Ch: 46-54
Chapter 46: Shattered Truth and the Limits of Mortals
Moen White's fingers were like five red-hot iron hooks, firmly gripping the cold glass surface of the mirror of erised.
In that instant, the mirror surface, originally as smooth as water, let out a tooth-aching creak, as if some invisible giant beast was gnawing on its bones.
[System operating at full power.]
[Spiritual Plunder (Active Mode): Forced extraction in progress...]
In his field of vision, the "Perfect Being" standing on the throne of ruins inside the mirror stopped its arrogant gaze.
It seemed to have sensed Morn's intention, and a surge of rage, born from being offended by a lower creature, flowed through its silver vertical pupils.
"Get... over here!"
Morn roared, the veins at his temples throbbing violently.
He attempted to drag out the entirety of that massive, regal purple-glowing power of Laws from within the mirror.
However, just as that purple torrent was about to break through the mirror's surface—
Buzz!
Reality dealt him a most cruel blow.
That feeling of being "stuck" made Morn nearly suffocate.
His fingers had already touched the purple edge, but the capacity alarm light deep within his soul was flashing red frantically.
[Warning: Container has reached its limit (2.49).]
[Warning: Unable to accommodate Law-grade (Purple) Authority. Forced consumption will lead to soul collapse.]
"I can't eat it..."
Blood seeped from Morn's seven orifices, and his vision blurred from the intense pain.
That sense of despair—of having a treasure right at hand but being unable to take it because his pockets were too small—made him more frantic than the physical pain.
The "Perfect Being" in the mirror revealed a mocking smile, as if laughing at this greedy ant.
"Laughing?"
Morn split his blood-covered mouth, revealing stained teeth. There was no hint of discouragement in his eyes, only a purer, more ruthless ferocity.
"If I can't swallow the bones... I'll eat all your meat!"
He instantly changed his strategy.
No longer trying to forcibly drag those two purple torrents representing the core Laws, he instead manipulated the tentacles of [Spiritual Plunder] to bypass the hard core and frantically tear at the blue mist overflowing around the core Laws.
Sshhh-la—
This time, the resistance vanished.
The mirror let out an overburdened wail.
Although the core Laws were not shaken, the massive magic reserves it had accumulated over countless years were being frantically plundered by Morn like a water pump.
[Plunder successful.]
[Obtained Rare Talent Set: Mental/Illusion Dual-Type.]
Talent I: [Thought Induction (blue)]
Source: The desire-enticement mechanism of the mirror of erised.
Effect (Active): Consumes mental energy to plant a "brief thought" into a single target.
Combat Application: Can cause an enemy to have a lapse in judgment at a critical moment. For those with weak willpower, this is more subtle and harder to detect than Imperio.
Talent II: [Phantom Force Field (blue)]
Source: The visual presentation mechanism of the mirror of erised.
Effect (Active): Creates an illusionary zone with "light and shadow tangibility" within a 10-meter radius.
Combat Application: The created illusions are completely realistic in terms of sight and sound. Although they cannot cause physical damage, they can be used to block vision, intimidate enemies, or create decoys.
As these two blue energies flowed into his body through his arms, Morn felt a slight release in his soul, which had been on the verge of exploding.
Although he hadn't broken through the 2.49 ceiling, in terms of the accumulation of "quantity," he had reached the limit of mortals.
Crack.
A crisp cracking sound, one that did not belong to an illusion, rang out in the silence.
Morn snapped his eyes open.
The mirror of erised, a legendary magical item that had been passed down for centuries, now had an irreparable crack about three inches long in its upper right corner.
It wasn't physical damage, but a "malnutritional" fracture caused by the excessive extraction of magicpower.
"Huff... huff..."
Morn let go and staggered back two steps, leaning against the cold stone wall, his body convulsing uncontrollably.
He raised the back of his hand to wipe away the blood flowing from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes.
Though he looked extremely wretched, the blue light in his eyes was terrifyingly bright.
"Is this the price..."
He murmured to himself, feeling the turbulent magic power within his body that had yet to settle. Although he hadn't obtained a purple Talent, this wave of "gluttony" had already earned him a fortune.
Suddenly, the radar interface of [Omni-Perception] jumped violently.
That ball of golden sun that had previously disappeared was now returning here at an extremely high speed. Clearly, the damage to the mirror had alerted the Principal.
"Time to go."
Enduring the throbbing pain in the depths of his brain that felt like a hangover, Morn forcibly mobilized his magic.
[Talent Activation: Phantom Force Field (blue)]
The air distorted slightly.
Where Morn had originally been standing, a blurry, dissipating black shadow appeared—a decoy used to interfere with Dumbledore's first judgment upon entering the room.
The real Morn had already activated [Shadow Stealth], and like a drop of water merging into the ocean, he silently slipped out of the classroom along the base of the wall.
Less than ten seconds after he left.
Pop.
With a soft sound, Dumbledore appeared out of thin air in front of the mirror.
The old man's expression was unusually serious, a sharp light flashing in his azure eyes as his wand slid into his palm.
But the room was empty.
Only the mirror of erised stood there alone, the shocking crack in its upper right corner looking particularly desolate in the moonlight.
Dumbledore slowly stepped forward, reaching out a withered finger to gently stroke the crack.
There was no stench of Dark Arts, nor any aftereffects of a spell rebounding.
In fact... there was nothing at all.
The old man's brow furrowed deeply.
In his perception, this mirror, which was originally filled with ancient magic power and constantly emitted tempting ripples, had actually become somewhat "dull."
That mental induction capable of evoking the deepest desires of the human heart seemed to have been precisely excised by an invisible scalpel.
The mirror was still there, and its functions could barely be maintained, but its "soul" seemed to be missing a piece.
"No residual magic power..."
Dumbledore murmured in a low voice, his tone carrying an unconcealable confusion and gravity.
"It wasn't destruction, nor was it a curse... it simply disappeared."
If it didn't conform to the law of conservation of magic, it meant that something beyond the conventional magical system had occurred.
The "thief" had left no fingerprints; he had simply taken what belonged to the mirror as naturally as taking a piece of bread.
Dumbledore turned his head to look at the empty doorway.
Only the cold wind blew in, swirling the dust on the floor.
"Just what have you done, Mr. White..."
The old man's voice dissipated in the wind.
For the first time, he felt that a shadow was lurking in Hogwarts that he completely could not see through.
The wind and snow outside continued to howl, quickly covering that extremely faint line of footprints on the snow leading towards Ravenclaw Tower, burying all secrets in the cold winter night.
Chapter 47: Unbearable Weight
Moen White was woken up by a buzzing sound similar to a short circuit in a high-voltage power line.
He didn't open his eyes immediately because his eyelids were so heavy, as if two lead plates were pressing down on them.
But he could clearly feel that the sheets beneath him had become dry, hard, and brittle, ready to crumble into powder with the slightest movement.
The air was thick with a strong, dry smell of burning—the scent of cotton fabric on the verge of spontaneous combustion after being baked at high temperatures for a long time.
"Cough..."
Morn opened his mouth, and the sound from his throat was as raspy as two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. With that cough, a faint wisp of white smoke escaped from between his lips, instantly distorting the light before his eyes.
It was too hot.
If he hadn't used [Demonic Skin] to forcibly lock in moisture, his blood would likely have boiled and evaporated by now.
Morn struggled to prop up his upper body. At that moment, a dull pain, as if being struck continuously by a heavy hammer, radiated from deep within his brain.
This was the aftereffect of his soul strength being stuck at 2.49—his soul was now like a block of extremely high-density lead, forcibly stuffed into a glass bottle that was only meant to hold feathers.
This container called the "physical body" was letting out a scream of being overwhelmed.
[Warning: Container Overload.]
[Status: soul fever.]
[Suggestion: Immediately stop magic output and find a low-temperature environment to cool down.]
"Damn it..."
Morn cursed under his breath and reached for the water glass on the nightstand.
His fingertips had just touched the glass wall.
Crack.
The glass, originally full of cold water, shattered instantly.
The liquid inside vaporized the moment it touched his fingertips, turning into a cloud of scalding steam.
"Merlin's beard! What was that sound?!"
Terry Boot, in the opposite bed, woke up from his dream in terror and yanked open his bed curtains.
