Chapter 24: My Faith Is Vengeance

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Evening.

Austria, somewhere in the Alps.

The afterglow of sunset spilled across the mountains, draping the entire Alpine range in a veil of golden orange. In the distance, the sky shifted from brilliant gold to deep violet-blue, while wisps of cloud burned like flames, staining the horizon into a vivid and magnificent painting.

At the very center of that painting stood the silhouette of a strange castle.

Its spires and steep walls formed a dark-gray outline beneath the evening glow, like a silent behemoth. Passing through the beast’s gaping maw, crossing stone bridges and corridors, and ascending a steep spiral staircase, one would eventually reach the open-air loft at the top.

This open-air loft was the highest point of the entire castle. It was spacious and encircled only by a low stone railing, offering a sweeping view of the Alps. The last light of evening poured in from every direction, illuminating one half of the place while leaving the other in shadow, as though it stood on the boundary between two worlds.

At the center of the loft stood a round stone table, with two stone chairs beside it.

A pot of tea steamed gently atop the table, its fragrance drifting away on the breeze, carrying the faint freshness that lingered after heavy rain.

Beside the teapot were two small cups. One had already been lifted; the other rested quietly on the table, bathed in the weak glow of sunset.

Morris sat on one side, the hem of his black robes stirring faintly in the wind.

His fingers rested around the rim of the teacup, his gaze fixed on the distant sunset, as though admiring it—or perhaps pondering something. A thread of dying sunlight pierced the clouds and gilded half his face, while the other half vanished into shadow.

On the opposite side, Grindelwald sat in silence.

He had not touched his teacup. His hands were folded on the stone table, yet his gaze was not directed toward the distant scenery. It remained fixed on Morris.

That head of silver-white hair might remind one that even this once-famous Dark Lord could not escape the ravages of time. Yet when one met those eyes, it was impossible to ignore all they had once witnessed. At that moment, they were trying to read something from every trace of expression on Morris’s face.

Between them, the fragrance of tea rose in delicate spirals, turning and fading into the cool breeze.

The wind lifted one corner of Grindelwald’s cloak, but he paid it no heed. He simply watched the man across from him in silence.

“Are you not going to drink your tea?” Morris finally asked. His voice was low and gentle, as though drifting from somewhere far away. His gaze withdrew from the distant mountains and settled on the teapot. “Or are you simply not interested in such a peaceful beverage?”

Grindelwald smiled faintly, his hands still folded. “Tea is an excellent drink,” he said with mild sarcasm, “but it cannot make me forget the chaos of this world—especially while speaking with someone like you. I need to remain clearheaded.”

Clearly, he had yet to let go of what had happened earlier.

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When had he, as the Dark Lord, ever endured such an affront?

If it had been in the past—

At the thought of how things had changed, Grindelwald felt an inexplicable melancholy.

Seeing his sulky expression, Morris let out a low laugh.

For some reason—perhaps because he had just paid his respects at his parents’ graves, perhaps because he had just collected a debt, or perhaps because the man before him was the long-absent Grindelwald—

His mood was exceptionally calm. He even felt an urge to speak his heart, an urge he had not experienced in a long time.

After all, if there was anyone in this world who could understand what he was trying to do, it was the Grindelwald sitting before him now—not the man he had once been. Besides, a highly placed, self-imprisoned, tight-lipped emotional confidant like this was exceedingly difficult to find. There was no second one in the world.

Thus, Morris lifted his teacup once more and took a small sip before setting it back on the table. He raised his eyes and looked directly at Grindelwald.

“Clearheaded… Yes, that is important. But I am curious, Mr. Grindelwald. Now that you are clearheaded, what are you thinking?”

“I am thinking,” Grindelwald replied, leaning slightly forward as his sharp gaze locked onto Morris, “about what you intend to do.”

