Ch: 26-35
Chapter 26: The Tea Party of Two Brains
Professor Flitwick's office was much warmer than the Charms Class, almost to the point of being stuffy.
The cramped room was filled to the ceiling with books and various glittering silver trophies; the air was thick with the rich aroma of Earl Grey tea, mixed with the dry, dusty scent characteristic of old parchment.
Moen White sat in a floral armchair that was a bit too short and soft for him, his gaze sweeping over a brass metronome ticking rhythmically on the desk. Tick, tick, tick.
That steady rhythm created a strange resonance with the current computational frequency of [Trinity] in his mind.
"Regarding that 'Particle Coordinate System' theory..."
Professor Flitwick laboriously climbed onto the high chair opposite him, holding an exquisite tea tray.
Though his deeply lined face wore a smile, his eyes had become exceptionally sharp—the scrutinizing gaze of the Ravenclaw Dean.
"While it sounds fascinating, Mr. White, I must remind you that the Dark Arts in the Restricted Section..." The Professor slowed his pace as if weighing his words, "They require not just calculation power, but extremely strong mental resistance. Many brilliant Wizards, by attempting to construct overly massive magic architectures in their minds, ultimately ended up with... mental breakdowns."
He placed the tea tray on the desk but did not pour the tea.
This was a silent form of pressure. He was testing Morn's psychological threshold.
"Are you worried I'll become the next 'Researcher' to go mad from over-studying?"
Morn looked at the Professor calmly, his hands resting naturally on his knees.
"Human consciousness is limited, like a pipe that can only flow in one direction," Professor Flitwickgestured seriously. "When you try to gaze at the abyss and the sky simultaneously, the pipe bursts. This is why I don't recommend first-year students touching 'Secrets of the Darkest Art'—your 'pipes' are still too fragile."
"Pipe..."
Morn chewed on the word, a faint, barely perceptible curve forming at the corner of his mouth.
For an ordinary Wizard, this was indeed the truth.
But for someone with 1.8 soul strength and the [Trinity] Talent, such a worry was as redundant as worrying that a supercomputer would crash from running two games of Minesweeper.
"What if..."
Morn leaned forward slightly, his deep gray eyes devoid of any emotional fluctuation, showing only absolute rationality. "What if I have more than one pipe?"
"What?" Professor Flitwick was stunned for a moment.
Morn didn't explain further. He decided to answer with action.
This was the bargaining chip he had to display to obtain resources—not just being a genius, but possessing monster-level control.
[Talent Activation: Trinity (blue)]
[Multi-threaded Task Allocation: Activated]
Under Professor Flitwick's puzzled gaze, Morn began a performance worthy of being recorded in Hogwarts history.
Thread A (Language Center): "Regarding the issue of mental load you just mentioned, Professor."
Morn's voice was steady and clear, without any pauses or hesitation. "I believe the essence of mental strength lies in diversion. As long as emotion is stripped from logic, one can maintain absolute detached observation while handling high-risk magic."
At the same time.
Thread B (Wandless Casting/Left Hand): Morn didn't reach for the teapot. His left hand, resting on his knee, merely twitched its index finger.
On the desk, the heavy silver teapot seemed to be lifted by an invisible hand, floating elegantly into the air.
The spout tilted, and the amber tea drew a perfect arc in the air, landing precisely in the porcelain cup before Professor Flitwick without splashing a single drop.
Professor Flitwick's eyes instantly widened.
Non-verbal, wandless magic? That was already difficult, but how could he do this while discussing profound magical theory?
But it wasn't over yet.
Thread C (Fine Wand Manipulation/Right Hand): While the tea was being poured, Morn's right hand had at some point drawn his Holly Wand.
He didn't wave it, but simply tapped the tip of the wand lightly against the rim of the teacup.
"Ice Freeze - Modified: Constant Temperature." An extremely faint but terrifyingly precise glimmer of blue light flashed.
The originally scalding tea did not freeze; instead, it instantly stopped steaming, its temperature forcibly and dominantly locked at the most optimal 55 degrees Celsius for drinking.
Three threads merged into one.
In the same second, Morn completed three things:
He articulated complex magical theory.
He used delicate telekinesis to pour tea.
He cast a precise temperature-control spell.
The entire process was as smooth as flowing water, without a single tremor in the air from magical conflict or a single facial twitch from mental strain. He looked as relaxed as if he had simply blinked.
"Please have some tea, Professor."
Morn withdrew his wand, and the teapot landed steadily.
His tone was no different than when he was discussing theory, and even his breathing remained perfectly consistent.
Plop.
A ginger biscuit Professor Flitwick was holding dropped into the freshly poured tea, causing a small splash.
But he didn't care at all.
The former dueling champion, a Ravenclaw Dean who had seen countless geniuses, was now looking at Morn as if he were an alien creature.
He felt his understanding of the 'human brain' collapsing.
This wasn't just 'doing two things at once'.
This was parallel processing.
It was as if three Moen Whites were sitting across from him simultaneously—one speaking, one pouring tea, and one casting magic.
"This... this is impossible..."
Professor Flitwick reached out with a trembling hand, even forgetting to fish out the soggy biscuit. He felt the three distinct yet harmoniously coexisting magical echoes in the air.
"Double... no, a multiple spell-casting architecture?"
The Professor's voice became dry. "Mr. White, do you have a choir of Dementors living in your head? How did you manage to maintain precise telekinetic control while also diverting your mind to suppress the temperature, and... and still debate philosophy with me so logically?"
"Like I said, Professor."
Morn picked up his own cup of tea and blew gently on it, taking in the refreshing bergamot scent of the tea. "As long as there are enough pipes, the abyss and the sky can actually be watched at the same time."
He set down the teacup and looked intently at the still-shocked little Professor.
"Now, do you still think my mental strength is insufficient to read those... 'little tricks' in the Restricted Section?"
Professor Flitwick took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart.
He looked at Morn, the worry in his eyes completely vanished, replaced by a fervor as if he had discovered a rare treasure—and a hint of deep awe for this inhuman Talent.
"No... of course not."
Professor Flitwick hopped down from his chair, walked quickly behind his desk, and pulled out a piece of parchment. His quill moved rapidly across it, making a scratching sound.
"If you went mad just from reading a few books, it would only mean the book itself was mad."
The Professor handed the slip with wet ink to Morn; it was the key to Hogwarts' most dangerous repository of knowledge.
"Take it. Also..."
Professor Flitwick turned and pulled a black notebook with a heavily worn cover from the deepest part of the bookshelf.
"These are some... insights from my younger days when I participated in the All-England Dueling Competition. Since you have this cheat-like multi-threaded brain, I think there are some combat techniques originally meant only for Aurors that you can start practicing now."
Morn took the heavy notebook.
It was cold to the touch, carrying the texture of time and magic.
"Thank you, Professor."
Morn tucked it into his robes.
His heart gave a powerful thrum in his chest.
The hardware was ready; now, the top-tier software was in his hands as well.
Chapter 27: The Champion's Blade Test
Morn's fingers had just brushed the cool leather cover of that Black Dueling Notebook, tucking it securely into a hidden pocket inside his robes. The heavy pressure against his ribs gave him a sense of profound, steady satisfaction.
However, the very millisecond his fingertips left the fabric of his robes—
The atmosphere in the office shifted.
The cozy ambiance, a blend of black tea aroma and the musty scent of old books, was instantly torn to shreds by a sharp, skin-pricking sensation of static.
There was no incantation, nor any preparatory movement.
Professor Flitwick, standing behind the desk, moved the hand that had just been holding a quill to write a note so fast it became a blurred afterimage.
Zzt—!
A brilliant and searing red beam of light erupted from the tip of his wand.
The air was instantly ionized, emitting a tooth-aching crackle.
The spell tore through the less than three-meter distance between them, heading straight for Morn's chest.
It was Expelliarmus.
But it wasn't the soft practice version used among students; it was a combat version with true dueling intensity, powerful enough to blast someone against a wall and knock them unconscious for half a day.
"An excellent probe."
Morn's brain didn't even produce the redundant emotion of'surprise.'
In his sensory world, time once again became viscous and slow.
[Talent Activated: Nerve Swiftness (blue)]
[Adrenaline Pump: Completed]
[Threat Assessment: Directly Ahead / Speed: Fast / Trajectory: Linear]
The moment before the red spell beam could touch the buttons of his robes, Morn's world turned into a grayscale, slow-motion silent film.