When he saw the scene by Morn's bed, he froze, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
In the dim light of early morning, Moen White sat there with a bare torso.
His skin was pale to the point of being nearly transparent, but beneath it, countless glowing deep-blueveins pulsed like flowing lava.
The surrounding air distorted violently due to the incredible heat, forming a visible heatwave that enveloped his entire body.
"Whi... White?" Terry's voice trembled as he instinctively shrank back. "Are... are you on fire?"
Morn slowly turned his head.
Terry gasped.
Those eyes, originally deep gray, were now filled with two emotionless glows of azure light, like two burning stars.
Staring into those eyes, Terry felt as if his very soul was about to be sucked in and burned to ashes.
"Don't worry, Terry."
Morn spoke. Though his voice was raspy, his tone was extremely calm. This composure formed a massive contrast with his terrifying appearance. "Just a bit of... aggressive previewing for Defense Against the Dark Arts last night. magic circuits are overloaded."
"Over... overloaded?" Terry swallowed hard, looking at the charred human-shaped mark left on Morn's sheets. "Do you want to go to Madam Pomfrey? You look like an alchemical bomb that could explode at any second!"
"No need."
Morn closed his eyes, forcibly suppressing the churning restlessness within his body.
Go to the hospital wing? Absolutely not.
Madam Pomfrey's diagnostic spells were extremely precise. Once she scanned his body, she would discover that this wasn't magic overload at all, but an alien shell carrying a non-human soul.
By then, it wouldn't be Madam Pomfrey coming, but Dumbledore and a bunch of those damn Ministry of Magic officials.
He had to heal himself.
Or rather, he had to endure it.
"I'm going to take a shower."
Morn stood up from the bed. His feet stepped onto the floor with a very faint sizzling sound, leaving behind two charred footprints... Half an hour later.
When Morn reappeared in the common room, he had changed into a clean set of robes, his collar buttoned tightly, and he even wore a dark blue scarf.
[Demonic Skin] was running at full power, barely locking his body surface temperature at around 40°C—still very hot, but at least it wouldn't burn the furniture anymore.
He looked terrible.
His face was as pale as paper, his eye sockets were sunken, and his lips were devoid of color.
But his spine remained ramrod straight, and every step was steady, as if that burning body did not belong to him.
"Where are you going?"
Michael Corner, who had just come downstairs, frowned at the sight. "Mate, you look like a Vampirewho just crawled out of a grave. If I were you, I'd stay in bed until next year."
"Today is the Christmas feast."
Morn straightened his cuffs, his tone flat. "There's roast turkey, pudding, and Headmaster Dumbledore's speech. I don't want to miss it."
This was, of course, a lie.
He was going to the feast not to eat, but to be seen.
If he disappeared and hid in the dormitory immediately after the "mirror was damaged" last night, he would be the prime suspect.
The more weakened he was, the more he had to appear in broad daylight. The more pain he was in, the more he had to act open and aboveboard... In the Great Hall, the festive Christmas atmosphere had reached its peak.
Hundreds of live bats fluttered above the dining tables, occasionally kicking up storms of colored confetti.
The air was filled with the rich aroma of roasted meat, the spiciness of cinnamon powder, and the smell of gunpowder from the magical crackers set off by Fred and George.
When Morn pushed open the doors and walked in, he didn't attract much attention.
Everyone was busy popping those magical crackers that sounded like cannon blasts.
He walked straight to the Ravenclaw table and found a corner to sit down.
The golden plate in front of him was piled with tempting food, but he had no appetite at all.
Right now, his stomach felt as if it contained a red-hot branding iron; any food swallowed would turn to ash.
He poured himself a glass of iced pumpkin juice. Sizzle. The glass was instantly covered in a layer of condensation.
He picked up the glass, feeling the tiny bit of coolness slide down his esophagus, slightly easing the scorching sensation in his throat.
[Omni-Perception (blue)] was still running passively.
In that 3D model filled with colored light points, Morn noticed an unusually silent "void" over at the Gryffindor table.
Harry Potter sat there, staring blankly at the roasted potatoes in front of him, his face full of disappointment.
Clearly, when he went back to that room, he found the mirror was gone.
"Poor child."
Morn couldn't help but chuckle inwardly. Just as his lips were about to curl into a smile, he suddenly froze.
A familiar, gentle yet non-negotiable magic fluctuation, like an invisible wind, passed through the noisy crowd and locked onto him with precision.
Morn slowly turned his head.
At the staff table, the white-bearded old man in the star-patterned robes was not sitting in his golden chair.
Albus Dumbledore, holding a goblet, was walking with a brisk pace past the Hufflepuff and Gryffindortables, heading straight toward Ravenclaw.
A kind smile was on his face, and he was still greeting students as he passed.
But in Morn's [Omni-Perception], that old man was like a moving, golden eye of a storm with infinite gravitational pull.
He wasn't here for a toast.
He was here for an "autopsy."
Morn's fingers gripped the cold goblet tightly, his knuckles turning white.
He didn't run. Instead, he forced his shoulders to relax, adjusting his expression to one slightly dulled by illness, quietly waiting for the judgment of the Master of Hogwarts.
He was close.
Dumbledore stopped half a meter behind him.
Morn could even smell the cloying scent of mead on him, and beneath that, the extremely faint, residual aura belonging to the mirror of erised.
"You look like an oil lamp about to burn out, Mr. White."
Dumbledore's voice came from above, soft, yet it made the hair on Morn's body stand on end instantly.
Chapter 48: The Art of Lying
Moen White did not answer immediately. He slowly set down the glass of pumpkin juice, which was steaming from the high heat, and the bottom of the glass clicked against the gold plate with a crisp sound.
This crisp sound acted like a signal, causing his originally tense nerves to switch from 'defense' to 'disguise' in an instant.
He turned around, but did not attempt to stand up.
For a 'terminally ill' student, standing was a luxury.
He merely tilted his head back slightly, letting those eyes burning with a ghostly blue, high-heat glow look directly into Albus Dumbledore's azure eyes.
The moment their gazes met.
Buzz—
The world vanished from his mind.
The noise of the Great Hall, the aroma of roast turkey, and even the burning pain in his body receded like a tide.
Morn felt as if he were in a pure white void.
And in this void, a pair of giant, scrutinizing eyes hung high overhead, like a precise scalpel trying to cut open his cranium and flip through the pages of a book titled 'Memory.'
[Warning: Continuous intrusion of Legilimency detected.]
[Intensity: Extremely High.]
[Simple defense will result in a risk of being seen through.]
"As expected, it's here."
Deep in Morn's subconscious, his originally chaotic thoughts instantly froze.
[Talent Activated: Trinity]
[Mode Switch: Absolute Rationality takeover. Emotional module stripped.]
In that instant, a bizarre change occurred in Morn's soul structure.
He was like a precise biological computer, instantly partitioning his conscious hard drive into two completely isolated sections.
Surface Disguise Zone: Filled with teenage arrogance, a thirst for power, and the fear and pain of a failed experiment.
Deep Black Box: The absolutely calm system core, the truth about the Magic Mirror, and his greedy predatory nature.
The absolute rationality of [Trinity] was like a ruthless gate, crashing down and locking the [Deep Layer] completely within the dark abyss, not allowing even a ripple to leak out.
Simultaneously, it mobilized the two newly acquired Talents and began frantic construction on the stage of the [Surface Layer].
"Set the stage," the rational voice ordered in his mind.
[Talent Linkage: Phantom Force Field (blue) -> Internal Projection.]
[Talent Linkage: Thought Induction (blue) -> Logic Chain Completion.]
Morn abandoned his resistance to the outer memories. Like a candid victim, he proactively opened the door and invited the wolf into the house.
But behind that door, [Trinity] had already woven a perfect web... [Implanted Memory Fragment: Last Night / Ravenclaw Common Room]
From Dumbledore's perspective, he saw a scene:
The common room late at night was empty.
The 'Morn' in the scene was pale, frantically calculating some extremely complex Ancient Rune formula on parchment.
Around him floated a dozen forbidden books regarding 'The Origin of the Soul' and 'Magic Structure.'
"Just a little more... as long as I break this limit..."
The Morn in the memory muttered to himself, his eyes flashing with a nearly pathological fervor.
It wasn't greed; it was pure thirst for knowledge, the madness unique to Ravenclaw that would pay any price for the truth.