Before Morris could answer, he paused, then continued. “You are not like me. You are not driven by ambition. You spent a year in Azkaban, Morris. An entire year.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Yet when you came out, you were calmer than I had imagined. Or perhaps I should say, more dangerous.”

Meeting Grindelwald’s scrutinizing gaze, Morris lifted the corners of his mouth in a faint, enigmatic smile.

“Dangerous? Coming from you, may I take that as a compliment?”

“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it is not.” Grindelwald arched a brow. “That depends on your answer. What is it you truly intend to do?”

“What do I intend to do?” Morris repeated, lowering his eyes to the teacup in his hand.

Steam from the tea drifted before his face, seeming to blur his expression even further.

“It is a question I have asked myself countless times: ‘Byrne Morris, what do you want to do?’” He paused, nudging the teacup farther inward across the table. “I want this world to repay its debts.”

Grindelwald raised a brow and said mockingly, “Debts? This world owes you?”

“Not only me,” Morris said slowly, his voice low. “This world has denied justice to too many people, stolen the futures of too many others, and buried too many truths, while those who concealed them sit above everyone else and enjoy their privileges. You should understand that feeling, Mr. Grindelwald. After all, you once stood in opposition to this world yourself.”

“Yes.” Grindelwald leaned back in his chair and gave a cold laugh. “But in the end, I lost utterly. Do you think you are cleverer than I was?”

“Whether one is clever or not is not what determines the outcome,” Morris replied with complete composure. “But I am luckier than you, Mr. Grindelwald. I possess something you did not.”

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A flicker of interest passed through Grindelwald’s eyes.

“What is it?”

Morris lifted his teacup and smiled faintly.

“Faith.”

“Faith?” Grindelwald gave a derisive laugh. Then, with contempt and sarcasm, he said, “You think faith can change this world? Morris, you have only just returned from Azkaban. Did the Dementors freeze your brain?”

Morris set down his teacup with unhurried calm.

“Mr. Grindelwald, you may mock faith, but it is the only thing that can make a person rise again from despair. Whether facing Dementors or this decaying world, faith is what has kept me standing.”

“Faith?” Grindelwald seemed to have heard a joke. He shook his head lightly, a cold smile touching his lips. “Faith cannot stop a spell, tear apart a barrier, or halt the wands in the hands of those wizards. Morris, faith is merely a comfort for the weak—a hollow, ornamental fiction.”

“Faith cannot stop a spell,” Morris said, meeting Grindelwald’s gaze, his tone still calm. “But it can make a person stand before that spell without fear.”

“Oh, can it?” Grindelwald narrowed his eyes. “Without fear? Then what is your faith? Axiom? Justice? Or that faint, illusory ideal you hold in your heart?”

Morris fell silent for a moment, lowering his eyes slightly as though considering the question.

“My faith…” he began slowly. “Is vengeance.”

A flicker of astonishment crossed Grindelwald’s eyes, but his expression soon returned to normal, replaced by a cold smile.

“Stop dressing it up in lofty words, Morris. Vengeance?” He shook his head, his voice thick with derision. “You are not some insignificant fool driven by emotion. Do not tell me that the word ‘vengeance’ is enough to explain your purpose.”

Morris did not answer. He merely gazed at him in silence, his eyes as still and deep as a dark pool.

Grindelwald seemed to grow impatient. Suddenly, he raised his voice and brought both hands down hard upon the stone table with a dull thud.

“Judging from the strength you displayed just now, apart from him…” He paused, as though even uttering that person’s name would be excessively solemn. “There are very few people in this world who could stand against you.”

He leaned slightly forward, his silver-white hair appearing especially cold beneath the sunset. His tone grew increasingly aggressive.

“You could walk openly into the strongholds of the great pure-blood families and torture to death, one by one, all those who once harmed you.”

“You could use their blood to vindicate yourself. You could turn the entire wizarding world upside down and make everyone kneel at your feet, admitting how deeply they owe you!”

“But you have not. Why?”

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