Ch: 64-72
Chapter 64: The Abyss of Corrosion and the Broken Shackles
The feeling of weightlessness from the fall lasted for only a brief two seconds.
Moen White adjusted his body to a subtle angle in mid-air. Relying on the dynamic balance granted by [Nerve Swiftness (blue)], he landed silently and gracefully on a soft, damp, and elastic mass like a black feather.
The surroundings were pitch black, and the air was thick with the heavy scent of humus—the characteristic musty smell of plants fermenting in dark corners away from sunlight for years.
The moment his feet touched the ground, the thing beneath him came alive.
It was Devil's Snare.
Sensing fresh flesh falling into its trap, countless slimy, cold vines like snakes instantly surged from all directions.
They made no sound but carried a suffocating constrictive force, tightly wrapping around Morn's ankles and knees, and quickly climbing up his thighs, attempting to strangle him in this bottomless pit.
"No light, and no fire?"
Morn felt the uncomfortable, slimy touch as the vines tightened and the force of the plant fibers trying to crush his bones. He didn't panic and pull out his wand to find a light source like an ordinary Wizardwould.
He didn't even need to open his eyes in the darkness; the infrared vision of [Omni-Perception] had already clearly mapped the low-temperature sap flowing within these plants.
"Professor Sprout always emphasized that this plant fears bright light and fire... but she seems to have forgotten that as plants, they fear something else even more."
With a thought, Morn didn't struggle. Instead, he relaxed his body, allowing the vines to wrap his lower half into a cocoon.
Simultaneously, the pores on the surface of his skin instantly snapped open, and his originally warm body temperature plummeted.
[Talent Activated: Biological Acid (blue).]
[Secretion Mode: Surface Coating.]
Sizzle, sizzle—!
A grating sound, like raw meat being thrown into a boiling oil pan, suddenly erupted in the dead silence of the darkness.
Morn's skin instantly secreted a layer of high-concentration, translucent slime that emitted a pungent chemical odor.
The vines that had just tightened around his body, preparing to enjoy the pleasure of strangulation, were like tender sprouts touching strong acid.
Accompanied by violent twitching, the plant skin that came into contact with the acid instantly blackened and blistered, then dissolved into a puddle of foul-smelling black pus.
The originally ferocious Devil's Snare seemed to have met its natural predator, letting out a "scream" that only plants could understand—the sound of fibers snapping and cell walls rupturing.
They recoiled in terror, scrambling back toward the surrounding walls, forcibly clearing a wide path for Morn in this green hell.
"Primitive, but effective."
Morn disdainfully shook off the plant residue clinging to the hem of his robes. Stepping over the vines that were still emitting white smoke and had turned into mush, he strode through this obstacle... passing through the exit corroded by the acid, he found a winding stone corridor ahead. From the end came a buzzing sound, as if ten thousand bees were vibrating their wings at once.
Morn pushed open the wooden door at the end.
The view suddenly opened up into a high-ceilinged arched hall, the light so bright it was somewhat dazzling.
Countless winged keys, glittering like gems, were flying in a dense swarm beneath the ceiling. They traced chaotic trajectories in the air, their collisions and wingbeats echoing through the vast hall.
Morn stood at the doorway, in no hurry to find the "true key" hidden among them.
His gaze landed on the floor in the corner of the hall.
There, several old flying brooms lay scattered about. These were the props Professor McGonagall had prepared for the challengers—and the only tool to pass the trial.
Morn walked over to the brooms.
He picked up one of them. The rough ash wood handle was covered in scratches from time, and holding it, he could feel the faint but persistent pulse of magic flowing inside.
"Cleansweep Seven? I can't believe this antique hasn't been scrapped yet."
Morn's fingers lightly brushed over the worn rune engravings on the broom handle. He didn't rush to destroy it; instead, he closed his eyes and let his mental energy penetrate the core of this alchemical item.
[System Analysis Initiated.]
[Target Locked: Alchemical Item (Flying Broom - Cleansweep Series).]
[Structural Analysis:]
Enchantment A: [Anti-Gravity Levitation Charm] — Basic floating.
Enchantment B: [Airflow Mastery] — Turning and acceleration.
Enchantment C: [Cushioning Charm] — (System Determination: No value, ignored).
[Analysis Conclusion: Core rule is 'Low-Altitude Force Field'. Proceed with Concept Plunder?]
"As expected. Since the ability to fly is granted by magic... why must I ride this wooden stick?"
Morn opened his eyes, a glint of cold greed flashing in them as he looked at the blue light point extracted on the system panel.
"What I want is not the tool, but the rule itself."
An invisible suction force suddenly erupted from his palm.
"Devour."
Crack.
The old broom let out a groan of being overburdened in his hand.
To the naked eye, the originally smooth wooden handle began to rapidly dry and crack, as if experiencing a century of weathering in an instant. In Morn's vision, a pale green light cluster representing the 'Flight Rules' was being crudely stripped from the alchemical item, drilling through his arm and into the depths of his soul.
[Devour Complete.]
[Fusing 'Anti-Gravity Rules' and 'Airflow Mastery'...]
[Obtained New Ability: Free Flight (blue).] (Description: Your body has memorized the anti-gravity rules. By consuming magic power, you can generate a repulsion field on your skin to escape the shackles of gravity. Although your speed is not as fast as the top-tier Nimbus series, you have gained complete freedom.)
Morn let go.
The broom, drained of its magic rules, instantly turned into a pile of grayish-white rotted wood chips, scattering on the stone floor.
In the next second, a scene defying physical common sense occurred.
Morn's feet slowly left the ground.
Without the help of any external force, he hovered in mid-air just like that—straight and like a weightless ghost.
"This feeling..."
Morn looked down at his suspended feet and tried to take a step forward.
The air seemed to turn into solid steps, supporting his body.
This sense of freedom from the earth's shackles made every cell in his body cheer.
"Is this the joy of physical flight?"
With a thought, Morn's body shot into the sky like an arrow from a bow, his robes flapping loudly behind him. He performed a sudden stop and a ninety-degree turn in the air that completely defied inertia, his flexibility far exceeding that of any broom.
He hovered thirty feet above the ground, his cold, ghostly blue pupils instantly locking onto the most special one among the swarm of dancing keys.
It was a large, silver antique key.
Its flight path was crooked, and one wing showed an unnatural bend—a wound left behind from Harry Potter's crude capture attempt just now.
[Talent Activated: Trinity (blue).]
[Trajectory Calculation in progress... Locked.]
In those eyes of data, every flap of the damaged key's wings and every disturbance in the airflow were disassembled into clear parabolic trajectories.
"Since you're injured, don't fly so fast."
Morn didn't chase it frantically like Harry had. He simply hovered in the key's inevitable path, like a spider waiting for a fly to hit its web.
When the silver key wobbled past him three feet away, Morn slowly reached out his right hand.
"Accio Key!"
The key had just prepared to dodge to the left when it was forcibly captured by a domineering, invisible gravitational force. It let out a desperate buzz in the air, traced a straight silver line, and slammed heavily into Morn's palm, which was clad in dragon hide gloves.
The key's sharp wings were still fluttering desperately in Morn's glove, trying to escape, but they were ruthlessly squeezed tight by Morn.
"Game over."
Leaning forward, Morn controlled his newly acquired flight ability and landed as lightly as a falling leaf in front of the heavy oak door opposite him.
He inserted the still-struggling key into the keyhole.
Click.
The crisp sound of the lock opening rang out.
Morn pushed the door open, glanced back at the buzzing hall and the pile of broom wreckage on the floor, a mocking curve touching the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you for your gift, though it tastes as terrible as wood chips."
Chapter 65: The Silent Chessboard and the Cheater
Pushing open the heavy oak door, a gust of biting cold air mixed with the dry scent of stone dust rushed toward him.
The ground beneath his feet was no longer smooth stone slabs but had turned into giant, black-and-white checkered squares.
Boom—!
A tooth-gritting roar shook the entire stone chamber.
Moen White immediately stopped in his tracks, his body instinctively pressing into the shadows by the doorway.
By the flickering light of the pale torches on the walls, he witnessed the final act of this cruel game of chess.
At the other end of the board, the red-haired youth Ron Weasley was riding a battered stone horse. His face was as pale as paper, but his eyes, which usually wandered, now burned with a tragic sort of resolve.