He raised his wand, attempting to forcibly fuse two completely different magical properties.
Boom!
The scene shook violently.
A tragic magical backlash occurred.
Ghostly blue fire swallowed that thin figure. The pain of soul overload made him roll in agony on the carpet, yet he gritted his teeth and covered his mouth tightly to keep from screaming, lest he attract the patrolling Professors... "Whew..."
In the real world, Dumbledore blinked.
That suffocating mental connection broke.
The noise of the Great Hall flooded back into his ears.
Morn let out a timely groan of pain, his body swaying violently.
[Trinity] precisely controlled his physiological responses in the background—dilated pupils, muscle spasms, and cold sweat. Every detail perfectly matched the clinical manifestations of 'magic overdraw.'
"I'm sorry, Professor..." Morn's voice was as weak as a string about to snap, "My... self-study last night had a little accident."
Dumbledore did not speak immediately.
In his sharp eyes, the original suspicion was fading.
Because under the perfect partitioning of [Trinity], he hadn't felt even a trace of 'defense.'
What he saw was a real, pitiful student who had nearly played himself to death because he was too much of a genius.
"When I was your age, I also thought I could solve all the riddles in the world."
Dumbledore said softly, the sense of pressure in his tone dissipating into the earnest advice of an elder, "But magic is an abyss, Mr. White. If you stare into it for too long, or try to swallow too much at once... it will burn your throat, just like it has now."
"This is... the price."
Morn panted and looked up. Though the blue light in his eyes was dim, it remained stubborn. "To see the truth, one must always... pay a bit for the ticket."
This was the truth.
And the truth is often the best way to deceive people.
Dumbledore gave him a deep look.
This child's gaze reminded him of too many people.
Grindelwald's fervor, Tom Riddle's obsession... and his own self-important younger self.
"Perhaps."
Dumbledore pulled a small crystal vial from the pocket of his robes.
The liquid inside was a tranquil pale blue, like liquefied moonlight, emitting a cool scent of peppermint and valerian.
He gently placed the bottle on the table in front of Morn.
It made a soft click.
"A soothing potion. Though it cannot cure your... ambition, it can at least cool down that brain of yours that's about to boil over."
Morn looked at the Potion, then at Dumbledore.
"Is this a punishment, Professor?"
"No, it is a gift."
Dumbledore straightened up, hands behind his back, returning to that inscrutable, half-mad state. "It is Christmas, after all, is it not? Even naughty children who blow up their labs are entitled to a piece of pudding."
He turned to leave, but after two steps, he stopped again.
He didn't look back, but spoke softly to the air:
"Furthermore, regarding a certain'something that vanished'... I am glad it did not destroy you. Remember, the difference between a poison and a remedy..."
"...often lies only in the dosage."
Morn picked up the thread, his voice calm and cold.
The corners of Dumbledore's mouth curled up slightly, forming a meaningful arc beneath his silvery-white beard.
"Merry Christmas, Morn."
This time, he did not linger.
His purple robes swept through the air in an elegant arc. The greatest white wizard of the century, like a bumblebee full of honey, hummed an out-of-tune tune as he walked toward the staff table.
It wasn't until Dumbledore's figure completely merged with the group of Professors that Morn's straight spine suddenly slumped an inch.
Sizzle—a clear, charred palm print was left on the gold plate in front of him due to the high heat of his hand.
"Old fox..."
Morn grabbed the vial of soothing potion on the table.
[System Scan: High-quality soothing potion. Non-toxic. Contains trace amounts of specialized magic-stabilizing ingredients.]
He unstoppered the bottle without hesitation, tilted his head back, and drained the ice-cold blue liquid in one gulp.
An indescribable coolness instantly exploded down his esophagus, like a blizzard sweeping across a burning wasteland.
The agonizing pain of his soul nearly bursting his physical body finally received a moment of relief, and the terrifying blue halos on his skin began to gradually recede back into his body.
Morn let out a long breath, the white steam dissipating before his eyes.
He had survived.
Right under Dumbledore's nose, with a belly full of'stolen goods,' he had escaped unscathed.
He glanced at the Gryffindor table.
Harry Potter was still there, grieving over the loss of the Magic Mirror.
"Don't be sad, savior."
Morn stood up, feeling the heavy but gradually stabilizing power within him, a smile curling on his lips.
"Your dream has only just ended... while my dream has only just been fed."
He tightened his scarf. While everyone else was cheering and celebrating, he walked alone toward the Great Hall's doors leading to the dark dungeons, like a discordant shadow.
For now, he needed to lie low.
Until this mortal shell was truly worthy of that restless soul.
Chapter 49: The Low Fever of Evolution and the Forgotten Name
Moen White once again picked up the thick-bottomed pewter cup that was only ever used in the Slytherin dungeons, pouring the last ice cube into his mouth.
*Crunch.*
The sound of teeth crushing the ice echoed deep in his throat, followed by an extremely faint hiss, like water droplets falling onto a red-hot iron plate.
A wisp of white steam escaped from the corner of his mouth; before it could dissipate, it was condensed into a fine mist by the cold surrounding air.
"The twelfth cup."
Morn looked down at the pewter cup in his hand, which was rapidly warming up, his fingertips feeling the abnormal, parching heat radiating from the metal surface.
The holidays were over; today was the day of return to school.
Since that crazy night, his soul strength had been stuck firmly at a value of 2.49.
This soul, excessively massive and filled with divine pressure, was like a constantly expanding high-temperature balloon, squeezing this underdeveloped mortal shell. "soul fever"—this was the diagnosis given by the system.
To prevent his physical body from burning out, he now had to act like an overheating engine, barely surviving by constantly ingesting large amounts of cold water and maintaining the heat-dissipation mode of [Demonic Skin].
"Morn! Good heavens, you look like you've been buried in the snow for two whole weeks!"
A vibrant, somewhat annoyed exclamation interrupted his self-check.
Hermione Granger, clutching several books as thick as bricks, rushed over and stopped by the Ravenclaw table.
She didn't sit down; she just stood in the aisle, her brow furrowed as she stared at Morn's deathly pale face.
"Just... lost track of time while previewing for Potion Class."
Morn set down the cup, his voice still carrying a raspiness as if it had been sanded down.
"Lost track of time? Did you boil your brain in the cauldron as well?"
Although Hermione's tongue was sharp, her actions were swift.
She pulled a jar of suspiciously colored herbal ointment from her robe pocket and thumped it heavily onto the table in front of Morn with a dull thud.
"This is peppermint oil my parents sent me. Even though it's a Muggle thing, it's very effective for bringing down a fever," she said rapidly, like a strict little nurse. "Rub it on your temples yourself! Don't expect me to help you; I'm very busy."
She glanced back anxiously toward the Gryffindor table, where Harry and Ron were huddled together, whispering.
"I have to get back. Harry and Ron, those two idiots... we've searched the whole library and couldn't find that name. Now we have to re-screen 'Notable Magical Names of Our Time'. If you don't die in your dormitory, remember to go to the library and help out!"
With that, she didn't even wait for Morn's reply before turning and running back to the Gryffindor table, leaving Morn with a busy and anxious view of her back.
Morn looked at the jar of ointment still slightly wobbling on the table and pulled off the lid.
A strong, pungent, cooling scent of peppermint instantly rushed into his nostrils, dispelling the greasy smell of roasted meat around him.
"Truly a vibrant Witch."
Morn scooped out a bit of the ointment with a pale finger and applied it to his burning temples. The icy stinging sensation cleared his muddled brain slightly.
This "just enough" kind of care was perfect. It didn't intrude on his solitude, yet it allowed him to feel a hint of mortal warmth in this cold magical world... Dinner was halfway through.
A sudden commotion broke out at the Gryffindor table.
Neville Longbottom came hopping into the Great Hall—literally "hopping."
His legs were stuck fast together by some jinx; he was hopping desperately like a giant rabbit, triggering a burst of uproarious laughter from the Slytherin side.
Especially Draco Malfoy, who laughed so hard he nearly buried his face in his pudding.
"The Leg-Locker Curse again," Hermione said angrily, setting down her fork. "Malfoy has gone too far!"
Harry and Ron rushed forward to help Neville to a seat, and Hermione skillfully lifted the curse.