He clearly saw the violent, leaping red arcs of electricity at the edges of the beam and smelled the faint, burnt scent of ozone in the air.
He didn't need to think.
His body was faster than his consciousness.
Morn's left foot kicked back hard, the friction between his sole and the carpet making a dull thud.
His body didn't roll clumsily like a startled cat; instead, like a piece of paper caught in the wind, he slid precisely half a step to the right.
Whoosh. The scorching red light flew past the outside of his left arm, the high temperature even causing the cuff of his robe to curl and char.
For an ordinary student, dodging this strike would have been the limit.
But Moen White was a predator. A predator's instinct isn't to run, but to—counterattack.
At the moment he turned sideways, his right wrist flicked in a fluid motion.
The Holly Wand he had been holding all along traced an extremely short, fast, and sharp 'Z' shape in the air.
He didn't attack the Professor; that would be a death wish.
His target was the burning brass oil lamp beside the Professor.
"Diffindo."
Morn chanted silently in his mind.
But he didn't unleash all his magic to shatter the lamp. Instead, utilizing the supreme control of Trinity, he compressed the destructive magic into an invisible blade as thin as a cicada's wing.
Rip.
An extremely faint sound, like fabric being torn, rang out.
The Expelliarmus fired by Professor Flitwick slammed hard into the bookshelf behind Morn, sending several large volumes flying and scattering pages everywhere.
And at the same time—
The wick of the oil lamp on the Professor's desk looked as if it had been sliced by an invisible scalpel.
The burning flame didn't go out, but the wick was cut cleanly into two sections.
The small top section of the wick, still carrying the flame, tumbled once in the air before falling onto the desk and sizzling out.
Stillness.
The only sounds left in the office were the thuds of the books hitting the floor and the faint wisp of bluesmoke rising from the extinguished half-wick.
Professor Flitwick remained in the posture of having raised his wand.
His sharp little eyes stared fixedly at Morn through the mess of books and dancing dust.
Then, he slowly lowered his wand.
The wrinkles on that serious face smoothed out, revealing a smile with a hint of wildness that Morn had never seen before.
"Good move."
Professor Flitwick praised, his voice no longer possessing the mildness of an old academic but instead carrying a metallic quality. "Most first-years would only scream in this situation, or foolishly fumble for their wands. But you..."
He looked down at the precisely severed wick.
The cut was as smooth as a mirror.
"Counterattacking while dodging, and with precision controlled to the millimeter." The Professor looked up, his eyes burning. "That is a combat instinct even Aurors might not possess. Mr. White, your brain isn't just for calculation; it's also for killing."
"I just don't like being a passive target, Professor."
Morn calmly straightened his slightly messy robe cuffs, the smell of char still lingering at the tip of his nose. "And, as you said, if there are enough pipelines, I can process both 'dodge' and 'counterattack' simultaneously."
"Hahaha! Well said!"
Professor Flitwick slapped the table excitedly, making the half-wick jump. "Since you have such hardware, I'll teach you a truly practical piece of'software'."
He waved his wand, summoning the notebook back to him, flipped to a middle page, and pointed to a complex wand gesture.
"The way you used the Severing Charm just now was conceptually correct, but the magical form was too scattered."
The Professor's voice lowered as he began to impart genuine secrets. "What the school teaches is for cutting fabric and rope. But in a duel, you need to imagine it as an invisible sword."
"Listen, Mr. White."
Professor Flitwick's wand drew a sharp triangle in the air. "Don't think about'separating'; think about'severing.' Compress the magic to its limit, turning it into a line rather than a plane."
"Like this—"
The Professor casually flicked his wand at a fly buzzing in the air.
There was no light.
Morn only felt an extremely dangerous, cold ripple flash through the air.
The fly disintegrated in mid-air. It wasn't smashed; it was sliced cleanly into two halves, without even the patterns on its wings being damaged.
"This is a variant technique of the Powerful Cutting Curse." Professor Flitwick winked. "I called it the 'Shadowless Blade' when I was young. While not as vicious as the Sectumsempra invented by Professor Snape, it's enough to cut through most Shield Charms."
Morn stared at the fly's carcass on the desk, his dark gray pupils contracting sharply.
This was exactly what he wanted.
Simple, stealthy, and lethal.
Combined with his Nerve Swiftness and Soul Scent, this move would become his most terrifying weapon in close-quarters combat.
"I want to try it, Professor."
Morn raised his wand, a glint of eagerness flashing in his eyes.
"Of course, of course." Professor Flitwick casually conjured a row of wooden stakes. "Come, let me see what that 'multi-core brain' of yours can evolve this move into. Don't hold back; treat them as the necks of Trolls."
The afterglow of the setting sun streamed through the window, casting long shadows of the old man and the young boy.
The office once again filled with that hair-raising sound of air being torn apart—'shink, shink.'
For Moen White, true life at Hogwarts had only just begun.
He was no longer just a thief who relied on sneak attacks and devouring.
He was becoming a warrior.
Chapter 28: The Golden Meteor
The moment he stepped out of Professor Flitwick's office, a draft carrying the chill of late autumn swept through the Castle corridor, dispersing the lingering scent of burnt material and black tea from Morn's nose.
It was now dusk.
The setting sun was like blood, dyeing the massive stone courtyard of Hogwarts into a magnificent shade of orange-red.
The air was filled with the fresh scent of a newly mown lawn and the faint smell of water vapor drifting from the distant Black Lake.
Morn tightened his robes, feeling the hard edges of the black notebook in his inner pocket pressing against his ribs. That tangible sense of "harvest" made his steps light and rhythmic.
The background threads of [Trinity] were automatically reviewing the magic circuit of that earlier [Powerful Cutting Curse], attempting to solidify the technique of "compressing magic into a line" into muscle memory.
"Over here! Cedric! It's flying upward!"
"Careful, Cho! Don't fly too high, the wind is a bit strong!"
A burst of noisy shouting and the sharp whooshing of broomsticks slicing through the air broke the silence of the courtyard.
Morn stopped in his tracks, frowning slightly.
He looked up, his dark gray pupils reflecting the scene in the sky.
About thirty feet above the ground, two figures were chasing each other at high speed on broomsticks against the setting sun.
One was a tall boy wearing the yellow Hufflepuff team uniform, performing high-difficulty rolling maneuvers;
The other was a petite girl with long black hair wearing the blue Ravenclaw team uniform, leaning low on her broom and diving like a nimble swallow.
"Quidditch..."
Morn commented coldly in his mind, "An inefficient kinetic energy conversion sport."
To him, who possessed [Photosynthetic Digestion] and [Nerve Swiftness], this game of chasing a ball while riding a wooden stick was as dull as primitive humans chasing wild rabbits.
He withdrew his gaze, not intending to stop and admire, and prepared to cross the courtyard to return to the common room.
However, accidents always like to find those who want to ignore them.
Vroom—!
A high-frequency vibration, sharp as fingernails scraping a blackboard, suddenly exploded by his ear.
The Golden Snitch being chased by the two, seemingly due to an overly tricky flight path, had crashed into the wing of a gargoyle and suffered a mechanical failure.
Like an out-of-control golden bullet, it emitted an angry hum, changed its original upward trajectory, and charged straight and fiercely toward Morn, who was walking in the center of the courtyard.
"Watch out! Get out of the way!"
The Hufflepuff boy in the air shouted in terror.
The kinetic energy of this all-metal sphere flying at top speed was enough to break a person's nose bridge.
Fifty feet.
Thirty feet.
Ten feet.
Several passing lower-year students covered their eyes and screamed in fright.
But in Morn's world, the clamor receded, and everything became silent.
[Talent Activated: Nerve Swiftness (blue)]
[Threat Assessment: Extremely Low / Trajectory: Directly Ahead / Speed: Corrected to Slow]
Morn didn't even stop his pace, nor did he make any clumsy dodging movements.
He simply raised his right hand casually while walking.
The Snitch, which appeared as a golden streak to ordinary people, became a delicate mechanical toy slowly drifting down while flapping its silver wings on his retina. He could even see the fine patterns on the Snitch's surface and a tiny dent caused by the impact.
"Too noisy."
Morn's fingers were like a pair of precision hydraulic pliers. A second before the golden ball was about to hit his brow, he accurately reached into the gap between its high-speed vibrating wings.
Snap.
A crisp sound of metal impact.
The frantically struggling Golden Snitch instantly went quiet.
Its two wings were clamped tightly between Morn's index and middle fingers, still vibrating in vain and emitting a sizzling electric sound, but unable to move forward another inch.
