Ch: 127-134
Chapter 127: The Sleeping Wolf and the Frozen Train
Click.
The sound of the compartment door sliding open was mostly drowned out by the deafening thunder outside, leaving only a faint rasp of metal friction.
Moen White stood at the door, his newly tailored long black trench coat with flowing silver-grey dark patterns almost merging with the shadows in the corridor.
He lowered his head slightly, his slender fingers resting on the doorframe, as those deep blue eyes naturally swept over every inch of the compartment.
"The air here doesn't seem to be filled with Giggling Powder and Dungbombs yet."
His voice was flat, carrying an unquestionable sense of intrusion.
The trio inside, who had been sharing chocolate frogs, instantly froze.
Ron clutched a frog whose head he hadn't had time to bite off yet, his mouth forming an "O" shape, subconsciously shrinking toward the window; the Scabbers in the Magical Menagerie who had almost wet himself from fear had left a deep psychological shadow on him.
Hermione hurriedly put away the book on her lap and adjusted her skirt somewhat awkwardly.
Harry nervously scratched his messy hair, always feeling as though Morn's eyes were still looking at the scar on his forehead.
"Mind if I sit here?"
Though it was a question, Morn had already stepped inside.
Under the pressure of his inherent cold aura, Hermione and Ron instinctively squeezed to either side, making a spacious seat for him.
"Of... of course not," Hermione stammered. "Is it full outside?"
"Full."
Morn replied briefly and then sat down elegantly.
He didn't pay attention to the trio's awkwardness, instead turning his gaze toward the man in the corner of the compartment who had been sleeping soundly throughout the noisy environment.
It was a Wizard dressed extremely shabbily.
His robes were worn out, with obvious patches in several places.
Although he looked only in his thirties, his light brown hair was already streaked with a great deal of grey; he looked sickly, with sunken eye sockets, as if he had just recovered from a severe cold that had lasted half a century.
'A Professor? Sitting in a student compartment?' Morn slightly narrowed his eyes, the ring of dark golden serrated patterns deep within his pupils instantly locking onto the sleeping man.
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: Remus Lupin (New Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor / Half-blood Werewolf)
Status: Magic Weakness (Long-term Malnutrition) / Curse Dormant
Manifested Talent:
[Mad Wolf of the Moonlit Night (black · Curse)]: Derived from the bloodline infection of Fenrir the Wolf King. Usually lurks deep in the blood, forced transformation during a full moon, sanity zeroed out, possesses A-grade physical destructive power and irreversible contagion.
[Guardian of the Law (blue · Proficient)]: Extremely solid attainment in Defense Against the Dark Arts, particularly skilled in countering and expelling dark creatures.
[Soul Depletion (grey · Negative)]: A state of overdrawn vitality caused by long-term poverty, social exclusion, and self-loathing.
'Is this the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor for this year?' Morn withdrew his gaze, a very faint trace of irony curling at the corner of his mouth. 'First a host for Lord Voldemort, then a fraud, and now directly bringing in a beast that could lose control at any moment... Dumbledore, your hiring standards are truly becoming more and more "unconventional."'
He didn't expose him, but instead pulled out a thick, black-leather book with no writing on the cover from his breast pocket; it was notes on high-level spatial geometry.
Flipping it open casually, he sank into the world of reading like a statue, completely shielding the three people around him from his aura.
The atmosphere in the compartment became extremely eerie.
Ron and Harry exchanged a look; both were as quiet as cicadas in winter, not even daring to make a sound while eating snacks.
The rain outside grew heavier, the gale whipping raindrops against the glass with a series of sharp cracks; the train was like an iron snake struggling in the storm, laboring toward Hogwarts in the north.
An unknown amount of time passed.
Screech——!!!
A piercing sound of metal friction suddenly came from beneath the floor, followed by a violent vibration.
The speeding train did not slow down to enter a station, but instead slammed on the brakes in the middle of the wilderness.
Inertia sent Harry and Ron sliding right off their seats, bumping into the knees opposite them; only Morn remained steadily in his seat, without even flipping a page of his book.
"What happened? What's going on?" Ron climbed up while rubbing his bruised knee, looking out the window in terror. "We haven't arrived yet, have we?"
Poof. All the lights went out simultaneously at this moment.
The compartment fell into absolute darkness, with only the occasional flash of lightning outside providing a sliver of pale light.
"Lumos!" Hermione raised her wand with a tremble, the weak light illuminating everyone's pale faces.
But what arrived faster than the darkness was the cold.
It wasn't an ordinary drop in temperature, but a deep chill that seemed capable of freezing the soul.
A thick layer of frost rapidly spread across the window glass, and the rainwater originally clinging to the glass instantly froze solid.
Ron's breath turned into a thick white mist, and the bottle of Pumpkin Juice on the small table made a "crackling" sound, freezing directly into an orange block of ice inside the bottle.
"So cold..." Ginny hugged her arms, her teeth beginning to chatter uncontrollably. "This isn't normal... why does it feel like this here..."
Harry felt as if his heart were being squeezed by an icy hand.
A sudden, immense sense of despair flooded over him like a tide. Happiness, hope, warmth... all positive emotions were rapidly draining away, and a woman's scream that made him break down began to echo deep in his mind.
However, Moen White, sitting opposite him, slowly closed his book.
In Harry's eyes, Morn's expression was terrifyingly calm. He even seemed to be... enjoying it?
'This scent...' Morn took a deep breath.
The cold current carrying the scent of decay entered his lungs, but it didn't make him feel cold; instead, it caused the black hole of his Void Body to produce a sliver of hungry palpitation.
It was the scent of prey caught by a predator.
'Soulless shells, jailers feeding on despair.' Morn's fingers lightly stroked the page of the notebook that read "Energy Conservation and Reverse Plunder," his pupils flickering with a faint blue light in the darkness. 'Finally, they're here.'
Hiss——
The compartment door was slowly pushed open by a withered, scabbed, grey palm that looked as if it had been soaked in water for a long time.
A tall figure stood at the doorway; even though it was floating, its head almost touched the ceiling.
It was entirely shrouded in a tattered black cloak, its face invisible, and only those bone-chilling sounds of bellows-like breathing, like the last breath of a dying person, could be heard.
Dementor.
As it entered, all light seemed to be swallowed by that black cloak.
The Lumos spell in Hermione's hand flickered twice and went out completely.
The monster lowered its head slightly; although it had no eyes, everyone could feel that it was "looking" at someone in the compartment,
the boy who radiated the most delicious and painful memories.
Harry's eyes rolled back as his body slumped rigidly backward, his consciousness falling into a bottomless abyss.
And in that suffocating silence, only the slight sound of a book closing rang out clearly.
Clap.
Moen White stood up.
Chapter 128: The Taste of Despair and the Silver Guardian
Moen White took off the dragon hide gloves on his right hand.
The movement was slow and deliberate, appearing extremely abrupt in this suffocating silence.
The black leather slid past his fingertips with a slight rustle before being tossed carelessly onto the frozen small table.
'No wand required.' 'Against a spirit composed purely of negative energy, physical isolation only hinders the efficiency of "feeding."'
He stepped forward, shielding Harry Potter, whose eyes had rolled back as his body slid from the seat.
The monster, draped in a tattered cloak, was taking a deep breath—a wheezing sound like a bellows, carrying the stench of rotting corpse water.
As it inhaled, the last bits of light and happiness in the surroundings seemed to be forcibly stripped from the air, converging deep within that pitch-black hood.
A rattling, choking sound came from Harry's throat, and his whole body convulsed violently.
The Dementor's scabbed, grayish-white hand was reaching toward Harry's face.
Just an instant before those rotting fingers could touch Harry's skin.
Smack.
A slender, pale human palm, devoid of any magical radiance, intercepted it in mid-air.
Morn's fingers, like iron pincers, tightly gripped the Dementor's wrist, which felt as if it had been bloated in water.
It felt like touching a piece of cold, damp dead pork.
