Ch: 118-126
Chapter 118: The Master of Forgetting and the Train to Azkaban
The sunlight in the Hospital Wing was bright enough to be somewhat piercing, but by Gilderoy Lockhart's bedside, the atmosphere was eerily quiet.
The once-popular bestselling author of the wizarding world was now sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing a straitjacket to prevent self-harm. He clutched a peacock quill, giggling incessantly at the empty air, a thin trail of crystal-clear drool hanging from the corner of his mouth.
"Hello? Are you here for an autograph?"
Seeing Morn walk in, Lockhart's unfocused eyes briefly sharpened, revealing those signature white teeth—though they now appeared utterly hollow. "Even though I don't remember who I am... I feel like I'm quite famous. Here, do you want one too?"
Moen White stood by the bed, looking at this "Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor" who had been completely reduced to a useless shell.
Madam Pomfrey was busy at the medicine cabinet in the distance; no one else was paying attention.
"No thank you, Professor."
Morn smiled and reached out, gently grasping Lockhart's trembling hand. "I'm just here to take back... something you don't deserve to possess. Just in case you suddenly remember one day and continue to plague those poor witches."
"What? Take what?" Lockhart blinked blankly, trying to stuff the peacock quill into his ear. "I don't remember having..."
Morn didn't answer. He simply stared quietly at the giggling man, countless precise streams of data instantly flowing through his deep blue pupils.
Hum—
A translucent system panel expanded across his retina, dissecting Lockhart's hollow soul structure with perfect clarity:
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: Gilderoy Lockhart (Former Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor / Bestselling Author)
Status: Total Memory Loss / Minor Soul Damage
Manifested Talents:
[Memory Weaver (Purple)]: Possesses grandmaster-level attainment in the field of the "Memory Charm." Can not only violently delete memories but also meticulously modify and fabricate false memories like writing a script, even reshaping a target's personality perception through logical loops.
[Deceptive Phantom (blue · Broken)]: Possesses highly provocative verbal Talent and personal charisma. Skilled at using lies to construct a glorious image. (Note: Due to the host's current state of dementia, this Talent cannot be activated.)
[Magic Idiot (Gray · Negative)]: Aside from Memory Charms, mastery over all other magic is lower than the average Hogwarts second-year level... "Truly an extreme 'genius'."
Morn looked at the line flashing with purple light—[Memory Weaver]—a mocking curve touching the corner of his mouth.
"Aside from this single scalpel, everything else about you is trash. But this blade... is indeed sharp enough to be tempting."
Without any hesitation, his consciousness locked directly onto that purple entry.
"Plunder confirmed."
Morn's fingers tightened slightly.
Under Lockhart's terrified gaze, a cluster of misty, silver-purple brilliance was forcibly extracted from the depths of his soul. Within that glow, countless forgotten faces seemed to flicker—the silent screams of the victims whose lives Lockhart had stolen.
"Mmm... mmph!"
Lockhart wanted to scream, but the sound was choked in his throat. As that purple glow left his body, the last remaining trace of "human spirit" in his eyes rapidly dimmed, turning him into a complete husk that could only breathe and giggle.
[System Prompt: Plunder Successful]
[Obtained Talent: Memory Weaver (Purple)]
[Detected that the host possesses the homologous higher-tier Talent 'Dark Lord Candidate'... automatic Fusion and completion initiated.]
Morn let go, allowing Lockhart to slump onto the pillow like a pile of mud.
He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands elegantly, as if he had just touched a dust-covered antique.
"Goodnight, Mr. Lockhart. This time, you truly won't remember anything."
...The next day, on the hogwarts express.
The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks was monotonous and hypnotic. The fields outside the window retreated rapidly, looking exceptionally lazy in the summer afternoon.
He looked down and stroked the silver "P" badge on his chest, the meaningful look Dumbledore had given him in the Headmaster's office before leaving school surfacing in his mind.
"Normally, Hogwarts does not grant third-year children this kind of power, Mr. White."
The old Headmaster pushed the badge across the desk, sharp eyes glinting behind half-moon spectacles. "But given that you have essentially 'taken over' the order of Ravenclaw, and considering the specific darkness we may face in the coming year... Professor Flitwick and I agree that rather than letting you act in the shadows, it is better to grant you a legal scepter in exchange for your—assistance—when the storm arrives."
"A wise trade, Professor." Morn had simply smiled faintly and pocketed the badge. "Rather than 'breaking the rules,' this is more like 'recognizing reality'."
Morn occupied a compartment alone (a privilege of being a Prefect, and a reflection of the other students' awe of him). He leaned back against the velvet seat, holding a glass of chilled pumpkin juice, his gaze focused on the system panel in the void.
After the baptism of the battle in the Chamber of Secrets, his data had been completely refreshed.
[Character Status Panel: Moen White]
Current Level: Hogwarts Second-Year Graduate / Legendary Reserve. Race: Human (Wizard · Soul Ascendant). soul strength: 3.15 (Evaluation: Prototype of an Immortal Species. Your soul density has completely surpassed human limits; mundane rules are no longer your shackles.)
[Achievement Tracking]: Blood of Legend: Progress 2 / 5
[Talent Slots (4/4) · Current Configuration]:
Slot 1: [Eye of Truth · Calamity Form (Purple · Mutated)]
Description: An advanced form fused with the [Basilisk's Concept of Instant Death]. In addition to the original [Omniscient Analysis], it adds [Calamity Gaze]: can apply mental petrification and thought freeze to lower-dimensional life forms within sight.
Slot 2: [Dark Lord Candidate (Purple · Perfected)]
Description: The completed version of the original [Dark Lord Candidate (Incomplete)].
Fusion Materials: Lord Voldemort Soul Fragment + Lockhart's [Memory Weaver].
Effect: Possesses top-tier Dark Magic Affinity, massive magic reserves, [Parseltongue] authority, and master-level [Memory Manipulation] abilities. You now possess all the hardware requirements to become the third-generation Dark Lord.
Slot 3: [Void Body (blue Limit)]
Description: A composite physique possessing [Invisibility], [Penetration], and [Troll-level Defense].
Note: Potential exhausted; it is recommended to find high-tier spatial or dimensional materials for ascension as soon as possible.
Slot 4: [Source of Calamity (blue Limit)]
Description: An extremely dangerous energy radiation source. Can manipulate [Highly Corrosive Acid], [Fiendfyre Fledgling], and [Life Plunder].
Note: The ultimate in destructive power, but lacks control.
"Dark Lord Candidate... finally completed."
Morn looked at the description of Slot II, a satisfied curve touching the corner of his mouth.
Although Lockhart's memory Talent was only auxiliary, for a "chess player" dedicated to manipulation from behind the scenes, it was more important than any offensive magic.
At that moment, there was a knock on the compartment door.
Hermione Granger poked her head in, followed by Ron and Harry, who was still eating a chocolate frog.
"Morn, we're going to start playing Exploding Snap. Do you want to join us?"
"No thanks."
"Okay."
"Yeah."
Ron felt a bit uneasy under Morn's gaze and subconsciously covered Scabbers in his pocket. "What's wrong? Is Scabbers sick?"
"No, he looks very healthy." Morn let out a light laugh and said meaningfully, "One could even say he's lived for far too long."
The train gave a long whistle as it pulled into the mist of London... Evening, London, Wu Family Orphanage.
This gloomy gray building still stood in the corner of the slums like a stubborn scar.
More paint had peeled off the iron fence, and the courtyard was filled with the smell of boiled cabbage and mold.
Morn carried his suitcase and stood before that familiar black gate.
This was Tom Riddle's starting point, and it was his as well. But the difference was that Tom learned hatred here, while he learned how to plunder.
