Ch: 9-16
Chapter 9: Twilight of the Pure-Bloods and Hallucinogenic Spores
As the door closed, Ron finally snapped back to his senses.
"She's completely mental, right?"
Ron picked up his glasses, glanced at the door, and though he was complaining about Hermione, when he turned to look at Morn, his eyes were filled with admiration. "But mate! That was so cool just now! You left her speechless! Which family are you from?"
"No," Morn picked up a book, hiding the faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm just... good at solving problems."
Under the seat, the rat Scabbers, who had just poked its head out, instantly recoiled as if electrocuted upon seeing Morn's black wand.
Only one thought occupied its tiny brain:
This kid is even more unfathomable than the Dark Lord back in the day.
Morn's eyelids lowered slightly. On the [Biological Radar] interface at the edge of his retina, three red dots were approaching this compartment at an unfriendly speed.
Immediately after, the [Malice Perception] in his mind vibrated faintly, like a plucked string.
[Warning: Moderate malice detected. Intent: Humiliation, Domination, Showing off.]
"Trouble's here."
Morn sighed inwardly. He didn't close the book in his hand, merely resting his fingers lightly on the tip of the ebony wand in his sleeve.
He adjusted his sitting posture, ensuring his center of gravity was ready to erupt into action at any moment.
The compartment door was shoved open roughly.
Three boys squeezed in. Or rather, a pale, thin boy squeezed in, followed by two hulking figures like bodyguards.
The leading boy had a typically pale, pointed face. His grey eyes were filled with arrogance as they swept over Harry and Ron, finally landing on Morn with a hint of disdain.
"Is it true?"
Draco Malfoy ignored the other two, staring directly at Harry. "The whole train is saying Harry Potter is in this compartment. That's you, right?"
"Yes," Harry replied, looking at the two stout boys flanking him like door gods, Crabbe and Goyle, feeling instinctively uncomfortable.
"This is Crabbe, and this is Goyle," Malfoy introduced them carelessly, as if pointing out two pieces of furniture. "I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
Ron couldn't help but cough, which was probably a stifled laugh.
Malfoy whirled around, a flush of anger coloring his pale cheeks.
"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me, all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."
Ron's face instantly turned the same color as his hair, but before he could stand up, Malfoy had already turned back and extended a hand towards Harry.
"You'll soon find out, Potter, that some wizarding families are much better than others. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
Harry looked at the pale hand offered to him, then at Ron's flushed face, and Morn sitting impassively in the corner.
"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," Harry said coldly.
Malfoy's hand froze mid-air. The flush drained from his face, replaced by a chill from the humiliation.
"If I were you, Potter, I'd be careful," Malfoy said slowly, a threat creeping into his tone. "Unless you want to end up like your dead parents..."
*Thump.*
A crisp tapping sound cut Malfoy off.
Morn had lightly tapped the table with the spine of his book.
"Malfoy. Derived from Old French. Means 'bad faith' or 'dishonest'."
Morn didn't stand up. He remained seated in the shadows, his deep grey eyes activating [Analysis Lock].
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: Draco Malfoy
Manifested Talents:
[Noble Etiquette (White)]
[Basic Flying (Green)].
"All flash, no substance."
Morn made his internal assessment.
Not even worth the desire to devour.
"Who are you?" Malfoy narrowed his eyes, looking at the black-haired boy who had interrupted.
"Moen White," Morn replied flatly. "Since you brought up 'better', Mr. Malfoy, I'd like to discuss it with you from an economic and genetic perspective."
"What?"
"So-called 'pure-blood'. In biological terms, it typically signifies a narrow and closed gene pool."
Morn's tone was calm, as if discussing the weather. "Intra-family marriages to maintain purity ultimately only lead to the manifestation of genetic diseases, a decline in magical thresholds, and intellectual degeneration."
He pointed at Crabbe and Goyle, who stood behind Malfoy like two walls.
"These are typical products of inbreeding. Sturdy builds but smooth cerebral cortices. As for you, Mr. Malfoy, while you haven't degenerated to that extent yet, your behavior of trying to gain a sense of superiority by belittling others is, in psychological terms, an early manifestation of 'narcissistic personality disorder'."
Morn closed his book, a cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
"In short, your so-called 'better' is nothing but a sunset industry heading towards decay and extinction. It's rather... pitiful."
A deathly silence fell over the compartment.
Ron's mouth hung open. Harry was desperately trying not to laugh.
Malfoy's face went completely white, then instantly turned a liverish purple. He had never been insulted like this before.
"How dare you—you filthy—"
"If I were you, I'd stop talking," Morn interrupted him, his gaze turning icy.
"I'll teach you a lesson!"
Enraged and humiliated, Malfoy reached into his robes for his wand.
Goyle behind him was even more direct. Swinging a massive fist, he charged at Morn like an angry rhinoceros, trying to snatch the book from Morn's hands.
"Foolhardy."
Morn sat in his chair, unmoving.
But with a slight thought, he instantly invoked the white Talent he had casually devoured at the Diagon Alley apothecary, loaded in the third slot.
[Unload: Night Vision]
[Load: Hallucinogenic Spores]
Source: Leaping Toadstool (Hopping Toad). A magical fungus with mild neurotoxins, causing brief visual distortion and dizziness in those who contact it.
A strange purple light flashed deep within Morn's pupils.
He didn't use his wand. He simply stared intently into the eyes of the charging Goyle, projecting the simulated neurotoxin through his gaze.
"Kneel."
Morn whispered softly.
In Goyle's perspective, the world instantly collapsed.
The flat compartment floor suddenly became a bottomless abyss. Countless colorful venomous snakes were crawling out, wrapping around his ankles.
"Ah—! Snakes! Snakes!"
Goyle let out a piercing shriek. His ferocious charge came to an abrupt halt.
He flailed his arms in terror, trying to ward off the non-existent snakes. Then his legs gave way, and he crashed to his knees with a heavy thud, right in front of Morn.
He trembled all over, his face deathly pale, large beads of cold sweat rolling down his forehead as if he were seeing hell.
Malfoy's hand, reaching for his wand, froze mid-air.
He stared in horror at Goyle, who had suddenly gone mad and knelt, then at Morn, who remained seated in his chair, not even having drawn his wand.
In Malfoy's eyes, Morn had done nothing.
He had just looked at Goyle.
And then Goyle had knelt.
This unknown fear was more terrifying than any spell.
"Wandless magic? Or... Dark Arts?"
Malfoy's mind flashed to the Terrible Black Wizard his father had mentioned.
"What about it, Mr. Malfoy? Would you like to try too?"
Morn leaned forward slightly, his deep grey eyes fixing on Malfoy as if looking at the next test subject.
Malfoy swallowed hard, instinctively taking a step back, bumping into Crabbe behind him.
"Let's go!"
Malfoy shrieked with a bravado that didn't match his fear, his voice cracking.
He didn't even dare to help the still-twitching Goyle on the floor. Grabbing a bewildered Crabbe, he squeezed out of the compartment.
Goyle felt the hallucination slowly fade. The abyss disappeared, leaving only Morn's cold stare.
He scrambled to his feet and bolted out the door like a startled wild boar.
Chapter 10: The Buffet Beneath the Abyss
The compartment door closed again.
Quiet returned.
Morn blinked, the purple light in his eyes dissipating, switching back to [Night Vision].
Although the white Talent was low in power, it was exceptionally effective against a dim-witted brute with weak mental fortitude in such a confined space.
"...That was so cool."
After a long while, Ron finally snapped out of his shock from earlier, stars practically twinkling in his eyes. "What was that? You didn't even move your wand! Did you hit him with a jinx? Was that wandless, nonverbal magic?"
