"Very well, not surprising for... someone from our faction, just as excellent as me." What else could Ian say? He could only offer praise, though Riddle, who had finally managed to get up, was internally grumbling furiously.
"Starting off with learning Avada, and still claiming I'm the Black Demon King?" He felt extremely wronged, yet dared not speak out and could only quietly clean up the dirt on himself.
The two knights gradually recovered.
However, they did not continue to hold hostility against Ian and Riddle—under the mild petrification, their hearing was still quite good, and they knew who had helped them avoid ending up in the pigsty feeding the pigs.
As for their young master.
They dared not resent him.
But towards Ian, who saved their lives.
They did feel a bit grateful.
"There's another person there, is he your apprentice too?" Little Morgan looked at Malfoy on the ground with some curiosity; the robe he wore was quite similar to Ian's.
It's like some kind of uniform robe.
"No, that's his servant."
Ian pointed at the cleaned-up Riddle.
"Aren't you going to carry your servant?"
He spoke with dissatisfaction towards Riddle.
Riddle helplessly went to pick up the unconscious Malfoy.
"A servant having a servant, that's truly unusual." Little Morgan looked at Riddle and Malfoy with some surprise, feeling she had gained some rather useless knowledge.
"Ah~"
Riddle heard Little Morgan's reference to him, but didn't refute. He just felt bitter inside, and his expression was bitter, as the "Paradox Angel" revived by Ian's paradox.
He and Malfoy were indeed counted as Ian's servants. Of course, Malfoy being his servant wasn't wrong either, if he pulled out the Voldemort aura.
The night was as thick as ink.
In Riddle's self-pity and yearning for Hogwarts, Morgan led Ian, the two knights, and Riddle, who was carrying Malfoy, out of the desolate farm.
Three horses stood quietly under the moonlight, one white horse particularly eye-catching. Its hair shone with a silver sheen in the faint light, as if it were a divine steed from a fairy tale. Little Morgan stood beside the horse, gently stroking its mane, full of pride, while introducing it to Ian.
"This is my horse, named Disaster."
It's hard to evaluate Little Morgan's naming skills.
"Teacher, please ride it."
Fortunately, Little Morgan still understands the importance of respecting her teacher.
"No, no, you ride, I'll ride the horse next to it."
Ian also practiced respect for his teacher.
At the same time, he didn't plan to give any chance for the future bad woman to harp on. Upon hearing this, Morgan blinked with some confusion but promptly stepped on a knight's back and adeptly mounted the horse. Her movements were skilled and smooth, like a seasoned rider. The moonlight harmoniously cast upon her.
Originally Riddle intended to mount a horse himself, however, the moment his gaze met Ian's, Ian's seemingly gentle yet deeply meaningful look made him shiver involuntarily.
Some things.
Understand at once.
No need for words.
Riddle obediently dismounted from the horse, walked up to Ian, and like the knight earlier, served as a footstep, assisting Ian to get onto the horse.
Riddle straightened up, rubbing his sore wrist, feeling full of resentment and frustration. But once again, meeting Ian's gaze, he understood the situation instantly and moved into position in front of the horse.
The sound of hooves was particularly clear in the quiet night; the "tap-tap-tap" sound resembled a unique nocturne. Moonlight cast upon them and elongated their shadows, projecting them onto the ground like a mysterious silhouette painting. Ian sat on the horse, leisurely enjoying the surrounding night's scenery.
A gentle breeze brushed his face, bringing a faint scent of flowers and soil.
"This truly is a delight."
He didn't know how to ride a horse, hence the need for someone to lead it.
"You indeed are enjoying it."
Riddle extremely unwillingly played the role of the horse leader. He tightly gripped the reins, almost forming similar sayings about changes over decades.
Yet he dared not defy Ian's orders, only silently enduring this humiliation. Everything was simply to survive; being alive in Ian's paradox was also a form of immortality, wasn't it?
The Black Demon King comforted himself this way.
And in the next moment.
Ian, sitting on the horseback, enjoying being led, exclaimed something that nearly made Riddle lose his composure, "Look, I have a servant leading the horse, a noble guiding the way, just lacking a black robe to become a mysterious wizard—I could truly feel the romance of the Middle Ages; this is the stuff of Merlin's Legend!"
As he spoke, he indeed took out a black robe to wear.
"..."
Riddle's mouth wasn't the only thing twitching; his heart was twitching too. Of course, the swords and magic of the Middle Ages were romantic, and he once longed for this era.
However.
Who would have thought?
Someday he indeed arrived in this era.
Only to find himself in such a story, merely a lowly groom servant. Yes, there is indeed romance in the Middle Ages, but he wasn't the one experiencing it.
Moreover.
He could never turn his fate around.
"Fairness, freedom, equality... I miss Hogwarts so much." Isn't it said that suffering transforms a person most? At this moment, Riddle, inherently wicked, felt somewhat enlightened.
At the age of ten plus.
It's just when one cries out loud.
If given the choice.
Riddle genuinely only wanted to stay quietly within the diary.
The outside world was too terrifying.