He pushed the door open, ignoring the sharp-tongued administrator Mrs. Cole—after all, a silent Confundo could turn her into the most obedient servant.
He walked straight to the top floor and arrived at his own small but independent room.
A heavy rain began to fall outside, raindrops clattering against the windowpane.
Morn placed his suitcase on the rusty iron bed frame and turned to look at a copy of today's The Daily Prophet hanging on the wall.
On the front page, Cornelius Fudge was holding Ginny Weasley's hand, his face full of hypocritical relief.
"Peace... is always so brief."
Morn walked to the window, watching the pitch-black curtain of rain outside, the dark gold light in his pupils flickering slightly.
He was waiting.
Waiting for the man who had been wronged for twelve years to escape from prison, waiting for those Dementors that feed on despair to move into Hogwarts.
"The Dou E of Azkaban is about to be released."
Morn whispered softly, his finger drawing a black mark on the fogged-up glass that symbolized death.
Chapter 119: The Caged Bird and the Web that Deceives the World
The torrential rain was like countless whips, frantically lashing against the thin glass window on the top floor of the Wu Family Orphanage.
The rusted window frame groaned in the wind, a sound that set one's teeth on edge, as if it would be torn apart along with this decaying building at any second.
Moen White stood barefoot on the cold concrete floor, his yew wand spinning gently between his fingertips.
The air was thick with the musty scent of damp old carpets, as well as that unique earthy smell, a mixture of dust and metal, brought by the rain.
"Lumos." The spell rolled on the tip of his tongue, only to be forced back down.
He couldn't say it out loud.
His gaze swept over his right arm like a scalpel.
In the eyes of an ordinary person, there was only pale skin and faint blue veins, but within the vision of the [Eye of Truth · Calamity Form], threads emitting a nauseating brassy luster were tightly coiled around his magic circuits.
The Trace.
A method the Ministry of Magic used to monitor underage Wizards.
It was like a crude yet sensitive alarm; as long as any form of resonance occurred within his internal magic, this thing would immediately, like a startled screaming chicken, send a signal to the Improper Use of Magic Office miles away.
"Truly crude craftsmanship."
Morn commented coldly in his mind.
Although this magical mark had a wide coverage, its structure was as loose as a fishing net full of holes.
'If I were Riddle, I would simply cut it off.'
The purple soul fragment that had just undergone Fusion whispered disdainfully from the depths of his consciousness.
'Kill the caster, or use the Dark Arts to corrode the mark.'
'That would only attract Aurors.' Morn immediately rejected the violent proposal. 'What I need now is invisibility, not war.'
He slowly closed his eyes and began to mobilize another power dormant within his body.
[Void Body (blue Limit)]
There was no wave of a wand, nor the chanting of an incantation.
A deep, cold, black mist that seemed capable of swallowing light seeped from Morn's pores.
That was no ordinary smoke, but highly compressed spatial shadows.
Morn controlled these shadows, letting them act like a layer of flowing asphalt, adhering tightly to the surface of his skin and covering that layer of brassy Trace.
Shield. Isolate. Deceive.
He could clearly feel that the stinging sensation of being constantly monitored was weakening.
The power of the void was like a perfect Faraday cage, completely locking the magic fluctuations within his body, preventing even the slightest signal from leaking out.
"Let's try it."
Morn opened his eyes, the dark gold serrated patterns on the outer ring of his pupils suddenly contracting.
"Scourgify." He waved his wand at a pile of moldy old newspapers in the corner of the room.
He didn't chant the spell aloud; it was merely the guidance of his will.
An invisible ripple swept across, and the pile of dust-covered and moldy newspapers instantly became clean, as if they had just come out of a printing press.
Morn held his breath, maintaining the wrap of the "Void Veil" while staring intently at the Trace on his arm.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
The layer of brassy threads did not react at all, remaining quietly in a dormant state. It was completely unaware that a pulse of magic had just penetrated its blockade and acted upon the real world.
"It worked."
A cold arc curled at the corner of Morn's mouth.
This technique called [Void Veil], although it could currently only cover himself, its principle was universal—cutting off the sensing connection between magic and external rules.
'If I use this veil in reverse...' A dangerous thought flashed through his mind.
'By enshrouding an enemy with it, cutting off their connection to the external magic web, and even blocking their wand's signal transmission... it would no longer be a defense, but a mobile [Magic-Forbidden Zone].'
This was worth studying in depth.
But for now, he had more urgent things to do.
The power suppressed for an entire school term craved release on this storm-wracked night.
Morn walked to the window and pushed open the rickety frame.
The gale, carrying icy rain, lashed against his face, instantly soaking his pajamas.
But he didn't use magic to block the rain; instead, he took a deep breath of this cold, damp air filled with the scent of freedom.
In Lord Voldemort's vast library of memories, there was a technique that all Wizards dreamed of, a hallmark of the Dark Lord's superiority over all living beings—[Flight without a broomstick].
'Gravity is but a chain for mortals.' Morn recalled that memory construction regarding fluid magicdynamics. He didn't need to turn into a cloud of black smoke like Riddle; he had a better medium.
[Void Body · Gravity Stripping]
He took a step forward.
This step did not land on the floor, but rather into the void.
As if stepping onto an invisible stair, Morn's body hovered steadily in the rainy night outside the window, forty feet above the ground.
Below him were the dim streetlights and muddy streets of the London slums, with the blurry lights of the city in the distance.
The rain slid away automatically three inches from his body, repelled to either side by a void force field. Morn hovered in mid-air, like a ghost that had just descended upon the mortal world, overlooking the city sleeping in the torrential rain.
There were no constraints of a broomstick, no need to grip any handle.
This all-encompassing, spontaneous sense of freedom made the magic within his body cheer in delight.
"Is this the world as that man saw it?"
Morn spread his arms, his body turning and rising as flexibly as a fish in the air, instantly charging into the clouds.
He shuttled through the thunderous clouds, the dazzling lightning reflected in his deep blue eyes.
"It is indeed... quite addictive."
He whispered to himself, his voice dissipating into the rolling thunder.
Morn suddenly came to a halt, hovering hundreds of feet in the air, letting the gale mess up his soaked black hair.
He slowly turned his head, his eyes flashing with dark gold light as they pierced through layers of rain mist and the murky city lights, casting a precise gaze toward the far south—Surrey, in the direction of Little Whinging.
Although separated by dozens of miles, he certainly couldn't see the specific scene at Number 4, Privet Drive.
But in his mind, he could clearly outline everything happening in that rigid, dull, and perfectly manicured Muggle residence.
At this very moment, the savior of the wizarding world was likely enduring Uncle Vernon's roars and Cousin Dudley's ridicule like a House-elf, accumulating a belly full of rage with nowhere to vent.
"Endure it for a bit, Harry."
Morn whispered softly toward that direction across the pitch-black rainy night, a hint of mischievous anticipation curling at the corner of his mouth.
"In a few days, your most hated Aunt Marge is coming to visit. At that time... remember not to blow the roof off too completely."
After all, that impending chaos was also an indispensable part of his plan.
Since the Trace was now ineffective, this long summer break would be his best hunting ground.
Chapter 120: Memory Weaver and the Dream of Reality
The year-round scent of overcooked cabbage mixed with the pungent odor of cheap disinfectant at the Wu Family Orphanage wafted up the mottled stair railing to the top floor, like an invisible hand choking one's breath.
Moen White leaned in the shadows of the stairwell corner, his fingertips gently stroking the rough grain of his Yew Wand.
His gaze pierced through the dust-filled air, coldly casting down toward the first-floor lobby.
There,
the orphanage's matron, Mrs. Cole, was brandishing a massive iron ladle and roaring at a thin, small boy.
