Chapter 46: You Call This a Match?

The Slytherin team was still wallowing in a chorus of groans and complaints. "Edward, couldn't you have let the Bludger smash Potter's hand first before playing hero?" Malfoy wailed, clutching his chest dramatically, as if he'd just lost a loved one. He was still reeling from the bitter reality of Slytherin's Quidditch loss. Daphne, however, was clearly more intrigued by something else. "Besides Draco, who else wants to take out the famous Savior Potter?" she asked. Edward could only shake his head. He felt a pang of regret and guilt. Even with two protective charms stacked, he hadn't been able to figure out who was cursing the broom and the Bludger. He mentally replayed the entire match but came up empty. The only thing he was sure of? It had to be a staff member. Then a detail popped into his mind. Hermione had been at the staff stands, and the first person she targeted was Snape. But Edward was certain Snape wasn't the one trying to kill Harry. Sure, Professor Snape always had a sour face, like some oversized bat. He loved picking on students for no reason, especially docking points from Gryffindor—and Harry in particular. His sharp tongue and biting sarcasm didn't help his case either. But none of that was hard evidence. Besides, after two months of working with Snape, Edward had decided that, despite being hard to get along with, he was still a good teacher. So, no way it was Snape. Still, if Hermione had risked running from the Gryffindor stands to cast a spell on Snape, she must've had some reason. Maybe he could ask her about it later? Sharing is caring! Don't forget to check out 101 Reading Net for updates! But now wasn't the time. Slytherin had just lost the match—fairly, sure, but as a member of the house, Edward couldn't exactly waltz into Gryffindor's victory party, could he? He figured the Gryffindor celebrations were probably winding down, so he headed to the Hospital Wing alone. But just as he stepped onto the staircase leading to the castle's first floor, he ran into a crowd. "Well, well, if it isn't the meddling Bedivere. I was wondering where you'd been hiding," said Marcus Flint, Slytherin's team captain, who looked as troll-like as ever. He was flanked by the entire Slytherin Quidditch team, blocking the corridor on both sides. His face was as ugly as a troll's, too. Other students nearby saw the scene and quickly scurried off. "Flint? What do you want with me?" Edward asked, genuinely puzzled. He already didn't like the guy. Word was, Flint bullied and intimidated everyone—Slytherins included, though they got it less often. Some were even coerced into joining his little gang of tormentors. Flint bringing the entire team to corner him in the corridor? This wasn't going to be pleasant. Slytherin's loss stung Edward, too, of course. But if this Slytherin team had won, he'd have felt even worse. "What do I want? You should know exactly what I want, you Slytherin traitor! Helping Potter out there on the pitch!" Flint spat. "If it were up to me, that broom would've thrown Potter off to his death, or the Bludger would've smashed him! But you—tch, what, got a crush on Scarface or something?" "You don't have any sense of honor for the game, do you?" His taunts drew crude laughter from the surrounding Slytherin players. Edward, though, didn't even flinch. "The game? You call that a game?" he said calmly. "What I saw out there wasn't Quidditch. Honestly, it looked more like a brawl on broomsticks." "You bulked up like a troll just to ram into people mid-air, Flint?" Flint's face darkened instantly. "You don't know a damn thing! To hell with rules and fairness—I want to win!" he snarled, his yellowed, troll-like teeth bared. "So you brought the whole team just to 'win' against me?" Edward said, a sudden grin spreading across his face. On one hand, Flint's words were almost laughable. On the other, Edward felt a weight lift off his shoulders. This guy was beyond saving. And if that was the case, Edward didn't need to show him any mercy. Saving those worth saving was part of a knight's code. But so was punishing the wicked. "Get him!" Flint roared, and seven or eight wands were drawn in unison, all aimed at Edward. They knew Edward was no pushover. His towering height and muscular build screamed trouble, not to mention his reputation as one of Slytherin's rare prodigies. That's why Flint had strong-armed the whole team into backing him up—just to vent his anger. He figured picking a fight with Gryffindor's team was risky, but rallying the team against "Traitor Edward" was an easy sell. A barrage of hexes and curses flew down the corridor, aimed straight at Edward. Flint, closest to him, watched his every move, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Three steps out, a wand's fast. Within three steps, a wand's fast and accurate. But before Flint could even draw his wand, he felt himself lifted off the ground. Edward had grabbed his wrist—the one reaching for his wand—and hoisted him up like a ragdoll. Having advanced to the Second-Tier Breathing Technique, Edward's strength was enough to use someone Flint's size as a shield. And that's exactly what he did, letting Flint soak up more than half the incoming spells. Flint burst into uncontrollable laughter, his legs flailing in the air like he was doing some ridiculous tap dance. Then, giant buckteeth sprouted from his mouth, so long he couldn't close it. Finally, a red flash hit him square in the head, and he passed out. It all happened in a split second. Edward didn't stop. Using Flint as a battering ram, he charged the nearest Slytherin players. Two of them, caught off guard, slammed into the corridor wall, clutching their stomachs in pain. The remaining five players fired spells at Edward's back, but he dodged with a quick duck, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. Two of the spells hit their own teammates, knocking them out cold. In an instant, three of their group were down—one of them a fifth-year—and the rest started to panic. But Edward wasn't about to let them escape. Time for a heavy blow. He raised his sword—drawn at some point during the chaos—channeling magic into his hand and into the blade. A pure green light enveloped the sword, forming a glowing blade that stretched at least two meters long. With a mighty roar, Edward shouted, "Great is Slytherin!" He swung the magical blade in a wide arc. This was one of the techniques Merlin documented for the Second-Tier Breathing Technique: infusing a weapon with pure magic, creating what looked like a massive sword of raw power. Merlin had also noted that the user must shout "Great is!" followed by something that filled their heart with pride. It amplified the magic and could produce unique effects. Did the Round Table Knights shout "Great is Camelot!" or "Great is King Arthur!" when they charged? Merlin didn't say, so Edward didn't know. But as a Slytherin, he'd honor his house. And with Slytherin's righteous fury, he'd teach these disgraceful teammates a lesson they wouldn't forget! read more inpatreon ilham20