"A little psychological suggestion."
Morn said nonchalantly, picking up his book. "That big guy seemed a bit mentally unstable. Probably motion sickness."
Harry looked at Morn, the awe in his eyes deepening.
He certainly didn't believe it was motion sickness.
But he was very glad that Morn was sitting across from him, not standing at the door.
With a sharp, hissing shriek of releasing steam, the hogwarts express finally came to a stop beside a pitch-black platform.
Moen White tightened his collar, blocking out the chill that had crept in through his sleeve.
He didn't rush to squeeze out the door like Ron. Instead, he waited for about half of the Young Wizards jostling like sardines in the aisle to leave first, then unhurriedly followed, stepping onto the wet, slippery flagstones of the Hogsmeade Station Platform.
The air was filled with the scent of burning pinewood and the crisp, cold smell of lake water.
"First years! First years over here!"
A thunderous voice boomed overhead.
A huge lantern swung in the air, illuminating a giant, heavily bearded face.
Rubeus Hagrid stood like a moving lighthouse amidst the panicked little ones.
"Mind yer step! Right, any more first years?"
Morn narrowed his eyes, a faint, ghostly green light flickering deep within his pupils.
[Load: Night Vision (Green)].
In his vision, the originally pitch-black, rugged path instantly became clear.
The Young Wizards around him were stumbling and groping their way. Malfoy even tripped over a tree root and was angrily kicking the tree.
Only Morn walked with steady steps, as if strolling in his own backyard, easily avoiding all the mud puddles and loose stones.
"This is the advantage of an information gap," Morn evaluated coldly in his heart, following the group around a dark bend.
The view suddenly opened up.
A vast, Black Lake stretched out ahead, its surface mirror-smooth, reflecting the starry sky.
And on the high, steep slope on the far shore stood the Castle with its towering turrets and countless windows — Hogwarts.
A collective gasp of awe erupted from the crowd.
Both Harry and Ron looked up, mouths agape, utterly stunned by the grandeur of the thousand-year-old magical Castle.
Only Morn lowered his head.
His gaze wasn't drawn to the Castle in the sky, but fixed intently on the deep, unfathomable black water at his feet.
"Into the boats! No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid shouted from the shore.
Morn stepped into a boat first, taking a seat at the prow.
Harry and Ron followed closely. Neville Longbottom — the round-faced boy who was always losing things — huddled fearfully at the back, clutching his toad.
"Everyone in?" Hagrid yelled, having a boat all to himself. "Right then... FORWARD!"
The fleet of boats slid across the lake like ghosts, not even stirring a ripple.
Morn let his hand hang over the side of the boat, his fingertips just inches from the icy, bone-chilling water.
With a slight stir of his will, [Biological Radar] activated at full power.
Hmm—
The originally calm Black Lake surface instantly transformed into a three-dimensional sonar map in his mind.
Countless red dots flickered underwater.
The shallow areas were dense with small dots — Grindylows and fish schools. In the distance, a cluster of elongated dots indicated a Merperson tribe.
But Morn's attention was captured by the massive, suffocatingly large crimson blot in the deep-water zone at the lake's center.
It was enormous.
Its volume even exceeded Hagrid's hut. It lay lazily nestled in the silt at the lake bottom, slowly waving its massive tentacles.
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: Hogwarts Giant Squid
Race: Ancient Magical Creature (Semi-dormant State)
Manifested Talents:
[Abyssal Tentacles (Purple)]: Possesses monstrous strength sufficient to crush rock. Each tentacle has an independent nerve center and can act autonomously even if severed.
[Regenerative Constitution (blue·Ultimate Intent)]: As long as the core neural bulb is not destroyed, it can regenerate flesh in a short time, regardless of the severity of the injury.
[Aquatic Respiration (blue)]: Can directly exchange oxygen through its skin in deep-water, high-pressure environments.
——————
Morn's Adam's apple bobbed involuntarily.
A purple Talent... and a top-tier physical regeneration type at that.
If he could devour [Regenerative Constitution], even just the blue one, it would mean he'd possess an incredibly terrifying margin for error in future battles.
Losing a hand or foot and having it instantly grow back — that was practically a prerequisite for immortality.
"What a truly... bountiful fishery."
Morn stared fixedly at that patch of dark water, the greed in his eyes even deeper than the waters of the Black Lake.
He calculated silently in his heart: With his current 3 slots and Apprentice-level soul strength, trying to devour a creature of this magnitude would most likely cause him to burst.
"Must be patient." Morn wiped the corner of his mouth, forcibly averting his gaze. "Right now, I can't digest this main course."
"What are you looking at, Morn?"
Neville, sitting beside him, noticed Morn's creepy stare and shrank back fearfully, tightening his grip on his toad. "You look... like you really want to jump in?"
Morn turned his head, the greed on his face instantly switching to that gentle, mysterious smile.
"Nothing, Neville."
Morn pointed at the deep lake water, his voice soft. "I was just thinking the ecosystem here is very rich. Perhaps... the squid rings in the Great Hall will be very fresh."
"Heads down!" Hagrid suddenly bellowed, as the boats were about to pass under a curtain of ivy hanging from the cliff face.
Everyone ducked their heads.
The boats carried them through a dark tunnel, seemingly arriving beneath the Castle.
Just then, something unexpected happened.
Trevor, the toad in Neville's arms, seemed frightened by the gloomy surroundings. It suddenly let out a loud croak, broke free from Neville's grasp, and leapt towards the water outside the boat.
"Trevor!"
Neville cried out in terror, completely forgetting he was still in a boat.
He instinctively leaned out to grab the toad, his entire center of gravity instantly shifting beyond the boat's side.
The boat rocked violently.
Ron let out a yelp. Harry tried to reach out and pull, but he was too far away.
"Ah—!"
Neville lost his balance. Headfirst, like a clumsy stone, he plummeted towards the icy, pitch-black underground river water.
And less than two meters below the water's surface, Morn's [Biological Radar] clearly showed a Grindylow, lured by the bloody scent of the owl treats fed earlier, waiting with its maw full of sharp teeth for prey to hit the water.
Morn sat at the prow, still as steady as a mountain.
But the hand inside his sleeve moved.
"Troublesome."
Chapter 11: The Hand of Shadow and the Eagle of Reason
"Ah—!"
Neville screamed, his entire body having completely tumbled over the side of the boat.
Gravity took over everything at that moment; the icy black lake water was like a massive mouth, waiting to swallow the poor boy.
The red light spot beneath the surface, representing the Grindylow, was rapidly surfacing in excitement, ready to greet this dinner descending from the sky.
Time seemed to stretch out.
Harry and Ron reached out in horror, but only grabbed air.
Morn, sitting at the bow of the boat, did not turn his head, nor did he even change his posture.
But the moment Neville's fingertips were about to touch the water, the pitch-black ebony wand silently slid into Morn's palm.
The air suddenly filled with the smell of ozone, like before a thunderstorm—a sign that magic power was being forcibly compressed.
Morn gently flicked his wrist backward.
[Absolute Memory] instantly retrieved all models concerning the Levitation Charm from Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, and his calm brain completed the corrective calculation for magic output within a millisecond.
"Rise."
He did not utter the incantation, merely reciting it silently in his mind.
Morn's wand tip did not emit white light; instead, it seemed to suddenly generate a miniature gravitational field, instantly swallowing the faint starlight around it.
A shadow, nearly physical and resembling black satin, surged out from the side of the boat.
It was not gentle like a normal Levitation Charm; instead, it was like a giant hand reaching out from the darkness, gripping Neville's ankle tightly three inches above the water.
Voom.
Neville's downward momentum came to an abrupt halt.