Her spittle flew in the sunlight streaming through the dirty glass, her face—slightly bloated from years of alcoholism—flushing the color of pig liver.
"Stealing food? You uneducated little brat! As long as I'm the one in charge here, don't even think about pulling any tricks under my nose!"
The shrill screams scraped against Morn's eardrums like a rusty saw blade.
But he didn't feel annoyed; instead, he narrowed his eyes slightly, the ring of dark gold serrated patterns deep within his pupils beginning to rotate slowly.
'A perfect experimental subject,' a voice in his mind spoke, rational to the point of coldness. 'Weak willpower, emotions on the verge of spiraling out of control, and brain defense mechanisms that are practically zero.'
Morn raised his hand. Without chanting, he simply traced a complex rune in the air.
This wasn't any spell taught at Hogwarts; there wasn't even an identical record of it in Lord Voldemort's memory bank.
It was an inspiration born during countless late nights when he attempted to forcibly stitch Lockhart's [Memory Weaver] with his own [Phantom Force Field].
'What if I don't just deceive the eyes, but deceive the brain?'
Morn's mind began to operate with the precision of a scalpel. 'Illusions are fake, but pain is real. If I plant the memory of "being burned" into your subconscious and let the phantom act it out a tenth of a second later... will your body believe it?'
The experiment began.
An imperceptible glimmer of silver-purple light flashed from the tip of Morn's wand.
[Talent Resonance: Memory Weaver (Purple) + Phantom Force Field (Blue)]
[Self-Created magic Construct: Myriad Manifestations · Activate]
...Downstairs, Mrs. Cole was preparing to slam the iron ladle hard against the boy's head.
Suddenly, her movements froze.
In that instant, the world in her eyes underwent an earth-shattering transformation.
The original dilapidated, dirty wooden floor hadn't disappeared, but in her perception, the gaps between the boards suddenly began to squirm and soften, turning into slick, cold, multicolored venomous snakes. They tangled together, producing not the creak of wood, but hair-raising "hissing" sounds.
"Ah—!"
Mrs. Cole let out a short cry of alarm and instinctively recoiled.
But something even more terrifying happened.
Under Morn's [Memory Weaving], a false perception was driven into her cerebral cortex like a red-hot nail: these weren't hallucinations, they were real. They were highly venomous; one bite would cause necrosis.
"Get away! Get away!"
Mrs. Cole stomped her feet frantically, her iron ladle swinging wildly and hitting the air with a "whooshing" sound.
The boy who had been scolded was terrified, shrinking into the corner as he watched the usually fierce matron dancing like a lunatic against the empty floor.
Standing upstairs, Morn did not stop.
He watched all this indifferently, pressing his finger down slightly to increase the output of magicpower. 'Not enough. The fear isn't deep enough.'
With a slight thought,
in Mrs. Cole's eyes, a black snake as thick as a wrist suddenly lunged, opening its non-existent fangs and biting hard into her bloated calf.
"AAAAHHHHH—!!!"
A shriek so shrill it changed pitch echoed throughout the entire orphanage.
As if struck by high-voltage electricity, Mrs. Cole collapsed to the floor, her body convulsing violently. Her hands gripped her calf tightly, nails digging deep into the flesh; her eyes bulged, and she gasped for air in large gulps, like a dying fish out of water.
"Help... help... poison... it's poisonous..."
She rolled on the ground, foaming at the mouth, her gaze vacant.
Three seconds later, Morn withdrew his wand.
The dark gold light in his eyes faded, and the oppressive magic fluctuations were instantly re-wrapped by the [Void Veil], vanishing without a trace.
Dead silence returned to the lobby.
The floor was still that same old wooden floor; there were no snakes, no swamp. Only Mrs. Cole lay there like a pile of mud, letting out painful moans.
Morn walked slowly down the stairs, his footsteps as light as a black cat's.
The boy huddled in the corner looked at him with awe, as if looking at some unknown deity.
Morn ignored him, walking straight to Mrs. Cole's side and squatting down to examine the "wound" like a rigorous doctor.
On that calf covered in coarse stockings, there were no snake bite marks.
However, that patch of skin displayed a bizarre purple-black bruise, and the surrounding muscles were in a high state of spasm, swollen like a steamed bun.
Even in the center of the bruise, a trace of blood faintly seeped out—the result of capillaries rupturing on their own due to a blood pressure spike caused by extreme terror.
"The brain is convinced it's been poisoned, so it ordered the body to produce a toxic reaction."
Morn reached out a finger and pressed the swollen skin, feeling the violently thumping pulse beneath.
"Physical pathology caused by psychological suggestion... the reverse extreme of the placebo effect."
Mrs. Cole was now semi-conscious. She looked at this orphan she had once beaten and scolded at will, and the fear in her eyes was deeper than when she saw the venomous snakes.
"De... Demon..." She trembled her lips, squeezing broken words from between her teeth.
"No, Madam. I'm just a... psychiatrist."
Morn stood up, looking down at her from above with a smile that was gentle yet sent shivers down one's spine.
He snapped his fingers.
Snap.
A [Memory Charm] precisely covered the previous illusion, leaving behind only the emotional residue of "extreme terror."
"You were just too tired and had some bad hallucinations," Morn said softly, his voice carrying an unquestionable suggestion. "In the future, if you shout at the children again, this 'illness' will recur. Understand?"
Mrs. Cole nodded frantically, tears and snot flowing everywhere, her body shrinking into a ball, not daring to look at Morn again.
Morn turned and walked toward the door.
The moment he pushed open the main door, the cool wind outside, carrying the damp scent of post-rain air, rushed in, dispersing the smell of decay within the orphanage.
[System Log: Self-Created magic 'Myriad Manifestations' · Combat test complete]
[Evaluation: Although unable to cause direct physical damage, the mental destruction effect on weak-willed targets is excellent.]
"Mental destruction..."
Morn adjusted his collar, looking at the broken streetlamp across the street, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly.
"That's enough. Sometimes, letting enemies live in a nightmare is more interesting than killing them."
He looked up toward the chaotic, dirty direction of London's East End, where countless secrets were hidden—the entrance to Knockturn Alley was right there.
Since the weapon had been sharpened, it was time to go and bring back the materials needed to trade for power.
Chapter 121: The Tyrant of Knockturn Alley and Space Materials
A rusty copper bell, nudged by an invisible current of air, let out a muffled, short 'ding' before being swallowed by the thick fog of Knockturn Alley's late night, a fog seemingly mixed with the stench of rotten fish and damp mildew.
Inside Borgin and Burkes Shop, the dim glow of an oil lamp cast flickering, ghostly shadows on the dusty glass counter.
Mr. Borgin, hunched over, was holding a grimy, oily cloth and vigorously polishing a shriveled, withered human hand—the hand of glory.
His greasy slicked-back hair gleamed in the lamplight, and he was muttering complaints about the Ministry of Magic's recent crackdown on Dark Arts items.
...That damned Arthur Weasley, that pure-blood scoundrel... Raids? Ha! If I didn't hide the good stuff, I'd have starved long ago...
Suddenly, an unannounced chill, like a cold snake, crawled up his spine to the back of his head.
The feeling wasn't from a drop in temperature, but the instinctive shiver a creature feels when a higher-tier predator enters its territory.
Borgin abruptly stopped what he was doing, and the hand of glory clattered onto the counter.
He looked up in horror, only to find a tall, thin figure, completely shrouded in a Black trench coat, standing before the counter, he knew not when.
No footsteps.
No breathing.
The person seemed to have simply 'grown' out of the deepest shadow.
"G-good evening?" Borgin's voice trembled slightly. His shrewd eyes darted about, trying to make out the face under the hood, but there was only a profound void. "We're closed, sir. If you wish to buy something..."