"Harry, you have to go on... it's the only way."
"No! Ron!" Harry Potter's scream echoed through the hall.
"Knight takes Queen... Check." Ron closed his eyes and whispered the suicidal command.
As the command fell, the pale, towering stone statue on the opposite side—the White Queen—turned around with a suffocating sense of pressure.
Her featureless face looked down coldly at Ron, the heavy stone spear in her hand raised high, then smashed down with the sound of wind and thunder.
Bang! Stone chips flew everywhere. Ron was knocked off the horse and thrown heavily onto the edge of a black square, where he lay motionless.
"Ron!" Hermione let out a shrill scream and tried to rush over.
"Don't move! We're still playing!" Harry held her back firmly, then moved himself to complete the final strike, "Checkmate!"
Watching the White King's crown fall to the ground with a clatter and seeing Harry and Hermione rush toward the next door with tears in their eyes, Morn raised an eyebrow slightly in the shadows.
"Gryffindor recklessness... no, perhaps it should be called a tactical sacrifice for victory."
Morn looked at the unconscious Ron, the usual contempt in his eyes fading slightly, replaced by an objective scrutiny.
"He usually looks like a fool who only knows how to eat, but on the chessboard, he truly possesses a surprising sense of the big picture. Even as a sacrificial pawn, he maximized his value."
At that moment, the magic on the chessboard began to reset.
With Harry and the others gone, the shattered black and white pieces began to automatically repair themselves and return to their positions.
The White Queen, who had just knocked Ron unconscious, dragged her spear back to her original spot, her blank face slowly turning toward the door—the direction where Morn was.
To pass through here, one must win a game of chess.
This was the rule set by Professor McGonagall.
"Unfortunately, I'm not here to play house with you."
Morn stepped out from the shadows, but he did not step onto the commander's position for a player.
The rows of tall stone statues instantly came to life, drawing stone swords and spears to form an impenetrable wall of death, locking onto this reckless intruder with murderous intent.
A mocking curve curled at the corner of Morn's mouth.
Instead of retreating, he closed his eyes.
Deep within his soul, the Talent rune originating from the [Mirror of Erised Rule Fragment] suddenly lit up.
[Talent Activated: Phantom Force Field (blue).]
[Loading Rules: Cognitive Deception / Desire Projection.]
"In your perception, I do not exist."
Morn whispered.
An invisible ripple spread out with him as the center.
This wasn't simple optical invisibility; it directly modified the 'logic of existence' of the surrounding environment.
He opened his eyes and strode onto the chessboard.
The White Queen, who had been raising her spear to charge, suddenly froze.
In the logical judgment of the Alchemy Puppets, the intruder who was just at the door had suddenly been 'deleted' like a logic error.
Though its visual sensors could still capture a slight distortion in the air, its core command told it: no one ahead.
Morn was like a ghost walking through a bug, sauntering past the stone statues that stood confused after losing their target.
He even paused as he passed the White Queen, reaching out to lightly tap the stone spear stained with Ron's blood.
Tap, tap. The crisp sound made the White Queen whip her head around, her spear sweeping across.
But Morn had already activated [Void Walker], and the heavy strike passed directly through his translucent body, hitting nothing but air.
"Rules are meant to bind mortals."
Morn chuckled softly, crossing this originally time-consuming and dangerous trial completely unscathed.
As he passed the unconscious Ron, he merely glanced at the dust-covered boy from the corner of his eye, his footsteps never pausing.
"Sleep well, your part is over."
...Pushing open the next door, a nauseating stench instantly hit his nostrils like a physical entity.
It was a mixture of old dead fish, fermented sewer sludge, and the body odor of some large mammal.
Even though Morn blocked his sense of smell immediately, the physiological nausea still made his brow furrow.
This stone chamber was smaller than the previous ones.
A massive adult Mountain Troll was lying on the floor like a collapsed mountain of flesh.
Its limbs were twisted at strange angles, and the most fatal wound was at the back of its head—a large, charred hole where purple blood and brain matter had spilled out and begun to congeal.
"No signs of a magical struggle..."
Morn stepped over the Troll's giant hairy hand and knelt down to examine the wound.
"A one-hit kill. Professor Quirrell didn't even bother with Stupefy; he used a high-intensity Blasting Curse or the Dark Arts to shatter its skull."
Morn shook his head. This Troll was too dead; its Soul Essence had already dissipated, leaving it with no utility value.
"Irritable, urgent, and ruthless... it seems Voldemort truly can't wait."
...Passing through the Troll's room, the final door was preceded by a table.
Seven bottles of various shapes were lined up, with purple flames and black flames burning at either end, sealing the way forward and back.
A piece of parchment was pressed under the bottles, containing the logic puzzle Professor Snape was so proud of.
Morn walked to the table without even glancing at the parchment.
[Absolute Memory] allowed him to remember the solution from the original story—the smallest bottle—but he didn't intend to drink that.
"Who knows if Quirrell spat in it after drinking, or if he rearranged the order?"
As a cautious hunter, Morn never entrusted his life to someone else's game rules.
He pulled a thumb-sized crystal vial from a hidden compartment in his belt.
The liquid inside was a pure, untainted transparent color—this was the [Broad-Spectrum Antidote (Enhanced Version)] he had spent an entire month brewing in the Room of Requirement, using top-tier materials 'borrowed' from Snape's private stores.
"Gulp."
Morn tilted his head back and downed his potion.
An icy chill slid down his throat into his stomach; it was the sense of absolute defense brought by the stacking of [Purification Field] and the [Potion].
He straightened his collar and stepped toward the black flames that could instantly incinerate a person.
Whoosh—the black flames licked at his body as if they were alive.
But before the shield formed by his potion and Talent, these lethal fires were like a gentle breeze, failing to ignite even a single strand of his hair.
Passing through the curtain of fire, the view suddenly opened up.
In the final stone chamber, there was no extra furniture, only the tall, magnificent mirror of erisedstanding quietly in the center.
And before the mirror, a figure with a thick turban wrapped around his head stood with his back to the door, stroking the frame and whispering neurotically.
"Where is it... where on earth is it hidden..."
Moen White stood in the shadows of the entrance, his deep blue eyes instantly withdrawing all emotion.
At this moment, he was no longer a stealthy assassin, nor a greedy collector.
Shhh. A slender wand slid silently into his palm.
Morn's fingers gripped the handle with extreme stability, the magic within his body surging like a flood, ready to be unleashed.
Facing a Dark Lord who once dominated the entire wizarding world, even if it was just a remnant soul, gripping his wand was the minimum respect due to Death.
As for that scalpel? It still lay quietly in the hidden pocket of his sleeve—the final surprise saved for his enemy.
"Long time no see, Senior Tom."
Morn thought to himself, the tip of his wand dipping slightly, pointing toward the blind spot of that silhouette.
"Let's see just what your soul... tastes like."
Chapter 66: The Rotting Host and the Two-Faced Man
Moen White's body was like a drop of ink falling into a deep pool, merging into the darkest corner of the stone chamber without any resistance.
[Talent Maintenance: Void Walker + Phantom Force Field] In order to completely hide his presence in this cramped space, he turned his magic output power to the limit.
At this moment,
even if someone were to stand face-to-face with him, as long as there was no physical contact, their retina and brain would automatically ignore his existence.
A suffocating, strange odor permeated the air.
It wasn't just a simple stench of rot, but a mixture of stale garlic, decaying flesh, and the cold, slimy fishiness of some reptile.
With the help of the penetrating vision of [Omni-Perception], Morn coldly watched the man standing in front of the mirror of erised.
Quirinus Quirrell was shivering uncontrollably.
But under the system's X-ray vision, the scene inside this shell was even more shocking—Quirrell's flame of life was already as weak as a candle about to burn out.
His internal organs were failing at an unnatural rate, and his bone marrow showed a grayish, defeated hue, as if corroded by a potent poison.
"The price of forced parasitism."
Morn gripped the wand in his hand, his fingertips turning slightly white from the excessive force. "A mortal shell cannot carry a god-level soul; his body is collapsing."
Just then, the wall of black fire behind him fluctuated violently.
Harry Potter came stumbling in, his face wearing a look of determination as if ready to face Snape, but it turned into bewilderment the moment he saw the figure clearly.
"You?! No... it can't be you!" Harry's voice was sharp and out of tune.
