CHAPTER 38

"Headless rider?"

Moriarty stared at the silver edge of the mural, his voice unusually loud in the quiet office, but not jarringly so.

The portraits of former headmasters stirred from their slumber, muttering in disapproval.

Dumbledore was indeed absent, and Fawkes the phoenix was not on his perch either. Lilith and Jericho glanced around, confirming this. They were unsure whom Moriarty had been addressing.

But Moriarty was certain something had moved. Within his sight, the mural of Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black was gradually being overtaken—by a suit of enchanted knight's armor.

Moriarty's eyes narrowed as he examined the armor. It stood at roughly 1.85 meters, polished to a gleaming sheen, with a string of arcane runes inscribed along the wrists and ankles. Its silver-plated chestplate reflected a faint magical glimmer, though its most startling feature was the conspicuous absence of a head.

As expected—he had anticipated this upon whispering "Headless Horseman"—but the sight of the neck made his brow twitch. The severed section wasn't clean. A circular puncture, the size of a clenched fist, gaped open at the top, darkly stained.

"Hiss—" Lilith seized Moriarty's arm, while Jericho tightened his grip on the wand hidden beneath his robe. Yet, his lips curled into a smirk. "This guy's scarier than Nearly Headless Nick, huh?"

"Nick? Nearly Headless?" a voice echoed—muffled and echoey, as if resonating from a cavern. The armor waved its arms indignantly, producing a hollow clank. "Don't insult me with such comparisons! I am no ghost!"

The tone was lofty and filled with pride.

"I am a noble knight of the Round Table, serving under the great King Arthur himself! And you compare me with Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington? Utter sacrilege! Have Hogwarts students truly fallen so low?"

Though it lacked a head, the armor turned pointedly toward Jericho. The boy stiffened, sensing a gaze despite the empty helm.

The thought unsettled him. Instead of loosening his grip, he clenched his wand tighter, ready to defend himself with a spell.

"You claim you're one of King Arthur's knights?" Lilith's tone brimmed with disbelief. "Are you serious? Did Arthur know one of his knights had lost his head? Did Merlin? What's next—a deputy knight at three in the morning? Are you trying to fool us with medieval cosplay? Or is it April Fool's already?"

"Haha!" The armor's torso convulsed in laughter, letting out a wheezing clang-clunk, sounding altogether too pleased. The sound made Moriarty doubt whether the knight had ever been noble in the first place.

Jericho, however, felt an odd warmth from the laughter—youthful and vibrant, not threatening. The armor spoke again with mirth:

"Of course Arthur and Merlin knew! There were twelve knights at the original Round Table—but I was the forgotten thirteenth! The nameless one—The Headless Horseman!"

"Is that so?" Lilith's tone didn't soften. "Then why didn't you respond when Moriarty called you that? Surely the mighty Thirteenth Knight wouldn't let his title go unrecognized."

"Who? Him?" The armor turned toward Moriarty, then recoiled theatrically as if stung. "Ugh, no. I avoid speaking to him at all costs! That boy's mind is infested by harassing horseflies! It's a mess up there! I wouldn't touch that with a basilisk's fang!"

The three of them froze.

Hardly anyone ever insulted Moriarty so openly. Even Dumbledore and the Ministers of Magic of both Britain and France treated him with deference.

"You dare insult the Mister?" Jericho snapped first. He drew his wand in fury, aiming directly at the mural.

But Moriarty stopped him with a firm hand. "Don't damage the portrait of Headmaster Black." Jericho reluctantly lowered his wand, though his eyes still burned with anger.

"That reminds me…" Lilith stepped forward, black eyes flashing with mockery. "You're a thief, aren't you? Peeves told us—you don't even have a mural of your own. You squat in other people's portraits, waiting for them to leave so you can sneak in. What do you call that, if not stealing? Did King Arthur know his knight resorted to squatting in paintings? Did Merlin?"

"What do you know, little girl?" The armor scoffed, amused. "Of course they knew. It was their command! My head was taken as a cost. That's why I roam mural to mural."

Lilith fell silent. Jericho remained tense, eyes locked on the knight. Moriarty, however, stepped forward again—and the armor stepped back.

"Stay away from me!" it cried. "I don't want your horsefly-infested brain near me! One more step and I'll disappear!"

"I've been wondering…" Jericho interjected, frowning. "What exactly is a harassing horsefly?"

"It's an invisible little creature," the armor explained, inching closer to Jericho, voice warm. "It crawls into your ear and jumbles your thoughts. It causes confusion, delusions… terribly annoying!"

"So you think I'm confused?" Moriarty's tone was low and dangerous. A strange smile touched his lips—one neither Lilith nor Jericho had ever seen.

"Mr. Armor? If you won't cooperate, I'll have every single mural in the castle removed and replaced. Then let's see where you run," Moriarty said, voice calm but filled with magical pressure. His cedar wand gleamed ominously.

"Who do you think you are? The headmaster of Hogwarts?" the armor barked, sounding affronted. "Sorry, but even the headmaster cannot alter the murals! Not without the consent of Merlin and Salazar Slytherin!"

"Is that so?" Lilith smirked, matching his arrogance. "Well, allow me to enlighten you—this is Moriarty Slytherin. Merlin and Salazar made their agreements with his bloodline. And who better to break them than another Slytherin?"

The armor froze. Though headless, his torso seemed to swell as if holding his breath.

"You… you're Salazar Slytherin's descendant?" it murmured, thoughtful. "That explains why the portraits have been whispering these past months. I thought the castle was under siege… but no. It was just you."

"Then you admit it," Moriarty said, stepping closer.

"I… suppose so. Slytherin's heir may revoke the agreement," the armor conceded grudgingly.

"Quick question," Jericho chimed in, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Without a head, what do you see with? Please don't tell me you've got eyeballs in your belly."

"Haha!" The armor shook with laughter again. "I like you, short-haired boy! You say what's on your mind—that's good! Means your brain is still simple and uncluttered."

"Right, like a mountain troll," Jericho deadpanned, crossing his arms.

"Enough interruptions," Moriarty cut in. "Mr. Armor? Mr. Knight? Or should I call you Mural Thief? Doesn't matter. You've overstepped. No one calls me out of my mind."

"And yet I did," the armor replied coolly. "So what? Your mind is cluttered with one obsession—alchemy! You think that's wisdom? Even Merlin thought it foolish."

Moriarty's eyes blazed. Lilith looked stunned. Jericho, though, asked simply: "How do you know that?"

"The horseflies whispered it," the armor said matter-of-factly. "I know everything in your head, young Slytherin."

Then, in a more conciliatory tone, it added, "But don't worry. I'll help you. Just don't tear down the murals, alright?

And no—this isn't a favor or bargain. Just an equal exchange.

Here's your answer: the solution to your alchemical conundrum isn't in formulas or runes—it's in structure. The Matrix. An alchemical matrix can override the limitations of formulas and inconsistent runes.

If you study the languages of elves and dragons, you'll find their words mirror the occult. Don't expect ordinary wizards to master such things.

Merlin warned us: everything in nature has a purpose. Try to replace it—and you'll pay the price. That's the true meaning of theft."

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