Chapter 23: An Answer from Heaven

The air froze in that instant.

Upon hearing the name, the expressions of the other cloaked figures shifted dramatically. Some retreated in terror, while others instinctively gripped their wands, as if fearing the old man might strike. The leader of the group wore a look of profound discomfort, his gaze darting between the old man and Morris.

In truth, he had recognized the man’s identity the moment the stranger stood forth in silence—the legendary and infamous Dark Wizard, Gellert Grindelwald. Yes, he could not be mistaken. Otherwise, in such a situation, who would kindly advise a strange old man to leave? If not for the nightmarish history behind that name, he might have already struck. He had urged Grindelwald to leave because of that terrifyingly glorious past: a man who had single-handedly built an army, unleashed a storm of terror across Europe, ignited a wizarding war, and caused countless chaos and slaughter, severely destabilizing the balance between the wizarding and Muggle worlds.

Though half a century had passed since Grindelwald’s era, as a young wizard of that time, he could never forget the chilling figure—those cold, sharp blue eyes that seemed to pierce through everything, and the commands issued on the battlefield that were accompanied by the extinguishing of countless lives. Even after all these years, those memories remained deeply etched in his mind like an indelible brand. Even now, with Grindelwald aged, imprisoned in Nurmengard for so many years, and stripped of his wand, he dared not gamble.

Thus, choosing to play it safe, he had pretended not to recognize the man, attempting to persuade him to leave. As for why Grindelwald had appeared here… he did not know, nor did he wish to. He only knew his task for the day was absolute: no matter what happened, Byrne Morris must not leave these mountains.

"Impossible... Grindelwald disappeared long ago..." someone muttered, their voice fraught with anxiety.

"It seems there are still some who remember my name," the old man said faintly. His tone held no emotional fluctuation, yet every word struck the nerves of the cloaked figures like a heavy hammer.

"This... this is impossible..." another cloaked figure gritted his teeth, suppressing his fear. "How could you still be alive? And here, of all places?"

"You shouldn't be asking why I am here," Grindelwald’s gaze swept over them. "You should be asking yourselves why you chose to appear here, in a place you should never have come."

"Do you intend to protect him?" the lead cloaked figure finally spoke, forcing himself to remain calm. "That doesn't sound like Grindelwald. Byrne Morris... what is he to you?"

"What is he to me?" Grindelwald chuckled softly. "This has nothing to do with relationships. It is about principles—and you lot of trash seem not to understand what a principle is."

"Trash?" One of the cloaked figures, overcome with rage, raised his wand. "How dare you insult us—"

"Stop!" the leader interrupted, but it was too late.

The young man shouted the incantation: "Stupefy!"

A bolt of red light tore through the curtain of rain, streaking toward Grindelwald. However, before it could reach him, another beam of red light shot from afar. The two spells collided violently and vanished into nothingness. Everyone present looked toward the source of the spell to see that Morris had stood up at some point; the white flower still hung in his chest pocket.

"You have interrupted a man’s most important moment," Morris said faintly. His tone was devoid of anger, yet it sent an involuntary chill through those who heard it. "That is not only rude; it is foolish."

The leader frowned. Although he feared Grindelwald, his attitude toward Morris was entirely different. "Byrne Morris, stop putting on an act. Do you think the two of you can handle all of us? Besides, Grindelwald is old and doesn't even have a wand."

"The two of us?" Morris seemed to find this amusing and let out a low laugh. He slowly turned his head toward Grindelwald, his voice calm: "Mr. Grindelwald, it has been a long time. Please step aside and do not get in the way."

Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, entirely surprised by this remark. He was about to retort, but Morris leaned forward slightly, saying earnestly, "If you dare to move, or interfere in this matter... I will kill you as well."

The air froze once more. All those present were stunned, especially the cloaked figures. They did not understand the situation, but it seemed to work in their favor. Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed slightly, a dangerous light flashing within them. He had intended to offer a mocking retort, but as he met Morris’s gaze, he suddenly stopped.