Morn ignored the villainous monologue he already knew. Like a patient hunter, he lay quietly in the shadows, waiting for that critical moment to arrive... "Let him... let me speak to him..."
A shrill, cold voice, sounding as if it came from the depths of hell, abruptly rang out from Quirrell's body.
The voice did not belong to Quirrell; it didn't even have the characteristics of human vocal cord vibrations. It was more like a resonance directly at the soul level.
Quirrell began to tremble as he unwrapped the large turban from his head.
As the coils of purple cloth fell to the ground, the final layer of pretense was stripped away. Quirrellslowly turned around, exposing the terrifying secret to the air.
In that instant, the temperature of the entire room plummeted to the freezing point.
Harry let out a scream of terror, clutching the scar on his forehead that was throbbing with pain.
Morn felt every hair on his skin stand on end.
Even with the protection of the [Purification Field (blue+)], the terrifying pressure originating from the soul level still made his breathing hitch.
On the back of that head, there was a face.
A chalky face, cracked like a dried-up riverbed. It had red eyes and nostrils that were just two thin slits, like a snake's.
[Warning: S-rank high-risk soul radiation detected!]
[Warning: Target soul strength is extremely high (Legendary Rank · Incomplete). Attempting mental piercing... Blocked by [Trinity].]
"So this is... Lord Voldemort."
Morn stared fixedly at that face, his pupils shrinking to the size of pinpricks.
Even if it was just a remnant soul, even if it was so weak that it had to parasitize someone else, the life pressure of a top-tier predator was still heart-stopping. This was a qualitative difference. If Morn dared to use Devour on him now, even just a bite, his brain would likely be blown apart by this massive dark will.
"Do you see, Harry Potter..." Lord Voldemort's face whispered, the voice sounding like it was gliding over cold, damp moss. "Give me the stone..."
The next few minutes were a tug-of-war of temptation and lies.
Until Lord Voldemort lost his patience.
"Kill him! I'm out of patience! Kill him!"
Quirrell let out a beast-like roar, lunging at Harry like a mad puppet, his withered hands tightly clutching the boy's neck.
"Ugh—!" Harry struggled desperately in suffocation, instinctively reaching out and grabbing Quirrell's wrists and face.
Sizzle—! A hair-raising sound, like raw meat being pressed onto a red-hot iron plate, suddenly exploded.
A burnt smell instantly overwhelmed the bloody scent in the room.
"Aaaaaah—!"
Quirrell let out a piercing scream. He looked at his hands in horror—where Harry had touched them, the skin was rapidly reddening, blistering, and rotting, revealing the ghastly white bone beneath.
"That is... Lily Potter's Blood Curse Charm."
In the shadows, Morn calmly analyzed this illogical scene.
"An ancient contract magic based on 'love' and'sacrifice.' To a soul like Lord Voldemort's, which has lost the concept of 'love,' Harry's touch is the most concentrated strong acid."
"Kill him! Never mind your hands! Kill him!" Lord Voldemort was still screaming commands.
But Quirrell's body had reached its limit.
Under Harry's continuous touch, Quirrell's face began to disintegrate. His body, like a sand sculpture weathered for a hundred years, rapidly collapsed amidst agonized wails.
Now!
Just as Quirrell's body completely stopped breathing, and the black smoke named "Lord Voldemort" let out an angry roar, preparing to break free and escape from this discarded shell—
This was also the only "ownerless moment" in the entire dungeon, lasting only 0.5 seconds.
Quirrell was dead, his soul about to dissipate.
Lord Voldemort was retreating, unable to care about anything else.
Harry was unconscious due to the intense pain and shock.
Moen White moved.
He didn't chase after that terrifying black smoke but shot out from the shadows like a bolt of lightning, appearing instantly beside Quirrell's corpse, which was turning into ash.
Without the slightest hesitation, his left hand slammed onto Quirrell's forehead, which still retained some body heat.
There remained Quirrell's original soul—one that, although squeezed and twisted by Lord Voldemort, was still the soul of an elite adult Wizard.
"You don't need to take it with you anymore, Senior Tom."
blue light surged in Morn's eyes as the system operated at full power.
"Devour."
Buzz—! A murky stream of grayish-black energy, carrying a strong aura of the Dark Arts, was forcibly pulled from the corpse a second before it dissipated, greedily absorbed into his body through his arm.
[Devour successful.]
[Acquired Target: Quirinus Quirrell (Mutated Soul).]
[Analyzing...]
[Obtained a massive amount of Universal Source Material.]
[Extracted Special Talent: [Dark Magic Affinity (purple · incomplete)].] (Description: A passive mutation brought about by long-term containment of the Dark Lord's soul. Your understanding of the Dark Arts is enhanced, any Dark Arts power correction +40%, but long-term use will intensify the consumption of Sanity.)
Morn felt as if his brain had been struck hard by a heavy hammer. A violent, cold killing intent tried to erode his consciousness, but under the absolute rational suppression of [Trinity], this agitation was quickly calmed.
"Is this... the price of power?"
Morn took a deep breath, suppressing the nausea surging in his chest.
By now, the cloud of black smoke belonging to Lord Voldemort had already penetrated the ceiling, disappearing into the depths of the Castle with a roar of resentment.
And Harry on the ground had completely passed out, still tightly clutching that bright red Philosopher's Stone in his hand.
Thump, thump, thump. Rapid and heavy footsteps came from the corridor outside.
A massive, suffocating magical fluctuation was rapidly approaching—the magic was like the midday sun, warm yet filled with an inviolable majesty.
Dumbledore had arrived.
"Withdraw."
Morn didn't spare a single glance at the Philosopher's Stone (it was a scalding bait), nor did he leave a single word of eulogy for Quirrell's ashes.
He retreated, [Void Walker] covering his body once more, and he instantly became invisible.
He pressed against the wall, gliding toward the door like a silent current of air.
Just as he rushed out of the wall of black fire, a tall old man in grey robes with a silver beard happened to rush in hurriedly.
The two brushed past each other in the narrow doorway.
The distance was less than ten centimeters.
Dumbledore stopped abruptly, his sharp blue eyes peering through his half-moon spectacles, looking suspiciously at the empty air beside him.
He felt an extremely faint, unnatural ripple of magic.
But the next second, seeing Harry collapsed on the floor and Quirrell already turned to ash, the old man's face changed drastically. He couldn't afford to investigate that hint of strangeness further and rushed straight toward Harry.
"Harry!"
Morn stood in the shadows of the corridor outside the door, looking back at the silhouette of the greatest white wizard of the century.
Cold sweat slid down his spine, soaking his shirt.
That was the pressure coming from a top-tier powerhouse.
"That was close."
Morn exhaled a breath of turbid air silently, adjusted his slightly crooked tie, and turned to blend into the deep darkness of the Hogwarts night.
This night, the hunter returned with a full harvest.
Chapter 67: The Price of Gluttony and the Black Gift
Morn didn't know how he managed to walk the path back to Ravenclaw Tower.
His vision began to blur; the once quiet stone walls around him twisted and stretched in his eyes, as if morphing into countless faces screaming in agony.
His ears were filled with a cacophony of noise like electrical interference—Quirrell's dying wails, mixed with Voldemort's signature, bone-chilling serpentine hisses.
"Kill... kill Potter..." "Master... save me..."
Gritting his teeth, Morn stumbled and rushed into the bathroom attached to his dormitory.
He didn't even have time to close the door before throwing himself at the sink, his hands gripping the cold marble edge so tightly his knuckles turned deathly white.
"Guh—!"
A violent retching.
But what he vomited wasn't food from his stomach, but clumps of black, tar-like viscous mist.
As soon as this mist made contact with the air, it made a sizzling, corrosive sound before dissipating, pulled apart by some unseen force.
Morn looked up at his reflection in the mirror.
It was a face both unfamiliar and ferocious.
His originally azure blue pupils were now encircled by a ring of murky, gray-black blood vessels. The veins at his temples throbbed madly like crawling insects, and beneath his skin, faint black currents of energy could be seen wildly coursing through his blood vessels.
It was the brutal will of the Dark Lord rampaging within this body, trying to overthrow the host.
[Warning: High-intensity mental contamination detected.]
[Warning: Detection of residual foreign will (Voldemort·Fragmentary Soul Imprint). Sanity check in progress... Failed.]