But he didn't let go; instead, he increased his grip.
In his deep blue pupils, countless streams of precise data flashed frantically, dissecting the essence of the monster before him in exhaustive detail:
— [Analysis Lock] —
Target: Dementor (Serial No. AZ-409 / Void Lesser Derivative)
Status: Extremely Hungry / Materialized Hunting
Manifested Talent:
[Ethereal Body (Purple · Rare)]: Non-carbon-based life form. A negative energy aggregate condensed from high-purity laws of "Despair" and "Death." Immune to physical attacks and most elemental magic.
[Field of Despair (Dark Gray · Aura)]: Passively absorbs positive emotions (happiness, hope) within a hundred-meter radius and creates an absolute zero mental freeze.
[Kiss of Death (Black · Forbidden)]: Directly strips and devours complete souls from the flesh through the mouthparts.
"All... high-concentration negative energy."
After checking the panel, Morn looked at the pitch-black hood inches away, the deep blue light in his eyes instantly transforming into blatant appetite.
"You want happiness?"
He whispered softly to the monster, "But I only want your 'existence'."
Whoosh—a visible stream of black mist was actually being forcibly drawn out along the Dementor's arm, pouring continuously into Morn's palm.
This was the high-concentration negative energy that constituted the Dementor's very being.
To an ordinary Wizard, this was lethal poison.
But for Morn, who possessed a void essence, it was like a cup of iced concentrated black coffee—bitter, cold, yet refreshing.
The Dementor panicked.
As a jailer of Azkaban, it had been the one eating humans for centuries; it had never seen a human eat it.
It began to struggle frantically, its originally Ethereal Body becoming materialized as it tried to pull its hand back.
But Morn's fingers were almost embedded in its "bones," and that terrifying suction was tearing at its spiritual structure.
'Delicious.' Morn felt a cold fluid injecting into his magic source through the meridians in his arm. 'One more sip. Just one more.'
Just then.
"Damn... that's..."
In the corner, the man who had been sleeping soundly jerked awake from a nightmare.
Although Remus Lupin looked sickly, his instincts as a Werewolf threw him into a combat state the moment he opened his eyes.
He saw the standing figure from behind, and the student who was... was "grabbing" a Dementor?
The sense of incongruity was so strong that the hair on the back of Lupin's neck stood up.
He didn't have time to think; it was a stress response to facing a dark creature.
"Don't move!"
Lupin drew his wand from his robes, but instead of aiming at Morn, he pointed it past him at the monster.
"Expecto Patronum—!"
A dazzling silver-white light erupted from the tip of his wand.
Although the light did not coalesce into a specific animal form—clearly he hadn't given it his all, or perhaps he was in poor condition after just waking up—the pure positive emotion still acted like a giant shield of light, instantly illuminating the entire carriage.
'Tsk. Interrupted.' Morn's [Eye of Truth] caught the silver light behind him. 'Can't let him see me "feeding."'
At the very moment the silver light was about to touch the Dementor, Morn released his fingers with extreme naturalness and made a forceful "pushing" motion.
Bang!
The Dementor, already weakened from being drained, let out a piercing shriek as it was scorched by the silver light and shoved by Morn.
It slammed into the compartment doorframe like a tattered rag, then scrambled away, turning into a cloud of black smoke and gliding toward the end of the corridor as if fleeing for its life, moving more than three times faster than when it arrived.
The light dispelled the cold.
The lights in the carriage flickered back on with a buzzing sound.
The frost on the windows began to melt rapidly, droplets of water running down the glass like tears.
Morn stood there with his back to Lupin, quickly shoving his right hand back into his trench coat pocket to hide the wisp of black air that hadn't yet fully dissipated from his palm.
He took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the boiling void magic within him, adjusted his somewhat irregular breathing, and then slowly turned around.
"A very impressive spell, Professor."
Morn wore the standard, polite smile of a good student, as if the monster who had just caught a ghost with his bare hands wasn't him.
Lupin did not lower his wand immediately.
He was panting, his pale and haggard face covered in a layer of cold sweat. His gray eyes stared intently at Morn, looking past the unconscious Harry.
In that moment... before the light of the Patronus Charm shone, he had smelled something.
It wasn't the foul stench of a Dementor.
It was an aura that was more ancient, more overbearing—the scent of an "apex predator." That aura made the wolf blood inside him tremble.
"You..."
Lupin's voice was somewhat hoarse as he looked warily at Morn's right hand in his pocket. "Did you... just touch it?"
"It wanted to harm Potter."
Morn explained calmly, his eyes so clear that not a hint of impurity could be seen. "In the heat of the moment, I tried to push it away. I didn't expect your spell to be so timely."
"Push it away?"
Lupin frowned, the suspicion in his eyes not yet dissipating.
No one had ever been able to push away a Dementor with physical strength. Never.
But as he looked at this well-dressed, even somewhat frail-looking student before him, he couldn't find a reason to argue.
Perhaps the light had been too dim and he'd seen it wrong?
At that moment,
Harry, on the floor, let out a groan of pain.
"Harry!" Hermione and Ron finally snapped out of their fear and rushed over to help him up.
"What just happened? What was that thing?" Ron's face was pale, and he was still shaking.
Lupin stowed his wand, suppressing his doubts. This was not the time to interrogate a student.
He pulled a large slab of Honeydukes chocolate from his tattered robe pocket, broke it into pieces, and handed them out.
"That was a Dementor, a guard of Azkaban," he said, observing Morn out of the corner of his eye as he distributed the chocolate. "Eat some of this; it'll help you recover."
He held the last piece of chocolate and offered it to Morn.
"Would you like a piece too? Though you don't seem... to need it."
It was a test.
A normal person would be pale and have cold hands and feet after being in close contact with a Dementor. But Morn's complexion was ruddy, and his breathing was steady, as if he had just finished a feast.
Morn looked at the chocolate, then at Lupin's searching eyes.
He reached out his left hand—the one without a glove—and took the chocolate.
"Thank you, Professor."
Morn put the chocolate in his mouth, the cloying sweetness making him frown slightly—compared to that "iced soul" he'd just had, this sweet was utterly tasteless.
"My constitution is a bit unusual; I'm not very sensitive to the cold."
Morn gave a nonchalant and impeccable excuse, then bent down to pick up the dragon hide glove from the table and slowly pulled it back onto his right hand.
The movement was elegant and precise, yet it carried a hint of covering up evidence.
"Since the crisis is over, I won't disturb you any further."
Morn picked up the black leather book, gave Lupin a slight nod, then turned and pulled open the compartment door.
As he stepped out of the carriage, he paused.
"By the way, Professor."
Morn didn't look back, his voice so calm it made Lupin's heart skip a beat.
"You look quite unwell. Instead of worrying about students, perhaps you should worry about... when the next full moon is."
With that, he walked out of the compartment, his black trench coat disappearing around the corner of the corridor.
Lupin froze in place, the chocolate wrapper in his hand crumpled into a ball.
He understood.
That student... had seen right through him.
Not only had he seen through him, he was also warning him.
"Who is he?" Lupin turned around and asked Ron, who was munching on chocolate, in a dry voice.
"Morn. Moen White," Ron said indistinctly, clearly not yet realizing the gravity of the situation. "The Ravenclaw freak... I mean, genius."
"Moen White..."
Lupin rolled the name over on his tongue, his gaze becoming exceptionally grave.
This journey back to Hogwarts seemed even more dangerous than he had anticipated.
Chapter 129: The Skeletal Horse of the Rainy Night and the Clown's Mockery
The cold rain was like countless fine steel needles, stabbing hard against the muddy wooden planks of the Hogsmeade Station platform, splashing turbid water.
Moen White stepped out of the carriage. The moment his leather boots hit the ground, the mud splashes were repelled by an invisible current of air an inch before they could touch the hem of his trench coat.
The air was filled with a strong scent of ozone, the smell of pine resin, and... something deeper, a musky scent belonging to a large wild beast.
"First-years! Over here!"