Whoosh—! Whoosh—!
Two sharp sounds of wind landed in front of Morn, kicking up a cloud of dust and grass clippings.
"Merlin's beard!"
The Hufflepuff boy jumped off his broom and ran over, panting. He had an extremely handsome face, and his gray eyes were full of shock and lingering fear. "Hey! Are... are you okay? I thought it was going to hit you!"
The Ravenclaw girl followed closely behind. She had a typically exquisite Eastern face and was currently staring at Morn's hand holding the Snitch with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"You are... the first-year Moen White?"
Cho Chang recognized this junior who had recently become famous in the house (albeit for his eccentric personality). "You... you just caught it barehanded?"
Morn looked at the two expressionlessly. Trinity's analysis thread instantly scanned their bodies.
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: Cedric Diggory
Talent: [Favored Son of Heaven (blue)]
Effect: Comprehensive qualities (Charisma/Physique/Magic) are balanced and at the top level, with extremely strong affinity and luck.
Target: Cho Chang
Talent: [Wind Affinity (Green)]
Effect: In flight, body weight is reduced, and wind resistance is lowered by 30%.
"Decent stats," Morn thought to himself.
Especially Cedric; that blue light was pure and warm, practically a walking "protagonist halo."
"If you're looking for this."
Morn raised his hand and handed over the Golden Snitch, which was still vibrating frantically at his fingertips, trying to escape.
His fingers were long, pale, and steady, forming a strong visual contrast with the golden sphere.
"Next time, please check its gyroscope," Morn's voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. "Its flight path is deviating 15 degrees to the left."
Cedric blankly took the Snitch, watching Morn's back as he turned to leave, and suddenly reacted.
"Wait! White!"
He chased after him a few steps, his eyes flashing with excitement. "Your reaction speed is incredible! Even the Seeker on our team might not be able to catch an out-of-control Snitch like that barehanded! Are you interested in joining Hufflepuff... oh wait, you're in Ravenclaw."
He turned his head to look at Cho Chang as if he had discovered a new world. "Cho! Doesn't your team still need a reserve Seeker? This is a natural Talent!"
Cho Chang also reacted. She looked at Morn's back, her gaze becoming eager.
"Junior White! Wait! Do you have a broomstick? If you're willing, this Saturday we could..."
"Not interested."
Morn didn't even look back. His voice drifted over coldly, interrupting the invitation from this Hogwartsschool beauty.
"Chasing a ball on a broomstick is a waste of time. I have more important things to do."
He wasn't trying to act aloof.
He truly felt that instead of using [Nerve Swiftness], which could catch a fly's wing, to catch a ball, it would be more worthwhile to use it to cut off an opponent's wand in a duel or to catch a couple of dangerous magical creatures in the Forbidden Forest.
Cedric and Cho Chang stood on the lawn under the setting sun, looking at each other.
A gust of evening wind blew past, swirling a few withered yellow leaves.
"Is he... always this cool?" Cedric scratched his hair and smiled somewhat awkwardly.
"I don't know," Cho Chang pursed her lips thoughtfully as she watched Morn's back disappear into the shadows. "But I've heard Professor Flitwick mention him... supposedly he's a freak who only talks to books. But that move just now..."
She looked down at the Golden Snitch in Cedric's hand, which still bore finger marks.
"That is definitely not a move a bookworm could make."
In the shadows of the corridor.
Morn listened to the whispers of the two behind him, a mocking curve forming at the corner of his mouth.
"A freak, huh..."
He touched the wand in his robes.
If it were before, he might have cared about such an evaluation.
But now, as a predator with [Trinity] and a soul strength of 1.8, the sheep's evaluation of the wolf meant nothing to him.
"Three more days until Halloween."
Morn's thoughts jumped to the next node.
"Quirrell... or the one on the back of his head, should be moving soon to let the Troll in."
That would be his next hunting ground.
Not just for the Troll's Talent, but more importantly... for that secret belonging to the remnant soul of Lord Voldemort, which had been hiding under the smell of garlic.
Chapter 29: Dead Pages and Noisy Mortals
Moen White's long, pale fingers pressed firmly onto the heavy cover of a book titled "Encyclopedia of Medieval Evil Spirits," his fingertips turning slightly white from the excessive force.
The book was trembling violently.
It wasn't because of the wind; rather, like a beast pinned by a hunter's hand at its throat, it was frantically trying to snap open its two pages—hard as clam shells—to bite Morn's palm with the jagged edges of its paper.
"Shh... be quiet."
Morn didn't make a sound, merely commanding coldly in his mind.
Deep within his dark gray pupils, a stream of data that only he could see was scrolling frantically.
[Talent Activated: Spiritual Plunder (Contact Type · Low Power · Continuous Siphon)]
There were no flashy magical light effects.
But in Morn's sensory world, this scene was filled with a certain spine-chilling aesthetic of feeding.
An invisible, grayish-black flocculent mist was being forcibly extracted along the rough lizard-skin texture of the spine, flowing continuously into his fingertips.
It was a piercing chill, similar to plunging a hand into ice water, mixed with the bitter, rusty scent of old ink. It surged along his nerve endings straight to the cerebral cortex, bringing a tipsy sense of satiety.
The book's struggle began to weaken.
The cover, originally as tense as a stone, slowly softened. The violent residual will of the writer contained within the paper fibers was being squeezed dry by Morn, bit by bit, like someone sucking marrow from a bone.
Three seconds later.
The book stopped moving entirely.
It lay limp on the oak tabletop like a dead snake with its spine removed. Even the eerie, dark luster on the original cover had faded, turning it into an ordinary, even somewhat shabby, reference book.
[Devour Complete.]
[Target spirituality exhausted.]
[soul strength slightly increased: 1.82 ➜ 1.83]
Morn let go and gently stroked the now lifeless spine.
The joy of this "free meal" provided a slight relief to his tense nerves.
Although the gain from a single instance was extremely low, there were thousands of eccentric books in this library. To him, this place was an inexhaustible buffet.
"Oh, Mr. White."
A dry breeze carrying the scent of mothballs came from behind.
Madam Pince passed by, pushing the book cart that always made a creaking sound. Her face, which was always as alert as a vulture's, softened slightly when she saw Morn.
She glanced at the "Encyclopedia of Evil Spirits" lying obediently on the table, a flash of surprise crossing her eyes.
"This old fellow is notorious for its bad temper; it nearly bit off a Gryffindor's finger last time. But in your hands... it looks as docile as a fairy tale book."
"Knowledge also needs soothing, Madam."
Morn picked up the book and casually flipped through the pages, which had become somewhat brittle due to the loss of spirituality. His tone was humble and polite. "Perhaps I am just better at giving them a 'massage'."
Madam Pince nodded approvingly and even took another chain-locked book from the cart—"Habits of the Screaming Mandrake."
"Since you have a way with them, could you help me look at this one too? It's been so noisy lately it's giving me a migraine. If you can make it shut up, you can borrow it for an extra two days."
"I'd be happy to help."
Morn took the book, which was still vibrating under the chains, feeling the abundant, violent soul within that was about to become his nourishment. An elegant smile curled at the corners of his mouth... Half an hour later.
In front of Morn sat three magic books that had been "cured" (sucked dry).
This high-intensity spiritual feeding had sharpened his senses to the extreme; even the sound of a spider crawling across a bookshelf was clearly audible.
Because of this, the noise coming from not far away became exceptionally piercing.
It was the table where Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were sitting.
The two were buried in a mess of parchment, scratching their heads over tomorrow's Transfigurationessay.
"This makes no sense at all!"
Ron slammed his quill onto the table in frustration, ink splattering. "Professor McGonagall wants twelve inches on the principles of 'Switching Spells'... but I've only written two lines! Why does this damn teapot have to turn into a turtle instead of a rabbit?"
Harry pushed his glasses up helplessly, his hair as messy as a bird's nest. "Don't ask me, Ron. I haven't even figured out the hardness conversion formula for the turtle shell."
At the table next to them, across an aisle that felt like a Great Divide.
Hermione Granger sat alone behind a fortress built of massive tomes.
She heard Ron's complaint, and her movements paused visibly.
She looked up, her brown eyes flashing with an instinctive urge to correct him, but then she remembered Ron mocking her in the corridor for having "no friends."
Hermione pursed her lips, let out a loud, contemptuous huff, and then forcefully flipped a page.
Flip—!