[Current Status: Confused / Gluttony Syndrome.]
"Damn it... this thing is like rotten meat left to mold for a hundred years."
Trembling, Morn turned on the faucet, scooped up icy water, and splashed it harshly on his face. The biting cold provided a momentary coolness to his nearly boiling brain.
He had been too greedy.
Although it was only Quirrell's soul fragment, that poor wretch had been possessed by Voldemort for an entire year. His soul had long since become toxic waste, saturated with despair, fear, and Dark Magic radiation.
"System, initiate emergency purification protocol."
Staggering out of the bathroom, Morn yanked the heavy curtains of his four-poster bed closed, cast a [Muffliato] Charm, and sat cross-legged on the bed.
[Talent Fully Activated: Trinity (blue).]
[Constructing mental firewall...]
The moment he closed his eyes, Morn's world transformed into an absolutely rational space composed of blue data streams.
And deep within his consciousness,
the gray-black soul energy sphere he had just devoured was like an unstable nuclear reactor, madly radiating emotional ripples named "killing."
"This is my domain."
In the mental world, Morn transformed into a scalpel sharpened to the point of being utterly devoid of emotion.
Since his body couldn't digest it naturally, he would perform a manual excision.
Swish! The mental scalpel plunged precisely into that chaotic mass of soul.
Enduring the soul-rending agony, Morn, like the most patient surgeon, meticulously excised and peeled away the black patches tainted with Voldemort's imprint.
With every cut, he could hear a shrill scream echoing from the depths of his mind.
It was Quirrell's final obsession, and also a mental trap left by Voldemort.
Fear, servility, jealousy of others, a pathological craving for power... These negative emotions surged like a tide, attempting to drown Morn's personality.
"Get out."
Indifferently, Morn manipulated the blue data streams, thoroughly shattering, formatting, and discarding these stripped "mental wastes" into the trash bin of his mind.
Time passed in the silent struggle.
He didn't know how long it had been when the feeling of swelling that threatened to split his skull finally began to recede, replaced by a sensation of power—cold, slippery, yet exceptionally pure.
Morn slowly opened his eyes.
The dormitory was still pitch dark, with only moonlight from outside the window filtering through the gaps and spilling onto the floor.
His pupils had returned to their original azure blue, yet deep within that blue hue, there was now an added trace of an abyssal, elusive darkness.
[Purification complete.]
[All residual foreign will has been excised.]
[This feeding session's settlement:]
Base Reward: soul strength slightly increased (reaching the threshold of an adult elite Wizard).
Special Plunder: [Dark Magic Affinity (Purple·Incomplete)] — Installed.
Immediately after, a line of golden light flow he had never seen before suddenly popped up on the system panel in his retina, seemingly about to unlock some higher-level module.
[Detection of host's first containment of a "Purple (Rule-level)" concept.]
[Attempting to trigger advanced achievement: [Forbidden Touch]...]
[Verifying...]
Morn's breath hitched slightly, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.
However, the next second, that line of golden text suddenly flashed violently, turning into a glaring red warning.
[Error: Concept integrity less than 40%.]
[Error: This Talent is contaminated with excessive impurities, judged as "defective."]
[Judgment Result: Does not meet the "Rule Master" standard.]
[Achievement unlock... Failed.]
The golden light dissipated, and everything returned to calm.
The system reverted to its cold, blue default interface, as if that enticing golden window had never existed.
"Tch."
Morn looked at the "Unlock Failed" prompt and clicked his tongue with extreme displeasure. "Because it's unwanted soul residue, the system judges it as trash?"
He lowered his head and looked at his right hand.
A flame, pale and nearly transparent, ignited at his fingertips.
Although his power had indeed increased, that feeling of "being denied by the system" instead ignited a deeper layer of greed within him.
"Defective..." Morn clenched his fist, extinguishing the flame. A dangerous glint flashed in the depths of his eyes. "So, to get that golden achievement, I need to devour a... complete, high-purity Dark Lord?"
There was no need for the system to issue a quest.
At this moment, a hunting plan for those things called "Horcruxes" had already automatically taken shape in his cold, calculating mind.
He got down from the bed and walked to the bathroom mirror again.
The person in the mirror had regained his sanity, but his entire aura had undergone a subtle, qualitative change.
If before he was like a blade sheathed, now, it was as if that blade was coated with an indelible, potent poison.
That gloomy, dangerous aura could make people feel instinctively uncomfortable even from three meters away.
"This won't do. Too conspicuous."
Morn frowned. This aura might let him blend in like a fish in water in Knockturn Alley, but at Hogwarts, it was practically writing "I am a Dark Wizard" on his face.
Facing the mirror, he adjusted his facial muscles. His gaze gradually softened, and the corners of his mouth lifted into that signature, humble and polite Ravenclaw smile.
The [Psychological Manipulation] Talent was reversed and applied to himself, constructing a gentle, harmless camouflage field that tightly locked that unsettling Dark Magic aura beneath his skin.
"That's much better."
The mirror once again reflected that refined, top student.
At that moment, the first birdsong of dawn came from outside the window.
Sounds began to stir in the corridor. Urgent footsteps and excited whispers penetrated through the door.
"Did you hear? Harry Potter was on the third floor last night..."
"...You-Know-Who has returned..."
"...Right under the trapdoor in the dungeons!"
Morn straightened his tie, pushed open the dormitory door, and, wearing a perfectly measured expression of surprise and confusion, blended into the group of students frantically gossiping.
"My goodness, Potter is truly brave."
He said to an excited Gryffindor beside him, his tone flawlessly sincere.
In his heart, he was savoring last night's "feast"—unpalatable, yet nutritionally rich.
Chapter 68: The Silence After the Commotion and the Principal's Gaze Draft
The two heavy oak doors of the Hospital Wing were gently pushed open, and a wave of air mixed with the scent of strong disinfectant, the bitterness of Potions, and a certain cloyingly sweet floral fragrance washed over him.
Moen White, holding a bouquet of white lilies freshly conjured with Transfiguration and wearing his usual gentle yet distant smile, stepped into the sun-drenched ward.
Almost all the beds were empty, except for the few at the far end, which were surrounded by a crowd.
Harry Potter was still unconscious, like a princess in a fairy tale waiting to be awakened.
Meanwhile, Ron Weasley was sitting on the adjacent bed, one leg in a thick cast, animatedly describing the 'thrilling' night to the surrounding Gryffindor students who had come to visit.
"...Yes, it was real! A giant chessboard! I sacrificed myself to let Harry pass..." Ron waved his arms, his face flushed red, reveling in the heroic treatment he had never received in his life.
Morn stood at the periphery of the crowd, listening quietly for a minute.
No mention of the 'fourth person'.
In their perception, it was Harry who single-handedly defeated Quirrell and repelled You-Know-Who.
"A perfect script."
Morn mentally gave Dumbledore a high score for his public relations skills.
He stepped forward and gently placed the bouquet of lilies on Harry's bedside table, which was already piled high with snacks and get-well cards.
"Hope you recover soon, Potter."
He said softly, his fingertips brushing seemingly unintentionally past Harry's pillow.
[Omni-Perception] instantly swept through—the soul connection within Harry's body remained stable, even becoming more active due to this contact.
Morn withdrew his hand, drawing no one's attention, turned, and left this place filled with blind optimism... Three days later, the End-of-Term Feast.
The Great Hall was lavishly decorated with green and silver streamers, the house colors of Slytherin.
The young snakes at the long table were celebrating their seventh consecutive House Cup victory in advance, their arrogant cheers almost threatening to lift the enchanted ceiling.
Morn sat in the shadows of the Ravenclaw table, meticulously cutting the lamb chop on his plate.
The Ravenclaw students around him were heatedly discussing their final exam scores, but he seemed somewhat distracted. He was waiting, waiting for that old man's performance.
When Albus Dumbledore stood up, the noise in the hall instantly ceased.
The greatest white Wizard of the century wore a garish purple robe, with a bowtie even tied into his beard.
"Another exceptionally brilliant year!" Dumbledore said cheerfully, his voice magically amplified to reach every corner clearly, "During which my unfortunate noggin has been stuffed with knowledge that even I find slightly messy..."
What followed was that famous 'points extravaganza'.
