Harry sat up from a cold stone slab, grimacing as he rubbed the back of his aching head with his right hand—only to suddenly notice something hard on his wrist.

He quickly looked down, and saw a small silvery crack there. Just as he was trying to make sense of it, his wand suddenly shot out from his wrist.

"Bloody hell!" Harry cursed reflexively in a panic.

He had no idea how—or why—his wand had been shoved into his wrist. No clue what sort of magic had done it.

There was a thin red cord linking the wand's base back into his arm, but it didn't hurt.

Still, this wasn't the time to overthink it. The wand was still with him, and that was the best news he could ask for.

He glanced around.

A stone house.

A stone bed.

A rickety wooden table with one leg shorter than the others.

A chair with half an armrest missing.

A shabby-looking door—one that looked like it would fall off the hinges if you gave it a solid kick.

But that would make too much noise. Harry opted for a more discreet method instead.

"Alohomo—"Before Harry could finish the spell, a searing, bone-deep pain suddenly shot through his wrist, making him instinctively flinch. His wand accidentally bumped against the wooden door.

The next moment, the door creaked open with a loud groan.

"...Right. Now I know why they're not worried about me escaping." Harry looked down at his wrist—the wand had already slipped back into that silvery slit, as if it had never come out.

The intense pain from just now felt like a hallucination.

He moved his wrist around a bit, then tiptoed out through the door. Immediately outside, he spotted a black-robed guy reading a book.

The man looked up when he heard the noise, gave Harry what was—objectively speaking—a fairly friendly smile, then calmly returned to reading.

"...You're not going to stop me?" Harry blurted out like his brain had short-circuited.

"Keep walking straight," the man said, glancing up again with a somewhat strange look. Then he pointed ahead and added in surprisingly decent English.

"...Uh… thanks." Harry nodded awkwardly. At the moment, the situation was obviously not in his favor.

And considering that spellcasting had caused that level of agony, it was safe to assume his magic wouldn't be usable—unless his wrist-wand suddenly turned into a hidden blade and stabbed the guy in the neck.

Once I got out of here, I definitely needed to study more Transfiguration.

Harry muttered to himself as he walked forward.

He passed a lot of ordinary stone houses along the way, until finally he reached a slightly larger one at the end. There were voices coming from inside...

Also, yeah. He really needed to start learning French.

That was Harry's fifth inner monologue of the day. He stood in front of the stone house, debating whether to walk in or turn around and bolt.

But that second idea was immediately tossed aside—this was a forest, and without magic, he'd probably get caught again before he even made it a hundred meters.

"Not coming in, child?" came an old voice from inside the house.

"Well, guess I don't have much of a choice now…" Harry sighed and stepped inside.

"What do you think magic is?" An elderly man, dressed in a maroon, roughspun robe, sat on the ground without a care for appearances.

"Um… something you're born with?" Harry paused for a moment, then answered casually.

"Close. But do you think fate is that generous? Just handing out such great power for nothing?" the old man said, rolling his neck.

"Oh… so, you… know the answer?"

"I don't," the man replied. "I just think—if the gods have given us power that surpasses ordinary people, shouldn't we also shoulder a matching responsibility?"

"Oh… like what?" Harry scratched the back of his head instinctively.

"Oh, many things—protecting Muggles, preserving nature, self-restraint, gratitude, and faith in the divine."

"...Does that include kidnapping children?" Harry asked sharply.

"God will forgive us—because this is your redemption."

"Wow. That's some full-on religious-style atonement right there… So shoving my wand into my wrist was for my good, too?" Harry knew the odds weren't in his favor right now, but he still couldn't resist talking trash—even if it earned him a few rounds of the Cruciatus Curse.

"Magic is a gift from the divine. Therefore, we must not misuse it. Using magic to seek convenience, gain profit, unjustly harm the weak, or wielding magic without believing in the true owner of that power—all of these are forbidden." The old man explained calmly.

"Uh… So you're basically a god-worshipping cult… Just curious, you wouldn't happen to be the Templar Brotherhood, would you?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Oh? I thought they erased us from the history books." The old man sounded genuinely surprised.

"Uh… yeah, they kind of did," Harry muttered under his breath.

"Then that means they're afraid."

"Really? I mean, can you guys actually beat them?" Harry asked, eyeing the man's exposed wrist. He clearly saw the same silvery mark on it as his own.

"Just a bunch of chickens and stray dogs," the old man said with a shake of his head.

"You're telling me you guys used this thing to beat them into 'chickens and stray dogs'?" Harry rolled up his sleeve to show his wrist. Given how painful it was to cast with this setup, he seriously doubted they could overpower regular wizards.

"Of course we can."

"..."

"You don't believe me?" The old man stretched out his hand, and an aged wand slowly slid out from his wrist. A tiny flame flickered from its tip.

"Oh... my classmate can do that too." Harry cringed on the old man's behalf.

"That's because you don't understand." The old man stood up as if he hadn't heard the sarcasm, walked over to an oak barrel in the corner, and filled a tall goblet—covered in greenish copper rust—with red wine.

Then, from the tip of his wand, a strange stream of blood began to seep out, flowing into the wine and merging with the liquid completely.

_________

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