Tap. A dark green glass vial, barely two inches tall, was gently placed on the counter, making a crisp sound.
But this sound immediately turned into a hair-raising sizzle.
The stopper didn't seem to be sealed very tightly, or perhaps the liquid inside was too corrosive.
A thin wisp of green smoke overflowed from the bottle's mouth, touching the surface of the two-hundred-year-old oak counter, instantly burning a fingernail-sized charred pit and emitting a strong, suffocating acidic stench.
Borgin's eyes nearly popped out.
Like a vulture scenting blood, he lunged at the counter, completely ignoring the pungent smell, staring intently at the bottle.
"This smell... this purity of magic reaction..."
He tremblingly reached out, wanting to touch it but not daring to, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. "Acromantula venom? No... no! That's not so potent! This is..."
"Basilisk."
A disguised, deep and hoarse voice, devoid of age and possessing an unsettling calm, came from under the hood. "Taken from the core of the venom gland. Even a single drop is enough to turn the foundation of your shabby shop into a pool of pus."
Moen White stood before the counter, his right hand, hidden in his sleeve, gripping his wand. His Eye of Truth, peeking through the gap in his hood, calmly analyzed every micro-expression of the Black market merchant before him.
'Greed accounts for 60%, fear 30%, and 10% calculation.'
Morn analyzed coldly in his mind. 'He's assessing my strength, trying to see if I'm a fat sheep who stole the venom but doesn't know its true value. If I don't show enough fangs, this old man will try to push the price down to a tenth, or even rip me off completely.'
"Basilisk... Merlin's beard..."
Borgin swallowed, his eyes practically overflowing with greed.
But he was an old hand, and he quickly composed himself, putting on the difficult face of a shrewd merchant, rubbing his hands as he spoke:
"It's certainly a rare commodity, sir. But... this thing is too hot to handle. You know, the Ministry of Magichas been cracking down lately, especially with the rumors about the Chamber of Secrets... And this venom is extremely difficult to preserve; if not sold quickly, its potency will..."
"Five hundred Galleons."
Morn cut off his old clichés directly, his voice utterly unwavering. "Or equivalent specific materials. If you can't handle it, I'll go to the Black Widow over there; I'm sure she'd be delighted to use this bottle to concoct a few Potions capable of poisoning Aurors."
With that, Morn extended a hand clad in a dragon hide glove, making a gesture as if to take back the bottle.
"No! Don't be so hasty!"
Borgin immediately pressed down on Morn's hand.
But the moment he touched it, he recoiled sharply, as if scalded.
He looked at Morn in horror.
In that one second, what transmitted through the glove wasn't body temperature, but a sensation of weightlessness and dead silence, as if standing on the edge of a bottomless abyss.
Cold sweat broke out on Borgin's forehead.
He finally realized that the person before him was not some lucky tomb raider, but an extremely dangerous Dark Wizard.
"We'll take it. We'll take it." Borgin wiped his sweat, no longer daring to play tricks. "Five hundred Galleons... it's a bit high, but... alright. Or the'specific materials' you mentioned?"
Morn withdrew his hand, not letting down his guard despite the other party's capitulation. He narrowed his eyes slightly under the hood, the dark golden serrated pattern slowly rotating.
"I want Demiguise fur. Not the scraps for making clothes; I want the most complete, most active fur from the back."
He paused, his voice dropping even lower, carrying an undeniable sense of command:
"And... Void Dust. Don't tell me you don't have it; I know you acquired a batch from Albania last month."
Borgin's face instantly changed.
"Void Dust? That's a contraband among contrabands! If the Improper Use of Magic Office found out I had that, they'd throw me into Azkaban!"
"Azkaban?"
Morn let out a light chuckle, a laugh that sounded particularly harsh in the dim shop.
"Borgin, haven't you read today's newspaper? Even Sirius Black can waltz out of that wretched place... That prison has been leaking like a sieve for a long time."
Hearing the name Black, Borgin trembled all over, instinctively glancing at the shop door, as if the murderer himself stood outside.
"This world is in chaos... truly in chaos..." He muttered nervously, his eyes flickering. "Alright, alright! As long as you don't tell anyone... follow me."
Ten minutes later.
Morn, carrying a Black briefcase enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm, walked out of Borgin and Burkes Shop.
Inside the case was the biggest haul of his trip—enough silver beast fur to make a top-tier invisibility cloak, and a small vial of dust emitting a faint blue glow, as if containing a piece of starry sky.
This was precisely the key catalyst to push his Void Body from "Blue Limit" to "Purple Rank."
The rain in Knockturn Alley grew heavier.
The cold rainwater automatically parted three inches above Morn's head, but he didn't leave immediately.
He stood in the shadows, looking back at the brightly lit shop window. Borgin was frantically applying sealing charms to the vial of venom, a mixture of fear and wild joy on his face.
'Rejoice all you want.' Morn turned and melted into the darkness, his footsteps making no sound on the wet cobblestones. 'Once I complete my evolution, all the resources in this entire Knockturn Alley... will eventually be my private garden.'
He looked up at the faint light in the distance, in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron.
A purple triple-decker bus was parked there.
"Materials are ready."
Morn whispered softly in the rain, his figure vanishing like a ghost around the corner of the alley.
"Next, it's time to meet the escaped 'Godfather.'"
Chapter 122: The Knight Bus and the Black Dog's Gaze
Click.
The sound of the brass latch closing was exceptionally crisp in the empty room, like a signal of some finality.
Moen White picked up the Black suitcase containing the Demiguise fur and void dust, taking one last look around the small room on the top floor of the Wu Family Orphanage.
Rain was still tirelessly washing against the windowpane, making a crackling noise.
Rapid and flurried footsteps came from outside the door; it was Mrs. Cole.
She seemed to want to see if he was really leaving, but her footsteps stopped abruptly three feet from the door.
'She's trembling.'
Morn didn't look back. The peripheral vision of the Eye of Truth pierced through the thin wooden door, clearly outlining the woman's figure cowering in the corner.
Her breathing was rapid, her pupils dilated; clearly, the "Serpent and Swamp" illusion from the Myriad Manifestations two days ago had completely become a nightmare she could never escape for the rest of her life.
'No need for goodbyes. Fear is a more solid chain than gratitude.' Morn withdrew his gaze and pushed the door open directly.
As he passed Mrs. Cole, the bloated woman suddenly buried her head in her knees, letting out a whimper like a frightened hen.
Morn's pace didn't pause for a moment; he swept down the stairs like a gust of wind through a hallway and stepped into the cold, rainy night of London... At the corner of Magnolia Crescent, the streetlights flickered with a dying orange glow.
Morn stood on the wet sidewalk. The rain was repelled by the invisible Void Veil three inches above his trench coat collar, turning into a fine mist.
'To the Leaky Cauldron. But before that, I have to finish this act.' He extended his right hand, wearing dragon hide gloves, and his wand traced a sharp arc in the air.
BANG—!!!
A deafening roar tore through the silence of the rainy night, as if an invisible cannon had fired in the middle of the street.
The air was violently displaced, and immediately after, a bright purple triple-decker bus squeezed out of the void extremely abruptly. Its tires screeched against the wet ground, stopping right in front of Morn. The wipers on the windshield swung frantically, making a squeaking noise.
The door popped open, and Stan Shunpike—the conductor with pimples on his face and wearing a purple uniform—jumped down.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded Witch or Wizard..."
Stan's well-rehearsed opening line suddenly got stuck in his throat.
He looked at the Black-haired boy in front of him—not a drop of rain on him, eyes as calm as a deep, bottomless pool of dead water, radiating a sense of pressure that made him instinctively want to shut up.