Morn watched as Ron, Hermione, Harry, and even Neville were called out by name. Slytherin's previously soaring morale deflated like a punctured balloon, while Gryffindor's rubies surged wildly until they overtook the lead.
The entire hall erupted. The Gryffindor table was nearly pounded to pieces, countless hats thrown into the air.
Morn set down his knife and fork, applauding softly along with the crowd. His gaze was as calm as if watching a clumsy yet effective political drama.
"Is this your art of managing people, Principal? Binding the savior with honor, creating competition through opposition."
At that moment, Dumbledore, standing in the center of the staff table, did not sit down.
The old man's gaze slowly swept over the cheering crowd—two piercing, sky-blue lines of sight that seemed to penetrate.
"...Of course, we must also thank those who silently guard the school from the shadows." Dumbledore's voice suddenly lowered slightly, hinting at something, "Sometimes, the truth is not always as clear as what we see."
That blue gaze passed through Gryffindor's clamor, over Hufflepuff's cheerful smiles, and, without warning, landed on the Ravenclaw table.
Precisely, locking onto Moen White.
*Hum—!*
The air seemed to solidify in that instant.
Morn felt a gentle but terrifyingly immense mental force attempting to follow the line of sight and probe his cerebral cortex.
It wasn't a crude Legilimency, but a more sophisticated, water-like, pervasive probing.
Morn did not evade.
Under the absolute control of [Trinity], his pupils didn't even contract.
His face still wore that perfect expression of 'feeling slightly puzzled by the Principal's words but politely applauding'.
And on the surface of his mind, a false maze of thoughts had long been constructed—thoughts about the library, exam scores, and a minor complaint about Potions.
This was a silent clash that happened in 0.1 seconds.
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on his face for a moment, seeming to show a flicker of puzzlement at not finding anything abnormal (like traces of Dark Arts or nervous tension).
Finally, the old man smiled, blinked, and shifted his gaze away.
"Enjoy yourselves, children!"
Morn felt the shirt on his back instantly soaked through with cold sweat.
"What a sharp old lion."
He took a sip of pumpkin juice from his cup to hide the fleeting tremor of excitement at the corner of his mouth.
Being marked by a powerhouse of this level meant he had officially stepped onto the gaming table... The hogwarts express belched white steam as it slowly pulled away from Hogsmeade Station.
The majestic outline of the Castle gradually shrank outside the window, eventually disappearing behind the rolling mountains.
Inside the compartment, Hermione was arguing with Ron about summer homework arrangements, while Harry leaned against the window, staring blankly at the scenery.
No one noticed that the always solitary Ravenclaw top student was now sitting in the corner of the adjacent compartment, eyes closed, his fingertips rhythmically tapping his knee.
He was taking stock.
Like a thief who had just looted a dragon's treasure hoard, Morn was carefully fondling the'spoils' of this academic year in his mind.
In the depths of his thoughts, a blue stream of data flowed slowly.
[Trinity] had turned his brain into a perpetually calm, precise computer; [Omni-Perception] had bestowed upon him infrared compound eyes that could pierce darkness and disguise; [Free Flight] had freed him from the shackles of gravity, granting him the liberty of birds;
And then there was that... Morn suddenly opened his eyes, looking at his blurry reflection in the window glass.
For an instant, the pupils in the reflection seemed to flash with a heart-palpitating, deep darkness. [Dark Magic Affinity].
Although it was just a defective remnant scavenged from Quirrell's corpse, this power was like a highly toxic seed, already deeply rooted in his soul. Whenever he touched his wand, he could feel that violent, destructive pleasure craving annihilation.
"Not perfect enough."
Morn looked at his slender fingers, feeling no self-satisfaction in his heart, only an almost obsessive-compulsive sense of picky, "That purple Talent is incomplete... that power is full of impurities."
It was like a beautiful jigsaw puzzle missing the most crucial piece.
And that sense of absence, rather than the possession itself, tormented and fueled his greed even more intensely.
"Morn?"
The compartment door slid open, and Hermione poked her head in, holding a book, "We're about to arrive. By the way, if you're free this summer, Harry and I were planning..."
"Sorry, Hermione."
Morn turned his head, interrupting the little Witch.
It was dusk, and the last rays of the setting sun shone through the window onto half his face, cutting his originally handsome features into light and shadow, like a split mask.
"I'm afraid I'll be very busy this summer."
Morn smiled, his deep blue eyes flickering with a light that felt unfamiliar to Hermione, "I have things I must search for... some 'fragments' that can complete the puzzle."
Hermione was stunned for a moment, not having time to ask what fragments, when a long whistle from the train drowned out all other sounds. *Whoo—!*
Steam billowed, obscuring the view.
That figure vanished into the white mist, leaving only a whisper dissipating in the wind.
"Goodbye, Hogwarts. Next year, I'll return with an even greater appetite."
Chapter 69: The Gray Cage and the Silent Hunter
As the dilapidated taxi spewed a pungent cloud of black smoke and drove away, Moen White stood before the peeling iron fence of the Wu Family Orphanage.
The sky was a lifeless, leaden gray. The air was thick with the smell of overcooked cabbage, cheap disinfectant, and the coal-smoke dust unique to London.
This suffocating 'Muggle smell' instantly washed away the lingering aroma of pumpkin pastries from the hogwarts express in his nostrils.
Morn lowered his head to glance at the old leather suitcase in his hand, then looked at the somewhat faded old jacket he had deliberately changed into to avoid drawing attention.
'From heaven back to the mire.'
He felt the immense psychological disparity, his fingers gently stroking the wand handle hidden in the secret pocket of his sleeve.
But he did not draw the wand.
[Absolute Reason] was rapidly reviewing the Ministry of Magic's 'Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery' in his mind.
'The Trace. A wide-area monitoring network based on regional magical fluctuations.' Morn's eyes turned cold. 'It monitors the activity level of magical particles, the ripples of spells. As long as I don't mobilize magic, don't cast those glowing, fiery spells...'
He released his grip on the wand.
In this monitored cage, to avoid giving the Ministry bureaucrats any excuse, he had to adopt a different hunting method... Passing through the weed-choked front yard, Morn did not go directly to see the perpetually drunken Mrs. Cole. Instead, he skillfully turned into a narrow, dead-end alley leading to the dormitory building at the rear.
Just as he reached the deepest part of the shadows, his path ahead was blocked by three tall figures.
It was Billy Stubbs, the orphanage's notorious bully, a head taller than Morn, wearing a grease-stained leather jacket, idly flipping a gleaming switchblade.
'Look who's back?' Billy wore a cruel and stupid grin, slowly advancing with his two cronies. 'Our 'mysterious gentleman'. Heard you were sent to a reform school for especially difficult kids? What, got kicked out?'
Morn stopped, gently placing his suitcase on the moss-covered ground.
'Move aside, Billy.'
His voice was unnervingly calm, without a ripple, as if speaking to a piece of trash blocking the way.
'Oh, got some nerve now.' Billy was infuriated by this dismissive attitude. He lunged forward abruptly, his switchblade tracing a threatening arc in the dim light, aimed straight at the tip of Morn's nose. 'Leave the suitcase. Empty every penny from your pockets. Maybe I'll consider not adding a scar to your face.'
The air was thick with the smell of rust and the sour stench of unwashed bodies.
Morn sighed.
[Talent Activated: Nerve Swiftness (blue).]
[Talent Activated: Omni-Perception (blue).]
[Warning: magic emission prohibited. Switching to pure physical drive mode.]
The world slowed down in that instant.
In Morn's pupils, which had contracted to pinpoints, Billy's vicious knife swing appeared as slow as an underwater slow-motion replay.
Infrared vision instantly stripped away the other's flesh and skin, clearly marking the joint connection point at the wrist, the fragile cartilage tissue, and the violently pulsing carotid artery.
No wand. No incantation.
Morn merely tilted his head slightly.
The blade passed by his cheek, a mere millimeter away, not even severing a stray hair by his ear.
The next second, Morn moved.
No longer the scrawny orphan, but a beast of some kind wearing human skin.
His left hand shot out like a striking snake, precisely seizing the wrist of Billy's knife-wielding hand.
No magical enhancement was used, relying solely on the pure gripping strength gained from consuming magical creature flesh over the past year.
*Crack.* A crisp, teeth-grating sound of bone breaking echoed in the dead-end alley.
'Ah—!'