Looking at Neville's tear-streaked round face, Harry sighed and pulled the last chocolate frog from his pocket, handing it to him. "Here, Neville, eating something sweet will make you feel better."
Sitting at the neighboring table, Morn elegantly sliced into a bloody steak.
His gaze bypassed Hermione's shoulder, not looking at Neville, but landing on the card Neville had casually placed on the tablecloth.
It was an Albus Dumbledore card.
According to the original script, Harry should have glanced at the back of the card at this moment and remembered the name that had troubled them for half a semester.
But now, Harry was busy helping Neville wipe his tears, Ron was cursing Malfoy, and Hermione was flipping through a book to find an Encyclopedia of Counter-Jinxes.
That crucial card was facing the fate of being tossed into the trash by Neville.
"The plot is stuck..."
Morn popped a small piece of beef into his mouth, chewing the bloody taste of the raw meat as a faint glimmer flashed deep in his pupils.
Since the actors have forgotten their lines, let the director give them a hint.
[Talent Activated: Thought Induction (blue)]
[Target Locked: Neville Longbottom.]
[Willpower Check: Extremely Weak (Passed).]
[Implanted Thought: Gratitude.]
Morn's finger, holding the silver dinner knife, lightly tapped the edge of the table.
*Ting.*
This soft sound was drowned out by the noise in the Great Hall; no one noticed.
But in Neville Longbottom's mind, his originally confused and aggrieved thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a gentle but unquestionable idea: "Harry is so good to me, he even gave me a chocolate. I should give this card to him; he seems to be collecting these... Yes, I must let him see the back."
Neville sniffled and, as if possessed, picked up the card he had originally intended to throw away.
His eyes became somewhat dull, and he stiffly handed the card to Harry.
"Harry..." Neville said quietly, "thanks for the chocolate. Here's this card... do you want to look at the back? I think... you should look at it."
Harry blinked, subconsciously taking it and flipping it over.
There, Dumbledore's biography was written.
As his eyes scanned those few lines of familiar text, Harry's eyes suddenly widened.
"Found it!"
Harry shouted suddenly, nearly knocking over the table. "I found it! Nicolas Flamel! He's right here!"
Hermione and Ron immediately crowded around.
"'Dumbledore's widely known contributions include: defeating the Dark Wizard Grindelwald in 1945, discovering the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on Alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel'!"
"That's him!" Hermione cried excitedly. "I saw it in 'Lives of Famous Wizards'—he's the maker of the Philosopher's Stone!"
Watching the trio dancing with excitement, Morn withdrew his gaze.
He slowly swallowed the last bite of beef, feeling the hunger in his stomach subside slightly.
"That's more like it."
Morn chuckled inwardly.
This feeling of hiding behind the scenes and correcting the trajectory of fate with just a thought was far more wonderful than waving a wand directly.
He was the audience and the screenwriter, watching this group of actors called "the savior" walk onto the long-destined stage step by step according to the script he had written.
"What are you smiling at?"
Hermione looked at him suspiciously. "That smile is quite creepy."
"I'm smiling because..." Morn picked up a napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth, a gentle and harmless smile appearing on his pale face, "some people spend half a semester looking for a key that has been in their pocket the whole time."
After dinner, students poured out of the Great Hall in groups of twos and threes.
Morn did not return to the common room with Hermione.
He walked through the cold entrance hall alone and stood before a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the Castle's perimeter.
The blizzard outside had stopped.
Moonlight spilled over the grounds covered in thick snow, reflecting a deathly pale light.
And at the end of that light was a pitch-black, massive forest that seemed to swallow all light.
The Forbidden Forest.
Morn reached out, pressing his palm against the cold glass.
The glass quickly fogged up from the high temperature of his palm, blurring the silhouette of the forest.
"The software is already at the top-tier configuration..."
Morn murmured softly, the blue light in his eyes dancing in the darkness like two ghost fires, "but this hardware is too trash."
Since the evolution of his soul was temporarily locked, he could only start with the physical body.
In that forest, there are Centaurs, Unicorns, Acromantulas... those magical creatures filled with primitive vitality were exactly the coolants and strengthening materials his 'overheated engine' currently needed most.
"Wait for me."
Morn turned and, like a ghost, vanished into the shadows leading to the dungeons.
Chapter 50: The Overheated Engine and the Void Walker
In the underground Dungeon Classroom, the air was stiflingly heavy.
Over twenty cauldrons were boiling simultaneously, the rising steam mixing with the acrid scent of evaporating Potions to create a unique, dizzying atmosphere.
Moen White felt like he was about to melt.
Drip.
A bead of scalding sweat slid down his temple and hit the silver knife he was using to cut Sopophorous Beans, making a faint "hiss" as it evaporated instantly.
His body temperature remained constant at a terrifying 41.5°C.
To suppress the heat originating from the depths of his soul, [Demonic Skin] was working frantically, trying to lock down his surface temperature, but it made him feel like a lobster thrown into a pressure cooker.
"Mr. White."
A silky, cold, and overtly malicious voice sounded behind him.
Severus Snape glided behind Morn like a giant black bat, his bottomless black eyes staring intently at Morn's slightly trembling wrist.
"Your hand is shaking."
Snape's voice wasn't loud, but it was just enough for the nearby Slytherin students to hear.
Draco Malfoy immediately let out a gleeful sneer.
"Is it a guilty conscience? Or has that... ridiculous arrogance, which only a Troll would trip over, finally crushed your fragile nerves?"
Snape was clearly still brooding over the previous theft of the Fire Ash Serpent Egg. Although there was no evidence, he had never given up his suspicion of Morn.
Morn didn't look back.
In his field of vision, the purple liquid in the cauldron was boiling violently.
Because of the high temperature of his palms, the Potion's reaction speed was a full 30% faster than what was written in the textbook.
If he didn't stir it to cool it down, this batch of "Swelling Solution" would immediately turn into a pot of corrosive strong acid.
"Just a bit of a cold, Professor."
Morn's voice was hoarse, but he didn't stop his movements.
"A cold?" Snape sneered, leaning forward, the oppressive pressure mixed with the scent of herbs and old ink closing in instantly. "Then let me see what a patient, who can barely even hold a stirring rod, can produce. If this Potion explodes, fifty points from Ravenclaw."
He was waiting.
Waiting for Morn to make a mistake, waiting for that perfect honor student mask to shatter.
Morn took a deep breath. As the air entered his lungs, it felt like swallowing a ball of fire.
At this moment, simple physical control was no longer enough for precise operations. His finger muscles were spasming due to the high fever.
Then he would change his approach.
[Talent Activated: Fluid Dynamics (Green)]
[Medium Locked: Liquid inside the cauldron.]
Morn loosened his grip on the stirring rod, merely resting his fingers lightly on the top of the glass rod.
To an outsider, it seemed as if he had given up on stirring and was just weakly tracing circles.
But in Morn's perception, that glass rod had become a precise "sensor." He was no longer using muscles to fight resistance, but rather following the frequency of the Potion's flow.
Three circles clockwise, half a circle counter-clockwise, cutting into the center of the vortex.
Even though his fingers were trembling, his absolute control over the fluid allowed him to achieve perfection on a microscopic level.
Every stir precisely broke up the bubbles that were about to burst, and every turn utilized the liquid's inertia to evenly distribute the overheated energy to the cauldron walls.
The originally violently boiling liquid actually calmed down miraculously under his control.
The murky purple began to clear rapidly, eventually turning into a perfect, viscous texture as transparent as amethyst.
[Potion Completed. Quality: Perfect Grade.]
Morn turned off the fire and slowly pulled the glass rod out of the cauldron.
He turned around, his eyes burning with a ghostly blue light calmly meeting Snape's stunned gaze.
"It seems my cold didn't affect the Potion's efficacy, Professor."
Morn pulled a crystal phial from his robe pocket, skillfully bottled it, and placed it on the table in front of Snape.
The phial of Potion shimmered with a textbook-level luster under the candlelight.
The corner of Snape's mouth twitched. He picked up the bottle and shook it, trying to find even a trace of impurity or sediment.
But he failed.
"...Lucky."
Snape squeezed those few words through his teeth, then turned abruptly, his black robes whipping an angry wave in the air. "Leave it here. Get out."