Hagrid's thunderous voice echoed through the wind and rain, his massive lantern swaying in the darkness like a lonely star.
Morn ignored the commotion over there. He pulled up his collar and walked straight toward the muddy path leading to the Castle.
Over a hundred carriages were parked there. In the eyes of most students, these carriages were moving automatically.
But the moment Morn approached, his pupils contracted slightly. His deep blue gaze instantly pierced through the curtain of rain, locking onto the front of the carriage shafts.
It was no longer the blurry dark shadow or the flickering outline from before.
This time, the creature was as clear as a high-definition anatomical diagram.
It was a massive, pitch-black horse.
Or rather,
a skeleton draped in a layer of black leather.
It didn't have a single bit of extra flesh; every rib and the shape of every vertebra were clearly visible, as if they might pierce through that tight skin at any moment.
It had a dragon-like head, and its pupil-less white eyes emitted an eerie faint glow in the darkness. On its back, a pair of massive, bat-like leathery wings were folded.
—— [Analysis Lock] ——
Target: Thestral. Status: Tamed / Hungry. Manifested Talent:
[Death Vision (Black · Rule)]: Only those who have personally experienced and understood death can see its true form.
[Spirit Realm Shuttle (Purple · Space)]: Possesses an extremely strong sense of direction and the ability to fly through folded space.
'Truly beautiful.' Morn stopped in his tracks, the voice in his mind praising sincerely. 'The skeletal structure perfectly interprets the balance between mechanics and death. Before, I could only see a blurry shadow, but now...'
He reached out his hand, clad in dragon hide gloves, and without the slightest hesitation, touched the wet neck of the Thestral.
The passing Ravenclaw students looked on in horror as he appeared to be stroking thin air.
But the Thestral did not dodge. It turned its dragon-like head, its pale eyes staring at Morn. A blast of sulfurous hot air puffed from its nostrils, and it even nuzzled Morn's palm submissively.
It smelled it.
This human carried a scent of death even thicker than their own; it was the scent of one of their kind.
"Are you hungry too?"
Morn whispered, his fingers feeling the hard skeletal texture beneath the cold skin. This school year, his vision had finally opened completely to the dark world.
"Potter! Did you faint from fright?"
A sharp, drawling sneer pierced through the sound of the rain, interrupting Morn's interaction with the Thestral.
Morn's fingers paused slightly, the warmth in his eyes instantly freezing. 'Draco. Always so... lacking in style.'
He turned his head.
A few steps away, Harry and Ron were drenched in the rain, looking disheveled as they searched for a carriage.
Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy stood in the middle of the path with his two bodyguards—Crabbe and Goyle.
Malfoy wore an expensive cloak enchanted with a waterproof charm, his face wearing that signature, nauseating look of superiority.
"Really? You actually fainted?" Malfoy shouted exaggeratedly, making sure everyone around could hear. "Just when the Dementor came in? You look like a baby who hasn't been weaned yet, Potter!"
Crabbe and Goyle let out a series of foolish chuckles that sounded like a Troll's hiccups.
Harry's face turned bright red, his fists clenched tight, but he was so weak now that he didn't even have the strength to argue back. Ron was so angry he wanted to pull out his wand, but Hermione held him back firmly.
"Get lost, Malfoy," Ron growled through gritted teeth.
"Watch your attitude, Weasley." Malfoy glanced contemptuously at Ron's robes, which were a bit too short. "Maybe you should beg your father to stop spending his pathetic salary on..."
*Step.* A footstep, not loud but exceptionally heavy, sounded behind Malfoy.
It was a strange feeling.
Even though they were in a torrential downpour, in that instant, Malfoy felt as if the sound of the rain had suddenly vanished.
A cold chill, as if coming from the depths of a cellar, crawled up the back of his neck, making the hair all over his body stand on end.
It was the fear he had felt when facing that black snake in the Duelling Club.
No,
it was even stronger than that.
It was a shivering sensation strong enough to freeze his spinal cord, the feeling of being locked onto from behind by some apex predator.
Malfoy's arrogant smile froze on his face. His throat felt as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand, letting out a comical "gurgle."
Like a rusty puppet, he turned around stiffly.
Moen White was standing less than two feet behind him.
He hadn't drawn his wand; his hands were even tucked into his trench coat pockets.
He just stood there quietly, his high black collar covering half his chin. His deep blue eyes, under the shadow of his hood, were calmly watching this young master of Slytherin with a look reserved for trash.
"Mo... Morn..."
Malfoy's voice trembled violently, his previous momentum collapsing instantly. Goyle and Crabbe were so scared they took a step back, nearly falling into a mud puddle.
"Continue."
Morn's voice was very soft, yet it pierced through the rain and entered Malfoy's ears clearly. "I'm listening. What brilliant insight did you want to share regarding Mr. Weasley's salary?"
"I... I didn't..." Malfoy's face was deathly pale as he tried to explain incoherently, but the pressure from those eyes left his mind blank.
Morn took half a step forward.
Malfoy instinctively backed away until his back hit the wheel of a carriage.
"Draco."
Morn leaned in slightly. His magic field—a mix of the bloody scent of Knockturn Alley and the nihilistic aura of a Dementor—pressed down on Malfoy's fragile nerves like a great mountain.
"If you could use your voice to practice spells instead of squawking everywhere like a peacock in heat..."
Morn paused, his lips curling into an extremely mocking arc.
"Perhaps you wouldn't have to rely on your father buying Nimbus 2001s for the entire Slytherin team to maintain that pathetic bit of self-esteem."
These words were like a slap across the face, hitting Malfoy hard.
The surrounding students, who had been watching the spectacle, let out a wave of low laughter.
Malfoy's face instantly turned from deathly pale to a deep purple-red. Shame and fear intertwined, making his whole body shake. But he didn't dare talk back, nor did he even dare to look Morn in the eye.
"Get in the carriage."
Morn withdrew his gaze, as if looking at him for one more second would dirty his eyes. "Don't block the way."
Malfoy felt as if he had been granted a grand pardon. Without daring to utter a single harsh word, he slunk into the nearest carriage.
Goyle and Crabbe scrambled and crawled in after him, nearly knocking the carriage door off.
Morn turned around and looked at the stunned trio of Harry and his friends.
"And you three."
His tone didn't soften; it remained cold. "Standing in the rain doesn't prove courage; it only proves stupidity. Get in."
Having said that, he walked straight toward the Thestral he had just been stroking.
The skeletal horse submissively lowered its head, allowing Morn to step onto the footboard and enter the carriage.
"Was... was he just helping us?" Ron asked, wiping the rain from his face as he looked at Morn's closed carriage door, his face full of disbelief.
"I think he just found Malfoy too noisy," Hermione said thoughtfully, looking at the empty space in front of the carriage where she couldn't see the Thestral. "But... thank goodness, he looked way scarier than Malfoy just now."
Harry didn't speak.
He looked in the direction Morn had left, the scene from just now replaying in his mind.
Just now... had Morn been stroking something in the air?
And that pressure that made Malfoy shut up instantly... 'Is this the Monster of Ravenclaw?' Harryshuddered, unsure if it was from the cold or something else. He quickly scrambled into the carriage, wanting only to get away from that chill.
Chapter 130: The Silver Warning and the Silent Common Room
Skritch—
The sound of a silver knife cutting through a medium-rare steak was exceptionally clear in the far-from-quiet Great Hall.
Bright red juice seeped along the grain, staining the marble plate with a startling splash of red.
Moen White lowered his eyes, elegantly placing a small piece of beef into his mouth.
Around him was the warm light from thousands of floating candles; the air was thick with the rich aroma of roast beef, the eggy scent of Yorkshire pudding, and the smell of damp wool from hundreds of rain-soaked students.
But he wasn't looking at the food on his plate. His gaze passed over the back of the gorging Goyle's head and landed precisely on the staff table.
A silent slaughter was taking place there.