Billy's scream was just leaving his throat when it was forcibly stifled by a cold hand.
While breaking his wrist, Morn's right knee had already slammed into Billy's stomach like a pile driver.
*Thud!* It was a blow powerful enough to cause internal organ spasms. Billy's whole body curled into a shrimp-like shape, his eyes bulging, stomach acid mixed with last night's meal spewing out. He couldn't even hold his knife anymore; it clattered to the ground.
The two remaining cronies hadn't yet processed what happened when they saw their leader collapse on the ground like a pile of mud, twitching.
Morn raised his head. His deep blue eyes held no emotion, only a terrifying, inhuman indifference.
'Still want the suitcase?'
Morn picked up the switchblade from the ground, his fingers nimbly spinning it in a flourish ten times more fluid and professional than Billy's earlier display.
The two cronies looked as if they'd seen a ghost, their legs trembling as they scrambled backward.
In their instinctive perception, the figure standing before them wasn't the formerly quiet Morn at all, but a monster that had just finished a meal and was wiping its mouth.
'Scram.'
Morn whispered softly.
The two felt as if granted amnesty. They didn't even dare help the still-retching Billy on the ground, screaming as they fled the dead-end alley...
Ten minutes later, Morn returned to his own single room, only a few square meters in size.
It remained exactly as he had left it a year ago: a rusty iron-framed bed, a wooden table missing a leg, peeling wallpaper revealing moldy plaster beneath.
He wasn't in a hurry to unpack.
Morn stood by the window, quietly waiting for five minutes.
The sky outside was empty. No owls, no Howlers, no warnings from the Ministry of Magic.
'As expected.'
A satisfied curve appeared at the corner of Morn's mouth. 'Physical strength, neural reaction speed, sensory acuity... These belong to the realm of biological instinct. The Trace cannot monitor them.'
This meant that as long as he didn't shoot beams of light, he was the absolute predator in this city.
Confirming his safety, Morn turned and activated the X-ray vision mode of [Omni-Perception].
His gaze penetrated the floor of the neighboring room—Billy's room—and locked onto a loose floorboard under the bed.
There, hidden, was a rusty biscuit tin, stuffed with crumpled pounds, coins, and even a few stolen gold watches and rings.
'Since you welcomed me so warmly, it's only reasonable to collect an 'admission fee'.'
Morn left his room, slipped into the next one like a ghost, and swept the tin clean.
Back in his room, he dumped the pile of pounds and miscellaneous items onto the table.
About two hundred pounds, plus the gold trinkets, was enough to exchange for a considerable sum of Galleons at the Leaky Cauldron.
Morn picked up a fifty-pound note, holding it up to the dim light.
'Not much, but barely enough as seed money for Knockturn Alley.'
His gaze shifted to the pitch-black night outside the window, towards London's East End, also the entrance to the dark backside of Diagon Alley.
Summer vacation had just begun, and that crucial black diary should currently be lying in some study of Malfoy Manor, awaiting its destined circulation.
'Wait for me, Senior Tom.'
Morn stabbed the confiscated switchblade into the desktop, the blade sinking deep into the wood.
'I will find every piece of you.'
Chapter 70: Letters of Light and Black Gold
A brown Scops Owl struggled through the heavy morning coal smog of London, its beak gently tapping on the dust-covered glass window on the second floor of the Wu Family Orphanage.
Tap, tap, tap.
Moen White sat before a wooden table missing one leg, staring blankly at the switchblade he had confiscated the previous night.
Hearing the sound, he showed no surprise, only tilting his head slightly as he opened the window to let the exhausted messenger in.
After dropping off a thick parchment envelope, the owl didn't even wait for Morn to give it some water before flapping its wings and fleeing this oppressive place, which was devoid of any magical aura, as if for its life.
On the envelope was Hermione Granger's signature handwriting, as neat as if it were printed.
Morn opened the envelope. A faint scent of lavender and ink wafted from between the pages, completely out of place in this room filled with the smell of mold and disinfectant.
"Dear Morn: I hope this letter finds you well. I've been thinking about what you said on the train... about 'fragments' and'searching.' Harry and Ron think you just want to find some rare Potion ingredients, but I always feel like there's something wrong with your eyes. Although I shouldn't interfere in your private affairs, using magic outside of school is very dangerous (refer to Article 3 of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery). If you run into any trouble or need to look up information, please be sure to tell me. Additionally, I've enclosed a box of sugar-free mints recommended by my parents' dental clinic; they're very helpful for staying refreshed..."
Morn read slowly, his fingertips gently stroking the line of anxious handwriting.
"Truly an overly perceptive little Witch."
He commented in his mind, his tone carrying a hint of imperceptible complexity. This was an invitation from the 'World of Light'—warm, yet blinding.
He set the letter down, his gaze falling back onto the cold, glinting switchblade on the table.
This was the trophy he had used yesterday to break that bully's wrist, a sharp blade that would be considered a lethal weapon in a Muggle street fight.
But at this moment, Morn looked at it as if looking at a worthless piece of scrap metal.
"Too primitive."
Morn shook his head, a flash of contempt in his eyes.
For a creature evolving toward a higher dimension, relying on such an inferior piece of metal was simply an insult.
True weapons should be the toxins flowing through one's veins, the runes engraved upon one's bones, and the laws that could be triggered with a mere breath.
Clang.
With a casual wave of his hand, the switchblade traced a parabola through the air and landed precisely in the tin trash can in the corner with a dull thud.
It was the echo of his complete farewell to low-level violence.
Morn picked up a quill, pulled over a piece of parchment, and hastily scribbled a line: "Everything is fine, don't worry. Just going to expand my specimen collection. Have a nice holiday."
After tying the reply and watching the shadow representing a 'normal life' disappear into the horizon, Morn stood up and drew the curtains.
The room instantly fell into darkness.
"The light is outside the window," he said, donning a hooded black traveling cloak, a cold arc curling at the corner of his mouth, "while I am going underground."
...The backyard of the Leaky Cauldron.
As the specific brick above the trash bin moved, the archway leading to the magical world rumbled open.
The bustling Diagon Alley unfolded before him, but Morn did not linger on that sun-drenched cobblestone street. Like a drop of ink merging into the sea, he skillfully turned and slipped into the dark, damp, and rot-scented side path—
Knockturn Alley.
The sunlight here seemed filtered through a filthy lens; the air was thick with the smell of dead rats, aged Potions, and an unsettling scent of blood.
Passersby were all wrapped in thick cloaks, their gazes evasive and fierce.
Morn took a deep breath.
[Talent Feedback: Dark Magic Affinity (Purple)] The Dark Arts magnetic field that made ordinary Wizards feel nauseous and oppressed felt as fresh as pure oxygen to him.
The magic particles inside him began to dance joyfully, and even that fragmented Talent vibrated slightly, as if it had returned to its mother's womb.
He pulled his hood lower and activated the blur mode of the [Phantom Force Field], making him look like a blurred, formidable adult Dark Wizard as he walked straight toward the shop hanging the 'Borgin and Burkes' sign.
He pushed the door and entered.
Ding-ling—the bell on the door let out a hoarse low ring.
The shop was dark and cramped, with glass cases displaying shrunken heads, rusty execution tools, and several strings of opal necklaces that looked like they could kill.
Behind the counter, a hunchbacked Mr. Borgin with slicked-back greasy hair was sizing Morn up with a gaze that seemed to weigh a person's very bones.
"If I were you, I wouldn't touch that," Borgin's slimy voice rang out, like a venomous snake crawling. "That's the hand of glory; it only gives light to thieves and murderers."
Morn ignored his probing and walked straight to the counter, pulling a heavy cloth bag from his robes and dumping its contents onto the scratched wooden surface with a clatter.
A dozen gold watches, several rings set with gemstones, and a messy pile of British Pounds.
"I don't take Muggle trash." Borgin glanced at them, a look of disdain on his face as he tried to drive the price into the floor. "The quality of the gold is too poor, and I'd have to go through the trouble of exchanging it at Gringotts... Ten Galleons, no more."
This was a typical fraudulent offer.
Even if this gold were melted down by weight, it would be worth at least fifty Galleons. Borgin clearly saw that Morn was a seemingly young new face and intended to swindle him.
Morn didn't speak.
He slowly removed his black leather gloves, revealing pale, slender fingers which he pressed lightly onto the gold watches.
