Chapter 26: To My Past Self, I Wish You Success

Grindelwald enunciated the word "please" with heavy emphasis.

The friction between his teeth and the root of his tongue squeezed the word through the narrow gap of his lips. Watching Grindelwald’s movements and feeling the atmosphere suddenly turn frigid, Morris had no doubt—if he could not provide a satisfactory answer at this moment, the man would sooner die than let him leave this place.

But did that matter?

In other words, was he afraid?

If one were to meet death while following the dictates of their heart and the truth of their words, then that would be his and his ideals' final destination. If the threat of death could easily alter a person's ideals, then those ideals—and that person—would be utterly worthless.

Death has always been a mere robe worn by ideals, never an obstacle to them.

Morris stood up abruptly and walked slowly toward Grindelwald, stopping just a single step away. The tension between them was like a fully drawn bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. Morris looked Grindelwald straight in the eyes, his gaze unwavering.

"Because I am different from you, Mr. Grindelwald," he finally spoke. "This is the second time I have said this today—I hope you hear it clearly."

"What you want is to control this world, but what I want is to destroy it completely—to let it be rebuilt from its very foundations."

"It is not so much that I want to destroy the world, but rather that this world deserves to be destroyed."

Morris leaned forward slightly, a torrent of words pouring from him.

"How long do you think the pure-blood families of the wizarding world can sustain themselves in this system? They hoard resources based on privileges of bloodline accumulated over centuries, yet they are incapable of adapting to the changing times. More and more Muggles and half-blood wizards are awakening. Do you think they can control the Ministry of Magic forever? Stand at the pinnacle of power for eternity?"

"And the Ministry of Magic?" He gave a disdainful laugh. "An institution so decayed that it can barely hold the boundary between wizards and Muggles. They are inefficient, consumed by internal strife, and incapable of handling even basic crises. Their only talent is maintaining the status quo—like a troupe of clowns preserving a facade."

"I am not like you, seeking a fleeting victory. I want lasting change, and the first step toward change is often destruction."

Morris clenched his fists. "I will use my methods to tear away the umbrella shielding these people, leaving the privileged class without protection, stripping the Ministry of its authority, and plunging the entire world into chaos. Only after chaos can a new order be established—a world no longer ruled by the corrupt."

"Do you know? Your plan sounds utterly ridiculous." Grindelwald returned the words to Morris exactly as they were given. "You sound more like a second version of Voldemort—destroy everything, then attempt to rebuild—"

"Voldemort’s failure did not lie in his goals, but in his methods." Morris suddenly grew calm, his tone returning to its previous flatness, yet this abrupt shift made his words sound all the heavier. "He was merely a tyrant driven by hatred and fear. He tried to change everything through force and terror, forgetting that true power comes from the awakening of the mind."

"My vengeance is not directed merely at those who have harmed me, but at the injustice and decay of the entire world. I will not use brute force to seize everything; I will make those people destroy themselves."

"I will have them tear apart the very system they rely on while caught in their own infighting and despair. By then, the whole world will realize that this system has reached its end, and I will lead them to find a new direction."

"Do you know the difference between you and me, Mr. Grindelwald?"

"Tell me."

"You failed because you tried to force people to accept your ideas with power. But I will not force anyone—I will let them choose my path themselves, because I will show them that it is the only way out."

"It is also... my way of collecting a debt from this world."

Silence. An endless silence. Just as Morris prepared himself for a direct confrontation, the next second—

Grindelwald suddenly laughed.

His laughter was low and raspy, like strange notes squeezed from the depths of his throat. It started softly, then gradually expanded, as if echoing across the open balcony and weaving into the wind, sounding both eerie and mocking.

Applause. Sudden applause.

"You really do impress me, Morris." He finally spoke, his laughter and applause slowly fading. "It has been a long time since anyone dared to talk to me about 'direction,' let alone tell me with such confidence that they could change the entire world."

Grindelwald returned to his seat as if nothing had happened and sat down.

"The tea has gone cold. Shall I pour you some more?"

"Thank you."

Morris sat back down as well.

Night gradually enveloped the balcony, the silhouettes of the distant mountains fading into the darkness. The two of them sat at the stone table, silently lifting their teacups as if drinking a toast to something that did not exist.

As the teacup was set down, Grindelwald spoke.

