The Clash of Claws and Staffs
Whoosh!
Fenrir's wolf claws sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, aiming straight for Ian's face. The werewolf leader's cruel eyes gleamed with malice, confident in his lethal strike.
But Ian's gaze remained calm. The red, flame-like runes etched on his black staff flickered faintly, and the muscles in his arms tightened in preparation.
Boom!
The staff met the claws with a resounding clash. Ian redirected Fenrir's attack with practiced precision, guiding the wolf's claws away and sidestepping fluidly to the opposite side. His movements were as swift as they were calculated.
And then—crack!—the staff struck Fenrir's waist with brutal force.
Fenrir grunted in pain. For all his strength and agility, the werewolf had not anticipated the deceptive technique. The impact sent a shockwave of agony radiating through his body.
Werewolves, despite their monstrous power, had an inherent weakness: their waists and abdomens were their most vulnerable points. Fenrir, as experienced as he was, couldn't escape this biological trait.
The leader of the pack staggered to the side, his face contorted in pain. His bloodshot eyes darted to his waist as the sharp ache threatened to overwhelm him. His claws dug into the ground, barely preventing him from collapsing entirely.
Behind him, the rest of the werewolves were faring no better.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The young wizards, fully aware of the werewolves' weaknesses, struck with precision and force. Their enchanted staffs landed devastating blows to their opponents' waists and abdomens, sending the beasts sprawling. Many of the werewolves writhed on the ground, their legs kicking feebly as they howled in pain.
The chaos gave the students no pause. With practiced efficiency, they raised their staffs, channeling magic through them. Red, flame-like chains materialized from the staff tips, growing longer with each flick of their wrists.
Clink! Clink!
The chains wrapped tightly around the fallen werewolves, binding their limbs to the ground. The beasts' struggles were futile; the magic-infused restraints rendered them immobile.
The young wizards turned their attention to the remaining werewolves, who now hesitated. Their glowing eyes shifted nervously between their restrained comrades and the students who had taken them down so efficiently.
For a moment, the werewolves faltered, their aggression tempered by caution.
Then, Fenrir's furious roar tore through the square.
"Kill them! Tear them apart!" he bellowed, his voice a mixture of rage and pain.
The werewolf leader's command reignited the feral instinct of his pack. Those still standing roared in response, their hesitation replaced by primal fury.
Fenrir himself charged at Ian once more. This time, he abandoned brute strength, relying instead on his superior agility. His plan was simple: scratch the opponent, let wolf venom do the rest. One scratch was all it would take to ensure Ian's demise.
Ian, having retreated to create distance, watched Fenrir's approach with unwavering focus. A faint cyan glow enveloped his boots, and a gentle breeze swirled around his feet.
The Wind Walk Spell.
With a burst of speed, Ian's movements became a blur. He darted toward Fenrir, his steps erratic and unpredictable. His staff swung in swift, precise arcs, clashing repeatedly with the werewolf's claws.
Boom! Boom! Thud! Thud!
The sound of their fierce exchange echoed across the square. Fenrir's claws swiped with deadly intent, but Ian's quick footwork allowed him to evade most of the attacks. The few strikes that did connect were absorbed by the pale golden glow of his enchanted wizard robes, leaving Fenrir frustrated.
Meanwhile, each strike of Ian's staff left Fenrir grimacing in pain. The red, rune-covered weapon seemed to burn his flesh with every hit, sending searing sensations through his body.
Fenrir growled, baring his fangs as he pressed the attack. Yet, deep down, frustration gnawed at him.
Are these students wizards or magical creatures?
Their combat style defied his expectations. Wizards were supposed to rely on spells, not engage in physical combat. But here these students were, fighting him and his pack in close quarters, armed with enchanted equipment that negated many of his advantages.
Fenrir's eyes darted around the battlefield.
The scene was grim for the werewolves. Most of his pack lay defeated, their limbs bound by fiery chains. Those still fighting were struggling to land a single effective blow.
Fenrir's attention was drawn to one particular student who was clawed heavily by a werewolf. For a moment, hope flared in his chest—until he saw the golden mask that appeared over the student's face, completely shielding them from harm. The young wizard staggered but remained unscathed.
"Damn wizard! Damn wizard! Damn wizard!" Fenrir snarled, his voice a mixture of fury and despair.
The meticulous preparation of these students had rendered the werewolves' most lethal weapon—the wolf venom—entirely useless. Fenrir couldn't shake the suspicion that they had been deliberately prepared for this battle.
Still, he couldn't dwell on the thought for long. Ian's staff swung again, striking his already sore waist.
"Ugh! Stop aiming for my waist!" Fenrir roared in anger, dodging backward to regroup.
The battle raged on, drawing the attention of the spectators in the stands.
Tom Riddle, Grindelwald, and Dumbledore watched the students in stunned silence.
"Headmaster," Professor Flitwick finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Should Hogwarts begin training students in close combat as well?"
Flitwick, a renowned dueling master, struggled to process what he was seeing. Wizards traditionally relied on spells, strategy, and careful positioning. Yet here was a group of students wielding staves, charging headfirst into physical combat with werewolves.
"I've only ever seen something like this among giants," Flitwick muttered, shaking his head.
Grindelwald leaned forward, a bemused expression on his face.
"Interesting," he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Lockhart's wealth is evident, outfitting his students with such formidable equipment. But training them to fight werewolves in hand-to-hand combat? That's new."
The idea of melee-trained wizards was novel, even to someone as seasoned as Grindelwald.
A sly grin spread across his face as a thought took hold. "Perhaps I should encourage Durmstrang or Ilvermorny to explore this... innovative approach."
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