His nose had even touched the icy lake water, and the instantaneous extreme cold stiffened his whole body.
Immediately afterward, that "Hand of Shadow" violently flung upward.
Splash!
It was not the sound of Neville falling into the water, but the Grindylow, attempting to leap out and bite, snapping at empty air and angrily slapping the water surface.
Neville arced through the air in a trajectory that defied physical common sense, crashing heavily onto the floorboards of the boat like a sack being thrown back.
"Cough, cough... Merlin's beard..."
Neville lay trembling on the bottom of the boat, still shaken, clutching the troublesome toad tightly to his chest.
On the surrounding boats, the Young Wizards who had been ready to scream looked as if they had been choked.
They had seen clearly—there was no gentle white light just now, only a strange black shadow that "grabbed" Neville back.
"Was that... the Levitation Charm?" Hermione was in the boat next to them, staring intently at the wand in Morn's hand that was almost indistinguishable from the night, her eyes filled with doubt about her own worldview. "The Levitation Charm's effect should be pale yellow... why was yours black?"
"Perhaps it was due to the refraction of light on the lake surface."
Morn put away his wand, casually offering an explanation that sounded scientific but was complete nonsense.
He paid no attention to the stares of others, merely glancing down at the [Biological Radar].
The small red dot representing the Grindylow was disappointedly diving back into the deep water.
"Hold tight, Longbottom," Morn said flatly. "Next time, I can't guarantee I'll be able to 'fish' you out."
...When the fleet of boats passed through the rock tunnel and reached the underground dock, the oppressive atmosphere finally dissipated with the warm light of the torches.
Hagrid, holding a lamp, knocked on the enormous oak door.
The door opened, and Professor McGonagall stood there solemnly, dressed in emerald green robes.
The air was filled with the scent of old stone and burning beeswax.
"Welcome to Hogwarts."
In this magnificent entrance hall, Morn was not drawn in by the moving staircases or the towering ceilings like everyone else.
He was looking at the walls.
—[Analysis Lock]—
Target: Hogwarts Castle (Partial)
Manifested Talents:
[Ancient Contract (Gold)]
[Magic Self-Repair (Purple)].
"Just as I thought." Morn's finger lightly traced the cold stone wall, feeling the faint magic pulsations transmitted to his fingertip. "The entire Castle is one giant Living Magical Artifact. Tampering with it here is no less difficult than breaking into Gringotts."
Just as Professor McGonagall left to prepare for the Sorting Ceremony, the surrounding walls suddenly became transparent.
Two dozen pearly white ghosts phased through the walls, arguing as they floated over the newcomers' heads.
The temperature in the hall plummeted, and a bone-chilling cold made the Young Wizards scream.
Morn did not scream.
Instead, he stepped forward, staring greedily at "Nearly Headless Nick," whose neck was nearly severed.
—[Analysis Lock]—
Target: Ghost
Status: Death Echo
Manifested Talents:
[Physical Immunity (Purple · Undead Trait)].
"Devour..."
The moment Morn formed the thought, a sharp pain shot through his mind.
[WARNING: Host has not unlocked the "Soul Studies" Technology Tree. Cannot interact with spiritual targets. Forced Devouring will lead to irreversible mental contamination.]
"Looks like I'll have to wait." Morn regretfully looked away.
"Now, line up in single file," Professor McGonagall returned. "Follow me."
They passed through the entrance hall and entered the legendary Great Hall.
Thousands of candles floated in mid-air, illuminating the four long tables and the golden plates set upon them.
The ceiling was enchanted, appearing as though countless stars were twinkling.
Even someone as composed as Morn was momentarily stunned by this magnificent magical spectacle.
But this was not for beauty; it was a display of power.
A battered, pointed Wizard's hat was placed on a three-legged stool.
The Sorting Hat.
After finishing its dreadful song, Professor McGonagall began calling names.
"Hannah Abbott!"
"Hufflepuff!"
"Hermione Granger!"
"Gryffindor!"
"Draco Malfoy!"
"Slytherin!"
Every time a name was called, Morn silently recorded it in his mind. He was constructing the school's relationship network.
Until—
"Moen White!"
The Great Hall fell silent for a moment.
The Young Wizards who had witnessed the scene on the boat earlier began whispering.
Morn adjusted his robes and walked forward with steady steps, sitting down on the stool.
His vision was enveloped in darkness.
The smell of old leather wafted into his nostrils.
Immediately afterward, a faint voice sounded directly in the depths of his mind.
"Hmm... this is truly... strange."
The Sorting Hat's voice sounded extremely confused.
"I have read the minds of thousands of Young Wizards. Some are like fire, some are like flowing water, some are like weeds. But you... your brain is like a precise Alchemical Machine."
Morn responded coldly in his mind: "That's because I activated the Firewall. If you don't want to crash, don't try to dig deeper."
"A Firewall? An interesting word." The Sorting Hat squirmed inside his head. "But I can still feel that cold hunger for knowledge. You lack Gryffindor's recklessness, and you look down on Hufflepuff's mediocrity. You have ambition, yes, and Slytherin would be delighted to take you; that Runespoor wand proves it..."
"But I don't need that foolish pure-blood socializing," Morn interrupted in his consciousness. "What I need is the environment. A quiet place with maximum access to the Library, where no one will bother me while I dissect toads."
"Dissecting toads... a truly unique hobby." The Sorting Hat made a sound like a dry chuckle. "You seek truth, even if that truth is bloody. You champion logic and seek to deconstruct the essence of magic."
"In that case, there is only one place that can accommodate such absolute rationality."
The Sorting Hat suddenly straightened its point and shouted loudly toward the silent hall:
"Ravenclaw—!"
A burst of enthusiastic applause erupted from the long table on the far left.
Morn took off the hat, his expression completely unchanged.
He returned the hat to Professor McGonagall and turned to walk toward the long table covered with a blue tablecloth.
As he passed the Gryffindor table, Harry and Ron looked at him regretfully.
And as he passed the Slytherin table, Malfoy stared at him with a dark expression, seemingly resentful of the humiliation in the compartment, yet also relieved that this terrifying fellow hadn't been sorted into Slytherin.
Morn sat down at the Ravenclaw table, next to several upper-year students who looked somewhat scholarly.
He glanced at the empty golden plate in front of him, then looked toward the Teachers' Table at the old man with the long, silver-white beard.
Dumbledore was watching the new student with profound eyes through his half-moon spectacles.
Morn politely nodded at the Principal, then activated [Malice Perception].
[Perception Feedback: Dumbledore - Extremely Wary/Observing.]
"Very well."
Now that he had settled down in the eagle's nest, the next seven years would be about how to consume this treasure-filled school, bit by bit.
Chapter 12: Quantum Mechanics in the Eagle's Nest
Morn picked up the snow-white linen napkin and spread it calmly over his lap.
He wasn't in a hurry to reach for the gold plate that had appeared out of thin air before him; instead, he tilted his head slightly, sensing the flow of magic within the Great Hall.
The air was thick with the rich aroma of roast beef, mixed with the sweetness of sage and melted butter—a high-calorie scent that made Morn's normally steady stomach give a hungry protest.
That "Shadow Hand" move on the boat earlier seemed effortless, but the sudden burst of magical calculation had consumed quite a bit of his blood sugar.
"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
As Dumbledore's eccentric opening remarks concluded, a low hum suddenly erupted from the long tables.
The magical ripples of space folding brushed past Morn's cheek like a breeze.
Bang.
In the previously empty gold plates, roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, steaks, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, and chips suddenly piled up. "The space-displacement magic of House-elves."