...After leaving the Dungeon Classroom, Morn didn't go to the Great Hall for lunch.
He walked straight through the entrance hall and out to the Black Lake beside the Castle.
The January wind in the Scottish Highlands was biting, and a thick layer of ice had formed on the lake's surface.
Most students were hiding in the warm Castle; here, only the tentacles of a few shivering Giant Squids occasionally broke the ice for air.
Morn found a rock sheltered from the wind to sit on and unbuttoned the collar of his robes.
The icy wind poured into his clothes, giving his almost-burning skin a long-awaited sense of comfort.
"The hardware... is too poor."
Morn looked at his pale palm, where the veins still bulged like a net that could snap at any moment.
Although he had managed to get through Potion Class using technique, it was only a temporary measure.
As long as the [soul fever] didn't subside, he was at risk of losing control in any high-precision combat or spellcasting.
He opened the system panel.
A long list of Talents unfolded on his retina.
[Fluid Dynamics (Green)]
[Ghost Step (Green)]
[Sonic Deterrence (Green)]
[Thermal Affinity (Green)]
[Hallucinogenic Spores (White)]
...Too cluttered.
This hodgepodge skill tree not only occupied the system's computing resources but also caused delays when switching in actual combat.
Since he was going into the Forbidden Forest tonight to hunt those dangerous high-level creatures, he had to adjust his state to the absolute limit.
"Let's clean it up."
Morn's gaze locked onto the two Talents that had long reached max proficiency.
[Shadow Stealth (blue)] — Derived from the Demiguise, providing visual invisibility.
[Ghost Step (Green)] — Derived from the Cat Civet (or other feline creatures), providing auditory silencing.
These two Talents were highly complementary in function. One for the eyes, one for the ears.
In previous infiltration missions, he always needed to activate both skills simultaneously, which was a waste for his current mental load.
[System Command: Talent Fusion.]
[Main Ingredient: Shadow Stealth (blue)]
[Auxiliary Ingredient: Ghost Step (Green)]
[Consumption: Part of soul margin (using overflowing soul energy as fuel).]
Boom.
A familiar burning sensation exploded along his spine. But this time, the heat didn't cause him pain; instead, it was like a blacksmith's hammer, striking away the impurities in his soul.
Morn closed his eyes. Even in the cold wind, the space around his body began to distort; light was swallowed as if it had encountered a black hole, and sound was cut off as if it had encountered a vacuum.
About five minutes later.
When Morn opened his eyes again, deep within his azure pupils was a touch of black so profound it seemed able to suck in everything.
[Fusion Successful.]
[Obtained Advanced Talent: [Void Walker - blue+]]
Effect I (Passive): Presence Thinning. Even without activating invisibility, you become like an extra in the background, making it extremely difficult to attract notice or hostility from others.
Effect II (Active): Void Walk. When activated, simultaneously blocks vision, hearing, and smell (partial). Movement speed in shadowed areas increases by 30%, and footsteps are completely silent.
Evaluation: You are no longer hiding in the shadows; you are the shadow itself.
Morn stood up.
He didn't use any spells, just a thought.
[Talent Activated: Void Walker.]
In that instant, he didn't feel like he had put on a shell as he had before, but rather felt like he had "disappeared."
The wind blew through his body without resistance.
His feet stepped on the gravel covered in thin ice without making even a single crackle.
Even the Giant Squid that had just poked its head out not far away didn't notice a person standing on the shore at all.
Morn raised his hand, looking at his translucent palm that seemed to be composed of black mist, a satisfied curve hooking the corner of his mouth.
"Very good."
The panel is clean, and the blade is sharpened.
He turned around and looked at the small wooden hut with smoke rising from its chimney at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
A simple big fellow lived there, along with a secret he desperately needed.
"Next, it's time to confirm the menu."
Morn's figure flickered in the sunlight, then completely melted into the shadow cast by the rock, sliding silently toward Hagrid's hut.
Chapter 51: The gamekeeper's Secret
Moen White's knuckles rapped against the heavy oak door, and the dull thud immediately triggered a world-shaking outburst of barking from inside.
"Fang, quiet! Back!"
Rubeus Hagrid's thunderous voice boomed from behind the door, accompanied by the sound of heavy objects being dragged across the floor and the clatter of some metal utensil being frantically kicked over.
After a good while, the door was finally pulled open a crack.
Hagrid's large face, almost completely filled by his messy beard, appeared behind the gap. His eyes flickered and his expression was nervous, like a child caught sneaking candy under the covers.
"Oh, it's Morn." Hagrid didn't open the door wide as usual. Instead, he blocked the gap with his massive body, acting in such a hurry to close it that he barely even saw who it was. "I'm a bit... a bit busy right now. You know, gamekeeper's work... If you're here to borrow tea or want some rock cakes, come back another day."
A rolling wave of heat surged through the crack in the door.
It was a blast of high-temperature air mixed with the smell of damp wood burning, overcooked cabbage, and the distinct musky scent of a large reptile.
For an ordinary person, this heat would be enough to suffocate them, but for Morn, who currently felt like an overheating engine, it was like a cool breeze to a desert traveler.
Morn did not back down.
On the contrary, he took a step forward. His pale face even regained a faint, extremely weak flush under the wash of the heatwave.
"I don't think you're busy, Hagrid."
Morn smiled, his gaze passing over Hagrid's broad shoulders to land precisely on the glowing red fireplace in the center of the room. "You're just... incubating life."
Hagrid shuddered, his black, beetle-like eyes widening.
In that moment of hesitation, Morn squeezed through the narrow gap like a slippery fish, closing the wind and snow out behind him.
The temperature inside the house was ridiculously high, at least forty-five degrees Celsius.
The curtains were drawn tight, and the only light in the dim room came from the roaring fire in the hearth.
Fang, the massive black dog, was lying in a corner with his long tongue out, panting from the heat. Hagrid himself was drenched in sweat, his enormous moleskin coat soaked through.
But Morn felt incredibly comfortable.
[Talent Activated: Thermal Affinity (Green)] The restless fire element molecules in the air were like a swarm of fireflies that had found their home, cheering as they poured into his pores.
The agonizing pain of his soul crushing his physical body actually found a miraculous sense of balance under this external high-pressure heat. He even felt like lying down on the rug in front of the fireplace and taking a nap.
"You... you saw it?"
Hagrid hurriedly grabbed a dirty rag, trying to cover the large, blackish egg that was vibrating slightly in the coals. "This is just... just a very large ostrich egg! I was thinking of making myself a snack..."
"If it were an ostrich egg, this much heat would have made it explode by now."
Morn walked over to the fireplace and crouched down.
He reached out his pale, slender fingers and, under Hagrid's horrified gaze, stuck them directly into the scalding ashes.
Sizzle.
There was no smell of burning flesh.
As Morn's fingers touched the high-temperature coals, a faint, ghostly blue glow shimmered on the surface of his skin.
He pushed aside a few pieces of charcoal sitting on top of the black egg, adjusting them to an angle more suitable for air circulation.
"Norwegian Ridgeback eggshells are very thick, but they need constant high heat, not this erratic, intense roasting."
Morn spoke softly, his tone carrying a sense of expertise that Hagrid found impossible to resist. "You need to turn it every half hour to prevent the embryo from sticking. Also, it's best to add a bit of brandy to the fire; the alcohol vapors soften the shell and help the little fellow hatch."
Hagrid's mouth fell open, and the rag dropped to the floor with a wet thud.
"You... you know how to hatch dragons?"
"I've read about it in books." Morn stood up, brushed the black ash from his hands, and turned around with a gentle, harmless smile. "I also happen to like these... powerful and fascinating creatures."
This single sentence completely shattered the last of the half-Giant's defenses.
Ten minutes later.
Hagrid had already started treating him like a confidant, even bringing out a plate of rock cakes—which were as hard as stones—and a cup of scalding hot tea to entertain him.
"No one understands them, Morn, really." Hagrid wiped away tears of excitement as he added wood to the fireplace. "Everyone thinks they're monsters, but in my eyes, they're just misunderstood little darlings. Just like Fluffy..."
"Yes, that Cerberus is indeed very cute."
Morn took a sip of the hot tea, letting the scalding liquid slide down his esophagus to soothe the spasms in his stomach. He chuckled inwardly: Cute? That's just a walking pile of experience points.