The sound of the page turning was particularly abrupt in the quiet library, filled with a sense of defiance.
"Did you hear that?" Ron whispered, his face flushing red as he gritted his teeth at Harry. "She's doing it on purpose! Showing off that she finished ages ago!"
"Forget it, Ron..." Harry glanced awkwardly toward Hermione, trying to dissuade him.
This nutritionless cold war, filled with adolescent hormonal agitation, severely interfered with Morn's thought threads.
The model regarding "Mandrake sonic frequencies" he had just established in his mind through [Trinity] was shaken, and a crack appeared due to the noise.
"Truly... inefficient creatures."
Morn closed the last book.
He stood up, tucking the "food" that had turned into scrap paper under his arm.
As he passed the area filled with the awkward atmosphere, a trace of the mental pressure belonging to his 1.83 soul strength leaked out unconsciously along with his impatient gaze.
The air seemed to freeze instantly.
Ron, who had been muttering curses, suddenly felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. An instinctive fear, like being stared at by a top predator deep in the Forbidden Forest, made him shut his mouth instantly, and he even held his breath.
Harry also subconsciously shrank his neck and turned his head in alarm, only to see a thin, upright back passing by them.
Morn didn't stop his pace.
But as he passed Hermione's "book fortress," his gaze swept over the book she had open on top—"Hogwarts: A History."
Hermione was anxiously searching for something among the dense text with her finger, her brow furrowed.
"If you're looking for records on the construction of the Slytherin Chamber of Secrets, Granger."
Morn's voice was very light, like a cold breeze drifting through the air, yet it entered the ears of the three clearly.
He didn't even turn his head to look at her, and his pace didn't falter for a second.
"That's the revised edition censored by the Board of Governors. Real history isn't written in books meant for good children."
Hermione looked up sharply, staring in shock at Morn's departing back, her mouth slightly agape and the quill in her hand suspended in mid-air.
The information she had spent all afternoon failing to find had been seen through by this person in a single glance, and he had even pointed out the root cause.
"How did he know I was looking for the Chamber of Secrets?" Hermione murmured to herself, her face somewhat pale.
On the other side, Ron and Harry looked at each other.
"What's he talking about? The Chamber of Secrets?" Ron swallowed hard, the suffocating feeling of being watched by a beast not yet fully faded. "How does he walk without making a sound... like a ghost."
Morn paid no mind to the commotion behind him.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the library and stepped into the dim corridor.
The corridor walls were already hung with giant jack-o'-lanterns flickering with orange candlelight, and several real bats were fluttering their wings beneath the ceiling.
A strong scent of roasted pumpkin mixed with the smell of burning candles rushed toward him.
But beneath this festive atmosphere, Morn's [Soul Scent] caught a highly discordant odor.
It was the smell of garlic.
A rotten, excessive smell of garlic used to mask the stench of a corpse.
"Tomorrow night..."
Morn watched the sunset gradually sinking into the Black Lake outside the window, a flash of expectant blood-red passing through his dark gray eyes.
"The real feast is about to begin."
Chapter 30: The Cat That Forgot How to Hunt
The stone floor in the corridor had just been waxed, reflecting the flickering orange glow of the thousands of jack-o'-lanterns hanging on the walls.
The chilly dampness that should have been in the air was now masked by a rich, cloying sweetness of roasted pumpkin and the distinct smell of tar from burning candles.
Moen White's leather shoes clicked against the stone tiles, producing crisp echoes of "clack, clack."
His pace was steady, each step landing precisely in the center of the stone seams. The background threads of [Trinity] were automatically calculating the optimal interception route for the Troll that might appear during tomorrow's Halloween feast.
Suddenly, a hair-raising sob came from around the corner ahead.
The sound wasn't ethereal like a ghost's wail, but full of thick phlegm and desperate gasps, sounding like an old bellows being choked.
Morn stopped and tilted his head slightly. [Soul Scent] instantly captured a sour stench mixed with stale mustiness, cheap gin, and a certain sickly anxiety.
It was Argus Filch.
Morn turned the corner, and even he, the instigator, couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the sight before him.
Filch, the caretaker who usually patrolled the corridors with a lantern like a malevolent spirit, eager to hang any student who breathed too loudly from the ceiling, was currently kneeling on the ground.
The hem of his perpetually greasy brown robes was covered in dust. His wrinkled face was streaked with old tears, and his bloodshot, malicious eyes were now filled with helpless panic.
In front of him was the once-dreaded Madam Norris.
But the scrawny cat's current state was very... peculiar.
It didn't have its tail alertly upright as usual, scanning for rule-breakers with eyes like red light bulbs.
Instead, it was lying on its back next to a decorative pumpkin, shamelessly exposing its belly with its tongue lolling to one side, trying to catch an ordinary fly buzzing around a jack-o'-lantern.
"Oh, my sweet... what's wrong with you? Look at Daddy!"
Filch reached out a hand like a withered branch, trying to help the cat up. "That's White! That Ravenclaw student! He's right there! You should hiss at him! You should keep your eyes on him!"
A week ago, Madam Norris would have bristled and hissed an alarm.
But now.
Hearing Filch's call, Madam Norris only sluggishly rolled over.
Her once intelligent red eyes had become like two cloudy glass beads, dull and vacant.
She glanced at Morn without any hostility, or even the basic biological instinct of fear.
"Meow~"
She let out a soft cry and then wobbled to Filch's feet, beginning to rub against his trouser leg like an untrained, pampered, and foolish house cat.
"No... no!!"
Filch broke down.
He scooped up the cat, burying his face in its dirty fur, and let out a heart-wrenching howl. "Who did this?! Was it Peeves? Or those two villains from the Weasley family? Did they cast a Memory Charm on you? Why... why aren't you hunting anymore?"
Morn stood quietly in the shadows, hands in his robe pockets, his fingers lightly stroking the smooth surface of his wand.
[Observation Record: Target (Madam Norris)]
[Status: Spiritual Core Missing / Hunting Instinct: 0%]
[Conclusion: Damage caused by Soul Plundering is irreversible.]
"How pitiful,"
Morn commented coldly in his mind, but a perfectly timed expression of detached concern appeared on his face. He took a step forward, intentionally making his footsteps a bit heavier.
Filch snapped his head up, his red, swollen eyes glaring at Morn like a wounded mad dog.
"Was it you?! Was it you?!"
He rushed over clutching the cat, spittle flying everywhere. "What did you do to her? Why has she become stupid?!"
"I think you might be too tired, Mr. Filch."
Morn didn't retreat. His voice was steady and calm, like a bucket of ice water poured over Filch's frantic face. "She looks very healthy, even more... affectionate than before. Perhaps she just doesn't want to catch mice anymore."
"Doesn't want to catch mice?! She's Madam Norris! She's the best hunter in this Castle!"
Filch roared, but the cat in his arms stuck out its tongue and licked his tear-streaked cheek, letting out a purring sound.
This tender scene made Filch feel a bone-chilling cold.
Because he knew this cat was no longer his "comrade-in-arms."
She had lost the soul that could understand him and coordinate with him to torment students. Now she was just an ordinary beast.
"If I were you, I would take her to Madam Pomfrey to check if she accidentally consumed a Stupefying Potion, rather than stopping a student who just came out of the library."
Morn bowed slightly and politely, his deep gray eyes devoid of any guilt, containing only an abyss-like calm. "Furthermore, if you continue to shout, you might attract Peeves. I don't think you have the energy to deal with him right now."
Filch was stunned. He looked at the foolish cat in his arms, then at the terrifyingly calm first-year student before him. That sense of inferiority and powerlessness unique to a Squib suddenly surged in his heart.
He let go of Morn's collar, which he had intended to grab, and slumped back two steps, muttering, "Stupefying Potion... yes, it must be a potion..." Then, clutching the cat, he stumbled towards the Hospital Wing.
Morn watched his retreating figure, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.
For Filch, this was worse than killing him.
The pain of losing power and something to rely on was often more enduring than death.
Whoosh—
A sudden draft blew out several jack-o'-lanterns on the wall, and the corridor dimmed instantly.
Morn's nostrils flared slightly.
Amidst the rich scent of roasted pumpkin, a highly discordant, pungent smell of garlic suddenly mixed in. The smell was so strong it even masked the musty scent Filch had left behind.
And beneath the garlic smell was a nauseating stench, as if a corpse had been rotting in a swamp for three months.
[Soul Scent] signaled a frantic warning.
A flustered figure wrapped in a large Purple Turban was hurrying past from the other end of the corridor.