Morn speared a medium-rare steak, watching the fat sizzle on it. "No delay, no magical decay, and it still retains the heat from the kitchen. Hogwarts' logistics system is master-class."
He sliced off a piece and put it in his mouth, the tender juices exploding on the tip of his tongue.
This was the first decent dinner he had eaten in this world.
"Hey, mate."
An excited voice interrupted Morn's analysis of the food.
A boy with sandy hair sitting to his left leaned in, his eyes gleaming with uncontrollable curiosity.
"I'm Terry Boot. On the train just now... was that real?" Terry lowered his voice as if sharing a state secret. "Harry Potter was in your compartment? And I heard—Goyle told me, though he was scared witless at the time—that you made him kneel with just a look? Was that the Imperio curse? Or some kind of Eastern mental magic?"
Morn swallowed the beef in his mouth and turned to look at Terry.
[Malice Perception] showed that this boy was like a cat that had spotted a ball of yarn—full of curiosity, no ill intent.
"That was psychological suggestion, Mr. Boot," Morn replied flatly. "For those with weak wills, it only takes a little visual guidance."
"Psychology?" Terry blinked, clearly not understanding, but that only made Morn seem more inscrutable to him. "Cool. And just now on the lake? I was in the boat behind you, and I swear I saw a black shadow pull Longbottom back. That definitely wasn't the Levitation Charm; the Levitation Charm is white light."
"I was wondering about that too."
Another voice cut in.
A boy sitting opposite Morn put down his fork. He had dark hair and a serious face, looking a bit like a miniature judge.
"Anthony Goldstein," the boy introduced himself, his tone carrying a hint of the skepticism characteristic of Ravenclaw. "I've read all the theoretical sections of 'the standard book of spells.' The magical spectrum of the Levitation Charm lies in the mid-to-high frequency range of visible light, usually appearing as a white or pale yellow halo. But your spell exhibited 'light-absorbing' properties, which is typically a characteristic of the Dark Arts or curses."
Anthony stared at Morn, seemingly waiting for him to admit he was an aspiring Dark Wizard breaking the rules.
Several little eagles nearby who were eating mashed potatoes stopped and pricked up their ears.
At the Ravenclaw table, this kind of academic atmosphere always set in quickly.
Morn wiped the corner of his mouth and set down his cutlery.
He looked at Anthony, a hint of approval showing in his eyes.
"Keen observation, Goldstein," Morn's voice was calm and clear, cutting through the noisy chewing around them. "But your theoretical foundation is still stuck at the level of Newtonian classical mechanics... oh no, classical magical theory."
"What do you mean?" Anthony frowned.
Morn picked up the gold goblet of pumpkin juice, dipped a finger into the orange juice, and drew a circle on the smooth table, then placed a dot in the center.
"Light, essentially, is an energy wave."
While drawing, Morn tapped the table lightly with his ebony wand, making the droplet pattern levitate.
"A normal Levitation Charm releases magic to envelop an object and counteract gravity. In this process, magic dissipates, producing waste heat and waste light—the white halo you saw."
Morn's finger brushed lightly over the point of light.
"But this is a massive waste."
His eyes turned sharp, as if he were dissecting a frog.
"What if the spell model I construct isn't 'lifting,' but a 'gravitational field'?"
Morn looked at the stunned Anthony and Terry. "Through high-density magical collapse, a miniature, directional gravitational vacuum is created above the object. Then, the surrounding light is captured and warped by this field, resulting in a 'black' visual appearance."
Morn opened his hand, revealing the pitch-black wand.
"So, it wasn't the Dark Arts, Mr. Goldstein. It was efficiency. A perfect closed loop without a single bit of energy dissipation."
This corner of the table fell into a deathly silence.
Terry Boot's mouth hung open, and the chicken leg in his hand dropped back onto his plate.
He didn't understand "gravitational collapse" or "energy closed loops" at all, but he felt it sounded ten thousand times more high-end than a "jinx."
Anthony Goldstein's brow was furrowed as he stared intently at the drying pumpkin juice pattern on the table. His mind was racing to find a rebuttal, only to find he couldn't even find an entry point.
"Gravitational field... magical collapse..." he muttered to himself. "Does this... does this actually make sense theoretically?"
"You can check the chapters on matter transformation in the fifth-year 'A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration,' or visit a Muggle Library and look at 'Introduction to Quantum Physics'."
Morn picked up his cutlery again and sliced off a piece of roast potato. "Of course, that's assuming you can understand them."
"Wow..." Terry finally found his voice, his gaze shifting from curiosity to admiration. "What does your family do? The Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic?"
"No." Morn put the potato in his mouth and chewed elegantly. "Like I said, I just like solving problems."
Just as Morn had established his status as a "God of Study" among the first-years, a bone-chilling cold suddenly swept in without warning.
The candle flames on the table instantly turned an eerie blue, and the steaming roast meat in front of Morn cooled rapidly, forming a layer of frost.
The surrounding little eagles shivered and wrapped their robes tighter.
All sound vanished.
A pearly-white, slender, and melancholic figure passed silently through the Ravenclaw table.
She wore an ancient gown, her long hair reaching her waist, her face bearing a mix of aloofness and sorrow.
The Grey Lady.
The resident ghost of Ravenclaw.
The other ghosts, like Gryffindor's Nearly Headless Nick, were performing head-removals for the new students, and Hufflepuff's The Fat Friar was cheerfully suggesting everyone eat more.
Only The Grey Lady was like a silent, cold wind.
But as she floated past Morn, she stopped.
Morn felt a sense of pressure on a soulful level.
His [Biological Radar] was flashing errors frantically, indicating a massive, Void-like energy hole behind him.
—— [Analysis Lock] ——
Target: Helena Ravenclaw (Wraith Form)
Status: Eternal Regret / Refusal to Pass On
Trait: [Void (Purple)] — Immune to all physical interference and capable of penetrating soul barriers.
Morn didn't look back, but his hand gripping the fork tightened slightly.
He was restraining his instinctive urge to take a "bite" out of the soul entity, as the system had warned of the red [Contamination Risk].
"ebony... Runespoor fangs..."
A voice as ethereal as if coming from the bottom of a well sounded in Morn's ear. The Grey Lady wasn't looking at Morn's face, but staring at the wand he had placed on the table.
Terry and Anthony were so scared they didn't dare breathe. The Grey Lady rarely initiated conversation with new students.
"Its previous owner... was just like you, thinking he had seen through the rules."
The Grey Lady's voice held a hint of mockery, yet also seemed like a sorrowful warning. "He died in his own greed, his very soul torn to pieces. I hope your calculations... are more accurate than his."
Having said that, she didn't wait for a response and passed through the wall like a wisp of smoke, vanishing without a trace.
The temperature at the table began to rise.
"Merlin's pants..." Terry Boot exhaled a puff of white mist, trembling. "That was The Grey Lady! She actually spoke to you! Though it sounded pretty terrifying... what does'soul torn to pieces' mean?"
Morn looked at the wall where The Grey Lady had disappeared, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes.
He knew exactly who she was, of course.
Helena Ravenclaw.
Lord Voldemort had once tricked the location of Ravenclaw's Diadem out of her.
Chapter 13: The Eagle Knocker's Paradox and Late-Night Alchemy
"She's right."
Morn speared the piece of cold beef and put it into his mouth without changing his expression.
"Calculations indeed cannot go wrong. Once they do..." Morn chewed the cold, tough meat, his eyes cold, "one becomes that kind of pathetic wretch who can't even die."
Anthony looked at Morn. He suddenly felt that compared to that terrifying ghost, this classmate calmly eating cold meat before him seemed even more inscrutable.
"Eat up." Morn pointed to the desserts that had reappeared. "Once you're full, there are more important things waiting for us."