"Uh... where to, sir?" Stan swallowed, his attitude instantly becoming respectful, even forgetting to ask for a name.
"London, the Leaky Cauldron." Morn casually tossed a Silver Sickle. The coin traced a silver line in the air, landing precisely in the pocket on Stan's chest.
Morn stepped onto the bus with his suitcase.
There were no seats in the bus; instead, there were several brass bedsteads that looked very uncomfortable.
Candles flickered on brackets, and the air was filled with a strong smell of hot chocolate, wet wool, and incompletely burned gasoline.
In the shadowed corner at the very back of the bus, a boy who looked like a mess was sitting on a bed.
He was wearing old clothes that didn't belong to him and were ridiculously large. His messy Black hair was wet and plastered to his forehead. He was clutching a large white owl cage tightly, looking like a frightened quail.
Harry Potter.
Or rather, the "fugitive" who had just run away from home after blowing up Aunt Marge.
The corner of Morn's mouth twitched imperceptibly.
He didn't walk over directly but sat down on a bed opposite Harry as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
As the driver, Ernie, floored the accelerator, the entire bus let out a roar and shot forward like a purple cannonball.
The beds inside the bus slid backward violently. Harry almost hit his head on the wall, while Morn only slightly adjusted his center of gravity, not even ruffling his clothes.
"Hey, you okay?" Stan grabbed a pillar, trying to ease the awkwardness, then turned to Harry. "Where were we? What did you say your name was?"
Harry looked nervously at Morn sitting opposite him.
He naturally recognized who that was—Ravenclaw's fearsome "Prefect," the genius rumored to be more like a Dark Wizard than a Slytherin, Moen White.
'I can't let him know it's me. If he tells the Ministry of Magic... I'm finished.' This thought flashed through Harry's mind, sending a chill down his spine. He forced down his guilt and stammered a lie:
"My name is... Neville. Neville Longbottom."
The air seemed to freeze for a second.
Morn slowly raised his head, his deep blue eyes crossing the flickering candlelight to pinpoint Harry's face precisely.
"Longbottom?"
Morn's voice was soft and full of amusement, like a cat playing with a mouse under its paws.
He didn't expose the lie, but merely looked Harry up and down with a meaningful gaze, especially at the scar on his forehead that was barely covered by his wet hair.
"Truly surprising. Not seeing you for a summer, your changes... are so great that you're almost unrecognizable."
Morn leaned back against the pillow, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the bed. "If you don't mind, say hello to your 'grandmother' for me. I heard she is... very strict with you."
Cold sweat immediately broke out on Harry.
He could tell that Morn knew. That gaze was like watching a clown's clumsy performance.
"Uh... okay... sure." Harry responded incoherently, burying his head even lower, praying this bus would go faster.
The scenery outside the window turned into a blur of light. Houses, streetlights, and mailboxes were all jumping out of the way frantically.
Suddenly, the driver, Ernie, slammed on the brakes. Screech—! Momentum sent Harry flying, hitting the railing in front of him.
"What happened?" Stan shouted.
"Some old lady crossing the road... what's that?" Ernie squinted into the torrential rain outside the window.
The bus slowed down, gliding slowly past a pitch-Black stretch of street.
Morn turned his head and looked through the rain-streaked bus window at the dark corner of the street.
In the gap between two abandoned houses, in the dead zone where even the streetlights couldn't reach, a pair of glowing eyes was quietly watching the bus.
It was a ridiculously large Black dog.
It was skin and bones, its fur matted into a mess and plastered against its ribs by the rain. But those eyes... those were not the eyes of a beast at all.
[Eye of Truth · Calamity Form (Passive)]
Morn's pupils constricted instantly, and the dark gold patterns on the outer ring trembled slightly.
The curtain of rain in his vision was stripped away, and the Black dog's skin became transparent in his eyes.
He saw the soul huddled beneath that shell.
It was a human soul—extremely weak, with ragged edges, yet burning with a frantic flame.
The soul appeared a desperate grayish-white, covered in the gnawing marks left by the Dementors of Azkaban, like a tattered prison uniform.
Sirius Black.
The Black dog seemed to sense Morn's gaze.
It recoiled suddenly—the instinctive fear of an animal toward a higher-level predator. It tucked its tail and retreated into the depths of the shadows.
'Should I expose him?' Morn's finger lightly touched the wand hidden in his sleeve.
With just one Stupefy, he could capture this so-called "murderer" and exchange him for a large bounty and fame from the Ministry of Magic.
'No. Too cheap.'
That thought stayed for only half a second before being rejected.
'Compared to a bounty, an Animagus wandering around Hogwarts can bring me more chaos. And chaos... is the reason Dementors gather.'
Dementors.
Close relatives of void creatures.
They were the best nourishment for his Void Body's evolution. Without Black as bait, how would the Ministry of Magic send those monsters into the school?
Morn withdrew his gaze, a faint, imperceptible cold smile playing on his lips.
"Just a stray dog," he said softly, his voice calm and devoid of any emotion.
"A stray dog?" Harry also leaned toward the window to take a look, but he only saw a stretch of empty darkness. "I thought it was... something else."
"Perhaps your eyes deceived you, Mr. 'Longbottom'."
Morn picked up the book on space magic again and stopped looking out the window. "Or perhaps it's your conscience acting up. After all, children who run away from home are always prone to seeing monsters."
The bus accelerated again with a deafening roar, carrying the preoccupied savior and the Dark Wizardwho was plotting the future deeper into London.
Chapter 123: The Greedy Hag
Cling.
A blackened bronze bell was struck by the opening door, its sound like the short, mournful cry of a strangled crow, instantly swallowed by the perpetual thick fog of Knockturn Alley, which reeked of rotting sewage and sulfur.
Moen White tightened the collar of his black trench coat, his leather boots stepping onto the greasy, grimy wooden floor of the Kobber and Webber Potion Ingredients shop.
The air inside was worse than outside, permeated by a heavy scent of formaldehyde and the gamy odor of a large desiccated mammal carcass.
Dim oil lamps hung from the moldy ceiling, casting an unsteady halo of light that illuminated the gruesome merchandise on the shelves: jars of murky liquid with floating eyeballs, strings of dried bat carcasses, and the slightly twitching tentacles of an unknown creature nailed to the wall.
Behind the counter, a Hag whose face was covered in toad-like brown tumors stared intently at the doorway with cloudy, yellowed eyes.
She was expertly skinning a large Horned Toad, green visceral residue packed under her black fingernails.
"A lost little lamb?"
The Hag grinned, revealing a mouthful of uneven yellow teeth, her voice hoarse, like sandpaper grinding bone.
Her gaze greedily swept over Morn's young face and the heavy briefcase in his hand, her eyes flashing with undisguised malice. "This isn't where they sell Chocolate Frogs. Run back to Diagon Alley and suckle your mother's teat."
Morn said nothing, walking straight up to the counter, which was covered in knife marks and bloodstains.
'Only she is in the open. But there are two sets of breathing sounds in the shadow of the left shelf. Behind the curtain on the back right, there is one heartbeat.'
The passive perception of the Eye of Truth instantly constructed the threat model within the shop. 'A typical Dark shop setup. Ambush lone fools, then dismantle the bodies and sell them as Potioningredients.'
He raised his hand and slammed the black briefcase, enchanted with the Undetectable Extension Charm, heavily onto the counter. Bang! Dust flew up.
Morn's long fingers rested on the brass latches of the case, tapping them lightly twice.
"I'm not looking for my mother, I'm looking for a buyer."
His voice, filtered through the Void Veil, sounded deep and hollow, like an echo from the bottom of a well. "As long as your Galleons haven't molded, I have the goods to make you crazy."
"Heh… quite the attitude."