[Talent Release: Dark Magic Affinity (Pressure Mode).]
Boom!
An invisible, bone-chilling aura suddenly erupted with Morn as the center.
It wasn't the frantic murderous intent of an ordinary Dark Wizard, but a more ancient, purer high-level suppression—the scent of an apex predator originating from the soul fragment of Lord Voldemort.
The temperature in the shop instantly dropped to the freezing point.
The glass of the counter let out an overburdened creak, and the greasy smile on Mr. Borgin's face froze.
He looked in terror at the seemingly ordinary cloaked figure before him, feeling as if he were being stared down by a massive Basilisk at his throat, making even breathing difficult.
"I think your eyes might be failing you, Mr. Borgin."
Morn's voice remained soft, but to Borgin, it sounded like the whisper of the Grim Reaper. Those deep, dark blue eyes peered through the shadows of the hood, locking onto the shopkeeper's soul.
"Look more closely. Is the 'value' of these things really only ten Galleons?"
Borgin swallowed hard, cold sweat instantly soaking his back.
As an old fox who had spent years in Knockturn Alley, he was most sensitive to the aura of the Dark Arts.
This level of pressure... was definitely not from an ordinary punk. This person must have a terrifying pure-blood Dark Wizard family behind them, or perhaps they were a... remnant of that fallen Dark Lord.
"Oh... Oh! Of course, of course!" Borgin instantly switched to a humble, fawning expression, hurriedly pulling a heavy bag of gold coins from under the counter. "My mistake! This quality... it's perfect! Sixty... no, eighty Galleons! This is the fairest price!"
Morn retracted his aura, and the temperature in the room rose again.
He reached out and grabbed the coin bag, feeling the wonderful sensation of the gold coins clinking inside.
"That's more like it."
Morn turned toward the door, and as he pushed it open, he glanced back at Borgin, who was wiping away cold sweat.
"Next time, remember not to look at customers with the eyes you use for prey. Sometimes, the identity of hunter and prey is decided in a single thought."
Stepping out of the shop, Morn weighed the coin bag in his hand.
Eighty Galleons.
For a student at Hogwarts, it was a fortune, but for his upcoming 'procurement plan,' it was merely an entry ticket.
He looked up toward the deeper parts of Knockturn Alley, toward a dead end filled with purple mist.
There were stalls there that even Borgin didn't dare to easily set foot in, selling truly contraband biological materials.
"Alright."
Morn licked his somewhat dry lips, a hungry red light flickering in his eyes.
"Funds are in place. Now, it's time to pick my 'ingredients.'"
Chapter 71: The Forbidden Buffet
Morn's leather boots stepped into a pool of murky water accumulated in the cracks of the flagstones, splashing a few drops of phosphorescent green mud.
The deeper he ventured into Knockturn Alley, the more intense the suffocating smell of sulfur, the stench of rotting Potion residue, and a bloody sweet scent—like raw meat fermenting under high heat—became.
The pale purple mist here crawled slowly beneath the low eaves, licking at the ankles of passersby like a living thing.
This was a lawless land, a mass grave for rules.
Morn no longer needed to pretend to be a student shopping as he had in Diagon Alley.
He wrapped his cloak tightly around himself, hands thrust into his pockets, walking between stalls hung with shrunken heads and specimens of poisonous creatures like a ghost patrolling its territory.
His gaze did not linger on the ordinary Dark Arts materials until a wave of heat, scorching enough to nearly ignite the air, caught his attention.
It was a shop with no door, just a large hole carved into the wall.
In the most prominent position on the counter sat a heavy glass jar sealed with multiple magical enchantments.
There was no fire in the jar, but the air was violently distorted by the high temperature, and several snake eggs, glowing red like solidified magma, were vaguely visible.
Ashwinder eggs.
These snakes are born only from magical fires and have a lifespan of only one hour. Their eggs are pure crystals of the fire element; if not used before cooling, they will ignite everything around them.
Morn stopped and stepped into the shop.
Before the shopkeeper, who was wrapped entirely in grey bandages, could even begin his sales pitch, Morn had already reached out a pale hand, his fingertips lightly touching the surface of the scalding glass jar.
"Don't touch that, it'll burn off your—" the shopkeeper's raspy warning was only halfway out.
Deep within Morn's pupils, a blue stream of data cascaded down like a waterfall.
—[Analysis Lock]—
Target: Ashwinder Eggs (Active)
Manifested Talent:
[Heart of Embers (blue)]: [Fire element affinity. Grants blood burning properties, allows manual manipulation of high temperatures.]
Yes/No, Devour.
"Yes."
Morn whispered in his mind.
There was no movement of swallowing, and not even a finger trembled.
Through that thick layer of magical glass, a stream of crimson energy, invisible to the naked eye, was dominantly and forcibly extracted along his fingertips.
It was an indescribable pleasure.
Like drinking a mouthful of boiling magma, the scorching torrent instantly flushed through Morn's blood vessels, causing his cold body temperature to skyrocket.
His heart beat violently, pumping no longer bright red blood, but fire venom with the scent of sulfur.
A mere two seconds.
The eggs in the glass jar, which had been glowing red-hot, rapidly dimmed, finally turning into several grey, dead stones with no magical fluctuations.
The suffocating heat wave around them also vanished, leaving only a hint of residual warmth on the glass surface.
"...skin?" The shopkeeper finally finished the rest of his sentence, staring blankly at Morn's unharmed hand, then at the jar that had suddenly "extinguished." "Wait! How did this..."
"Dead eggs."
Morn withdrew his hand, his tone flat without a hint of emotion, as if the plunder just now had never happened. "They don't even have the value of hatching. This is your shop's treasure?"
Before the shopkeeper could recover from the shock of his "goods suddenly spoiling," Morn had already turned and left the shop.
This method of "feeding" was both discreet and shameless—he plundered the "concept" and "essence," leaving behind only a worthless physical shell... He continued forward.
Morn stopped in front of a Dark Arts pet shop named "Caractacus."
The place was piled with rusty cages containing all sorts of nauseating creatures.
But Morn's gaze bypassed the toads covered in pustules and locked onto a small, sapphire-blue bird locked in a corner.
It was eerily quiet.
Even as the other creatures in the surrounding cages were screaming and crashing about, it remained motionless, without even the sound of feathers rubbing together.
A Mute Bird. This bird makes no sound throughout its life until the moment of its death, when it screams every sound it has ever heard.
Morn stepped forward, ignoring the sign hanging on it that read "Venomous: Do Not Insert Fingers."
He didn't reach inside, but simply pressed his palm against the bars of the iron cage, less than five centimeters away from the bird.
—[Analysis Lock]—
Target: Mute Bird
Manifested Talent:
[Silence Domain (blue)]: [Eliminates acoustic vibrations within a certain range. A prerequisite for non-verbal casting.]
Yes/No, Devour.
"Devour."
Buzz.
A strange sensation of tinnitus instantly enveloped Morn.
The world seemed to have been pressed with a mute button.
The Mute Bird in the cage suddenly twitched, its originally bright blue feathers instantly losing their luster, becoming grey and withered as if it had aged ten years in a second.
Its vocal cord structure, which originally contained the "rules of silence," had now been completely drained, turning it into an ordinary, mute bird.
Morn withdrew his hand, feeling the hint of coolness coming from his throat.
He tried snapping his fingers.
Snap. The sound was crisp.
Then, with a thought, he snapped his fingers again.
This time, the friction of his fingers produced sparks and the air vibrated, but not a single sound was made, as if the sound had been swallowed by some invisible force field.
"A perfect assassination puzzle piece."
Morn narrowed his eyes with satisfaction. With this, combined with the [Heart of Embers] he just acquired, he was a silent arsonist... The final target was in the glass counter of a general store.
It was a sealed wooden box containing several dried insect corpses as vivid as sapphires.
Billywig.
Those stung by this insect experience giddiness followed by uncontrolled levitation. Although they were dried corpses, the toxin rules remaining in their stingers still existed.
Morn followed the same procedure.
He pretended to be a picky buyer, asking the shopkeeper to open the box so he could check the "quality."
The moment his fingertips touched the cold insect corpses.
—[Analysis Lock]—
Target: Billywig (Dried Corpse)
Manifested Talent:
[Gravity Interference (blue, Fragmented)]: [Briefly offsets the effects of gravity. Enables low-altitude hovering or slow falling.]