Professor Severus Snape sat at the edge of the long table, his pale, thin hand gripping a goblet so tightly that his knuckles had turned white from the strain.
His eyes, as deep and hollow as black tunnels, were currently shooting out a near-tangible hatred and loathing, pinned firmly on the new colleague beside him who was tiredly cutting his turkey.
Remus Lupin seemed to sense this killing intent, but he only gave a bitter twitch of his lips and didn't look up, as if that plate of turkey was his only salvation.
'What a fine show.' Morn chewed the beef nonchalantly, feeling the juices burst on his tongue.
'It's not just the species gap between werewolves and Wizards, but also that old debt involving James Potter's quartet. Snape's expression right now is like a venomous snake forced to share its territory with the stray dog it hates most.'
"...Finally, I have a few very serious warnings."
Albus Dumbledore stood up. With his movement, the noisy buzz in the Great Hall vanished instantly, like a radio being switched off.
The old Principal's blue eyes, which usually sparkled with wisdom, looked exceptionally heavy now, even carrying a hint of sternness.
"As you all know, to search for Sirius Black, Hogwarts will be hosting a group of Dementors from Azkaban."
At the word "Dementor," Harry instinctively clutched his chest, his face turning pale. The temperature of the entire hall seemed to drop several degrees.
"They will be stationed at every entrance to the school." Dumbledore's voice echoed through the hall with an unquestionable authority. "While I have received assurances that they will not interfere with our daily teaching, I must warn you—"
Dumbledore paused, his gaze sweeping across the Gryffindor table, finally seeming to linger for a second, intentionally or not, on the figure in the black trench coat at the Ravenclaw table.
"Dementors are not creatures that can be deceived or persuaded. They do not understand requests, nor do they understand forgiveness. Even an invisibility cloak cannot hide one from their perception."
"So, I ask each and every one of you, do not give them any reason to harm you. This is no joking matter."
A wave of uneasy commotion spread among the students.
Neville Longbottom was so frightened he even dropped the fork in his hand.
Morn did not tremble, nor did he even look up.
He continued to cut that steak, his movements as steady as if he were performing a precise surgical operation.
'Don't understand forgiveness?' He chuckled inwardly, the sound cold and greedy. 'Of course they don't need to forgive. They only need to be... fed. Or, consumed.' To others, they were jailers.
But to him, what Dumbledore had just announced wasn't a crisis, but a long-term, free, high-energy buffet ticket... Two hours later.
At the top of Ravenclaw Tower, the common room.
The noise level here was a total disaster.
The rainstorm outside was still frantically lashing against the arched floor-to-ceiling windows, while inside the common room, the fire in the fireplace roared.
Dozens of first-year students who had just been sorted in were in a state of extreme excitement.
They gathered around the marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, shouting over the famous eagle knocker riddle, showing off their newly bought auto-quills and color-changing ink to one another.
"Quiet! Everyone, please be quiet!"
The female Prefect Penelope Clearwater stood in the center of the common room, trying hard to maintain order. Her hair was a bit messy, and her voice sounded pale and weak against the wave of noisy chatter.
"First-years! The rule here is that after ten o'clock at night, you must..."
"Hey! Look at this! My toad can blow bubbles!" a first-year screamed, interrupting her and causing a burst of laughter.
Penelope's face turned red with anger, her hand tightly clutching her Prefect badge, yet she couldn't actually cast hexes on these little kids.
Moen White sat by the window in his exclusive, deep blue velvet high-back chair.
He held the black-covered book on Higher-Dimensional Geometry in his hands, his long legs crossed, his body sunken into the shadows.
'Too noisy.'
That illogical noise, full of childish emotional fluctuations, felt like a pile of broken glass shards rubbing against his nerves.
He didn't stand up, nor did he pull out his wand.
He simply made an extremely simple movement.
Snap.
He closed the book in his hands.
The sound of the hard cover hitting the pages wasn't loud, but in that second, the sound was like a pair of invisible scissors, snapping some unseen string with a clack.
The first second. A few third-year boys sitting closest to Morn, who were discussing Quidditch, shut their mouths instantly as if they had been hit by a Petrificus Totalus.
Their bodies went rigid, their faces turned pale, and they didn't even dare look back, immediately picking up the parchment in front of them to pretend to do homework, even though their quills hadn't been dipped in ink.
This was a conditioned reflex; over the past year, they knew all too well what the consequences were for disturbing this "Chief's" reading.
The second second. This deathly silence was like a contagious virus, with Morn as the center, spreading rapidly outward in waves.
The fifth-year students who had been laughing stopped; the sixth-year students playing Wizard's Chess held their pieces still. All the older students in the common room, no matter what they were doing, entered "silent mode" in unison at that moment.
The third second. Those first-years who were still jumping around finally noticed something was wrong.
The common room, which had been bustling just a moment ago, suddenly became dead silent. That eerie contrast made their throats feel as if they were being throttled by a cold hand.
They looked confusedly at the older students who wore expressions of terror; their primal survival instinct told them: danger.
The bubble-blowing toad was hurriedly stuffed back into its pocket by its owner.
The entire Ravenclaw common room was now so quiet that only the crackling of wood in the fireplace and the dull thunder outside could be heard.
In this suffocating silence.
Morn slowly raised his head.
He didn't look at anyone, but simply used those deep blue eyes to calmly and emotionlessly scan the entire hall.
Wherever his gaze fell, whether they were new or old students, they instinctively lowered their heads or averted their eyes. No one dared to even make a sound breathing at this time.
This was dominance.
No need for a Prefect badge, no need for loud roaring.
He just needed to be there.
Morn's gaze finally landed on a stunned Penelope, who hadn't yet reacted.
"Continue, Clearwater."
Morn's voice wasn't loud—steady and cold, clearly audible in the empty common room—"I think now... they should be able to listen."
Having said that, he reopened his book as if nothing had happened.
Penelope swallowed hard, looked at the group of first-years huddled like quails, and took a deep breath.
"Al... Alright." Though her voice was still trembling, she regained her authority. "Everyone, listen up! The first rule of Ravenclaw is: stay rational, and... stay quiet."
Outside the window, a bolt of lightning tore through the night sky.
It illuminated the black-cloaked figure patrolling outside the tower in the rain. A Dementor was gliding against the glass, leaving a trail of frost.
But in the common room, as the students looked at the silhouette of the person quietly reading by the window,
they suddenly felt
that the monster outside didn't seem so scary anymore.
Chapter 131: The Kneeling Beast King
The scent of damp earth mixed with a strong, bloody stench of dead ferrets wafted from the paddock at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Hagrid appeared exceptionally nervous.
His large face, hidden behind a wild, tangled black beard, was flushed red. In his hands, which were as large as trash can lids, he held a long string of dead ferrets, looking as if he were fiddling with a greasy necklace.
"Come on, get closer!" he shouted loudly, trying to sound like a real Professor. "Don't be shy! Today we're looking at some real big fellows!"
Moen White stood at the back of the crowd, avoiding a patch of suspicious-looking green mud.
He lifted his eyelids slightly, his gaze passing over Hagrid's broad shoulders and into the shadows deep within the paddock.
Accompanied by the heavy thud of hooves hitting the ground and the rattling of chains, twelve strange creatures were led out by Hagrid.
They had the bodies, hind legs, and tails of horses, but their front legs, wings, and heads belonged to giant eagles.
Their steel-colored beaks gleamed with a cold, metallic luster under the gloomy sky, and a wild, undisguised arrogance burned in their orange eyes.
Hippogriffs.
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: Buckbeak (Leader of the Hippogriffs)
Manifested Talents:
[Arrogant Bloodline (blue · Mental)]: Possesses extremely high self-esteem and territorial awareness. Any averted gaze or disrespectful behavior will trigger a 'lethal-grade' counterattack instinct.
[Void-Rending Steel Talons (Green · Physical)]: Front claws and beak possess armor-piercing attributes, capable of easily tearing through an adult Wizard's muscle tissue and bone.