He set down the teacup, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the chip in the rim as he casually steered the conversation toward his real goal.
"Besides dragons, are there any other big fellows in the Forbidden Forest? I've been researching a Potion that requires highly active biological venom... I'm looking for creatures with particularly resilient vitality and massive size."
"Highly active venom?" Hagrid sniffed and thought for a moment. "Then you'll have to be careful. The Forbidden Forest isn't safe... but if you're talking about size and venom, there's only the Acromantula."
Morn's pupils contracted slightly.
The fish had taken the bait.
"Acromantula?" He feigned curiosity. "Books say they are extremely dangerous man-eating monsters with social habits."
"That's just prejudice!" Hagrid became excited again. "Aragog—their leader—is someone I raised myself! He's very loyal and never lets his descendants harm me. They live in a hollow deep in the Forbidden Forest, about two miles from here. Just follow the path lined with Knotgrass and you'll see it..."
Hagrid suddenly covered his mouth, seemingly realizing he had let too much slip.
"Oh, blimey. I shouldn't have told you. Morn, promise me you won't go there. Aragog might respect me, but his children have been a bit... irritable lately. Especially at night."
"Don't worry, Hagrid."
Morn stood up and straightened his collar, which was slightly damp from sweat. He had achieved his purpose.
"I was just asking. After all, who would want to mess with a pack of Giant spiders?"
He bid Hagrid farewell and pushed open the cabin door.
In that instant, the cold wind outside felt like an icy blade, slashing across his face that had only just warmed up.
Whoosh—
Morn exhaled a cloud of white mist, looking at the black forest in the night that resembled the gaping maw of a Giant beast.
Inside the cabin behind him, Hagrid was still humming a song while tending to his dragon egg.
The simple gamekeeper had no idea that he had just personally sent a predator more dangerous than an Acromantula into his 'old friend's' territory.
Morn pulled his wand from the inside of his robes and tapped his chest lightly.
[System Self-Check: Magic circuits clear.]
[Talent Activated: Void Walker (blue+)]
There was no light from an incantation, nor any ripple of magic.
Morn's figure was like a pencil drawing being erased; first his silhouette blurred, then he completely melted into the air.
Even his footprints in the snow made not a single sound under the rules of [Ghost Step].
He stepped into the Forbidden Forest.
The surrounding light dimmed rapidly as the dense canopy blocked out the moonlight. The air was thick with the smell of rotting leaves and damp earth, and occasionally the shrill howl of some unknown beast could be heard in the distance.
For an ordinary Young Wizard, this place was a nightmare.
But for the current Morn, this was a dining room.
He moved silently through the darkness at an astonishing speed.
The radar map of [Omni-Perception] unfolded in his mind, with countless red dots representing biological entities flickering around him.
But he ignored the Bowtruckles and Knarls he passed.
His goal was clear.
Following the direction Hagrid had pointed out, he headed toward the hollow filled with the stench of decay and poisonous aura.
Suddenly, a large, rapidly moving red signal popped up at the edge of the radar.
[Warning: 50 meters ahead, high-threat biological reaction detected.]
[Species Identified: Acromantula - Adult.]
Morn stopped in his tracks, his figure vanishing into the shadow of a massive oak tree.
In the bushes ahead, two black-haired appendages as thick as thighs slowly probed out, followed by eight eyes gleaming with a murky black light and a pair of massive chelicerae that clicked incessantly, dripping green venom.
The spider was as large as a carriage and was currently feasting on a freshly caught dead deer.
Crunch, crunch.
The hair-raising sound of chewing echoed through the silent woods.
Morn licked his dry lips, the ghostly blue fire in his eyes jumping violently in the darkness.
He could smell the rich vitality emanating from the spider—it was the medicine he needed to repair his body.
"I'll use you... as an appetizer."
Chapter 52: The Mirage and the Dance of the Night
Moen White's boot heel gently stepped on a frost-covered dead branch.
Crack.
The crisp sound rippled through the silent dead water, clear and almost piercing, instantly drowning out the gruesome chewing sounds ahead.
He did not continue maintaining the concealment of [Void Walker]. Instead, like a gentleman invited to a banquet, he actively withdrew the dark veil distorting light around him, fully exposing his slender figure under the dappled moonlight.
"Who?!"
The bushes ahead shook violently as the adult Acromantula, which had been feeding, abruptly turned around.
Eight turbid, obsidian-glittering eyes instantly locked onto this suddenly appearing human.
A foul wind, thick with the stench of rotting flesh and the fishy odor of chitinous shells, rushed towards him.
Morn did not move.
One hand was in his robe pocket, the other hung casually at his side, his fingertips lightly holding his wand.
The [soul fever] within his body made him feel like a walking branding iron at this moment. The cold night air was instantly heated upon contact with his skin, forming an extremely thin layer of thermal convection.
"Hiss——!!"
The spider let out a sharp hiss, its massive fangs opening and closing, dripping green venom.
For this highly territorial predator, prey that did not flee was the greatest provocation.
It moved.
Its massive body shot forward like an out-of-control black chariot. Its eight long, bristle-covered legs propelled it from the ground, stirring up a foul wind as it instantly covered ten meters.
The pair of sharp fangs, capable of shearing through thigh bones, stabbed viciously towards Morn's head!
Thud.
A dull sound, like a blade piercing flesh.
The massive fang pierced through Morn's chest unimpeded, even pinning him firmly to the tree trunk behind him.
However, no blood splattered.
A flicker of confusion passed through the spider's eight eyes, which had been filled with cruel delight.
It did not feel the sensation of "piercing solid matter"; instead, it felt as if it had stabbed into a void of mist.
The next second.
The "Morn" pinned to the tree twisted grotesquely.
Like a reflection in water disturbed by a thrown stone, the figure silently disintegrated into countless dark blue light points before dissipating into the air.
[Talent Activated: Phantom Force Field (blue) — Displaced Projection.]
"For a predator, your eyesight is terrible."
A calm, cold voice, tinged with mockery, sounded to the spider's left.
Moen White stood two meters away from his original position, not a single wrinkle disturbed on his clothing.
He looked at the giant beast that had missed its target, his gaze as if observing a foolish dog chasing its own tail.
"Hssskraa——!!"
The anger of being toyed with instantly ignited the simple neural center of the Acromantula.
It frantically swept its row of sharp, spear-like forelegs, attempting to flatten everything around it.
Whoosh—!
Thick legs swept through with a sound of tearing air, so fast they left afterimages on the retina.
Morn's pupils contracted slightly. Deep within his originally azure-blue irises, a profound stream of data light flashed.
[Talent Activated: Nerve Swiftness (blue)]
The world slowed down.
In Morn's perception, the spider leg, originally fast as lightning, now seemed stuck in viscous syrup, moving towards him in a laughable slow motion.
He could even see each erect, mud-stained bristle on that leg and the layer of grayish-white soft skin contracting at the joint.
No need for panicked rolls or clumsy running.
Morn merely tilted his head slightly, leaning his upper body back a tiny angle.
Swish.
The deadly long leg swept past the tip of his nose. The gust of wind it stirred tousled the hair on his forehead but failed to touch a single inch of his skin.
Followed by the second strike, the third strike.
Morn was like a ghost strolling leisurely through a storm.
Every dodge was precise to the millimeter, his movements flowing seamlessly, elegant to the point where it seemed less like combat and more like dancing to some silent melody.
"Too slow."
Morn made the evaluation in his mind.
This creature relying purely on brute force was, before his [Omni-Perception] and [Nerve Swiftness], like an infant swinging a club.
"And, too noisy."
Morn seemed to have grown tired of this one-sided game.
The moment the spider raised its foreleg again, exposing the fatal opening beneath its abdomen, his footsteps halted.
His right hand, which had been hanging casually, abruptly rose.
The movement was so fast there was no wind-up, as if his arm had always been raised.
The tip of his wand did not erupt with a blinding flash of light. Instead, it condensed into an extremely fine, yet razor-sharp, dark blue light blade.
This was no ordinary "Cutting Charm"; it was surgical-grade dissection, precisely calculated for angle and magical output by [Trinity].
"Diffindo." Morn did not shout the incantation; he merely let his lips touch, uttering this icy sentence of judgment.
Sss—
An extremely faint sound, like silk being slit by a sharp blade.