"What things?" Terry's mouth was stuffed with pudding.
"If you don't want to sleep in the corridor tonight." Morn wiped his mouth. "Don't forget, the door to the Ravenclaw common room won't just open for you."
...The spiral stone staircase seemed endless, winding upward in the highest tower of the Castle.
A biting draft poured in through the narrow windows, carrying the thinness and chill unique to high altitudes, making the torch flames flicker violently and cast clawing shadows on the walls.
Morn walked at the back of the line, his breathing steady, not panting like the pampered Young Wizards in front of him.
His fingers lightly brushed the rough stone wall. [Biological Radar] showed that they were approaching a high-density node of the Castle's magic grid—the Ravenclaw common room.
"Stop."
Prefect Penelope Clearwater, walking at the very front, stopped before an old, smooth wooden door.
There was no handle or keyhole on the door, only a massive, tarnished bronze eagle-shaped knocker.
"This is Ravenclaw's final line of defense." Penelope turned around, her Prefect badge glinting in the firelight. "There's no password. You must answer its question. If you can't, you'll have to stand at the door and wait until someone gets it right."
She knocked on the knocker.
The bronze eagle snapped its eyes open, making a harsh metallic scraping sound, and then opened its beak to ask in an ethereal and haughty voice:
"What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening?"
A wave of relaxed boos rippled through the line.
"That's the Riddle of the Sphinx!" Terry Boot answered excitedly. "The answer is 'Man'! A baby crawls, an adult walks, and the elderly use a cane!"
The bronze eagle was silent for a second, as if calculating, and then said coldly, "Incorrect."
"What?" Terry was stunned. "But that's what it says in the books!"
"That is the Ancient Greek version." The bronze eagle's voice was flat. "In this Castle where magic and alchemy coexist, the boundaries of definitions have been broadened. Answer again: what possesses the essence of such morphological change?"
Now, even Penelope frowned.
"If it's not referring to the course of a human life... is it some kind of Transfiguration creature? Or an Animagus?"
The little eagles fell into whispers. Everyone began citing sources, arguing from 'A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration' to 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them', trying to find a magical creature that fit these three form switches.
"A lie."
A calm voice came from the back of the line, cutting through the noisy discussion.
Morn stepped out of the shadows and stood before the bronze eagle. His dark gray eyes looked directly at the knocker, without a hint of confusion.
"Explain." The bronze eagle stared at him.
"In its infancy (morning), a lie needs countless excuses for support, so it is on all fours, its foundation unstable yet attempting to grip the ground."
Morn spoke at a steady pace, as if reading a verdict.
"When it matures (noon), it becomes self-assured, even able to walk upright on two legs like the truth."
"And when it is about to be exposed or perish (evening), it needs 'excuses' or 'violence' as a cane to support its crumbling logic. That is the third leg."
The air was silent for a few seconds.
Only the wind outside was howling.
Penelope looked at Morn in surprise. This was an extremely philosophical and cynical answer, completely outside the realm of biology.
Click.
The bronze eagle closed its beak, letting out a satisfied mechanical click.
"Logically consistent. You may pass."
The door swung wide open.
"Cool..." Anthony Goldstein murmured, watching Morn's back, "He actually talked philosophy with a door knocker."
Morn stepped into the common room.
Before him was a spacious circular room with a domed ceiling painted with stars. Deep blue velvet carpets, a massive statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, and the howling of the wind through the window frames that could only be heard atop a high tower.
There was a cold, noble, and somewhat "lonely at the top" atmosphere here.
It suited him perfectly... Two hours later.
Boys' dormitory.
There were only four four-poster beds here, hung with sky-blue silk curtains.
Terry and Anthony were already asleep, snoring softly. It might have been because today was too exhausting, or perhaps the tiny bit of [Soporific Pollen] Morn had added to their pumpkin juice during dinner had taken effect.
Morn sat on his bed and pulled the curtains shut.
He sat cross-legged with his wand resting across his knees.
"Finally quiet."
He closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into the depths of his mind.
The [Devour Everything System] interface, suspended in the void, was currently emitting a faint bluelight.
"Inventory the gains."
Today's schedule had been packed.
From the confrontation on the train to the observations at the Black Lake, and then to the riddle just now.
Although he hadn't encountered any high-level creatures worth devouring, aside from that inedible Giant Squid, he had picked up quite a bit of "trash" along the way.
On the train, in order to move trunks, he had devoured a nest of magical ants.
While waiting by the Black Lake, he had devoured a few nocturnal bats flying by.
And some leftovers extracted from the Cat Civet he bought in Diagon Alley.
"It's a waste for these white Talents to occupy slots individually, yet a pity to throw them away."
Morn pulled up the [Fusion] interface.
It was a swirling black vortex.
"Input materials."
Material 1: [Faint Vibration (White)] — From a spider in the corner.
Material 2: [Airflow Perception (White)] — From nocturnal bats.
Material 3: [Cat's Paw Pad (White)] — From the Cat Civet's innate ability.
[System Notification: "Stealth/Perception" material combination detected. Compatibility: 88%.]
[Synthesize?]
"Synthesize."
The vortex in his mind spun violently, and the three faint points of light representing biological instincts were forcibly crushed and reorganized.
A few seconds later, a flash of emerald green light appeared.
[Fusion Successful!]
[New Talent Obtained: [Ghost Step]]
—— [Talent Details] ——
Grade: Green · Practical Level Effect:
Silent Movement: Automatically eliminates 90% of footstep sounds and clothing friction sounds while walking.
Airflow Disturbance Elimination: Rapid movement does not create wind noise, reducing the probability of being sensed from behind.
"A perfect skill for night excursions."
Morn nodded with satisfaction. This was exactly what he was lacking. With this, combined with [Night Vision] and [Biological Radar], Filch's cat would never be able to catch him again.
He took a deep breath, feeling the fullness of the three soul slots.
Then, he opened his [Final Character Panel].
[Character Status Panel: Moen White]
Current Level: Hogwarts First-Year Student / Mortal Realm Predator
Soul Slots: 3 / 3
Soul Strength: 1.0
Wand: ebony + Runespoor Fang (Traits: Light Devouring, Logic Amplification)
[Equipped Talents]
Slot 1: [Biological Radar (Green · Mutated)]
Slot 2: [Malice Perception (Green)]
Slot 3: [Absolute Memory (Green)]
[soul warehouse - Alternative Talents]
[Fluid Dynamics (Green)]
[Ghost Step (Green)]
[Sonic Deterrence (Green)]
[Thermal Affinity (Green)]
[Hallucinogenic Spores (White)]
[Giant Ant Strength (White)]
(And several pending white-grade trash Talents...)
Morn looked at the panel, a satisfied curve hooking the corner of his mouth.
In this magic Castle full of the unknown and danger, he was armed to the teeth.
"Tomorrow is the first day of classes."
Morn waved his wand, extinguishing the candle by his bedside.
In the darkness, those dark gray eyes were still frighteningly bright.
"I hope to encounter some... even more 'delicious' knowledge."
Chapter 14: Duel Champion and the Garlic-Scented Nightmare
Six o'clock in the morning.
The air at Hogwarts carried a damp, earthy scent and the characteristic chill of the Black Lake.
Morn opened his eyes, the result of a biological clock waking him with precision.
He didn't linger in bed, quickly throwing back the lukewarm sky-blue velvet duvet and stepping barefoot onto the cold stone floor. This chill, shooting straight from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, instantly activated every neuron in his cerebral cortex.
Dressing, washing up, and straightening his robes.
Morn stood before the mirror, ensuring his tie was tied meticulously.