'A beautiful killing machine,' Morn evaluated internally. 'Pity the brain capacity is too small; all logic for action is based on primitive dignity and reflexes.'
"First of all, you need to know one thing."
Hagrid unchained them, letting the beasts roam freely, then turned to the group of pale-faced students and said, "They're proud. Hippogriffs are very easily offended. Never insult them; it'll be the last thing you ever do."
Malfoy let out a disdainful snort from the back, whispering something to Crabbe about how "this kind of stupid thing doesn't deserve to be called proud."
"You must wait for it to make the first move," Hagrid continued, his voice trembling slightly with excitement. "Walk up to it, bow, and then wait. If it bows back, you can touch it. If it doesn't bow... even if Merlin himself showed up, you'd better run fast."
"Who wants to go first?"
Hagrid looked at everyone expectantly.
The entire field was silent.
Everyone backed away, leaving only Harry Potter at the front because he hadn't reacted in time.
"Good man, Harry!" Hagrid roared happily. "Come on, face the big fellow—that's Buckbeak!"
For the next few minutes, Morn watched this interaction full of "politeness" and "testing" with a cold eye.
Harry bowed stiffly, his eyes darting away. Buckbeak sized him up arrogantly, only reluctantly bending those feathered knees at the very last moment.
It was an equality, a compromise built on the foundation of mutual respect.
"Well done, Harry!" Hagrid cheered, tossing a dead ferret to Buckbeak. "Who else? It's easy!"
Encouraged, the students began to stir.
Morn adjusted his black gloves and stepped out from the crowd.
"I'll give it a try."
His voice was calm and not loud, yet it pierced through the surrounding noise.
Hagrid paused for a moment. Seeing it was Morn, a flicker of complex worry flashed in his eyes (after all, Morn always gave him an impression of being too... dangerous). But as a Professor, he couldn't refuse.
"Oh, alright, Morn. Remember—eye contact, don't blink, and then bow."
Morn walked to a spot five feet away from Buckbeak and stopped.
The massive beast was swallowing the last bit of ferret. Feeling someone approach, it whipped its head around, its orange eyes staring intently at Morn, its steel beak letting out a warning "click."
It sensed... an aura that made its feathers stand on end.
"Bow, Morn!" Hagrid shouted anxiously from behind. "Bow, quickly!"
Morn did not move.
He held his hands behind his back, his spine straight as a black spear planted in the grass.
Bow? 'Lower my head to a beast?' He sneered inwardly. 'My knees do not bend for such creatures.'
He looked up, his deep blue eyes crashing without retreat into Buckbeak's orange animal pupils.
[Talent Pressure: Apex Predator · Release]
The air seemed to freeze in that instant.
There were no howling winds, nor flashes of magic.
But in Buckbeak's world of perception, the human in the black trench coat suddenly vanished.
In his place was an ancient Basilisk coiled in the shadows, a hundred times larger than itself, and something even colder, more void-like—a Dementor-like shadow that seemed capable of devouring souls.
It was the gaze from the top of the food chain.
It was the "God of Death" looking at a piece of "poultry."
Buckbeak's sharp claws, which it had intended to raise, froze in mid-air.
Its eyes, once full of arrogance, were now rapidly filled with a massive terror rooted in biological instinct.
A distorted whimper, like a puppy begging for mercy, escaped its throat.
"Kneel."
Morn didn't speak, but his gaze conveyed this absolute command.
Under the horrified gazes of the entire class and Hagrid—
The previously invincible Hippogriff did not wait for Morn to bow; Morn didn't even nod his head.
It trembled violently, and then—thump. Its knees gave way, and its two front legs knelt heavily into the mud.
Immediately after, it lowered its proud, steel-feathered head deeply, almost touching Morn's mud-stained boots, its entire body prostrate on the ground, exposing its most vulnerable nape.
It was absolute submission.
Not because of respect, but because of fear.
"Mer... Merlin's beard..."
The dead ferrets in Hagrid's hands all fell to the ground, his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit a pumpkin. "It... it's bowing to you? No... it's..."
Morn slowly reached out his hand.
He didn't cautiously pat its beak like Harry had; instead, he placed his hand directly on top of Buckbeak's head, as if stroking a pet hound.
His fingers beneath the glove gently gripped the hard feathers.
"Good color."
Morn commented indifferently, his voice devoid of any ripple. "A bit... smarter than I imagined."
He turned around, looking at the group of students behind him who looked as if they had been hit by a Petrificus Totalus.
The Ravenclaw students were full of admiration and awe, while over on the Slytherin side, Malfoy's face had contorted.
Jealousy.
It was a poisonous fire mixed with shame and resentment, burning in Malfoy's chest.
'Why him?' Malfoy stared fixedly at Morn's composed back, then looked at the large bird lying on the ground.
'Potter can do it, this freak can do it... it must be easy! It's just a stupid bird!'
"Hmph, it's nothing special."
Malfoy spoke loudly, his voice cracking slightly from excitement. He shoved aside Goyle, who was blocking his way, and strode toward Buckbeak.
Morn's eyes flickered slightly.
He saw the stupidity in Malfoy's eyes, and he saw the fury reigniting in Buckbeak's eyes—which, while submissive to him, remained full of violence toward others.
'Should I stop it?' Morn's fingers lightly brushed Buckbeak's feathers.
As long as he released even a small signal of pacification or cast an Impediment Jinx on Malfoy, none of this would happen. 'No.' He withdrew his hand and stepped back, yielding the stage. 'A fool must pay for his own stupidity. This is the most fundamental law of exchange in nature.'
"You ugly great brute!"
Malfoy rushed in front of Buckbeak, not bowing at all, but pointing at its nose and cursing, "Since you can kneel for them, you have to kneel for me too—"
Swish—!
Chapter 132: The Lie and the Gaze into the Abyss
Morn's fingers, hidden beneath his robes, twitched ever so slightly. He forcibly halted the motion before his fingertips could even touch the originally cool wooden texture of his wand.
Don't move.
The air in the corridor seemed to freeze solid. Only the torches mounted on the walls occasionally crackled, stretching the shadows across Snape's waxy yellow face, making it appear even more menacing.
A stale scent of wormwood mixed with the damp, musty chill characteristic of the dungeons slithered like an invisible snake into Morn's lungs through his nostrils.
In the upper left corner of his vision, the system's originally ice-blue data streams suddenly took on a dark, murky purple hue. No piercing alarms sounded; only rows of characters, like ancient incantations, silently surfaced:
[Detecting mental probing intent. Strength: Low-tier.]
[Talent Judgment: [Dark Lord Candidate (Purple · Perfect)] triggered passively.]
[Status: Your mental world has transformed into an abyss. Any who gaze into the abyss can only see what you wish them to see.]
Morn's back remained ramrod straight, but the nervousness originally belonging to a teenager within him was forcibly taken over by an absolute, almost cold rationality the moment his Talent triggered.
He no longer felt like the student worried about being caught, but like a grandmaster high above, examining through one-way glass a bat trying to shatter it.
He forced himself to stare at the blue vein pulsing faintly on the side of Snape's neck.
Looking away now would be a sign of a guilty conscience; holding eye contact for more than three seconds without a flicker would be defiance.
He needed to 'perform' fear.
Thus, Morn controlled his pupils to dilate slightly and let his breathing rhythm falter for a beat. For him at this moment, it was as simple as adjusting a machine's dial.
"Mr. White," Snape's voice seemed squeezed from between his teeth, carrying that uniquely silky yet caustic quality, like tearing silk, "perhaps you could explain to me why, at this hour, you find yourself less than fifty feet from where Filch's damned cat was petrified?"
Each word was like a nail.
Morn's Adam's apple bobbed. Within the zone of absolute calmness shielded by his purple Talent in his mind, he rapidly constructed a logical closed loop: getting lost was too stupid; the library was closed. It had to be a reason Snape couldn't immediately disprove and one that fit his 'good student' persona.
"I was practicing a charm, Professor."