The Hag sneered, put down the bloody Horned Toad, and casually wiped her hands on her greasy apron.
A flicker of cunning crossed her cloudy eyes. "Open it. If it's just trash like Unicorn tail hair, I'll dig your eyeballs out and pickle them in wine."
Morn was not provoked; he merely flicked open the latches with a cold look.
As the lid flipped open, an intensely potent magical fluctuation, carrying a strong acidic and highly poisonous aura, instantly rushed out of the case, causing the surrounding murky air to stagnate.
The Hag's previously nonchalant expression instantly froze.
She lunged onto the counter, her ugly face practically pressed against the inside of the case.
Inside the case, twelve dark-green, sealed glass jars were neatly arranged, each sloshing with viscous purple venom.
Next to the venom were stacks of metallic-sheened shell fragments, hard as obsidian.
"Acromantula…"
The Hag gasped, greedily stretching out her withered hand to touch the jars. "This purity… this potency… was this extracted from a freshly dead adult? How did you get so much…"
Snap. Morn's hand instantly slammed the case shut, nearly severing the Hag's fingers.
"Seen enough?"
Morn looked down at her through his hood. In his blue pupils, the outer ring of dark gold serrated patterns was slowly rotating.
"Market price: one hundred Galleons per pint of venom, shells calculated by weight. I want cash, old, non-sequential bills."
The Hag withdrew her hand, the shock in her eyes gradually replaced by a more dangerous look.
She re-examined the young man before her.
Although his face was obscured, his youthful physique and scholarly aura were unmistakable.
'A Hogwarts student. Probably stole his family's stash to sell for cash.' She quickly judged in her mind. 'A fat, naive lamb ripe for the slaughter.'
"The goods are decent."
The Hag straightened up, her initial shock morphing into feigned regret. She began tapping the counter rhythmically with her fingers—a signal to move.
"However, child, the market is bad right now. The Ministry of Magic is cracking down, and highly toxic items like this are hard to move… I can only give you this much at most."
She held up three fingers, like dry twigs. "Thirty Galleons. For everything."
"Thirty?"
Morn chuckled softly, a sound devoid of anger, containing only the mockery of someone who saw through a cheap trick.
"It seems you intend for this transaction to become an 'inheritance transfer.'"
Before his words fully landed, an anomaly occurred.
Whoosh—!
From the shadows behind the left shelf, two drunken Dark Wizard vagrants, armed with rusty daggers and wands, lunged out.
Simultaneously, the heartbeat behind the curtain accelerated instantly, and a red beam of Stupefy shot towards Morn's back from behind.
'Too slow.' Morn didn't even turn his head or draw his wand.
In the slow-motion vision provided by Eye of Truth: Calamity Form, the trajectory of the red light was as clear as a snail crawling.
He merely shifted slightly, and the red light grazed the collar of his trench coat, hitting a glass jar on the counter. Crash! The glass shattered, and the pickled Ghoul eyeball inside rolled out.
"Attack! Don't damage the case!" the Hag shrieked, already grabbing a poisoned boning knife.
Morn stood calmly at the center of the ambush.
He slowly raised his head, and the eyes hidden beneath the hood snapped wide open.
[Talent Ability: Calamity Gaze: Full Power Release]
[Illusion Construction: Dinner in the Silk Web Cave]
Buzz—
The light in the air suddenly warped.
In the vision of the Hag and the three ambushers, the dim shop vanished instantly.
In its place was an endless, massive lair constructed from countless pale white spider threads.
"What? What the devil is this?!"
One vagrant screamed in terror, realizing his legs were immobilized—countless viscous spider threads were emerging from the floorboards, frantically wrapping around his ankles and spreading up his thighs.
"Ah! My face! My face!"
The Hag let out a bloodcurdling shriek.
In her perception, the black-clad youth standing before the counter suddenly disintegrated, transforming into hundreds of fist-sized black spiders.
The spiders emitted a sickening hiss, surging over the counter like a tide, crawling up her arms and neck, covering her entire body.
The hairy sensation, the stinging pain of venomous fangs piercing her skin, felt so real that her brain instantly shut down.
Chapter 124: The Spider's Funeral
"Kneel."
A cold voice seemed to explode directly inside their skulls.
[Void Body · Gravity Crush]
Morn extended his right hand and pressed down on the void.
Crack!
The three Dark Wizards attempting the sneak attack were slammed by an invisible giant hand, their knees instantly pulverized, forcing them to uniformly crash to their knees on the ground, cracking the floor in a spiderweb pattern.
They opened their mouths wide but couldn't make a sound, as the heavy air pressure had squeezed the last bit of air from their lungs.
The illusion disappeared.
The shop was still the same dilapidated shop.
But the Hag was already slumped behind the counter, the Boning Knife in her hand dropped onto the floor.
Her entire body trembled violently, a smell of urine wafted from her crotch, and she stared blankly at Morn, who was still standing quietly.
In her eyes, this young man was no longer Easy Prey.
But a monster from the Abyss, wearing human skin.
"I was very dissatisfied with the previous offer."
Morn maintained his previous posture, gently tapping the box filled with treasures, his tone as calm as if discussing the weather.
"Now, I think four hundred Galleons is a reasonable figure. What do you say, madam?"
"F-four hundred..."
The Hag stammered, the chattering of her teeth eerily clear in the dead silence of the shop.
She didn't dare to haggle, scrambling to drag a greasy iron box from beneath the counter and pouring out all the Galleons inside, not even daring to hold back a few Silver Sickles.
"It's... it's all here... Lord... don't kill me... don't let them come over..." she pleaded incoherently, clearly not having recovered from the previous illusion of "being Bitten by Ten Thousand Spiders."
Morn did not count the pile of gold coins.
The Eye of Truth swept over it; the amount was approximately four hundred and fifty Galleons.
He waved his wand, and the gold coins automatically flew into his pocket.
"The extra fifty Galleons is for their medical expenses."
Morn pointed at the three unfortunate Souls on the ground who had fainted from their pulverized knees, a cruel curve forming at the corner of his mouth.
He picked up the half-empty box and turned to walk towards the door.
When he pushed the door open, the thick fog outside surged in.
Morn stopped, his back to the still-shaking Hag, and said softly:
"This transaction was pleasant. I hope these pieces of trash have been disposed of by the next time I visit. After all... I don't like seeing flies when I eat."
Ding-a-ling. The Copper Bell rang again.
Morn's figure vanished into the mist of Knockturn Alley, leaving behind only the smell of blood and a bone-deep terror throughout the room.
When that long-lost ray of sunlight pierced the thick gloom at the entrance of Knockturn Alley and fell upon the collar of Moen White's black Trench Coat, he instinctively narrowed his eyes.
The suffocating stench and bloodiness belonging to the underground world quickly faded, replaced by the characteristic lively atmosphere of Diagon Alley: the aroma of roasted nuts wafting from Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, the metallic smell of brass being polished in the Cauldron Shop, and the noisy clamor of the bustling crowd.
Morn stopped, standing on the boundary between light and darkness.
He was not in a hurry to blend into the crowd; instead, he raised his gloved right hand and methodically straightened the cuff that had become slightly wrinkled from the one-sided crushing earlier.
'Switching mode.' With this small movement, the chilling Killing Intent that had been wrapped around him, seemingly able to freeze the air, was smoothly retracted into his body by the Void Veil.
In that instant, he transformed from a tyrant who had just blackmailed a Hag in the Black Market, back into the elegant, if slightly aloof, Hogwarts top student.
"...That beast is crazy! It wants to kill Scabbers!"
"Ron! It's just a cat! That's its instinct!"
A familiar sound of quarreling came from the left side of the street, mixed with the hysterical screams of various animals.