Yes/No, Devour.
"Devour."
The vivid insect corpses instantly turned to powder and dissipated with the wind.
"Hey! What did you do?!" the shopkeeper roared in anger, reaching out to grab Morn's collar.
Morn did not dodge.
In this instant, although the magic circuits in his body were dormant, the three biological Talents he had just acquired were operating frantically.
[Nerve Swiftness] allowed him to seize the shopkeeper's wrist first. [Heart of Embers] activated instantly.
Sizzle—! No incantation, no wand.
A wave of scorching heat was transmitted directly from Morn's palm to the shopkeeper's skin.
It wasn't ordinary scalding, but a sharp pain as if his blood were being ignited.
"Aaargh!" The shopkeeper screamed and pulled his hand back, looking in horror at the clear, charred palm print on his wrist. He hadn't even seen a flame; it just felt like he had touched a red-hot branding iron.
"Poor quality, they've all weathered away."
Morn brushed the dust off his hands, his deep blue eyes full of mockery. "Sell something fresh next time."
He turned and walked out of the shop, returning to the dark street.
This time, the pleasure of "stocking up" had reached its peak.
No need to spend money, no need for negotiations.
He was the predator at the top of this food chain; wherever he passed, all things were nutrients.
At this moment, the three dark shadows that had been trailing him finally couldn't hold back anymore.
They felt threatened by the "wandless burning" Morn had just displayed, but they also saw the heavy bag of Galleons on Morn—the wealth he had shown in Borgin and Burkes.
Morn didn't look back, but on the radar of [Omni-Perception], those three red dots had already closed in in a fan shape.
"Three adult Wizards... a good whetstone."
A dangerous curve hooked at the corner of Morn's mouth.
He turned his steps, not toward the crowded exit, but straight into a nearby dead-end alley filled with discarded cauldrons and rubbish.
There was no light there.
Just as he wished.
Chapter 72: Burning Blood and the Silent Reaper
Morn stopped in his tracks.
Before him was a high wall covered in slimy moss and unknown fungi; the end of the dead alley was piled with fragments of discarded cauldrons and sour-smelling trash.
This was the appendix of Knockturn Alley, where even the eerie purple mist became stagnant.
He did not turn around, but instead lowered his eyes slightly, watching a rat gnawing on the rotting corpse of a cat at his feet.
In the radar network of [Omni-Perception], those three red dots had already sealed off the alley entrance.
"Nowhere left to run, kid."
Heavy breathing and the sound of fabric rubbing together came from behind him.
A Dark Wizard wearing tattered leather armor with a face full of rough flesh led the way in, the curved wand in his hand pointing directly at the center of Morn's back.
"Hand over that money bag you took out in the shop just now, and that nice-looking cloak of yours... maybe we'll let you crawl out of here."
Morn slowly turned around.
His hood was pulled very low, shadows covering most of his face, revealing only a pale chin and a smile that could even be described as gentle.
"Only three of you?"
He asked softly, his tone carrying a hint of regret that baffled the robbers, "As the first batch of test data, the sample size is a bit small."
"What nonsense is he talking about? Kill him!"
The leading Dark Wizard was clearly impatient, or perhaps he felt some instinctive unease. With a flick of his wrist, a red beam of the Stupefy spell shot out.
Stupefy!
The red light tore through the dim alleyway, heading straight for Morn's face with a piercing whistling sound.
Morn did not draw his wand.
His brain was as calm as a computer running at absolute zero, instantly calculating the spell's trajectory.
[Talent Activated: Gravity Interference (blue) + Nerve Swiftness (blue).]
At the very moment the spell was about to hit, Morn's body defied physical common sense and shifted half a meter to the right.
It felt like a feather being blown away by a sudden change in air current, light and without a Trace of weight. Boom! The red light grazed his shoulder and struck the trash pile behind him, exploding into a cloud of rotting vegetable leaves and dust.
"What?!"
The three Dark Wizards were stunned simultaneously. No wand block, no Protego, purely relying on... positioning?
"First test: Mobility. Pass."
Morn recorded the data indifferently in his mind. Then, he raised his right hand and placed his index finger vertically against his lips in a'shushing' gesture.
[Talent Activated: Silence Domain (blue).]
Buzz—an invisible ripple instantly radiated from Morn as the center, enveloping the entire dead end.
The world was forcibly muted in that second.
The noise of Knockturn Alley in the distance vanished, the sound of the wind vanished, and even the sound of the rat gnawing on bones was completely erased.
The leading Dark Wizard opened his mouth wide and roared something, the veins on his neck bulging, but not a single sound came from his throat.
That terrifying sense of dead silence instantly shattered his psychological defenses, as if he had been sealed in a coffin in the deep sea.
"Now, for the second item."
Morn lowered his hand, and sparks seemed to gather in the depths of his pupils.
He could clearly feel that after consuming the Ashwinder Egg, what flowed in his veins was no longer warm blood, but a scorching, sulfur-scented liquid energy.
[Talent Activated: Heart of Embers (blue).]
There was no incantation wind-up.
Morn simply spread his five fingers toward the void in front of him.
Whoosh! A burst of orange-red flame erupted from his palm without warning.
This was not magical fire, but biological fire similar to dragon breath that he converted by consuming physical strength.
The high temperature instantly evaporated the moisture in the alleyway, and the white steam mixed with the intense fire, turning into a ferocious fire snake that instantly swallowed the leader standing at the front.
But he did not scream.
Because [Silence Domain] was still in effect.
It was an extremely absurd and terrifying scene: a living person struggling wildly in the fire, rolling, opening his mouth wide and roaring, but without making even the slightest sound. It was like a silent film being performed, with only the visual impact of fire consuming cloth and flesh, and no auditory feedback.
The remaining two accomplices completely collapsed.
Silent fire, silent slaughter.
This exceeded their understanding of a 'Wizard Duel'. This wasn't magic at all; this was a monster's predation!
They turned to flee, but their legs were so weak they couldn't even take a step.
Morn did not give them the chance.
He pushed off with his toes, and [Gravity Interference] was activated again. He glided across the five-meter distance silently like a giant bat, instantly appearing behind the two.
Both of his hands reached out simultaneously, his palms having turned bright red, like glowing branding irons.
With a double-handed strike, he pressed them accurately onto the back of the two Dark Wizards' necks.
Sizzle—!
The smell of scorched flesh immediately permeated the air; it was a devastating blow more direct than any Dark Arts.
The high temperature instantly severed their nerve transmissions. The two didn't even make a movement to struggle before their eyes rolled back and they collapsed limply to the ground like two sacks of potatoes.
Morn let go.
The three Dark Wizards lay on the ground; one was still burning silently. Morn waved his hand to withdraw the flames, leaving him with his life, while the other two were in a deep coma.
[Battle Ended.]
[Time Elapsed: 12 seconds.]
[Wand Usage: 0.]
[Trace Trigger Risk: 0%.]
Morn stood in the center of the alley, looking at his hands.
His originally pale skin showed a translucent slight redness due to the use of fire elemental abilities, and the blood vessels were clearly visible under the skin, like flowing lava.
He took a deep breath, his lungs acting like bellows to compress the surrounding heat back into his body. That burning sensation gradually faded, and his skin returned to its original cold white.
"So this is... how it feels to be a humanoid wand."
Morn clenched his fists, feeling the several distinct yet perfectly coexisting powers within his body.
No need for incantations, no need for waving a wand, no need to worry about being disarmed.
He himself was the fire, the gravity, and the silence.
He walked to the leader who was burned half-dead, bent down, and pulled out the money bag that originally belonged to him from the scorched leather armor, taking the other's money bag along with it.
"Consider it tuition."
Morn said softly. As he withdrew the [Silence Domain], the noise from outside the alley entrance flooded back into his ears, and the unlucky fellow's weak groans could finally be heard.
Morn did not kill them.
In Knockturn Alley, letting them live with the fear of having 'encountered a wandless casting monster' had more propagation value than killing them.
He straightened his slightly messy cloak, stepped over the bodies on the ground, and walked out of the dead end as if nothing had happened.
In the darkness behind him, only three broken men remained—men who were once arrogant but were now scared out of their wits.
On this day, in the shadows of Knockturn Alley, a new urban legend was born.