That dark blue light blade instantly sliced through the air, precisely grazing the most fragile nerve ganglion connecting the Acromantula's head and thorax.
Time seemed to freeze at this moment.
The spider's fangs, held high in the air, stiffened.
The cruel red light in its eyes rapidly dimmed, like a light bulb whose power had been cut.
It didn't even have time to feel pain before its brain lost control over its body.
Boom. The massive body, like a collapsing mountain of flesh, heavily crashed into the pile of fallen leaves at Morn's feet, stirring up a cloud of dust.
No green blood sprayed; the wound was smooth as a mirror, instantly sealed by the high temperature.
This was a perfect execution, wasting not a single ingredient.
Morn lowered his wand, gently adjusting his cuff.
He
stepped forward, ignoring the ferocious mouthparts, and placed his pale palm on the still-warm forehead of the spider.
The moment his fingertips made contact, icy-blue system data streams rapidly unfolded on his retina.
——[Analysis Lock]——
Target: Acromantula · Adult Worker
Status: Brain Dead / Life Force Overflowing
Manifested Talents:
[Biological Acid (blue)]: Glands secrete highly corrosive digestive fluid, capable of softening most organic matter.
[Tremor Sense (green)]: Detects faint vibrations in air and ground through bristles to lock onto prey location.
[Chitinous Carapace (green)]: Hard exoskeleton providing moderate physical defense.
————————————————
"Tremor Sense... somewhat interesting. It could enhance my radar."
With a thought, Morn made his choice.
[System Fully Engaged: Spiritual Plunder.]
[Target Locked: [Tremor Sense] + Life Essence (for healing).]
Hum— A turbid, foul-smelling, yet vitality-filled torrent of green energy
was instantly forcibly extracted, rushing madly into his body along his arm.
"Ugh..."
Morn threw his head back, a suppressed groan escaping his throat.
It was the pleasure of a long drought meeting sweet rain.
This impure life energy was like a bucket of ice water, harshly dousing his burning soul core.
The high temperature constantly tormenting his body surface finally began to recede. The swelling sensation of his soul about to burst his flesh also eased significantly.
[System Prompt: High-unit Life Essence ingested.]
[Physical Overload State... decreased by 3%.]
[Acquired Trait Fragment: Biological Radar Enhancement (Arthropod).]
"Hah..."
Morn let out a long sigh and opened his eyes. His originally fever-hazed blue eyes now regained their clear sharpness.
"Tastes like mud, but it works."
At that moment.
Crack.
A fissure suddenly split open on the swollen abdomen of the dead spider.
A colorless, odorless gas gushed out, instantly blending into the night wind.
It was the distress pheromone released by the Acromantula before its death.
Immediately after.
The radar map of [Omni-Perception] in Morn's mind instantly turned a glaring crimson.
Rustle rustle rustle rustle... Dense, countless scraping sounds surged from all directions, surrounding the clearing like a tide.
From the depths of the dark forest, hundreds upon thousands of turbid eye pairs lit up, greedily fixating on the small human in the center.
It was a Spider Tide.
Any normal Wizard, even an adult Auror, would choose to Apparate to escape at this moment.
But Morn did not move.
He stood beside the massive corpse, took out a handkerchief to wipe non-existent dust from his fingers. Instead, the corner of his mouth curled into an extremely elegant, yet chilling, smile.
"One only cools 3%..."
Morn raised his head, surveying the dark wave of monsters surrounding him.
"Since the buffet has already begun... then please, everyone, line up."
Chapter 53: Silent Waltz
The nauseating pheromone scent in the air instantly intensified tenfold, like a greasy film smeared onto the nasal mucosa.
Rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle—
The sound of countless bristle-covered legs scraping through dry leaves converged into a black tsunami.
Moen White's field of vision was filled with countless pairs of eyes gleaming with greedy red light. The nearest Acromantula was less than three meters away, its massive, saliva-dripping chelicerae aimed at his throat, ready to snap shut.
Morn didn't move. He didn't even take his hands out of his pockets.
He merely tilted his head slightly. A strange stream of data-like light flashed in his dark, sapphire-blueeyes, and then he snapped his fingers silently.
[Talent Fully Activated: Phantom Force Field (blue) — Group Sensory Hijacking.]
"Since you're all so hungry..."
Morn's voice was as calm as if discussing the weather, instantly drowned out by the deafening shrieks of the spider horde, "...then eat."
Squelch!
The giant spider that had lunged first, its sharp chelicerae did indeed pierce "solid matter."
But it wasn't Morn's body.
Amidst a sound of crunching chitin that set teeth on edge, it realized with shock that what it had bitten into was the hairy abdomen of one of its own kin.
And in its numerous murky compound eyes, the kin it had bitten clearly appeared as the human youth in Hogwarts school robes.
"Screech—!!"
Agony drove the bitten spider into instant frenzy. It lacked the capacity for thought. Instinctively, it swung its spear-like foreleg, brutally piercing the attacker's head.
Chaos erupted in that second.
Within the web of illusions Morn had woven, every spider in the hollow appeared, in the eyes of every other spider, as that enticingly fragrant "prey."
The once tightly-knit pack connection was severed in an instant, replaced by pure, primal killing instinct driven by hunger and fear.
Crack, crunch.
Black limbs flailed wildly in the air, green venom splattered like rain. Two, five, ten... hundreds upon hundreds of Acromantulas entangled themselves. Even when legs were bitten off, they continued to frantically tear at the "enemy" before them with their remaining limbs.
This was no longer a hunt.
It was a meat-grinder of mutual slaughter.
And the real Moen White, with [Void Walker (blue+)] active, moved like an ethereal phantom, elegantly strolling through the heart of this bloody carnage.
A massive spider leg swept through his waist, only to pass through empty air.
A spray of highly toxic green blood splashed toward his face, but a centimeter before touching his skin, it silently slid off a layer of distorted, shimmering barrier.
He was the only still eye of this storm.
Quiet, indifferent, and hungry.
Morn stopped before a giant spider that had just had its neck bitten through by a comrade. The monster wasn't quite dead yet, its body twitching spasmodically, madness lingering in its eight eyes.
He bent down, his pale, almost translucent hand gently covering the bristle-covered forehead of the spider.
Hum—
[System Activated: Spiritual Plunder.]
A murky, foul-smelling, yet wildly primal green radiance was forcibly extracted from the corpse in an instant.
It was an exceptionally vigorous life force, carrying the damp vitality unique to the Forbidden Forest, surging madly up Morn's arm.
"Hngh..."
Morn couldn't help but close his eyes, a sigh that was almost a moan escaping his throat.
It was like throwing a red-hot branding iron into a deep well of ice water.
The [soul fever] that tormented him day and night, making his blood feel like it was boiling, finally began to recede under the onslaught of this immense torrent of life.
The abnormal, feverish red flush on his skin surface, as if it might crack, rapidly faded.
Every cell in his body cheered, greedily devouring this hard-won nourishment, repairing mitochondria and nerve fibers damaged by overload.
[Body Temperature Dropping: 39.5°C...38.2°C...37.2°C.]
[Overload Alert Cleared.]
Morn opened his eyes again. The blue eyes that had held a constant undercurrent of mania due to the fever were now once again clear and profound, like a frozen lake.
He felt an unprecedented lightness in his body. The heavy shackles of imminent loss of control were utterly shattered.
"Not enough..."
He stepped forward again, moving towards the next dying prey.
Amidst this chaotic slaughter, Death was silently feeding. One, two, ten... As more and more life essence was absorbed, Morn even felt an invisible, resilient membrane beginning to form beneath his skin—the chitinous properties of the Acromantulas were being assimilated by his flesh.
Finally, when the last spider daring to approach this area collapsed in a pool of blood, Morn let out a long, slow breath.
He stood amidst the mountain of corpses and sea of blood, straightening his slightly disheveled robe collar.
The air around him was thick with a suffocating stench of blood, but to him, it felt incredibly fresh.
"Finally... I'm alive again."
However, just as he was about to savor this long-awaited health and tranquility...
Boom—!
A violent tremor suddenly erupted from deep within the earth, as if a heavy-duty steamroller was rumbling underground.
Several spider corpses near Morn's feet were jolted into the air by the vibration.