He slid the ebony wand back into the custom leather holster at his cuff, feeling the cold touch of the wand against the skin of his forearm—a sense of security from having a weapon ready to be drawn at any moment.
"Day one," he whispered to his reflection. "Let's go see the peak combat power here."
...Nine in the morning, Charms Class.
This was a spacious classroom on the fourth floor. Sunlight streamed through massive arched windows onto mountains of ancient books, with visible golden dust floating in the air, mixed with the aged scent of parchment and ink.
First-year students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were crowding into the classroom.
Behind the lectern, the Dean of Ravenclaw, the extremely diminutive Professor Filius Flitwick, was standing on a thick stack of books taking attendance.
"Harry Potter?"
Although Harry wasn't in this class, he saw the Gryffindor roster on the attendance sheet.
When he read the name, Flitwick gave an excited squeal, his feet slipped, and he nearly tumbled off the stack of books.
The whole class broke into a wave of good-natured laughter.
Morn did not laugh.
Sitting in the front row, his deep grey eyes activated [Analysis Lock], staring fixedly at the small Professor who was clumsily scrambling back up.
—[Analysis Lock]—
Target: Filius Flitwick
Race: Half-breed (Possesses Goblin bloodline)
Manifested Talents:
[Mana Micro-manipulation (Purple · Master Level)]: Controls magic output with precision down to four decimal places, capable of accurately striking a single target in a large-scale melee without harming others.
[Rapid Casting (blue · Peak)]: Neural reaction speed is three times that of an average person; casting wind-up is almost zero.
"As expected."
Morn didn't look down on this comical little man; instead, he felt a surge of respect.
"Goblin reaction speed combined with human magic capacity... This is a killing machine."
"Alright, alright," Professor Flitwick said, steadying himself and waving his wand. "Today we are learning the most basic, yet also the most important spell—the Levitation Charm."
"Remember the gesture: swish and flick."
Morn watched Flitwick's movements.
[Absolute Memory] instantly replicated the tilt of the Professor's wrist (35 degrees), the frequency of the flick (0.5 seconds), and the waveform of the magic output perfectly in his mind.
"Now, you give it a try."
The classroom was instantly filled with the sound of wands whipping through the air and various strange incantations.
Hufflepuff's Hannah Abbott used too much force and set her feather on fire, creating a foul smell of burnt feathers.
Morn picked up the pure white swan feather and placed it on the desk.
He didn't rush to cast the spell, but first adjusted his breathing.
He didn't just want to make it fly. A monkey could do that. What he wanted was control.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The ebony wand elegantly traced an arc.
This time, there were no exaggerated shadow effects; he suppressed the light-absorbing properties of the wand.
The feather didn't just drift up clumsily like the others; instead, as if pinched by an invisible hand, it rose slowly, at a constant speed, and with extreme stability to the level of Morn's eyes.
"Horizontal movement," Morn commanded in his mind.
The feather began to draw circles in the air.
Not drifting aimlessly, but following a perfect circular trajectory.
Next came a figure-eight, then a triangle.
Professor Flitwick noticed the anomaly in this corner.
He stopped correcting other students and walked over in surprise.
"Oh! Look here!" Flitwick's high-pitched voice was full of praise. "Mr. White has not only made it fly, he has controlled its... what is this? Trajectory."
"Yes, Professor." With a light tap of his wand, Morn let the feather land steadily on Professor Flitwick's shoulder, like an obedient bird. "Levitation is just overcoming gravity. But in actual combat, if you don't control the flight path, a floating object is just a sitting duck."
"Splendid! Simply splendid!" Flitwick was so happy he nearly jumped. "Such precise control! One would never guess he's a freshman! Ten points to Ravenclaw!"
Morn gave a slight bow.
He felt the goodwill coming from the Dean.
This was what he wanted.
In this school, strength is the best passport... Two in the afternoon.
Third floor, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Before even pushing the door open, a pungent, suffocating smell of garlic hit him full in the face.
That smell, mixed with stale air and a certain indescribable, sinister chill, caused Morn's [Biological Radar] to instinctively produce a flicker of static.
"Disgusting."
Beside him, Terry Boot pinched his nose and complained, "I heard Professor Quirrell stuffed the classroom with garlic to ward off a Vampire he met in Romania."
Morn didn't speak; he felt a dull throb starting in his temples.
That was [Malice Perception] automatically warning him in a high-concentration environment of malice.
They entered the classroom.
Professor Quirrell, wearing that ridiculous large purple turban, was standing with his back to the students, writing on the blackboard.
His hand was trembling, and the chalk made a piercing screeching sound against the board.
"G-good afternoon."
Quirrell turned around, his face pale, one eye twitching neurotically. "T-today we will... will discuss... basic theory regarding dark creatures."
Morn sat in the back row of the classroom, trying to stay as far from the lectern as possible.
But he couldn't control his gaze.
Or rather, the system couldn't resist the temptation of a top-tier energy source right before its eyes.
His gaze moved past Quirrell's cowardly face and locked onto that thick purple turban on his head.
Underneath that turban... that was... Buzz—!
The moment Morn activated [Analysis Lock], the system interface in his mind felt as if it had been struck by a heavy hammer, letting out a shrill alarm.
[Warning! Warning!]
[Detected???-level high-risk soul entity!]
[Target: Tom Riddle (Remnant Soul/Parasitic State)]
[Talent Manifestation: [Dark Lord's Pressure (Gold · Curse)], [Soul Devour (Gold)], [Laws of Slaughter (???)]]
Pfft.
Morn's vision went black, and two streams of warm liquid instantly flowed from his nostrils.
A violent headache, like a red-hot steel needle, stabbed directly into his cerebral cortex.
It was the backlash suffered by a mortal soul attempting to peer into a legend, even a fallen one.
At the lectern, Quirrell, who had been stuttering through his lecture, suddenly stopped.
He spun around abruptly, his movements stiff and eerie.
Those eyes, which had been flickering and evasive, became as cold as a snake's in that instant, staring dead at Morn in the back of the classroom.
In that moment, Morn felt as if a giant python had coiled around his neck.
[Malice Perception] was no longer vibrating; it was screaming.
It was pure, unadulterated killing intent.
The thing nesting in the back of Quirrell's head had sensed the prying eyes.
"C-can't look."
Morn bit the tip of his tongue, using the sharp pain to forcibly cut the system's analysis link.
He snapped his head down, one hand covering his bleeding nose, the other gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Wh-what's wrong? Mr. White?"
Quirrell's voice returned to its stuttering, cowardly tone; he seemed to be trying to cover up the abnormality of the previous moment. "You... you don't look well?"
"The garlic..."
Morn panted, his voice weak—and this wasn't just an act; he really was in so much pain he was about to faint. "Professor... I have a... severe allergy to garlic."
"Oh... oh dear." Quirrell seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and that cold gaze vanished. "Then... then you'd better go to Madam Pomfrey... I mean, the hospital wing."
Morn didn't waste words.
He grabbed his bag and stumbled out of the classroom.
It wasn't until he had run past two corridors that the feeling of a deathly gaze on his back completely disappeared.
Morn leaned against the cold stone wall, gasping for air.
He wiped the blood from under his nose, and looking at the crimson stain on his fingers, his eyes held no fear, but instead burned with a kind of manic excitement.
"Gold..."
Morn licked his bloody lips, a grim smile spreading across his face.
"So that is the pinnacle of this world?"
"I nearly died... but it's truly beautiful."
Supporting himself against the wall, he walked toward the hospital wing.
In this lesson, he had learned the most important thing: before you have grown your own fangs, never look a dragon in the eye.
But one day.
Morn gripped his ebony wand tightly.