Professor Quirrell.
He seemed to be arguing with himself, his lips moving rapidly and his expression distorted.
"No... Master... it's not time yet... too risky..."
Intermittent whispers drifted into Morn's ears with the wind.
Morn withdrew all his presence, lowering his existence to the minimum, blending into the shadows of the wall like a lifeless stone.
Quirrell didn't notice him. Or rather, the Dark Lord attached to the back of his head was currently focused on the upcoming plan and didn't care about an ant by the roadside.
Watching Quirrell disappear into the stairwell leading to the Dungeon Classroom, Morn stepped out from the shadows.
He raised his hand and glanced at the mechanical watch on his wrist, brought from the Muggle world.
"Twenty-four hours left."
A flash of red light unique to a predator flickered in Morn's eyes—a signal that the energy stored by [Photosynthetic Digestion] was craving release.
"The strength of a Troll... and the possible fragments of the Philosopher's Stone."
He straightened the collar of his robes and headed toward Ravenclaw Tower.
"I hope tomorrow night's 'extra meal' won't disappoint me."
Chapter 31: The Failed Radar and the Last Supper
"Hey! Fred, look at this! I bet this is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen in my life!"
In the corridor on Halloween afternoon, at the edge of the restricted area that should have been filled with Filch's roars, the unrestrained laughter of George Weasley echoed instead.
The faint smell of sulfur from leftover Dungbombs lingered in the air, along with the scent of sweat from a group of overexcited onlookers.
Moen White leaned in the shadow of a nearby stone pillar, watching the farce with cold eyes.
In the center of the circle of students was the "patrol radar" that once struck fear into the hearts of all night-wanderers—Madam Norris.
Right now, this scrawny cat wasn't bristling its fur and scanning for rule-breakers with eyes like red lightbulbs as it usually did.
Instead, it was lying on its back at George's feet, shamelessly exposing its belly, its front paws clumsily trying to catch the Licorice Wand Fred was waving.
"Meow~"
It let out a soft, fawning cry and even rubbed some drool onto Fred's trouser leg.
"Merlin's pants..." Fred clutched his chest exaggeratedly, as if he'd seen Lord Voldemort tap dancing. "It's actually acting cute? Is this still the demon that wanted nothing more than to hang us from the ceiling?"
"I think it's finally realized the charm of the Weasley family." George smirked and crouched down, boldly scratching Madam Norris under the chin.
The cat squinted its eyes comfortably, letting out a purr that sounded like a broken bellows.
Standing on the outskirts of the crowd, Filch held his broom, looking as if his spine had been removed.
His deeply lined face looked even older and more ashen. His cloudy eyes stared fixedly at the cat throwing itself into the arms of the "enemy," his lips trembling, yet unable to utter a single scolding word.
His radar had failed, his weapon had rusted, and his deterrence as a caretaker completely collapsed at this moment.
[Observation Record: Madam Norris]
[Current Status: Domestication (Irreversible) / Threat Level: 0]
Morn mentally stamped this "post-operative report" with a seal of approval.
After being stripped of its Spiritual Core, all that remained was a lump of breathing flesh.
This kind of Spiritual Castration was more thorough than any physical injury.
"Excuse me."
Morn's voice was flat as he moved through the crowd.
The twins, who were playing with the cat, looked up and saw Morn's expressionless face.
"Oh, White!" Fred whistled. "Want to give it a try? Madam Norris feels great now, like a real softy!"
"Not interested."
Without even a glance at the cat, Morn walked straight toward the Great Hall. "If you don't hurry, you'll miss the start of the banquet. Also..."
He paused, not turning back. "Mr. Filch looks like he's about to cry. I wouldn't recommend continuing to provoke an old man who has lost his 'loved one'."
The twins were stunned for a moment and turned to look at the swaying figure in the corner, the smiles on their faces stiffening slightly... Two hours later.
The Great Hall had become a sea of gold and orange.
Thousands of live bats fluttered their wings above the ceiling and tables, like low-hanging dark clouds.
Huge Jack-o'-lanterns burned with eerie blue magical fire, casting a somewhat distorted glow on every excited little face.
The air was filled with the fatty aroma of roast beef, the sweet scent of Pumpkin Pie, and the buzzing of hundreds of students talking loudly at once.
Morn sat at the end of the Ravenclaw table, looking out of place among his feasting classmates.
His plate had only a neatly cut piece of steak, but he didn't eat it.
His left hand gently rubbed the handle of his wand under the table, adjusting its position to ensure he could draw it within 0.1 seconds.
[Trinity]'s perception threads were running at full power, filtering every unusual fluctuation of magic in the air.
"Isn't Hermione back yet?"
Harry Potter's anxious whisper came from the neighboring Gryffindor table.
He was craning his neck to look at the main entrance, his mashed potatoes untouched.
"Parvati said she's been crying in the girls' bathroom all afternoon." Ron looked ill at ease, clutching a chicken leg that he couldn't bring himself to eat. "I just said that one thing... who knew she'd actually take it to heart."
Morn's ears twitched slightly.
The key nodes of the script were in place.
The bait (Hermione) was in the trap, and the prey (Troll) was about to appear.
Just then.
BOOM—!
The Great Hall's heavy oak doors were slammed open from the outside, letting out a thunderous boom.
The previously boisterous laughter vanished instantly, as if its neck had been snapped.
All eyes were focused on the stumbling figure at the door.
Professor Quirrell, wrapped in his large purple turban, was as pale as a sheet of paper, his eyes vacant, and his whole body shaking like a leaf.
A thick, suffocating smell of garlic mixed with the stench of sewers poured in through the open doors.
"Troll..."
Quirrell gasped as he ran, his voice shrill and distorted, "In the Dungeon Classroom... thought you ought to know..."
Having said this, as if he had completed some sacred mission, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed face-first onto the floor, passing out—or rather, faking it.
"Ah—!!"
After a brief silence, panic erupted like a plague.
Screams, the sound of breaking plates, and the clattering of tables and chairs blended together.
Several first-years were so scared they crawled under the tables.
"Silence!"
Professor Dumbledore stood up from the High Table.
His voice, amplified by magic, sounded like a cannon blast, throwing the bats on the ceiling into disarray.
"Prefects! Lead the students of your Houses back to the dormitories immediately! Now!"
Amidst this torrent of chaos, Moen White slowly stood up.
He saw that Harry and Ron weren't following the Gryffindor line; instead, while Percy Weasley was shouting orders, they ducked and mingled into the crowd on the other side, heading toward the girls' bathroom.
"Very well."
A cold arc curved at the corners of Morn's mouth.
He didn't follow the Ravenclaw Prefect, Penelope Clearwater, toward the tower.
Instead, using a visual blind spot at a corner, he shrank back and merged into the massive shadow cast by the wall.
[Talent Activated: Ghost Step (Green)]
[Breath Concealment / Footstep Elimination]
In the eyes of the students running frantically around him, Moen White was like a drop of water merging into the ocean, instantly vanishing without a trace.
He moved against the flow of people like a ghost walking on the edge of life and death, heading toward the source of the stench that was growing stronger, carrying a primal savagery and the smell of blood.
"Happy Halloween, big guy."
Morn slid his Holly Wand out of his sleeve, a faint but knife-sharp cold light glowing at his fingertips.
"I hope your soul is more nutritious than your brain."
Chapter 32: The Puppeteer in the Shadows
The stench was no longer just a drifting wisp of air, but a thick, suffocating wall.
It was a mixture of the fishy smell of aged sludge from a sewer, the scent of rotten cabbage, and the sour stench of unwashed fur from some large mammal.
Moen White held his breath, adjusting the oxygen circulation within his body through [Photosynthetic Digestion] to minimize the inhalation of this toxic gas.
Pressed against the cold stone wall of the corridor, he glided silently into the shadows by the entrance of the girls' bathroom like a shadow with no thickness.
[Talent Sustained: Ghost Step (Green)]
[Presence Erasure: 100%]
Less than ten meters ahead of him, Harry and Ron were tugging at the handle of the oak door, their faces flushed.
"It's locked!" Harry panted, just about to breathe a sigh of relief.
However, in the next second, a shrill, piercing scream of a girl filled with desperate terror exploded from behind the door, instantly shattering the silence of the corridor.
"It's Hermione!" Ron's face turned pale instantly. "She's inside!"
The two Gryffindor boys exchanged a glance. A hormone called "recklessness" or "courage" instantly overwhelmed their fear. They slammed the door open and rushed inside.
