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Riddle immediately shrank his neck back.
"Yes, dark magic really has fried my brain. Everything I just did was under the influence of dark magic. Dark magic is truly terrifying!" He was still shouting at the top of his lungs. It was obvious he wanted Little Morgan to hear every word.
"…" Ian was utterly speechless at how much more cowardly Riddle was than himself.
"Wake up, you're the Dark Lord, remember?" He reminded Riddle seriously.
Unexpectedly, Upon hearing that, Riddle first looked at Ian, then at Morgan.
"Heh…"
He let out a self-mocking, weary laugh. It was a bitter laugh, to be precise.
It was an expression Ian could never manage to imitate, no matter how hard he tried. He had half a mind to ask for advice, but then he saw Little Morgan already dragging at the knights, trying to haul them into the pigsty.
"Your guards aren't dead yet. They're only under a Body-Bind Curse. That spell can freeze a living creature's movements, but it doesn't cause serious harm. Just pour a little potion and they'll be fine."
As he spoke, Ian pulled out two vials of potion. He walked forward, removed the helmets of the knights, and poured the potion down their throats. Very soon, their stiff bodies began to regain movement.
"They're actually not dead!" Little Morgan's voice made it impossible to tell whether she was delighted or disappointed.
It really made people feel complicated inside.
"I can teach you this magic." Ian intended to let little Morgan learn magic step by step.
However, Little Morgan's attitude was very firm.
"No, I want to learn that first… the green Avada Kedavra Curse you just used. This world is too dangerous, I need dangerous magic to protect myself."
Her tone carried a maturity and decisiveness far beyond her age.
"Excellent, as expected of… someone from our side, just as outstanding as I am." Ian couldn't say anything else, only give praise. His words made the finally recovered Riddle inwardly explode with complaints.
"Starting out by learning Avada Kedavra, and yet I'm the one being called the Dark Lord?!" He felt deeply wronged, but didn't dare to speak up, he could only silently brush the dirt off his clothes.
The two Knights gradually recovered.
Yet they no longer showed hostility toward Ian and Riddle, while lightly petrified, their hearing was still sharp enough to know who had saved them from the fate of being thrown into a pigpen.
As for their young mistress, they dared not resent her. But toward Ian, the one who had saved their lives, they did feel a measure of gratitude.
"There's another person over there. Is he also your apprentice?" Little Morgan looked curiously at Malfoy lying on the ground. His robes were similar to Ian's, almost like some sort of uniform.
"No, that's his servant." Ian pointed at the cleaned-up Riddle.
"Why don't you pick up your servant already?" He spoke to Riddle with clear displeasure.
Riddle, helpless, could only go and hoist the stunned Malfoy onto his back.
"A servant with a servant of his own, how strange." Little Morgan looked in surprise between Riddle and Malfoy, feeling like she had just learned another rather useless piece of trivia.
"Eh~"
Hearing himself called a servant by Morgan, Riddle didn't argue. His heart was bitter, his expression was bitter. As the "Paradox Angel" revived by Ian's paradox, both he and Malfoy could indeed be considered Ian's servants. Of course, it was also true that Malfoy was his servant, if he chose to use the Voldemort title.
The night was thick as ink.
As Riddle wallowed in self-pity and nostalgia for Hogwarts, Morgan led Ian, the two Knights, and Riddle carrying Malfoy away from the dead-silent farm.
Three horses stood quietly in the moonlight. One of them, a white horse, was especially eye-catching. Its coat shimmered with a silvery luster under the faint light, like a steed out of a fairy tale. Little Morgan stood beside it, her small hand gently stroking its mane, pride shining in her eyes as she introduced it to Ian.
"This is my horse. Its name is Calamity."
It was hard to evaluate Morgan's naming sense.
"Teacher, please ride it."
At least Morgan still knew what it meant to respect her teacher.
"No, no, no, it's fine. You ride it. I'll take the one beside it."
Ian also knew what it meant to respect his teacher.
At the same time, he had no intention of giving the future wicked woman any chance to nag. Hearing his words, Morgan blinked in slight confusion, but still stepped neatly onto the back of a knight, flipping onto the horse with practiced ease. Her movements were smooth and fluid, like a battle-hardened rider. The moonlight fell upon her in perfect harmony.
Riddle had originally planned to mount a horse as well. However, the instant his gaze met Ian's, the young man's seemingly gentle yet deeply meaningful eyes sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.
He understood some of things that didn't need to be said immediately.
There was no need for words.
Riddle obediently climbed down from his horse and stepped in front of Ian, crouching like the knight earlier to serve as a human footstool, assisting Ian up into the saddle.
Straightening, Riddle rubbed his sore wrists, his heart burning with unwillingness and humiliation. But once again, when he met Ian's eyes, he immediately understood and silently walked to the front of the horse.
In the still night, the sound of hooves was unusually clear, the rhythmic da da da echoing like a unique nocturne. The moonlight stretched their shadows long across the ground, casting them into a mysterious silhouette painting. Seated comfortably on horseback, Ian leisurely admired the night scenery around them.
A gentle breeze brushed across his face, carrying with it faint traces of flowers and the earthy scent of soil.
"This is truly enjoyment."
He couldn't ride, of course, he needed someone to lead the horse.
"You really are enjoying yourself."
Riddle, extremely reluctant, was forced into the role of the horse handler. His hands gripped the reins tightly, and in his mind he nearly composed some bitter proverb about fortune's reversals, like ten years east of the river, ten years west of the river.
But he dared not disobey Ian's command, and could only swallow the humiliation in silence. Everything was for survival, after all, to live within Ian's paradox, wasn't that a kind of immortality in itself?
Thus the Dark Lord consoled himself.
And then, Sitting atop the horse, enjoying the service of being led, Ian let out a sigh that nearly broke Riddle's composure:
"Look, I've got a servant to lead my horse, a noble to guide the way, all I'm missing is a black cloak to play the part of a mysterious wizard, and I could taste the romance of the Middle Ages! This is the kind of tale you'd read about in the Legendarys of Merlin!"
Saying so, he actually pulled out a black cloak and draped it over himself.
"…"
Not only did Riddle's mouth twitch, his very soul did. The swords and magic of the Middle Ages were indeed filled with romantic ideals; he himself had once yearned for such an age.
But who would have thought that one day he truly would find himself in that very era?
Only, in this story, he was nothing more than a lowly stable hand, a servant. Yes, the romance of the Middle Ages existed, but he was not the one meant to savor it.
And what's more, He would never rise above it.
"Fairness, freedom, equality… oh, how I miss Hogwarts." Perhaps it is true what they say, that suffering changes people the most. At this moment, the innately evil Riddle even had the faintest flicker of enlightenment.
He was barely more than a teenager, at the age when tears came with loud sobs.
If he had the choice, Riddle truly would rather just stay quietly inside the diary.
The outside world was far too terrifying.
(End of Chapter)