Morn turned his head, his gaze sweeping past several first-year students eating ice cream, locking onto the shop bearing the sign "Magical Menagerie."
The shop windows were vibrating with the noise inside.
"Weasley and Granger..."
A playful curve appeared at the corner of Morn's mouth. 'And that... priceless rat.'
He quickened his pace, heading toward the center of the chaos. Since he had already emerged from Knockturn Alley, it was time to check on how the actors of the Main Plot were preparing... Inside the Magical Menagerie, it currently resembled a battlefield of the Third Wizarding War.
The air was filled with a strong smell of sawdust, rotten fish, and the pungent odor of some unknown Potion.
The Toads in the cages were desperately hitting the glass, a nest of Color-changing Snails named "Gabriel" were trying to hide in their shells, and several Ravens were frantically flapping their wings, letting out shrill caws.
But in the center of the shop, a chase was underway.
A large, ginger-colored cat with a big, flat face that looked like it had been hit by a frying pan was arching its back, letting out a bloodcurdling hiss, and suddenly pouncing on a ball of gray fur that Ron Weasley was tightly protecting against his chest on the counter.
"Get away! You monster!" Ron yelled in panic, waving the bottle of Strong Rat Tonic in his hand to hit the cat.
Hermione Granger stood beside him, flushed and helpless: "Don't hit him, Ron! Oh, my goodness, Madam! Make him stop!"
"I'm trying! I'm trying!" The sweating Shop Owner waved her wand, attempting to cast Stupefy on the large cat, which clearly had Cat Civet ancestry, but Crookshanks was as agile as a yellow streak of lightning, leaping directly onto the chandelier and shaking dust everywhere.
Ding-a-ling. The shop door was pushed open.
This crisp ringing sound should have been insignificant in the noisy shop.
But in this second, an indescribable shiver, originating from the depths of the Soul, swept through the entire space like an invisible cold current.
Silence. A deathly silence.
The Ravens, who had been hysterical just a second ago, suddenly closed their mouths as if their necks had been wrung, huddling in the furthest corner of the Perch and trembling.
The Toads frantically hitting the glass immediately turned belly-up and played dead.
And Crookshanks, who was preparing to pounce again from the chandelier, suddenly stiffened in mid-air, then fell to the ground with a "thud" like a heavy stone. It did not attack again; instead, the entire cat flattened itself, its tail clamped tightly between its legs, and its originally wild yellow eyes now contained only pure terror, letting out an extremely humble, pleading whimper toward the doorway.
Ron remained frozen in the posture of waving the bottle, his mouth wide enough to fit an egg. Hermione was also stunned; she even felt the surrounding air drop a few degrees.
"What happened... What's wrong with the cat?" Ron blinked blankly.
"Perhaps it just understands... manners."
An emotionless, flat voice came from the doorway.
Chapter 125: The Silent Beasts and the Trembling Rat
Everyone turned their heads.
Moen White was standing there, backlit, the hem of his trench coat swaying slightly in the airflow behind him. He hadn't deliberately cast any spell; he was just standing quietly, but the life-force radiation of a [Top Predator] (a Fusion of the Basilisk and Lord Voldemort's status) was, to these magically sensitive creatures, equivalent to a giant dragon squeezing into a rabbit hutch.
"Mo... Morn?" Hermione was the first to react. She looked at her Ravenclaw classmate with surprise, subconsciously tidying her messy hair. "Are you here to buy a pet too?"
"Just looking around."
Morn stepped into the store. As he approached, Crookshanks, who was lying on the floor, lowered his head even further, almost pressing it against the dusty floor, as if bowing to a monarch.
Morn ignored the cat, his gaze falling directly on Ron's arms.
There, was a missing-toed rat that had previously been struggling and squealing desperately.
At this moment, the rat also froze. It stopped moving wildly and buried its head tightly into Ron's old robes, its body trembling violently, a frequency even greater than when it had faced the cat moments ago.
"Good afternoon, Weasley."
Morn walked up to Ron, looking down at him with a scrutinizing gaze reserved only for a hunter assessing prey. "It seems your pet... isn't doing too well?"
"Oh, hi, Morn." Ron hugged Scabbers tighter, his face pale (both from the recent chaos and Morn's inherent oppressive presence). "Yeah, Scabbers has been sick lately, skinny and losing fur... that crazy cat almost ate him just now!"
"Sick?"
Morn chuckled, the sound carrying an unsettling chill.
He stretched out his hand, his fingers, clad in black dragon hide gloves, hovering above Scabbers.'Should I crush it?' The thought flashed through Morn's mind. With just a little force, even without a wand, his current grip strength could easily crush the Animagus's spine. 'No. A dead Peter is just a corpse. A living Peter is the key to resurrecting Lord Voldemort, the key to unlocking the Triwizard Tournament instance.'
The decision chain instantly closed.
Morn's fingers did not retract; instead, they irresistibly pinched Scabbers' bare tail, lifting him out of Ron's arms.
"Squeak—!!!"
Scabbers let out a sharp shriek, his four limbs flailing wildly in the air. His tiny, pea-sized eyes met Morn's in terror.
[Eye of Truth · Activated]
In Morn's vision, this was no longer a rat.
Through the filthy gray fur, he saw the soul of a middle-aged man—wretched, ugly, and reeking of betrayal and fear—crouching inside. That soul was kneeling and begging him for mercy, screaming to escape.
"What a... fascinating gaze."
Morn ignored Scabbers' struggles, brought him close to his eyes, and whispered softly.
Deep within his pupils, the ring of dark golden patterns slowly rotated, and a [Mental Pierce] violently stabbed into Peter's brain along the line of sight.
"A rat, yet possessing such rich... human emotions."
Morn's words struck Peter's neurological defenses like an ice pick. "Fear, cunning, and... guilt? How long has it been alive, Weasley?"
"Uh... about twelve years?" Ron looked at Scabbers, who was shaking frantically in mid-air, feeling helpless. "Percy gave him to me... I know he's old, but..."
"Twelve years."
Morn repeated the number, his eyes as cold as if he were looking at a dead man.
He slowly revealed a devilish smile directed at Scabbers' tiny, despairing eyes.
"For an ordinary rat, this is simply a... miracle. Or perhaps, a curse?"
Scabbers suddenly stopped struggling.
A pungent, foul smell spread from its lower body—it had lost control of its bladder. It was completely terrified by the soul-level insight and death threat.
"Oh dear."
Morn frowned in disgust, then casually let go, allowing the filthy rat to drop back into Ron's arms. He pulled out a pristine white handkerchief and meticulously wiped the fingertips of the glove that had touched the rat's tail, as if they were contaminated with some deadly germ.
"It certainly seems to be very sick."
Morn tossed the used handkerchief into the nearby trash can, not sparing another glance for the rat that was nearly passed out from fright.
"Keep a close eye on it, Weasley. This kind of... sentient creature is very likely to run away if it gets frightened."
Having said that, he turned and looked at Crookshanks, who was still lying on the floor.
"As for this cat," Morn glanced at Hermione, "it has great intelligence. It would be a shame not to buy it."
"I... I think so too." Hermione nodded subconsciously. Looking at Morn's retreating back, the strange sense of awe in her heart deepened.
Morn did not linger.
The air here was too polluted, and Peter's smell of urine made him nauseous. The goal had been achieved—the seed of fear was planted, and Peter Pettigrew was now definitely a startled bird.
He will run.
And that was exactly what Morn wanted.
"Happy shopping."
Morn pushed the door open and walked out of the store without looking back.
Behind him, only after the store door was completely shut did the animals filling the room dare to let out their first tentative low sounds.
The heavy mahogany door silently slid open on its brass hinges, shutting out the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley outside.