Morn was in no hurry to follow.
Standing to one side of the doorframe, his dark gray pupils constricted slightly in the darkness, as if he were evaluating the situation of the hunting ground.
In his vision, the scene inside the bathroom was disassembled into countless dynamic data streams.
— [Analysis Lock] —
Target: Mountain Troll
Height: 12 feet. Skin.
Talent:
[Demonic Skin (blue)]
Weaknesses: Back of the head, eyeballs, wrist tendons.
The girls' bathroom had now become a disaster scene.
The behemoth was swinging a wooden club nearly as thick as an adult's thigh, smashing the sinks to pieces as if he were cracking walnuts.
Porcelain shards flew, pipes burst, and white mist gushed out amidst the stench, mixing with the Troll's heavy roars that made the floor tremble.
Hermione Granger cowered in the farthest corner.
Her back, which was usually held high and proud, was now pressed tightly against the cold tiles. Her lips were bloodless, and her eyes were wide to the limit; she looked as if she might faint at any moment.
"Hey! Pea-brain! Over here!"
Harry grabbed a broken faucet and hurled it at the back of the Troll's head with all his might.
*Clang!* The metal struck the Troll's rock-like skin with a crisp sound, but it didn't even cause it any pain.
But it successfully caught its attention.
The Troll turned slowly, its eyes like muddy pebbles staring at Harry as it let out a low, thunderous roar. It began to approach Harry on its short, thick legs that resembled tree stumps.
"Is this the Gryffindor tactic?"
Hidden in the shadows, Morn shook his head slightly, his fingers lightly stroking his wand.
"Brave, but completely inefficient."
He was waiting.
Waiting for a moment where he could decide the outcome in a single blow without fully exposing his strength.
"Ron! Do something!" Harry shouted, making a startling move—he lunged onto the Troll's back, wrapping his arms tightly around its thick neck, and then shoved his wand hard into the Troll's massive nostril.
"Awooo—!!!"
The Troll let out a howl of pain. It thrashed its body wildly, the massive wooden club swinging erratically through the air with a chilling whistle.
Harry was tossed about like a ragdoll, hanging on by a thread.
At this moment, the Troll seemed completely enraged. It stopped trying to shake Harry off and instead raised the club in its right hand high, preparing to slam it down onto its own shoulder—it intended to crush Harry into a pulp along with itself.
"Now."
Morn's gaze turned cold as a blade in an instant.
In his [Nerve Swiftness] vision, the Troll's club-swinging motion, which should have been lightning-fast, was slowed down tenfold.
He clearly saw the blue-gray tendon bulging slightly from extreme tension in the Troll's right wrist as it exerted force.
No incantation was needed. The magic circuit for [Trinity] had already been constructed.
Morn raised his wand and made a light flick toward those fatal coordinates.
[Powerful Severing Charm: Precision Version]
A transparent air blade, nearly invisible to the naked eye, acted like an invisible scalpel. Under the cover of the noisy rushing water, it precisely sliced into the Troll's wrist.
*Chih.*
An extremely faint sound, similar to a snapping string, rang out.
There was no bloody scene of spraying gore.
But the Troll's massive hand, which had been gripping the club tightly, suddenly spasmed as if struck by electricity, and its five thick fingers instantly lost their grip.
The massive club, mid-swing, slipped from its grasp.
The Troll froze. Its peanut-sized brain was completely unable to comprehend why its hand had suddenly stopped obeying.
And at this critical juncture, Ron, standing on the other side, finally pulled out his wand.
He looked at the club flying out of the Troll's hand, his mind a total blank except for the memory of Hermione's annoying lecturing voice in class.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The heavy club, which was falling, was suddenly buoyed by magic. It paused eerily in the air for a moment before rising directly above the Troll's head.
Then, the magic was released.
Gravity took over.
*Bang!!!*
A dull, tooth-aching thud.
The club landed squarely on the crown of the Troll's head.
The Troll's small, muddy eyes suddenly lost focus and began to roll in their sockets. Its massive body swayed twice before collapsing like a building undergoing a controlled demolition.
*Boom.*
The entire bathroom floor jumped. Dust and porcelain shards flew up once more.
Harry rolled off the Troll and lay on the ground in a sorry state, gasping for air.
Ron held his wand, frozen in his casting pose, his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit an egg.
Hermione was still huddled in the corner, her hands over her mouth, tears flowing silently.
A deathly silence.
Only the broken water pipes continued to hiss and spray water.
"Wonderful teamwork."
A calm, cold voice with a hint of irony suddenly came from the doorway.
The trio whipped their heads around.
They saw that Moen White had deactivated [Ghost Step] at some point.
He stood by a wrecked sink, wearing his neat and spotless Ravenclaw robes, leisurely wiping non-existent dust from the tip of his wand with a handkerchief.
"Defeating the enemy with their own weapon."
Morn's gaze swept over Ron and finally settled on the motionless Troll, a certain greedy red light flickering in the depths of his eyes.
"Ten points to Gryffindor. I imagine that's what Professor McGonagall would say."
He stepped forward, walking toward the massive "corpse."
The true harvest was only just beginning.
Chapter 33: The Giant's Skin and the Professor's Scrutiny
Morn ignored Harry Potter's terrified gaze, his leather shoes making a chilling, rhythmic squelching sound on the waterlogged tile floor.
The Mountain Troll lay like a collapsed hill in the center of the restroom. Even in its unconscious state, its heavy breathing rasped like a broken bellows, each exhale spewing a nauseating wave of hot air mixed with rotting flesh and sewer stench.
"Don't... don't go over there!" Harry scrambled up from the floor, wiping the dirty water from his glasses. "It might just be unconscious! It could wake up any time!"
"Precisely because it could wake up any time, Potter."
Morn crouched beside the Troll's coconut-sized head, his tone as calm as if he were teaching an anatomy class. "So, we need to confirm that it has completely lost its threat."
He extended his long, pale right hand, not to check for breath, but to press directly onto the Troll's forehead, which was as rough as granite.
The touch was cold, hard, and greasy.
But in Morn's perception, this was a container filled with violent energy.
[Talent Activated: Spiritual Plunder (High Power · Instantaneous Extraction)]
In the depths of Morn's pupils, a flicker of red warning light flashed for an instant.
He had to be fast.
These few seconds before the Professors arrived were his only window of opportunity.
Hum—
There was no visible light effect, but a piercing wail, audible only to the soul, seemed to echo in the air.
The primal soul, which had been restless and filled with murderous intent within the Troll, was forcibly ripped from its body by an overwhelmingly dominant suction.
It surged madly into Morn's arm, like a stream of molten lava, instantly flushing through his limbs and bones.
[Plunder successful.]
[Target is brain dead.]
[Acquired Talent: Demonic Skin (blue · Thick Hide))
Effect: Skin density increased by 300%, immune to conventional physical impact, gains primary magicresistance.
Side effect: Accelerated metabolism, extreme hunger.
The Troll's massive body twitched violently, its nervous system's final reflex.
Then it completely went limp. Its chest, which had been heaving, stopped moving, and the nauseating hot breath ceased abruptly.
"It's dead."
Morn stood up, pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his robe pocket, and meticulously wiped the fingers that had touched the Troll, as if he had come into contact with something dirty.
At this moment, a dense, ant-like itching sensation spread beneath his skin—a signal of cellular restructuring and strengthening.
Just as Harry and Ron exchanged bewildered glances, still unable to process the fact.
Bang!
The restroom door was violently kicked open again.
This time, the powerful magical pressure made the air feel thick.
Professor McGonagall was the first to rush in, her tartan robe slightly askew, her lips pressed into a thin white line.
Snape followed closely behind her, his dark eyes as sharp as a hawk's.
Professor Quirrell cowered at the back, only daring to peek half of his purple-turbaned head from behind Snape's shoulder, letting out a short whimper.
"What... what were you thinking?!"
Professor McGonagall's voice was filled with icy fury.
She looked at the dead Troll on the floor, then at the three soaked and disheveled students, and finally her gaze fell on Morn, who stood to the side, strangely clean.
"How dare you... at a time like this... if you were unlucky, you would have been crushed into pulp!"
Snape didn't speak. He glided silently like a Giant black bat to the Troll's corpse.
He bent down, his gaunt hand grasping the Troll's limp arm, examining the injuries.
Morn's heartbeat remained perfectly steady, but he could feel Snape's gaze linger for two seconds on the Troll's wrist, which had only a very fine incision.