One day, I will pull that 'golden worm' out of that tattered turban and devour it.
Chapter 15: Predator Between the Pages
Moen White stood at the entrance of the Hospital Wing, raising the back of his hand to wipe firmly beneath his nose.
The rough sensation of skin friction took away the last bit of congealed blood scab; a rusty, metallic taste of iron still lingered in his mouth, mixed with the pungent steam of the Invigoration DraughtMadam Pomfrey had just forced down his throat, burning all the way down his esophagus to his stomach.
"System."
Morn leaned against the cold stone wall, closed his eyes, and awakened that deep blue interface in his mind.
[Current Status: Weakened (Recovering from Mental Shock)]
[soul strength: 1.0 (Mortal Limit)]
Looking at that glaring "1.0," Morn asked coldly in his mind:
"With my current strength, if I wanted to forcibly devour Snape's 'purple' Talent, or that 'golden' remnant soul, what would the success rate be?"
The interface flickered, and a line of red data popped up ruthlessly.
[Simulation Deduction Results:]
Devouring Gold (Legendary Remnant Soul): Success rate 0%. The host's soul will be assimilated or annihilated the moment contact is made.
Devouring Purple (Master-level Talent): Success rate 0.1%. It is estimated that the host will suffer brain death (vegetative state) due to memory overflow.
Devouring blue (Rare-level Talent): Success rate 45% (accompanied by severe headaches and memory confusion).
[System Recommendation:]
Minimum threshold to carry Purple Talent: soul strength 2.5
Minimum threshold to carry Gold Talent: soul strength 10.0
"The gap is too large."
Morn looked at his pitiful 1.0; this meant he could only bully noobs in the starter village for now, unable to equip divine gear even if it were right in front of him.
"Besides natural growth with age, is there any shortcut for active strengthening?" Morn pressed.
The system was silent for a moment, seemingly retrieving some forbidden protocol.
Immediately after, the interface turned an eerie dark red.
[New Module Unlocked: Spiritual Plunder (Spiritual Plunder)]
[Description:] Conventional "Talent Devouring" only plunders skills. After enabling "Spiritual Plunder" mode, the host can directly devour the target's "Consciousness Core" or "Spiritual Fragments," converting them into pure mental fuel to permanently increase soul strength.
[Prey Targets:]
High-order Spiritual Entities: Ghosts, Dementors (Currently unavailable).
Chaotic Consciousness Entities: Poltergeists (High difficulty).
Enchanted Items: There are many magic items in Hogwarts endowed with "weak anthropomorphic consciousness" (Recommended).
Morn opened his eyes, a sharp light of understanding flashing in his dark gray pupils.
"Enchanted Items... in other words, those inanimate objects that move, bite, and have tempers."
He turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the corridor toward the massive archway on the second floor.
Hogwarts Library.
To others, it was a treasure trove of knowledge.
But for the current Morn, how was that a Library?
It was clearly an unattended cafeteria filled with tens of thousands of "Soul Supply Packs"... Pushing open the heavy double oak doors of the Library, an old and complex scent wafted over him.
It was the musty smell of decaying parchment, the scent of dried ink, and the dusty aroma left behind by countless tiny magical creatures crawling between the bookshelves.
Madam Pince was sitting behind the desk at the entrance, waving a feather duster like a withered vulture, chasing away a Hufflepuff student who was trying to eat a biscuit over a book.
Morn did not use the main entrance.
With a slight thought in the shadows.
[Equipped: Ghost Step (Green)].
His footsteps vanished instantly, and even the airflow caused by the swaying of his robes was smoothed out by some invisible force.
Like a ghost, he used the moment Madam Pince turned around to silently slip into the dim, towering bookshelves deep within the Library.
He walked straight toward the "Magic Theory Expansion Section," which was only a step away from the Restricted Section.
The bookshelves here were even older, the wood covered in scratches and scorch marks.
The air was thick with a restless agitation—faint hums, the rustle of flipping pages, and even low growls.
In this world, advanced magic books were often infused with a trace of the author's obsession, possessing a faint intelligence.
"Let's see who the first lucky one is."
Morn activated [Malice Perception].
In this quiet area, this perception was as clear as seeing a torch in the darkness.
He quickly locked onto his target.
In a dark corner, a large, black-covered tome bound by thick iron chains was trembling violently on the shelf, making snorting sounds like an angry bull.
The Evolution of Curses from the Middle Ages to the Eighteenth Century.
"Quite full of emotion, aren't you?"
A cold sneer curled at the corner of Morn's mouth.
He glanced left and right, ensuring no one was around.
The next second, he lunged forward, his movement as fast as lightning, grabbing the book's spine.
Roar—!
The book actually let out a muffled roar, its thick cover snapping open like a giant mouth full of fangs, viciously biting toward Morn's fingers. The edges of the pages were as sharp as knives, glinting with a cold light.
"Quiet."
[Equipped: Giant Ant Strength (White)].
Morn's fingers instantly erupted with a terrifying grip strength disproportionate to his size.
Crack.
Before the book's "mouth" could snap shut, it was forcibly pressed back by Morn as if he were crushing a walnut.
The chains let out a groan of pain, and the entire book was pinned firmly against the shelf divider, unable to move.
Morn pressed his palm firmly against the trembling cover.
"System, Spiritual Plunder."
[Command Confirmed.]
[Target Locked: Weak Violent Consciousness Entity.]
[Feeding Commencing.]
There was no sound of flesh being torn.
Only Morn himself could hear a sharp, desperate wail coming from within the book.
A cool flow of air, like mint water, surged through Morn's arm and into his brain.
It was an extremely pure form of mental energy, instantly soothing the stinging pain caused by his previously damaged nerves, making his once-parched brain feel a long-awaited nourishment.
The book in his hand stopped struggling.
That warmth and agitation unique to "living things" completely vanished, replaced by the coldness of an inanimate object.
It was still a book about curses, not a single word of content missing, but the "soul" that tried to bite people had been completely devoured.
[Devouring Complete.]
[soul strength slightly increased: 1.0 ➜ 1.02]
"Whew..."
Morn let out a long breath, a glint of greed flashing in his eyes.
Although it was only 0.02, this feeling of tangibly becoming stronger fascinated him.
"What are you doing?"
A stern yet youthful voice suddenly came from behind the bookshelf.
Morn's fingers paused.
His hand, which had just been committing an act of violence, instantly relaxed into a gentle stroking motion, lightly patting the spine of the book.
He turned his head and saw a girl with bushy brown hair, holding a mountain of books in her arms, staring at him with wide eyes.
Hermione Granger.
She had clearly been drawn over by the book's roar just now, and was currently staring warily at Mornwith a look reserved for "book destroyers."
"I saw you... you were strangling it?" Hermione pointed at the black-covered book in Morn's hand, her tone full of disbelief. "That's Evolution of Curses. Madam Pince said that book has a very bad temper and will bite off a student's fingers. What were you just doing to it?"
"I was just calming it down, Miss Granger."
Without changing his expression, Morn pulled out the book that had completely become a "corpse" and casually handed it to Hermione.
"Want to try?"
Hermione instinctively took a step back, as if she were looking at a venomous snake.
"No! It attacks people!"
"That was before," Morn said calmly. "Any violent force, if given proper soothing—and, of course, a little bit of physical persuasion—will become docile."
Seeing Morn so certain, Hermione tentatively reached out a finger and cautiously poked the cover of the book.
No reaction.
The book lay quietly in Morn's hand, as well-behaved as a book of fairy tales.
"Oh my goodness..." Hermione took the book in surprise and flipped through a few pages. "It really isn't moving! Even that humming sound has disappeared. How did you do it? Did you use a Silencing Charm? Or some ancient soothing magic? But I didn't see you pull out your wand!"