"Is he... is he well?"

"Very well."

Silence. Silence once more.

The next to speak was Morris. He carefully took a cloth pouch from his robes, placed it on the stone table, and pushed it toward Grindelwald.

Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, and Morris gestured for him to open it. Without hesitation, Grindelwald reached out with slender fingers and gently untied the pouch. Inside lay a stone as red as blood, emitting a faint, eerie glow under the starlight.

"The Philosopher's Stone?" Grindelwald asked, his voice low and slow, his tone laced with complex emotions—shock, bewilderment, and even a hint of elusive sentimentality. "You actually brought this thing to see me... Was this Albus’s idea?"

"No." Morris shook his head, his tone remaining calm. "This was my decision."

"Your decision?" Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, a flash of irony in his eyes. "Morris, do you know what this stone represents? Eternal life, endless wealth, and even—a catastrophe beyond repair."

Unmoved by his tone, Morris calmly continued, "This is one way for me to repay Dumbledore. Since he chose to let me take this stone from Gringotts' vault, he must have calculated that I would bring it here and encounter you. So, I made this choice for him—to give it to you. Consider it my tribute to him."

Grindelwald’s fingers hovered over the pouch for a moment, but he ultimately pulled them back.

"No," he said calmly. "I do not need it, Morris."

"Are you sure?" Morris raised an eyebrow. "Do you understand the significance of refusing it?"

"Precisely because I understand," Grindelwald whispered, pushing the pouch back, his tone tinged with a weariness that was hard to detect. "I cannot accept it. The power of the Philosopher's Stone cannot change the fact that I have already failed, nor can it absolve me of my past mistakes. It would only cause me to repeat them and embark on the wrong path again. And I no longer have the qualification to make another mistake."

He paused, staring deeply at the stone, as if it were a mirror reflecting his past. Finally, he said softly, "Death, to me, is nothing more than another great adventure."

Morris watched him in silence, offering no response. He simply smiled faintly, patted the pouch, and tucked it back into his robes.

"It seems," Morris said in a calm, half-joking tone, "I will have to find another way to repay Dumbledore."

"Perhaps..." Grindelwald’s lips curled into a meaningful smile. "Your actions just now were not a repayment to Albus, but a punishment."

Morris could not help but chuckle, his eyebrows arching slightly, and the two shared a smile. In that moment, the atmosphere on the balcony seemed to shift from a tense chess match to a relaxed conversation.

They lifted their cups again and gently clinked them together. At this moment, the strife and convictions that belonged to each of them were melted away into the tea.

When the last of the tea was finished, Morris rose abruptly. Standing in the night wind, his robes whipped about him. He looked down to straighten his sleeves, then turned to face Grindelwald.

"I must be going."

Grindelwald remained in his chair, his gaze following Morris’s movements. He did not ask him to stay, only saying quietly, "Goodbye."

Morris nodded slightly, then turned. His figure disappeared at the end of the balcony stairs, blending into the night.

The wind whistled, and the last remnants of warmth in the teacups were blown away by the cold air. Grindelwald sat there quietly, gazing into the deep night, his expression complex, as if reflecting both an unfinished past and an unpredictable future.

A moment later, his lips moved slightly. His whisper was almost swallowed by the wind, yet it drifted into the night air:

"Goodbye, Morris."

He paused, his gaze lowering, as if speaking to someone else or perhaps to himself:

"Goodbye, my past self... I wish you success."

On the drawbridge, Morris’s figure was gradually swallowed by the darkness. The wind howled through the abyss beneath the bridge, carrying a chill. Morris looked down at his own footsteps, listening to the faint creaking of the wooden planks beneath him, his heart filled with complex emotions.

To make an isolated old man do all this today... besides those painful memories and a debt-ridden old friend, who else could it be?

However, the other man had said one thing wrong—

Suddenly, the clouds parted, and moonlight spilled down, shrouding the drawbridge and his figure in a pale, silver radiance. Looking down, he realized that under that light, his chest was soaked in a vivid, spreading crimson.

The blood was not only startlingly bright but carried a searing heat. It turned out that the blood on the little white flower was not the enemy's, but his own—the hottest, most sincere blood from his own chest.

The greatest wizard of the modern age, Dumbledore, is not so easily surpassed, is he?