The surviving spiders around, whether still locked in frenzied combat or licking their wounds, suddenly froze as if someone had hit pause.
They sensed a certain pressure originating from the depths of their bloodline.
All madness instantly receded, replaced by absolute terror.
The surviving spiders began to tremble uncontrollably. Even those with broken legs desperately scrambled backward, clearing the hollow now dyed green with blood.
Morn narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on the pitch-black burrow at the deepest part of the nest.
A vast, ancient, and utterly enraged presence was slowly rising from within.
"It seems... the small fries are finished."
Not only did Morn not retreat, he instead raised an eyebrow with interest, "The old one is coming to settle the bill."
The air at the edge of the Forbidden Forest suddenly turned as cold as ice water. The wind shifted, carrying a sickly-sweet stench—the smell of chitinous bodily fluids mixed with rotting leaves—straight into the sky.
Standing atop the high ridge, the red-haired Centaur Ronan stamped his front hooves uneasily, the horseshoes striking the rock with sharp clicks.
He abruptly tightened his grip on the yew longbow in his hands, his wild eyes fixed intently on the hollow shrouded in darkness below.
"Do you smell it, Bane?"
Chapter 54: The Blind King and the Watcher
Ronan's nostrils flared violently, his voice low and trembling, 'This is not the scent of a natural hunt. No wolf howls, no flashes of spells... only death spreading in silence.'
Beside him, the black-haired Centaur Bane lifted his head, his gaze not directed at the battlefield, but toward the pale, full moon.
'Mars is piercingly bright tonight,' Bane's voice was cold and hard as iron, 'but this sudden eruption of 'nothingness'... it is not recorded in the stars.'
He could sense that at the center of that darkness, an unseen thing was feeding.
It was like a black hole, greedily devouring all the light of life from that area, even the starlight falling upon that spot was distorted.
'A new ghost has come to the forest, Ronan,' Bane slowly lowered his bow, an instinctive retreat from some unknown terror. 'Fall back. Tonight's hunting grounds do not belong to Centaurs.'
...Meanwhile, on the other side of the Forbidden Forest, deep in the shadows near the Unicorn habitat.
Hiss—
A sudden burning sensation made Quirinus Quirrell clutch the back of his head, his whole body curling up under an ancient oak tree as if electrocuted.
His head, swathed in thick purple turban, now felt like a pressure cooker about to burst, from within came the angry, greedy hiss of his master.
'That scent...'
The remnant soul of Lord Voldemort, dwelling within, fluctuated violently in the darkness—a tremor mixed with wariness and extreme excitement.
Through Quirrell's terrified eyes, though he could not see what was happening in that hollow miles away, his keen Dark Arts intuition caught the immense suction that erupted in that instant.
It was the scent of a kindred spirit.
Cold, efficient, a predator willing to plunder all vitality for survival.
'Master... is it Dumbledore?' Quirrell asked fearfully in his mind, his teeth chattering with terror.
'No, that old fool's scent is full of nauseating 'love' and 'mercy'... even when killing,' Voldemort's voice was hoarse and icy, echoing in Quirrell's mind. 'But this power... it's pure as a blade. It's eating those spiders, repairing itself... such beautiful greed.'
Quirrell wanted to peek out and look, but Voldemort forcibly took control of his body, freezing him in place. 'Don't move, you fool,' Voldemort commanded coldly. 'Don't provoke that unknown monster. Since it has drawn the attention of those stupid spiders, and even that half-breed Giant Hagrid might be lured over... this is perfect for our plans. Go, find that lone Unicorn. I need its blood... now!'
...Simultaneously, at the center of the spider nest.
Boom—!
With a dull, thunderous crash, the roots of the ancient tree that had dominated the nest entrance for a millennium snapped.
Earth churned as a massive black figure finally squeezed its way completely out of the burrow.
Aragog, the king of the Acromantulas who had lived for half a century, towered like a moving hill in the center of the corpse-strewn battlefield.
Its body was three times larger than its biggest offspring, covered in thick, armor-like iron-gray bristles.
But most chilling were its eyes—all eight orbs were a dead, milky white.
It was blind, but precisely because of that, its other senses had evolved to their peak.
'Who?!'
Aragog waved its massive pincers, large enough to shear a carriage in two, and let out an ear-splitting roar.
The shockwave of sound whipped across the ground, sending countless dead leaves and spider limbs flying.
It was confused, and afraid.
Its auditory radar was filled with the death cries of its offspring and the sound of cracking carapaces; its nostrils were clogged with the pungent scent of blood.
But at the center of it all, the source of this slaughter... was empty.
No heartbeat, no breathing, no body heat, not even footsteps.
It was as if Death itself had descended, wielding an invisible scythe to reap everything, yet disdained to leave any trace in this world.
'Come out! I know you're there!'
Aragog frantically hammered the ground, trying to locate the enemy through vibrations. 'You killed my children... are you a Wizard? Or a ghost? Answer me!!'
Moen White stood less than five meters from the frenzied beast.
His hands were in the pockets of his robe, his posture erect. His black form, wrapped in [Void Walker(blue+)], blended perfectly into the dappled shadows of the night.
Having just finished 'feeding,' he was in astonishingly good condition.
Every cell in his body brimmed with vitality; the high fever and weakness that had long tormented him had completely vanished.
Now, if he raised his wand, even the simplest 'Reducto,' combined with the mana compression technique of [Fluid Dynamics], would be enough to blast this old spider's head apart.
But he did not move.
Within his deep blue eyes, streams of data flickered rapidly, finally settling into an expression of absolute, rational calm.
'Killing it would break Hagrid.'
Morn weighed the options in his mind.
That big oaf, though foolish, occupied a unique niche at Hogwarts. Moreover, if the king of the Acromantulas died, the Forbidden Forest's ecological balance would instantly collapse, and Dumbledore would surely investigate thoroughly.
For a 'mastermind' wanting to develop in the shadows, attracting excessive attention was foolish.
'Then, a different approach.'
Morn slowly raised his right hand. He did not draw his wand, but instead made a grasping motion toward Aragog.
[Talent Switch: Phantom Force Field (blue) —> Intimidation Mode.]
[Material Call: Apex Predator · Basilisk.]
[Intensity: Instantaneous Peak.]
Though he had never seen a Basilisk, [Absolute Memory] allowed him to perfectly replicate the book's description of that 'King of Serpents.' Combined with the trace of icy aura he had captured earlier from Voldemort's remnant soul, he constructed a terrifying concept on a mental level.
Hum—!
The air did not truly vibrate.
But in Aragog's perceptual world, an unprecedented shudder, originating from the depths of its soul, instantly exploded.
It felt as if plunged into an ice cavern. And in the darkness before it, a pair of immense, yellow serpentine eyes—representing 'instant death' and 'petrification'—slowly opened.
Natural enemy.
That was the ultimate fear, etched into the Acromantula's genetic code for millions of years, impossible to erase.
Hiss—!!!
The once-arrogant Spider King suddenly let out a shrill, distorted shriek.
The pressure felt too real, so real that it instantly extinguished all its rage and desire for revenge.
Its massive body, like a frightened mouse, scrambled backward with all eight legs, desperately trying to retreat into the safety of its burrow.
'Get away! Don't come near!!'
Aragog screamed incoherently, tumbling and crawling into the burrow, not even sparing a thought for its offspring that weren't quite dead yet.'Seal the entrance! Now! Don't let it in! That's... that's the thing!!'
Rumble... With the sound of collapsing earth, the blind king completely buried itself deep underground, as if burrowing deep enough could escape those'serpent eyes' watching it.
The once-noisy battlefield abruptly fell silent.
Only the scattered limbs and the mournful sigh of the wind through the treetops remained.
Morn withdrew his hand.
The non-existent 'Basilisk aura' instantly dissipated.
He glanced at the sealed burrow entrance, a faint, somewhat mocking smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
'Goodnight, old fellow.'
He turned, his black leather boots treading on ground covered in rotten leaves and spider fluids, yet not making the slightest sound.
[Void Walker] enveloped him once more, completely erasing his form from the physical plane.
Like a passing breeze, he slipped through this bloody slaughterhouse toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Whether it was the distant Centaurs, Voldemort hiding in the shadows, or even Hagrid who might investigate later, none would ever know who had enjoyed the 'feast' here tonight.