Chapter 56: Late September (Revised)

September passed exceptionally quickly, like a silent dream that brushed lightly against the fingertips.

Time was like a withered leaf in the autumn wind, drifting gently downward, yet vanishing without a trace before anyone could notice.

Time was like a book; only when turning to the final page does one realize that every single poetic verse within it has been missed, along with all those once-vibrant moments of the past.

For Morris, the entire month of September was remarkably ordinary.

The rhythm of his days remained almost unchanged: in the early morning, he led the four Gryffindor youngsters in morning exercises by the Black Lake, then headed to classes, enjoyed a simple lunch in the Great Hall or his office, resumed classes in the afternoon, had another meal at dusk, and spent his evenings buried in books at the library, occasionally reviewing the notes he had left behind in his youth.

Day after day, life felt as though it had hit the pause button—calm and methodical, yet occasionally tinged with boredom.

Morris loved stability, but he also yearred for a breakthrough—a breakthrough for himself, and a breakthrough for everything before him.

By now, the morning exercise routine for the four youngsters was no longer confined to mere morning jogs.

Morris had brought simple fitness equipment from the Muggle world, including but not limited to dumbbells, and combined them with the research findings of an exercise and health professor from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to design a professional training program for them.

This was not merely for physical strengthening; it laid the foundation for training their minds and willpower.

Morris had always believed that physical conditioning and psychological elevation were inseparable.

Meanwhile, the teaching progress was proceeding smoothly.

As it was already the fourth week, the course content had long surpassed the boundaries of the wizarding world, no longer limited purely to magic itself, but increasingly encompassing knowledge from various fields such as Muggle history and philosophy.

Morris wanted to use this knowledge to broaden his students' horizons, allowing them to comprehend a much wider world while learning magic.

History was not merely a record of the past, but a mirror.

Regardless of how rapidly technology developed, whether in the wizarding world or the Muggle world—

One could always find valuable lessons within it.

Thus, on September 29th, the final weekend of the month,

Morris left Hogwarts.

He was going to keep an appointment.

An appointment with himself, whether from the past or the present.

An appointment kept on behalf of his father—an illusion that had never truly been realized.

In September, Edinburgh was swept by a crisp, cold autumn wind.

The skyline and the earth seemed joined by a dense haze, enveloping the entire city in a faint, seemingly eternal atmosphere of desolation.

Morris sat by the airplane window, his gaze piercing through the sea of gray clouds.

Closer.

Even closer.

He watched as the distant city began to emerge, the silhouette of Edinburgh gradually sharpening.

The airplane landed smoothly on the runway. Outside the window, a fine drizzle drifted down, and a bustling crowd swept him along until he stepped off the aircraft and felt the biting cold wind rush to meet him—

Morris halted in his steps.

His hand gripped tightly around that long-folded, yellowed ticket stub—one of the few traces his father had left behind in this world.

No one knew the story his father had once told him during that rainy, dreary afternoon long ago...

...

Devonshire.

Malfoy Manor.

Just like the last time, the figures in black robes sat around the long table, the atmosphere heavy and oppressive.

"Our previous plan failed."

"More than twenty elite operatives were all left behind in Austria."

"No bodies were ever recovered."

"Therefore—"

"We must win him over, just as we discussed last time."

A robed figure looked toward the other end of the long table, nodding in indication.

"I have already arranged for Nott to handle this matter."

"Morris has received the invitation."

"We will meet with him tomorrow."

"However," a voice interrupted before the robed figure finished speaking, carrying a hint of unease, "what if Morris refuses to be won over? He has never shown any sign of willingness to submit, and he is even more stubborn than we anticipated."

The robed figure tilted his head slightly. His eyes beneath the shadows were almost indistinguishable, save for his stern, cold profile. "He refuses to be won over?" He chuckled softly. "Then kill him."

A dead silence fell across the long table once more.

"Kill him?" someone asked in a low voice, their tone laden with doubt. "Though he is unwilling to submit, he is still somewhat of a public figure. To kill him outright would inevitably provoke—"

The robed figure waved his hand abruptly, cutting the man off.

"Disregard the consequences," he said in a deep voice. "This matter can no longer be dragged out."

"We must spare no expense, staking everything we have."

"Tomorrow, Morris must not be allowed to continue living in this world. His very existence is a threat to us."

"Fate tells me this is one of our few remaining chances."

"But—"

"I had a dream yesterday."

When those words left the robed figure's lips, the expressions of everyone present shifted.

Even the man who had just questioned him widened his mouth, as if trying to swallow his own jaw.

For they all knew entirely too well what a dream from this robed figure signified.

Viewed from the ceiling down, inside the reception hall, a hunchbacked figure in black robes stood at the forefront, recounting an absurd story in a hoarse voice.

It looked utterly bizarre.

"I dreamed that that fellow Morris actually appeared at the foot of my bed, laughing like a lunatic."

The robed figure coughed twice, lifted his head to look at the assembled company, his gaze dark and gloomy.