There was no hint of a joke in those eyes, nor any trace of superfluous emotion. They were cold, calm, yet carried a sharpness and resolve that were impossible to ignore. He had seen such looks on many faces, and without exception, those individuals had fulfilled their promises, such as... It was a peculiar sensation. The man truly seemed capable of ending his life.

Grindelwald stared at Morris for a silent moment, then nodded slightly and took a step back. He held his umbrella and stood by the tombstone, his posture casual and indifferent, yet he made no further move and spoke no more.

"Now..." Morris slowly turned his gaze back to the cloaked figures, a slight, unsettling smile curling his lips. "It is your turn."

The leader’s expression darkened. He sneered, "Do you think that trick will scare us? Everyone, attack! Don't give him a chance!"

As he finished speaking, over a dozen cloaked figures raised their wands simultaneously. A kaleidoscope of spell-light ignited in the rain, bombarding Morris like a display of fireworks.

Yet, in the next instant, Morris’s figure vanished. No, he had not vanished—he had simply moved. He moved with unbelievable speed, as if he had become a phantom within the rain, weaving between the spells. He did not even draw his wand, merely shifting his body slightly to artfully evade every attack.

"How is this possible?!" one of the cloaked figures shrieked, but his voice was cut short by a muffled grunt. Morris had already appeared before him. With a slight flick of his hand, a surge of powerful magic rose like a hurricane, slamming the figure into a tree with such force that his fate became unknown.

"Too slow," Morris’s voice drifted through the rain, his figure flickering in and out of sight.

Another cloaked figure yelled, waving his wand frantically: "Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada—"

Before he could finish, Morris was already behind him. A single Killing Curse later, the man slumped to the ground, his wand sliding into the muddy rain. Young people are always so sleepy.

The remaining cloaked figures began to panic. The confident smiles they had worn now replaced by raw terror. Morris wove elegantly between them, a shadow leaping through the rain; each time he appeared, another cloaked figure fell.

"You shouldn't have come here," Morris said, his voice as cold as ice. "And you certainly shouldn't have disturbed their rest."

The final cloaked figure cried out in despair: "Impossible! How could you alone—"

His words ceased abruptly, for Morris had appeared right before him. He did not draw his wand; he simply placed his hand on the man’s chest and whispered, "Always remember your mistake."

Following that, flames erupted from Morris’s hand like a fierce viper, instantly consuming the last cloaked figure. The fire burned with extraordinary intensity in the rain, emitting a brilliant light that seemed to declare its existence to the entire storm. Despite the downpour, the flames refused to die.

The bright firelight reflected against the grey sky, appearing jarringly stark, as if the rain itself were forced to yield to its violence. The cloaked figure let out a short, sharp scream before falling silent. The air filled with the scent of scorching, and as the flames gradually flickered out, only a dark, charred mark remained on the ground.

In the rain, Morris paid no heed. He merely raised his hand to brush off his soaked sleeve, his gaze returning to the white flower on his chest—now stained with blood. He carefully removed it, walked slowly to the tombstone, knelt on one knee, and gently placed the flower into the soil.

His fingers brushed the petals, securing them, and he meticulously cleared away the muddy water to ensure the flower could stand firmly in this earth. Then, he pressed his palms together, bowed his head, closed his eyes, and whispered: "But if given the chance, I will use my own way to clear your names—even if the price is my own soul."

"I must go. There is much left to do, many debts... waiting to be collected."

Morris took a final look at the tombstone and whispered, "When it is all over, I will return to tell you—to tell you whether I have grown up."

The sound of the rain continued unabated. Morris turned and strode away, his silhouette gradually merging into the mountain rain, disappearing alongside the old man into the depths of the vast Alps. Before the tombstone, the small, blood-stained white flower swayed slightly in the wind and rain, yet stubbornly remained upright, as if it were an unfinished answer from heaven.