Morn infused his voice with a precisely measured tremor, that kind of 'fluster' from being questioned by a Professor, performed flawlessly.
"Practicing a charm?" Snape took a step forward, his black robes billowing like a giant bat spreading its wings. The wormwood scent instantly became so strong it was suffocating. "Near the second-floor girls' Washroom? What a... unique taste."
Snape was bluffing.
A flicker of imperceptible mockery passed deep within Morn's pupils, but on the surface level of his thoughts, he immediately constructed an image of 'misunderstood bewilderment.'
[Mental Induction primed. Feeding false emotional fragments to the probe: confusion, grievance.]
"I didn't go to the second floor, Professor," Morn looked up, his eyes clear, even carrying a hint of stubbornness from being wronged. "I just came down from the Ravenclaw tower. Professor Flitwickmentioned a variation of the 'General Counter-Spell' during dinner. There was a part I couldn't figure out, so I wanted to try it in the courtyard. As for the Washroom you mentioned... that's Myrtle's territory."
Snape's eyes narrowed slightly, his black pupils like two lifeless tunnels attempting to bore directly into the depths of Morn's mind.
But before the barrier constructed by [Dark Lord Candidate], Snape's Legilimency was like crashing into a fog. All he could see were the surface-level thoughts Morn intentionally exposed—an obsession with academics and a fear of Professor Snape's stern image.
Silence stretched taut between the two.
Just as Snape seemed to sense a certain dissonance hidden beneath this 'perfection' and prepared to intensify his efforts, a set of footsteps, incongruously light and brisk, echoed from the far end of the corridor.
"Ah, Severus, and... Morn?"
The voice was gentle yet carried an irresistible penetrating power.
Morn's body instinctively tensed for an instant.
Dumbledore.
The old man wore purple velvet robes. His brilliant blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles gleamed in the torchlight. He held a small bag of Fizzing Whizzbees; the cloyingly sweet scent instantly diluted the medicinal odor clinging to Snape.
"Headmaster," Snape did not turn around, his gaze still locked firmly on Morn's face.
"There are still fifteen minutes until curfew, Severus," Dumbledore walked to stand between them. "And I believe Mr. Morn must have a reasonable explanation."
Dumbledore's gaze drifted lightly onto Morn.
Boom—!
If Snape's probing was a needle prick, then Dumbledore's gaze was a tsunami. That vast, gentle yet all-pervasive mental force instantly enveloped Morn's entire being.
The purple light flow on the system interface suddenly erupted with a dazzling brilliance. The previously silent characters began to refresh frantically:
[Detecting Legendary-grade Legilimency!]
[Talent [Dark Lord Candidate (Purple · Perfect)] operating at full power!]
[Effect activated: 'Throne of the Mind.']
[Your thoughts are forbidden ground; your will is iron law. Foreign will suppression exempted. Mental maze automatically constructed.]
Morn felt as if an intangible throne slowly rose from the depths of his mind. Upon that throne, he gazed down coldly at the blue tide of mental energy attempting to surge in. There was no so-called fear or pain, only a kind of detachment, as if standing above the clouds looking down upon mortals.
What does Dumbledore want to see? Then I'll show him exactly that.
Amidst this storm of mental energy, Morn precisely peeled off a portion of fabricated memory images about 'just practicing in the courtyard,' mixed them with respect for the Headmaster and a touch of youthful shyness, and actively 'pushed' them to the surface.
"Just as I said earlier, Headmaster," Morn gave a slight bow, his movements fluid and natural, without any stiffness from mental pressure, "I was merely contemplating the problem Professor Flitwickposed."
A flicker of profound, almost imperceptible surprise flashed deep within Dumbledore's eyes.
In his perception, this boy's thoughts were as transparent as a crystal, without any shadows or concealment. Too clean. Clean... as if he truly had nothing to hide.
"Diligence is always worthy of praise," Dumbledore said with a smile, unwrapping a candy and popping it into his mouth. That intangible mental storm dissipated instantly. "By the way, Morn, Mr. Filchmentioned earlier that he saw a strange green light on the third floor... Since you were near the courtyard, did you happen to notice anything?"
This was the real trap.
Under the absolute rationality granted by [Dark Lord Candidate], Morn instantly weighed the pros and cons.
Admit it? That would require fabricating details, which could easily lead to mistakes.
Deny it? If he was in that location but saw nothing, it would instead make him seem unobservant, which didn't fit his persona.
"A green light... I'm not entirely sure, Headmaster," Morn's face showed a thoughtful expression, as if recalling. He rapidly retrieved the visual effects from when that defective Talent activated in his mind and applied some artistic embellishment. "I was focused on my wand movements at the time. However, I did sense that the concentration of magic in the air became... unnaturally agitated for a moment. It was like something... ancient, I can't quite describe it, something ancient was disturbed."
A perfect fusion of truth and lies.
Dumbledore paused his candy chewing for half a second.
"A very keen observation," the old man's gaze swept over Morn's face once more, as if searching for even a single crack in that calm facade. "Unnatural agitation... fascinating."
"Well then, Severus," Dumbledore turned, the faint, oppressive presence completely vanishing. "Let the child return to bed."
Snape let out a disdainful snort, swirled his black robes, and turned to leave: "Let's hope your luck holds, White."
Only after the two figures had completely disappeared did Morn slowly straighten up.
He didn't relax immediately but remained standing in place until the red dots on the System Radarmoved completely away.
Morn raised his hand and looked at his own palm.
No cold sweat. It was dry and steady.
The corners of Morn's mouth slowly curled into an icy arc. That feeling of controlling the entire situation, of manipulating two top-tier Wizards like puppets on strings... it was utterly intoxicating.
"System," he coldly commanded in his mind, his voice carrying an unprecedented authority, "call up the Talent we seized earlier. Since the crisis has passed, now... it's time to enjoy the spoils."
He turned and walked deeper into the darkness, his steps steady, devoid of any trace of youthful awkwardness.
Chapter 133: Devouring the Echo
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, completely sealing off the musty, aged odor peculiar to the Castle corridors and the faint, distant sense of being watched.
Morn did not immediately walk towards the center of the room. Instead, he leaned against the door panel, remaining frozen in that stiff posture for a full three seconds. He was listening.
Apart from the crackling sound of the torches simulated by the Room of Requirement, there was no sound of breathing, nor any hum of magical flow.
Safety confirmed.
Only then did he take a step forward, walking towards the empty stone table in the center of the room.
This room was the 'execution chamber' he had specifically materialized—surrounded by three-foot-thick sound-absorbing rock, with no windows, no superfluous decorations, only a suffocating sense of enclosure.
Dealing with Dumbledore and Snape in the corridor earlier had drained a significant portion of his mental reserves, but now was not the time to rest.
Morn raised his right hand and clenched it fiercely in the empty air.
"Retrieve item: [Unknown Magical Residue (Contaminated)]."
As the system command was issued, a fist-sized sphere of ghostly green light materialized in his palm.
This energy was not docile. Like a globule of living quicksilver, it frantically slammed against the temporary prison Morn had constructed with his magic, emitting a series of teeth-grating hisses.
That icy, bone-chilling aura instantly dropped the surrounding temperature by several degrees, and a thin layer of black frost even condensed on the stone table's surface.
Morn stared at this green light, data streams rapidly refreshing in the depths of his pupils.
This was the 'trash' he had picked up last night near Hagrid's hut.
At the time, Hagrid was wailing over a rooster with a wrung neck.
Amidst that chaotic scene, no one noticed the extremely subtle, yet utterly savage, trace of Dark Artsfluctuation lingering on the stiff rooster corpse.
It was a 'Life Suppression' curse cast by Tom Riddle—through Ginny Weasley's hand—to eliminate the Basilisk's natural enemy.
Although it was merely a remnant of casually cast magic, rapidly dissipating after leaving its host, it still originated from that person's soul fragment.
"Inferior goods..." Morn murmured softly, his voice echoing in the empty stone chamber, "But for me right now, this is the best nourishment."