"Laughing the whole time, he said he had finally found the sword." He paused, his tone deepening. "The sword that granted him supreme power, capable of traversing even time and space."

The air in the room grew even more stagnant, suppressing the candlelight until it ceased to flicker.

"Morris has never understood what power truly is," the robed figure continued, his fingertip slowly tracing the surface of the table, his knuckles tinged with a faint pale blue. "Did he think that sword would grant him something? True control? Dignity?"

A silence ensued.

Some began to shift uneasily, though their eyes never left the robed figure's form.

He smiled with disdain, raised his hunchbacked hand, and made a dismissive gesture.

"He said, 'The sword is a divine gift. I can change everything, even your fate.'" He repeated it in a low murmur. "Morris is nothing more than a madman."

As the words fell, the atmosphere grew even more oppressive.

Finally, someone could no longer hold back and asked in a low voice, "Then... did he just vanish like that?"

The robed figure raised his chin slightly, his gaze piercing and cold. "No," he shook his head slowly. "He will return, bearing that sword. Only, he will no longer be himself."

At that instant, the candlelight on the table seemed to grow suddenly dimmer.

Yet, accompanied by the question, the flame shuddered violently for a fraction of a second.

"Will Morris come?"

The robed figure murmured to himself, as if speaking to someone else, or perhaps to himself.

"He will come."

"He will most certainly come."

Yes, he had indeed had a dream yesterday.

It was nothing like the absurd, untethered tale he had just spun for them.

He had experienced an unimaginably vivid dream.

A dream so despair-inducing that it left no room to harbor any thought of resistance.

Indeed, to them, it was... a nightmare.

And that was precisely what had driven him to make such a decision.

...

Nott Manor stood upon a hill on the outskirts of Edinburgh.

Compared to Malfoy Manor, its history spanned a mere six hundred years.

To a family, six hundred years might not seem particularly long, but measured against the span of a single human life, such a duration was truly vast.

It was like a river, winding deep into the currents of time, with no end ever in sight.

Everyone who navigated this river was influenced by the tides of years; whether tranquil ripples or sudden tempests, all silently altered their destinies and the trajectory of history.

Mankind drifted in the lower reaches of the river, endlessly plying their oars, heading toward an unknown destination.

Every choice and every turn brought forth different scenery and possibilities.

The waters of the past had long since flowed away, and the tumult of the future had yet to arrive, but it was this very moment, this exact instant, that determined the direction in which they must go.

And thus—

Morris stood before the gates of the Nott family castle and kicked the heavy doors wide open.

...

Inside the castle's reception hall, the atmosphere was heavy.

The fire blazing continually within the hearth inexplicably failed to banish the chill pervading the room.

In the center of the chamber, a man sat before the long table.

He wore impeccably tailored attire and maintained a cultivated, gentle demeanor, yet his gaze was terrifyingly cold.

If the source of that bitter chill was his look, surely no one present would have dared object.

At that moment, dishes of food were being laid out upon the table, but as he gazed upon the lavish feast, his eyes held no appetite—only a profound sense of disappointment and anger.

He raised his head, his sharp gaze sweeping across the corners of the reception hall, and asked coldly,

"What is this? What kind of dishes have you prepared for me?"

A servant trembled as he stepped slowly out from the shadows of the corner—had he not revealed himself voluntarily, it would have been nearly impossible to tell anyone had been standing in that spot from a normal angle.

This was a fundamental skill required of all servants within this estate:

A qualified servant appeared only when summoned by their master.

In other words, only by remaining utterly imperceptible could one be deemed a proper servant.

"My lord, this dish was prepared according to your preferences. You once mentioned—"

"I know," the man interrupted impatiently, "but can't you come up with something different? It's the same thing every time, and I am sick of seeing it! How have you cripples managed to survive all these years? Go on—everyone who prepared the meal today is to receive fifty lashes as punishment."

The servant froze, a flash of startled relief darting across his eyes before he lowered his head and quickly retreated.

The last person who tried to get creative with the meals was already dead.

Having drunk that potion, his entire body had rotted away until he perished.

Compared to such a price, fifty lashes would hurt, but at least it wouldn't kill him... right?

He did not want to die.

Nor did he wish to die so worthless a death.

Though what constituted worth, he did not know.

He merely felt that having endured so much suffering, he ought not to perish so easily.

If he were to die—

Why cling to survival until now, rather than perishing at the very beginning of the story?

That would have spared him a good deal of misery.

His current pursuit of survival was not for the sake of living, but simply to ensure that the price he had already paid to stay alive was not wasted.

Death was not the polar opposite of life, but endured as an inherent part of it.

Oh, and he had a name; he was not called "cripple," but Carson Schneider.

It was the name given to him by his parents.

It signified that once upon a time, he belonged to an ordinary family with an ordinary future.

Only now, that name was like a forgotten stele buried deep within his memory, submerged beneath countless humiliations and agonies.