That incision had severed the tendons, causing the club to be dropped.
This wasn't a precise operation that a first-year student could perform, nor did it look like an accident.
Snape abruptly looked up, his hollow, deep black eyes piercing directly into Morn, as if to use Legilimency to dig out the secrets in his mind.
"Explain yourself, Mr. White."
Snape's voice was chillingly soft. "Why are you here? Has a Ravenclaw student also contracted that reckless and foolish Gryffindor heroism?"
"I was just passing by, Professor."
Morn's expression didn't change as he met Snape's gaze, and the [Trinity] mental barrier quietly unfolded, enveloping his true thoughts in layers.
"I saw Potter and Weasley rush in, and to avoid more casualties, I followed to see if Madam Pomfreyneeded to be called."
He paused, then pointed at Ron.
"But apparently, Mr. Weasley's Levitation Charm was very... astonishing. He solved the problem with the Troll's own club. I didn't even have time to draw my wand."
Snape narrowed his eyes. He glanced at Ron, who was still holding his wand and gaping foolishly, then at the clearly shattered skull, broken by a heavy impact.
The logic was impeccable.
The Levitation Charm had just been taught, and it was the most reasonable explanation. As for the small incision on the wrist... perhaps it was cut by a piece of the sink?
"It's... it's my fault, Professor McGonagall."
A faint but firm voice came from the corner.
Hermione finally emerged from the shadows.
Her messy hair was covered in dust, and tear streaks were on her face, but her eyes were unusually clear.
"I... I wanted to find the Troll." Hermione lowered her head, fabricating a lie that would be extremely shameful for an honors student. "I read about them in books and thought I could handle it... If Harry and Ron hadn't come looking for me, I'd probably be dead now."
She quickly raised her eyelids and glanced at Morn.
That look was complex—there was gratitude, awe, and a signal of "alliance" understood only between intelligent people.
She knew Morn had severed the Troll's tendons, and she knew Morn didn't want to be exposed, so she took all the blame as repayment.
Professor McGonagall stared at Hermione for a long moment, then let out a deep sigh.
"Miss Granger, you foolish girl... Five points from Gryffindor."
She turned to Harry and Ron. "As for you two... I imagine even older students might not be able to take down an adult Mountain Troll. Five points to Gryffindor for each of you."
"As for you, Mr. White."
Professor McGonagall's gaze softened. "Though it was somewhat risky, you did not abandon your classmates in a moment of crisis. Five points to Ravenclaw."
"Thank you, Professor."
Morn bowed politely.
The matter was resolved.
A perfect closed loop.
As they walked out of the foul-smelling girls' restroom, the cold wind in the corridor blew against Morn's face, but he felt no chill.
On the contrary, his skin was burning. The feeling of enhancement from the **[Demonic Skin]** Fusion made his muscles taut and filled with power.
But with it came a hunger so intense it threatened to consume his reason.
His stomach was cramping wildly, and [Photosynthetic Digestion] roared for energy.
"I'm going to the kitchen."
Morn suddenly stopped at the entrance of the Great Hall and said in a low voice.
"What?" Harry was startled. "Dinner's over, and..."
"I'm hungry."
Morn interrupted him. In the shadows, a faint, chilling red glow seemed to flicker in his deep gray eyes.
"Very... hungry."
Watching Morn's rapidly departing back, Ron shivered and whispered into Harry's ear, "That guy looked at me like I was a roasted chicken... I have a feeling he's much more dangerous than that Troll."
Hermione said nothing. She just rubbed her still trembling arm, recalling the invisible wind blade that had severed the Troll's tendons.
It was a Muffliato Charm.
Using a Muffliato Charm to sever a Troll's tendons in the first year... She realized that the gap between herself and this Ravenclaw "nerd" might be even greater than she had imagined.
Chapter 34: The Glutton and the Soul List
Moen White's long fingers, still warm from the Troll's body heat, lightly tickled the giant green pear in the massive oil painting hanging on the stone corridor wall.
"Giggle, giggle."
The pear in the painting squirmed like a ticklish child, letting out a string of shrill laughter before transforming into a bright green metal door handle.
Morn gripped the handle and pressed down.
The underground corridor, which should have been cold and damp, was swallowed by a heatwave so thick it was almost palpable the moment the door cracked open.
It was a mixture of the wheaty aroma of toasted bread, the fatty scent of beef stew, and the dry heat radiating from hundreds of burning stoves.
"Wel... Welcome! Young Wizard sir!"
Dozens of House-elfs, wearing tea towels emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest, swarmed around him with eyes as wide as tennis balls, as if they had seen some god descending from the heavens.
Their pointed ears trembled with excitement, and they scrambled to take Morn's robe, which he hadn't even taken off yet.
"I need food."
Morn ignored the withered little hands reaching out and walked straight to the nearest long table to sit down.
His voice was raspy, and his throat felt as parched as if it had been scorched by hot coals.
Every cell in his body was letting out a hungry roar; the intense metabolic reaction brought about by the Demonic Skin Fusion was frantically devouring his remaining biological energy.
"Beef. Roast chicken. And a large amount of mashed potatoes."
Morn yanked his tie loose and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his robe, revealing collarbone skin that glowed with an abnormal flush. "Don't worry about the plating; bring out everything that can produce calories. Now."
"At once! Sir! Immediately!"
The elves were startled by this predatory aura—even more terrifying than a Troll's—and they scattered with screams, rushing toward the massive stoves.
Less than ten seconds later...
Silver platters piled high like small mountains were delivered to Morn. Medium-rare steaks were still sizzling with oil, and whole roast chickens wafted the scent of rosemary.
Morn picked up his knife and fork.
There was no unsightly gorging; his movements maintained a Ravenclaw-like precision and elegance, but his speed was startlingly fast.
Crunch. He sliced off a large piece of bloody beef and sent it into his mouth.
[Photosynthetic Digestion (Green)] operated at full power at this moment.
Stomach acid turned into a highly concentrated solvent; the moment food dropped into his stomach, it was instantly decomposed into a pure flow of energy, pumped throughout his body by his blood vessels.
But this was far from enough.
His skin was burning hot; it felt as if countless invisible worker ants were busy in his subcutaneous tissue, reweaving his collagen fibers, compressing and hardening them until they were as dense as granite.
Sizzle... Morn could even hear the faint popping sounds of his bones growing.
It was an experience mixed with extreme pain and extreme pleasure.
One steak after another disappeared into his mouth.
Around him, the elves who had originally wanted to come forward and pour pumpkin juice had all retreated into the shadows in fear.
They watched in horror as this Young Wizard, like a bottomless pit, consumed enough food for ten adult Wizards in just twenty minutes.
Finally...
When the last piece of gravy-covered mashed potato was swallowed, the hunger that was enough to drive one mad finally receded like the ebbing tide.
Morn set down his knife and fork and picked up a napkin to gently dab the corners of his mouth.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled a long breath of scorching air.
At this moment, his skin appeared paler and more delicate than before, but under the light, it shimmered with a hard texture similar to cold jade.
Unless high-intensity Dark Arts were used, ordinary physical strikes would not even be able to leave a bruise on him.
"Is this the power of blue..."
Morn closed his eyes, his thoughts sinking into that deep darkness, calling forth the black square that only he could see.
————————————
[Character Status Panel: Moen White]
Current Level: Hogwarts First-Year Freshman / Mortal Realm Predator
Race: Human (Wizard)
Status: Metabolic Overload (High-Density Physical Adaptation in progress)
soul strength: 2.45 (Evaluation: Embryonic Long-lived Species. Your soul density has completely surpassed human limits and begun to approach legendary creatures. You possess a natural 'Life Level Pressure' against ordinary Wizards. Conventional blue Talent devouring success rate corrected to 100%.)
Talent Slots: 4 (Fully Loaded)
Equipped Talents:
Slot 1: [Trinity (blue)]
Slot 2: [Nerve Swiftness (blue)]
Slot 3: [Demonic Skin (blue)]
Description: Derived from a Mountain Troll. Skin and muscle density increased by 300%; immune to conventional cold weapons and blunt force impact; possesses basic magic resistance (reduces Jinx damage by 15%).
Side Effect: Extremely high metabolic rate, requires massive food intake.