The sensation beneath his feet instantly became soft and deep; it was a high-quality, handmade Persian wool carpet.
The air was filled with an old, expensive scent of beeswax, mixed with lavender and the aroma of a special oil used to maintain magical fabrics. In Morn's olfactory memory, this smell was usually associated with the words "pure-blood" and "vanity."
Moen White stepped into the high-end custom shop named "Transcendent Tailoring Shop."
Compared to the bustling, common atmosphere of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, this place was as quiet as a tomb.
Only a few self-measuring tapes slithered like snakes in the air, making soft rustling sounds.
"Excuse me, sir."
A middle-aged wizard, dressed in a tuxedo and with slicked-back, shiny hair, emerged from behind a velvet curtain.
His gaze, like a precise caliper, swept over Morn's black trench coat—which was clean but made of ordinary material—and his leather boots, which still held some dust from Knockturn Alley.
The professional fake smile in his eyes instantly dropped three degrees.
"If you are looking for Hogwarts student robes, Madam Malkin's shop is down the street, turn left."
The wizard did not make a "come in" gesture. Instead, he stood behind the counter, slightly raising his chin, and spoke with a polite yet standoffish nasal tone, "This shop only accepts appointments for custom tailoring, and... even the most basic style starts at fifty Galleons."
Chapter 126: The Arrogant Tailor and the Void Walker
Morn stopped walking and stood beneath the massive crystal chandelier in the center of the shop.
A typical watchdog.
'Judging class by clothing, and determining attitude by class. Though this survival logic is low-level, it is efficient.' Should I kill him?
No.
Too noisy.
Should I use the Imperio?
No, that would leave magical residue, and a controlled puppet cannot create a perfect work of art.
Morn said nothing, simply walking straight toward the spotlessly polished mahogany counter.
The Wizard frowned, just about to open his mouth to drive him out.
Clatter.
The suitcase in Morn's hand was opened, and a mass of silver-gray fabric that looked like liquid moonlight was roughly tossed onto the counter.
When the mass hit the wooden board, it didn't make the sound of fabric rubbing, but rather a crisp, faint ring like clashing metal.
As it unfolded, a heart-palpitating chill instantly spread out. The quill on the counter snapped automatically as if startled, and even the light from the crystal chandelier seemed to be swallowed by the fabric.
"This... this is..."
The biting words the Wizard had intended to say were stuck hard in his throat.
As an old tailor who had been immersed in this industry for thirty years, his body reacted faster than his brain.
His pupils contracted violently, and his hands trembled as they reached toward the fabric, yet they stopped half an inch away, as if it were some sacred, inviolable relic.
"An Acromantula's silk sac."
Morn took off his black gloves and tossed them aside casually, his tone as flat as if he were talking about a rag. "Taken from a fifty-year-old Broodmother deep within the Forbidden Forest. Not the shed waste, but raw silk stripped directly from the glands. It possesses top-tier magical conductivity, and... Physical Immunity."
"Merlin's beard..."
The Wizard finally touched the mass of silk.
That greasy, cold, and tough sensation—as if it could slice through fingers—made him let out a groan of admiration.
His previous arrogance had completely vanished, replaced by a fanatical, almost pathological greed and awe.
"This quality... not even the orders from the House of Malfoy have used such fine material! What... what do you wish to make? Robes? Formal wear?"
"Combat Suit."
Morn spat out the two words coldly.
He didn't want to waste time explaining what "Tactical Aesthetics" meant.
[Talent Ability: Memory Weaver - Activated]
Morn looked directly into the tailor's fanatical eyes, a flash of deep blue light passing through his own.
Since words were pale, he would simply "print" the design blueprints directly into the man's brain.
Hum—
The tailor's whole body jolted, and his eyes instantly lost focus.
In his mind, countless lines began to construct themselves frantically.
It wasn't a traditional Wizard's robe, but a sleeker, colder design:
A standing collar, double-breasted hidden buttons, and a tapered waist for quick wand drawing, with an elongated hem that had a fluid-like drape.
Most important were the enchantment requirements for the internal structure: 'Utilize the silk's properties to weave a triple physical defense net.' 'Inscribe Space Extension Runes on the lining for storing alchemical tools.' 'Weight the cuffs to serve as blunt weapons in close combat.'
Three seconds later.
The tailor snapped back to his senses, gasping for breath, his forehead drenched in cold sweat.
But the way he looked at Morn had completely changed.
He was no longer looking at a poor student, but at a young monarch who was not only wealthy but extremely dangerous.
"This... this design..." The tailor swallowed hard, his fingers tracing patterns quickly on the counter. "Extremely complex... the requirements for weaving the magic circuits are incredibly high... I'll need at least three assistants, working through the night..."
"You only have three hours."
Morn interrupted his babbling and grabbed a handful of Galleons.
They were freshly extorted from the Hag in Knockturn Alley, at least a hundred of them. The sound of the coins clashing was like a rainstorm, pitter-pattering as they showered onto the counter and rolled everywhere.
"This is the deposit. Do it well, and these are all yours. Mess it up..."
Morn leaned forward slightly, and a sliver of the apex predator aura that had been suppressed by the Void Veil leaked out.
The surrounding air froze instantly. The tailor felt as if an invisible giant hand had gripped his throat, suffocating him.
"I'll turn you into a mannequin and keep you in the display window forever."
"Three... three hours! No problem! Absolutely no problem!"
The tailor shrieked, jumping up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He grabbed the silk and rushed toward the back room, roaring frantically at the assistants inside: "Move! Stop all other orders! Now!"
...Two hours and fifty minutes later.
Morn stood before a large full-length mirror.
His original ordinary trench coat had been replaced.
Now, he wore a long trench coat of solid black, with silver-gray patterns flowing faintly under the light.
The Broodmother's silk had been perfectly woven together, possessing both the texture of silk and the toughness of armor.
The slim-fit tailoring perfectly outlined his tall and straight figure, while the high standing collar covered half his neck, making him look even more mysterious and cold.
Morn raised his hand and lightly clenched his fist.
The fabric extended silently with the tightening of his muscles, without any sense of restriction. He could clearly feel his magic flowing along the patterns on the clothes, as if he had been fitted with a layer of exoskeleton.
[System Analysis]
[Name: Void Walker's Vestment]
[Quality: Deep Purple (Rare)]
[Trait 1: Physical Immunity]: Immune to conventional cold weapon cuts and the kinetic impact of medium-caliber firearms.
[Trait 2: Magic Amplification]: Dark Arts casting speed +15%.
[Trait 3: Self-Repair]: Minor damage can be automatically restored by consuming magic.
"Perfect."
Morn looked at himself in the mirror. His deep blue eyes appeared even more profound against the black standing collar, and the dark gold patterns on the outer ring of his pupils flickered in and out of sight.
Now, he had completely shed his student-like naivety.
He looked like a young Dark Lord preparing to take over the world.
"Sir... are... are you satisfied?"
The tailor sat slumped in a nearby chair, still holding a broken needle. He was as exhausted as if he had just finished a marathon, but his eyes were full of expectation.
Morn didn't look back, simply waving his hand.
Another bag of gold coins landed precisely on the counter.
"From now on, you will be responsible for my clothing."
Leaving these words behind, Morn turned and walked toward the door.
As the door pushed open, the afternoon sunlight spilled onto his new trench coat, but it produced no reflection; instead, it was completely swallowed by the special material.
His trip to Diagon Alley was over.
Resources had been liquidated, armaments completed, and seeds of fear sown.
Next.
The train to Hogwarts, and a new school year filled with Dementors, fugitives, and secrets.
"This is truly... a season suitable for hunting."
Morn whispered, his figure blending into the bustling crowd, yet he was like a drop of ink in clear water—distinctly out of place and unique.