The wariness in Hermione's eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a Ravenclaw-like thirst for knowledge, even though she was a Gryffindor.
In her view, being able to "tame" a famous evil book with bare hands was simply more impressive than anything any first-year student could do.
Chapter 16: Requiem at the Fingertips
"A family... massage technique."
Morn bullshitted casually, while quietly glancing at the surrounding bookshelves.
The commotion just now was a bit loud; the other "living books" seemed to sense the demise of their kind and were currently shivering in the shadows, not daring to make a sound.
"Massage?" Hermione frowned, clearly finding this explanation unscientific, yet the facts were right before her eyes.
"Regardless, that's incredible." Hermione returned the book to Morn, then looked at the title in his hand with a bit of embarrassment. "Um... actually, I wanted to borrow this book too, but Madam Pincewouldn't let me touch it until I learned the Severing Charm. Since you've... fixed it, could you let me read it for a while?"
Morn looked at the future Miss Know-It-All.
Lending her the empty shell of a book whose soul had been devoured would not only cover up the evidence but also do her a favor.
"Here, take it."
Morn generously stuffed the book into Hermione's mountain of books. "Be careful. Knowledge is sometimes... very heavy."
"Thank you! You're Moen White, right? From Ravenclaw?" Hermione looked very happy, hugging the books and turning to leave. "I'm going to check if there's any information on 'Bibliotactics'..."
Watching Hermione's retreating figure, the smile on Morn's lips vanished instantly.
He turned around and looked at the row of bookshelves that still seemed bottomless, his dark gray pupils reflecting countless trembling book spines.
"1.02."
He stuck out his tongue and licked his somewhat dry lips.
"Still a long way from 2.5."
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the library's towering Gothic windows,
cut into mottled fragments of light by the stained glass, casting diagonally onto the massive bookshelves that seemed to reach straight to the ceiling.
The air was filled with a drowsy warmth—the scent of countless tiny dust motes dancing in the beams of light, mixed with the unique tartness of aged parchment and the slightly bitter aroma of leather glue.
Moen White strolled through the shadows of the 42nd row of bookshelves.
His pace was slow, carrying a leisureliness akin to appreciating a work of art.
His right hand hung naturally, the pad of his slender index finger lightly resting on those uneven book spines. As he moved, his fingertips glided elegantly across the heavy grimoires, like playing a silent piano.
Tap, tap, tap.
His fingertips felt the coarse grain of leather, the texture of gold-stamped lettering, and... that tiny, extremely weak pulse of a soul hidden deep within the inanimate objects.
[System Mode: Spiritual Plunder (Contact Type · Low Power)]
[Status: Active]
Morn didn't stop, nor did he open any books.
But the moment his fingertips brushed past, those magical books that had been slightly trembling on the shelves and making faint, mosquito-like buzzing sounds instantly fell into a deathly silence, as if their spines had been removed.
[Captured: Faint Residual Thoughts... Conversion complete. Soul Strength +0.001]
[Captured: Restless Spiritons... Conversion complete. Soul Strength +0.001]
[Captured: Fearful Emotions... Conversion complete. Soul Strength +0.002]
Lines of pale blue text scrolled frantically in the corner of his retina like a flowing waterfall.
It was a strange feeling.
Like popping bubbles on bubble wrap with your fingers.
Pop, pop, pop.
Every slight sound of a soul shattering would turn into a tiny, cool current of air, seeping through the pores of his fingertips into his blood vessels, finally gathering deep in his brain to nourish that parched soul container drop by drop.
Although the energy provided by each book was pitifully small—not even a tenth of what the previous The Evolution of Curses had offered—it made up for it in sheer volume and lack of risk.
Every little bit adds up.
This was the patience of a predator.
"Ahem."
A deliberately low, warning cough came from behind him.
Morn's finger didn't pause for a second, maintaining that steady gliding motion, but the expression on his face switched to a perfect blend of confusion and curiosity the moment he turned his head.
Madam Pince was standing at the end of the two rows of bookshelves, like a vulture guarding its food, her sharp eyes staring fixedly at Morn's hand through her glasses. The feather duster in her hand was like a sword ready to strike.
"Mr. White," Madam Pince's voice sounded like two dry leaves rubbing together, "if you don't intend to borrow anything, please do not rub your hands against those fragile rare editions. The oils on your hands will accelerate the decay of the parchment."
"My deepest apologies, Madam."
Morn withdrew his hand and even politely wiped it on his robes, his tone so sincere that no fault could be found. "I was looking for a reference book on 14th-century Transfiguration theory, but I've forgotten its exact name and can only identify it by the color of its spine."
Madam Pince sized him up suspiciously.
This Ravenclaw freshman was very strange.
He had been wandering in this section for half an hour, touching at least hundreds of books, yet hadn't pulled a single one out.
But the bookshelves hadn't screamed, and there were no signs of tearing.
"It had better be so," Madam Pince gave one last warning before waving her feather duster and turning to drive away several Hufflepuff students whispering in a corner.
After confirming the monitor's gaze had shifted, the smile on Morn's lips remained, but his eyes instantly turned cold.
His hand rested on the bookshelf once more.
This time, his target was a dark green-covered book on the next shelf that was shaking violently.
That book seemed to sense the death of its kind and was desperately shrinking back into the shelf, letting out a "hissing" threat.
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: Gadding with Ghouls
Status: Active (Slightly aggressive)
"Don't hide."
Morn whispered in his heart.
His palm pressed seemingly casually onto the spine of that book, like someone who couldn't find a book leaning against the shelf to rest.
Buzz!
The book jolted violently, seemingly wanting to open its mouth and bite the intruder who dared to touch it.
But before it could make a move, the Devouring Vortex in Morn's palm had already erupted.
There were no earth-shattering magical effects, nor were there any violent fluctuations of magic.
It was just pure soul deprivation of a higher rank over a lower rank.
In that instant, Morn felt the vibration under his palm come to a screeching halt.
That weak consciousness that tried to resist, filled with a foul stench, vanished without a trace, like a wisp of smoke sucked away by a powerful exhaust fan.
[Captured: Active Consciousness. Conversion complete. Soul Strength +0.005]
"Tastes a bit sour."
Morn frowned, giving the "mouthfeel" of this book a bad review in his heart. Books related to Ghouls really did have an earthy smell even in their souls.
But he wasn't in a position to be a picky eater.
He nonchalantly pulled out the book, which had completely turned into an inanimate object, and flipped through it as if nothing had happened before stuffing it back onto the shelf.
"Soul Strength: 1.02."
Morn glanced at the system interface.
After this hour of "fingertip playing," his soul strength had only increased by 0.08.
Although it seemed like very little, this was already equivalent to a year's worth of natural growth for him.
"Still not enough."
Morn rubbed his somewhat swollen brow, feeling the slight stinging pain in his cerebral cortex caused by taking in too many cluttered consciousnesses in a short time.
"The threshold where quantity leads to quality is too far. I need... something more nourishing."
His gaze passed through the layers of bookshelves and looked toward the iron door at the end of the corridor, hung with chains and warning signs—the Restricted Section.
Every book there was a "feast" full of poison but also rich in nutrition.
But it was daytime now.
And with his current Ghost Step level, it wasn't enough to completely hide from Filch's damned cat.
"Then I'll change flavors."
Morn turned and walked toward the exit; there was still a Herbology Class in the afternoon.
He heard that the plants in Professor Sprout's greenhouse, such as Biting Cabbages and Venomous Tentacula, were also very "lively" little things.
As long as it has spirituality, it's food.
Whether it's made of paper or leaves.