Slot 4 (Survival/Energy): [Photosynthetic Digestion (blue)]
[soul warehouse - Alternative Talents]:
[Soul Scent (blue)]
[Biological Acid (blue)]
[Ghost Step (green)]
[Malice Perception (green)]
[Biological Radar (green, mutated)]
[Absolute Memory (green)]
[Logic Fragment: Charms (white)]
...[Skill Library (Partial)]:
[Powerful Cutting Curse (Lv.3)]: Mastered 'Invisible Blade' technique.
[Dual Casting]: Proficiency Max... "2.45."
Morn looked at that golden number, a satisfied arc curling at the corner of his mouth.
An ordinary adult Wizard's soul strength is only around 1.5.
Even for someone of Snape's level, it's likely between 3 and 4.
He's only in his first year, and he has already walked the path that takes others half a lifetime.
Furthermore, the addition of [Demonic Skin] made up for his biggest shortcoming as a squishy mage—defense.
Now, he not only has high attack (Cutting Curse) and high agility (Nerve Swiftness), but also high defense (Demonic Skin). A perfect hexagonal warrior is taking shape.
"But this is not enough."
Morn opened his eyes; the warm firelight of the kitchen was reflected in his deep gray pupils, yet they held a greed that was bone-chillingly cold.
"Christmas is coming soon."
His thoughts jumped to the next time node.
The most precious treasure in Hogwarts isn't the Philosopher's Stone hidden on the fourth floor—that thing is just bait prepared for Lord Voldemort.
The real treasure is the gift Harry Potter will receive on Christmas—the invisibility cloak.
It is one of the Deathly Hallows, containing rule-level magic.
And then there's that mirror that can reflect the deepest desires of the soul—the mirror of erised.
"If I can analyze the'stealth' rules of the invisibility cloak, or devour those illusory desires in the magicMirror..."
Morn's fingers lightly tapped the tabletop, making dull and powerful thudding sounds.
The surrounding elves were still trembling in the corners, not daring to make a sound for fear of disturbing this thinking 'monster.'
Morn stood up, pulled a Silver Sickle from his robe pocket, and casually flicked it onto the table.
The silver coin spun, letting out a crisp ring.
"Thanks for the hospitality."
He adjusted his robe sleeves, which were a bit tight due to his muscle expansion, and turned toward the door painted with fruit.
The moment he pushed the door open, the cool night breeze in the corridor blew against his face, but he could no longer feel even a hint of chill.
The Glutton was full.
Now, it was time to go back and digest the spoils, then wait for the next prey to appear.
Chapter 35: Iron Skin and the Limping Professor
The first rays of morning light filtered through the gaps in the deep blue velvet curtains of Ravenclaw Tower, like long, thin golden needles pricking Moen White's eyelids.
He subconsciously tried to wake his sleeping lungs with a deep breath, but a sharp sense of constriction in his chest forced him to stop.
Snap—!
A crisp sound, like a snapping lute string, exploded in the silent dormitory.
Morn felt a sudden chill on his chest.
The top mother-of-pearl button on his pajamas, unable to withstand the tension of his suddenly expanding pectoral muscles, flew off directly. It struck the bedpost with a sharp crack before rolling deep into the carpet.
"...Damn high metabolism."
Morn sat up and looked down at his pajamas, which had clearly shrunk by at least two sizes. The cuffs had split, revealing the smooth, taut lines of his forearm muscles; the once-loose pant legs now tightly hugged his thighs, leaving a large portion of his ankles exposed.
Overnight, it was as if his body had been forcibly stretched and reshaped by some domineering force.
Stepping barefoot onto the cold stone floor, he didn't feel the typical morning chill. Instead, the sensation from the soles of his feet felt like touching a piece of warm cork.
The passive effect of [Demonic Skin (blue)] was constantly at work, locking his body surface temperature at a high, constant value to maintain that furnace-like internal combustion metabolism.
Morn walked into the washroom and stood before the copper-framed mirror.
The person in the mirror still had that slightly pale face, but the thinness that once belonged to a youth had vanished without a trace.
His shoulders had grown broader, and the lines of his neck looked as if carved from marble, brimming with a restrained explosive power.
He picked up the toothbrush on the sink and squeezed out some toothpaste.
The moment his fingers applied the slightest pressure.
Crack.
The fragile plastic toothbrush handle snapped in half between his thumb and index finger like a dry twig. Toothpaste splattered onto the mirror, tracing a white arc.
Morn looked at the two pieces of wreckage in his hand expressionlessly, silent for two seconds.
Strength control needs recalibration.
Now, if he didn't exercise control, he could even crush an ordinary person's finger bones with a handshake.
He tossed the toothbrush into the trash and took a brand-new, glinting razor blade from a pocket in his toiletry bag.
Hesitation? Unnecessary.
As a rational researcher, one must grasp the sample's limit data at the first opportunity.
Morn pinched the blade and aimed the sharp edge at the pad of his left index finger.
He didn't hold back, applying the force one would use to cut a steak as he slashed down hard.
Screech—
There was no bloody scene of torn flesh as expected, nor was there any pain.
There was even a grating sound in the air, like a dull knife cutting through old cowhide.
Morn raised his finger and brought it close to his eyes for careful observation.
Only a very faint white mark remained on the finger pad. That seemingly delicate, pale skin had instantly locked its high-density fibers when subjected to a sharp object, demonstrating a toughness comparable to alchemical protective gear.
"Physical damage reduction: qualified."
Morn threw away the dulled blade, a satisfied curve hooking the corner of his mouth.
"I won't have to worry about stray spells or being scratched by some small animal anymore... though my clothing consumption might increase."
...Half an hour later, the Great Hall.
The air was thick with the smell of grease from fried sausages, the toasted aroma of bread, and the spit of hundreds of overexcited students.
The discussion about last night's Troll attack had not faded; instead, after a night of fermentation, it had evolved into various outrageous legends.
"I heard Harry Potter rode on the Troll's neck and stabbed his wand through its brain!" Seamus Finnigan gestured wildly at the Gryffindor table, waving his fork like a sword. "Brains spilled everywhere! Just like—like overturned pumpkin porridge!"
"Oh, come off it, my brother Ron said he used a Levitation Charm to lift the Troll up and throw it out!" Ginny Weasley hadn't even started school yet, but that was how she bragged to George and the others in her letter.
Morn sat in a corner of the Ravenclaw table, turning a deaf ear to the noise.
He was focused on dealing with his fifth roasted sausage and third steak.
[Photosynthetic Digestion] rapidly converted these high-calorie foods into bio-energy to maintain his muscle density, providing a slight relief to the hunger that constantly haunted his stomach.
Just then, at the open doors of the Great Hall, the flowing air suddenly stagnated for a moment.
[Soul Scent (blue)], even in background idle mode, still keenly captured an extremely discordant scent.
It was the bitter smell of herbs (Dittany and Blood-Replenishing Potion), masking a metallic, rust-like scent of blood, and a damp stench that made Morn feel physiological disgust—the distinct sulfuric odor of Fluffy's (Cerberus) saliva.
Morn stopped cutting his steak and tilted his head slightly.
Severus Snape was walking in from the doorway.
He still wore those black robes that looked like bat wings, and his face was so gloomy it looked like it could drip ink.
Though he tried his best to hide it, his gait was still somewhat stiff—his left leg would always subconsciously lighten its pressure when hitting the ground, causing his stride to show a nearly imperceptible limp.
"It seems the plot hasn't changed much."
Morn wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin, a playful stream of data flashing in his dark gray pupils.
Snape did not head for the staff table but instead walked straight through the aisle between the long tables.
As he passed the Gryffindor table, those hollow black eyes stared intently at Harry Potter, who was drinking pumpkin juice, his gaze filled with unabashed malice and scrutiny.
Harry felt unnerved by the stare, his hand trembling slightly as he held his cup.
"Potter."
Snape stopped, his voice soft and silky like a snake's hiss. "I hope your 'heroic deeds' haven't caused your empty head to swell so much that it can no longer hold Potion Class knowledge. If I see you daydreaming in this afternoon's class... Gryffindor will pay the price."
With that, he turned abruptly, his black robes billowing in a sharp wave.
But at the moment he turned, Morn clearly saw Snape's brow furrow deeply, and the muscle in his left leg spasmed for a split second from intense pain.
"That's quite a heavy injury, Professor."
Morn watched Snape's slightly disheveled retreating figure, then glanced at the still-clueless Harry and his trio.
Since the Professor had already set the stage, as an excellent'student,' Morn felt it necessary to help them push the script forward a bit.
He picked up his bag, stood up, and walked toward the entrance hall.
The upcoming Potion Class was going to be very interesting.