A complete source of Dark Arts he couldn't swallow; he would be instantly overwhelmed. But this 'echo,' already rootless and left with only pure destructive desire and a killing instinct, was right at the edge of his tolerance limit.
Risk Assessment: Fatality rate 35%. Crippling rate 60%.
Benefit Assessment: Obtain first conceptual-level recovery/attack skill.
That second of hesitation was swiftly extinguished in Morn's mind. In this perilous school, not having a trump card that could instantly turn the tables was more terrifying than death.
"System, begin Fusion."
The moment the command was issued, there was no transition.
The green sphere of light exploded violently, rushing through the pores of Morn's fingertips like ten thousand tiny venomous snakes, madly burrowing into his blood vessels.
"Ugh—!"
Morn bit down hard on his lower lip. Even so, a suppressed groan rolled up from the depths of his throat.
Pain.
Not the pain of being pricked or cut, but as if all the blood in his body had been replaced with strong acid. He could clearly'see'—thanks to the system's internal perspective—that violent green energy rampaging along the meridians of his arm. Wherever it passed, fragile blood vessel walls instantly cracked, and muscle fibers snapped one by one like burnt-out violin strings.
The skin on his right arm instantly turned a terrifying purplish-black, a sign of massive subcutaneous bleeding.
If allowed to rampage unchecked, my right hand would be crippled in three seconds.
Veins bulged on Morn's forehead, and cold sweat instantly soaked through his robes.
At the moment when the excruciating pain almost overwhelmed his reason, an absolute calm flashed in his bloodshot eyes.
"Activate... [Void Body]."
The next second, a bizarre scene unfolded.
Just as the green energy was about to breach the elbow joint, Morn's body suddenly flickered unnaturally.
His physical form vanished.
The blood vessels that should have ruptured from the energy explosion became a 'phantom' caught between reality and the void for that 0.1 second. The green destructive energy lost its target and could only spin futilely in the emptiness.
Immediately after, Morn deactivated the void state.
Physical form returned. The blood vessel walls remained intact. Although the pain persisted, that physically destructive damage had been avoided.
This was the 'playstyle' he was gambling on.
Utilizing the characteristic of [Void Body (blue Limit)] to switch between void and physical states for extremely brief moments, he was performing a precise microscopic operation inside his body.
Energy surges left—voidify left arm blood vessels.
Energy surges back, impacting the heart—voidify chest cavity tissue.
Morn was like a madman dancing on a tightrope. Every flicker was a brush with death. In the Room of Requirement, his figure flickered on and off like a faulty holographic projection.
However, the physical pain was merely the prelude.
When that energy finally realized it couldn't destroy this vessel, it turned its spearhead and charged straight for the brain.
Boom!
The world before Morn's eyes instantly turned blood-red.
Without the buffer of the physical body, that residual will belonging to Tom Riddle crashed directly into his mental world.
This wasn't just sound; it was a violent deluge of memories and emotions.
In an instant,
Morn's self-awareness felt as if it had been dragged into a cold, black vortex.
Countless fragmented images exploded in his mind: the rooster with its neck wrung, the damp, gloomy Chamber of Secrets, and that pure, nauseating—arrogance—that regarded all things as mere weeds.
A savage impulse attempted to forcibly rewrite Morn's neural synapses. In that moment, he felt he was no longer Moen White, but a snake thirsting for slaughter.
Morn knelt on the stone floor, hands gripping the ground fiercely, fingernails breaking, blood trickling.
If an ordinary Wizard came into contact with this level of mental corruption, their self-awareness would disintegrate instantly, reducing them to a mindless killing lunatic.
But deep within Morn's pupils, there was a calm as still as dead water.
Facing this impact strong enough to shatter reason, he did not attempt to refute it with words, nor did he even generate emotions of fear or anger.
[Passive Trigger... [Dark Lord Candidate]]
In the mental world, that originally precarious defensive line did not resist. Instead, it underwent a fundamental—qualitative change.
All sensations of pain, fear, and panic were forcibly severed at this moment by some higher authority.
Morn felt his consciousness instantly elevate, detaching from the convulsing physical body, becoming a pair of indifferent eyes floating in the void, gazing down upon the clamoring green energy below.
That soul fragment originating from the Dark Lord seemed to sense something.
Its previously unrestrained expansion suddenly halted.
It didn't hear a sound, nor did it see an enemy.
It merely sensed an abyss more vast, more profound, and more lacking in 'humanity' than itself.
It was a terrifying existence that, though not yet fully formed, already possessed the stature of a 'monarch.'
There was no mental dialogue, no clash of wills.
Only pure devouring.
That illusory throne constructed by Talent merely manifested silently for an instant. The green will residue, like minced meat hitting a grinder, instantly disintegrated and shattered without even stirring a ripple of struggle.
All the shrieks ceased abruptly.
In the real world, Morn's eyes snapped open, and he gasped for breath in large gulps.
He was drenched all over, as if just pulled from water. A puddle of sweat and blood from his fingertips had pooled on the floor.
That soul-rending agony receded like a tide, replaced by an unprecedented, extremely bizarre... hunger.
This hunger wasn't in his stomach, but deep within every cell.
Morn slowly raised his right hand.
In the center of his originally pale palm, there was now an impossible-to-ignore mark. It was a pale bluish, irregularly shaped blotch, looking like a cadaveric lividity spot appearing on a corpse, exuding an unsettling aura of deathly stillness.
In the upper left corner of his retina, the system prompt finally arrived belatedly:
[Fusion Complete.]
[New Talent Obtained: Life Drain (Incomplete · Curse Type).]
[Description: Born from the resentment of Dark magical creatures and the curse residue of a high-ranking Dark Wizard. Your hands have become gateways for plundering vitality.]
[Effect: When making physical contact with a target, can forcibly drain their life force, converting it into your own stamina/magic power.]
[Current Side Effect: Sanity value in a volatile state. Develops a predatory impulse towards 'living beings.']
Morn stared at that 'lividity spot,' his gaze somewhat dazed.
Just then, a spider that had crawled out from somewhere scurried along the edge of the stone table.
In that instant, the spider in Morn's eyes was no longer an arthropod, but a moving, faint red glow emitting a sweet fragrance.
His Adam's apple bobbed violently. His right hand shot out almost instinctively at an extremely fast speed.
Tap.
The moment his fingertip touched the spider, that 'red glow' flowed into his body through his finger.
The spider didn't even have time to curl up. In the blink of an eye, it shriveled up, becoming an empty husk as if dried for ten years, turning to dust and scattering with a gust of wind.
A faint, almost negligible, but undeniably present, warm current flowed along his arm towards his heart, slightly alleviating that bone-deep hunger.
"Heh heh..."
Morn looked at the dust scattering from his fingertip and let out a low chuckle. The sound seemed particularly eerie in the empty stone chamber.
He took out a handkerchief, carefully wiped the blood from his palm, then retrieved a pair of black leather gloves he had prepared earlier from his pocket, slowly putting them on, covering that hideous lividity spot.
Straighten robes. Cast Scourgify. Adjust facial muscles.
Three seconds later, when he pushed open the door of the Room of Requirement, the monster that devoured life in the darkness had vanished.
Standing in the corridor was still that gentle and refined Ravenclaw Prefect, perhaps just looking a bit pale from studying too hard.
"Time for breakfast," Morn said to himself, his voice so calm it betrayed not a single ripple, "Hopefully there's something... more filling."
Chapter 134: The Hungry Predator
The silver steak knife made a subtle, grating sound as it sliced through the medium-rare steak.
Morn stared at the dark red blood oozing from the meat on his plate. Not only did he feel no appetite, his stomach spasmed with a slight cramp.
The hunger that had persisted since last night was like a beggar frantically banging bowls and plates inside him, letting out a scornful scream at this lavish breakfast spread.
Garbage. All of it is dead matter.
The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of pumpkin juice and the greasy scent of fried sausages. These aromas, which would normally awaken his taste buds, now seeped into his nostrils as a stale smell of wax.
"Morn? You don't look well."
Terry Boot, sitting across from him, leaned forward with concern. His wrist rested on the edge of the table, his cuff slightly rolled up, revealing a section of a blue-green vein.
With the rhythm of his heartbeat, that vein pulsed visibly beneath the thin skin.
Morn's gaze was almost uncontrollably drawn to that throbbing point.
In his field of vision, Terry was no longer a living person, but a 'blood bag' filled with scalding, vibrant, lethally enticing fragrance.
That layer of skin was too thin. It would only take a light scratch of a fingernail, or—a direct grip with his right hand.
Grip it. Drain him dry. It's warm. It's sweet.
That violent thought, originating from the remnant soul of Tom Riddle, let out a greedy gulp from the depths of his mind.
Morn's right hand, hidden under the table, clenched violently. The fingertips of his black leather glove dug deep into his palm. Using that sharp sting of pain, he forcibly dragged his nearly out-of-control nerves back to reality.
If I don't control this, in three seconds I'll be a new resident of Azkaban.
"I stayed up too late last night reviewing Ancient Runes." Morn looked up, wearing a flawless, slightly weary smile.
His gaze shifted away from Terry's wrist with perfect naturalness, focusing on the spot between his eyebrows—a social technique to avoid eye contact that might reveal murderous intent. "You know how Ancient Runes are, always a headache."
"True, you always push yourself so hard." Terry shrugged, withdrawing his hand to reach for the butter. "If I were you, I'd be thanking my lucky stars even with just an 'Outstanding'."
Watching Terry's hand retract, Morn felt a surge of intense disappointment well up inside him, followed immediately by profound self-loathing.
I can't stay here any longer.
Too many living people here. The temptation is too concentrated.
Morn mechanically speared a piece of steak with his fork, shoved it into his mouth, and forced himself to swallow it with barely any chewing, as if performing a form of torture.
"I'm full." He set down his knife and fork, the movement so gentle it made no sound. "I think I'll get some air in the courtyard, clear my head."
Without waiting for Terry's response, Morn stood up. The hem of his robe swept in a sharp arc as he turned.
His pace as he left the Great Hall wasn't fast; each step was planted firmly. But he knew himself—this was more like a rout.
Crossing the bustling Entrance Hall, avoiding groups of students, Morn headed straight for a disused stone corridor on the west side of the Castle.
The temperature here was much lower than indoors. A cold wind whipped through, carrying withered leaves across the ground.
There was no one around at the moment.
Morn leaned against a cold stone pillar and violently tore off the leather glove on his right hand.
The faint blue-green lividity on his palm was burning hot, like a mouth craving food.
The hunger had burned its way up to his throat. He felt that if he didn't immediately take in something through his hands, this hand would turn and devour his sanity.
Squeak—
A plump gray rat had crawled out from some crack in the wall and now paused on a pile of rubble a few steps away, its beady eyes warily sizing up this human intruder.
Prey.
Morn's pupils instantly contracted to pinpoints.
He didn't draw his wand, nor did he utter a spell.
In that instant, he made an extremely precise judgment: using a wand would leave a magical trace. This place was remote, but there was no guarantee Filch wouldn't pass by. Physical capture.
[Void Body] activated.
Morn's figure flickered oddly in the air. This wasn't for phasing through walls, but to eliminate the sound of footsteps and air resistance.
The next moment, he appeared before the rat as if he had teleported.
The rat didn't even have time to squeal before a pale hand firmly seized it by the scruff of its neck.
"Got you."
Morn's voice was terrifyingly hoarse.
He gave the rat no chance to struggle. His right hand exerted force, and the lividity on his palm pressed directly against the rat's warm fur.
[Talent Activated: Life Drain.]
In that moment, time seemed to slow down.
Morn clearly felt a surge of scalding heat flow into his palm. It wasn't blood, but something purer—this creature's 'time', its 'vitality', the 'possibility' of the two more years it could have lived.
This feeling... was too wonderful.
It was like taking a gulp of burning liquor on the coldest day of winter. That surge of heat rushed up his right arm, instantly flooding his entire body's parched meridians. Every cell cheered and sighed with satisfaction. The maddening hunger he felt in the Great Hall was instantly soothed to a great extent.
Meanwhile, in his hand, the rat, which had been desperately kicking its legs, underwent a horrifying transformation visible to the naked eye.
Its fur lost its luster, turning dull and brittle; its plump muscles rapidly withered and collapsed; its once bright, beady eyes grew cloudy and gray, finally sinking deep into their sockets.
In just three seconds.
The once plump rat had turned into a light, desiccated corpse, as if it had been sun-dried in a desert for half a century.
Morn released his grip.
Plop.
The desiccated corpse fell onto the stone slab with a brittle sound. One of its hind legs even snapped off from the impact.
Morn stood still, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. A sickly flush even appeared on his face—a sign of excitement from an excess of vitality.
A data stream frantically scrolled across the upper left corner of his retina:
[Successfully drained a minuscule amount of Life Essence.]
[Stamina restored: 100%. Magic power restored: 15%.]
[Warning: Detected fear emotions from the foreign life imprint impacting the cerebral domain.]
Morn opened his eyes. A flash of crimson light flickered and vanished within his originally black pupils.
Morn looked down at the twisted, desiccated corpse. His stomach convulsed with an instinctive, physiological revulsion.
It wasn't just visual disgust; it was a shudder from a species-deep instinct—like the frantic warning screaming from the depths of a normal person's genes upon witnessing cannibalism.
But after that brief wave of nausea, what surged up was an intoxicating, overwhelming sense of fullness.
He was surprised to find that he didn't feel the slightest shred of so-called 'guilt'. In his perception, what had just died wasn't a living creature, but merely a lemon squeezed dry of its juice, or a lump of coal burned to ash.
Is this the price?
Stripped of reverence for life, leaving only calculations about 'fuel'.
Morn looked at his own hands, which were unnervingly calm. A chill deeper than the earlier disgust crawled up his spine—he felt alienated by his own indifference.
"Is this... the feeling of a Predator?"
Morn murmured to himself, his voice devoid of fear, holding only a chilling calmness.
He slowly crouched down and extended his left hand—the clean one—to pick up the desiccated corpse.
Can't leave this here. The state of this corpse is too bizarre. If Dumbledore or Snape saw it, they'd recognize in an instant that this was life drained by Dark Arts.
Morn's fingers gently brushed over the fragile bones of the desiccated corpse.
Destroy it? No, that would be a waste.
His gaze shifted to the edge of the Black Lake not far from the corridor. There was a patch of muddy swamp there, used for disposing of magical creature waste.
"Incendio."
He didn't use his wand. Instead, a wisp of eerie blue Fiendfyre flame ignited at his fingertip—a high-temperature flame he simulated through precise system control. While not as inextinguishable as true Fiendfyre, its temperature was sufficient.
The rat's desiccated corpse instantly turned to ashes in the blue flames, not even bone fragments remaining.
Morn stood up, took out a spotless white handkerchief, meticulously wiped each finger of his right hand, and then put the black leather glove back on.
The hunger was gone, replaced by a sense of surging power and a more dangerous, subconscious impulse to seek larger prey.
The rat was just an appetizer.
That voice whispered in his mind.
If you tasted a Wizard... even just a mudblood... "Shut up."
Morn coldly rebuked the voice in his mind, forcibly activating the passive effect of [Dark Lord Candidate] to suppress that bloodthirsty impulse back into the abyss of his consciousness.
He straightened his slightly disheveled robe collar and turned to walk back towards the Castle.
The first class was Defense Against the Dark Arts. Remus Lupin's class.
Morn's footsteps faltered slightly. That man, always dressed in shabby robes with gentle eyes, was far more dangerous than the previous Lockhart or Quirrell.
A wolf possesses a sense of smell a hundred times keener than a human's, especially when it comes to distinguishing 'kin' and 'the scent of blood'.