Return of Salazar Slytherin

Riddle smiled faintly at Rhys.

Then, the body of Ginny, whom he had possessed, collapsed straight onto the ground, her face turning deathly pale in an instant.

"Hey, if you do that, what if the kid gets hurt from the fall?" Rhys frowned slightly, hearing the dull thud as Ginny hit the marble floor.

This was the first thing Riddle heard Rhys say after manifesting his physical form.

He couldn't help but let out a derisive laugh.

"I didn't expect you to still be concerned about others at a time like this, Rhys." Riddle's figure glowed faintly with an eerie, misty light, and he wore a peculiar smile. "Aren't you curious about what this place is?"

Rhys: …

I probably know this place better than you do.

Seeing Rhys remain silent, Riddle felt like he had hit a wall, which irked him considerably.

"Aren't you curious why I brought you here? Or about my identity? And… why little Ginny ended up in this state?"

Rhys's calmness—or perhaps indifference—made Riddle feel bored.

If he simply handed Rhys over to the Basilisk as a sacrifice, it would be too dull. He had originally intended to have a proper conversation about those grand ideals of his—ideals he had never shared with anyone!

Riddle had a strong desire to share his story. To him, inheriting such a grand cause but being forced to keep it all to himself was nothing short of torture.

"If I must ask a question," Rhys said, his wrists twisting slightly as if his blood circulation had been cut off from being tied up too long, "I want to know who you are."

"My name is Tom Riddle," Riddle declared.

As he announced his name, Riddle wasn't expecting Rhys to recognize it. Through his conversations with Ginny, he had already learned that his name wasn't widely known in the future.

It made sense—"Tom Riddle" hadn't accomplished many things worth commemorating. And with Albus Dumbledore taking charge of the school, there was no way anyone would promote his name.

However, what surprised Riddle was that when Rhys heard his name, his eyes revealed a look of astonishment—he clearly recognized it!

Rhys was indeed shocked to hear Riddle's name because he had just heard it earlier that evening from Helena.

He couldn't help but think: Why is it always you?

Tom Riddle was Voldemort, which meant he had been involved in last year's Philosopher's Stone heist, this year's possession of Ginny, and the diadem incident decades ago.

Such a persistent knack for stirring trouble—it was unmatched, even by the most mischievous of Gryffindors.

"You've heard of my name?" This time, it was Riddle's turn to be curious.

Rhys nodded firmly.

"You've really stirred up quite a bit of trouble!" Rhys remarked with some amusement. "Even more than the Gryffindors I've met who specialize in causing chaos."

"What!?"

This comment seemed to hit a nerve with Riddle.

He snarled in anger, "Nonsense! I am the noble heir to Salazar Slytherin's great legacy, the true heir of Slytherin, and you dare insult me like this?!"

Rhys: ???

He felt utterly dumbfounded.

If he had to pick an heir to Slytherin, surely it would be either Adrian or the Bloody Baron, not some random upstart from a thousand years later.

This guy? Claiming the title?

"Pfft~"

Ridiculous.

Rhys was so exasperated he actually started laughing.

"You are not Slytherin's heir," Rhys said bluntly. "You don't even bear the Slytherin name. And as far as I know, there isn't any wizarding family with the surname Riddle, either."

Rhys's unvarnished truth immediately infuriated Riddle. Lies might not sting, but the truth often cuts straight to the core. Rhys's words struck directly at Riddle's deepest insecurity.

Riddle's face darkened in an instant.

"Riddle..." His face twitched, and through clenched teeth, he spat out his words, "Yes, ha! My foolish Muggle father is indeed a stain upon me—I admit it. But flowing through my veins is the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, passed down through his daughter!"

"You are not," Rhys said calmly.

"I am! I'm a descendant of the Gaunt family! My mother was the daughter of the Gaunt family!" Riddle roared in frustration.

"The Gaunts were adopted by Slytherin. They aren't his bloodline at all!" Rhys countered bluntly.

"Rubbish! How could you possibly know more about Slytherin than I do?! I'll prove it to you right now—evidence that I am the true heir of Slytherin!"

Riddle was utterly enraged. He opened his mouth and shouted in Parseltongue, "Great Serpent King, devour the sacrifice I offer you!"

Rhys, however, turned his head and calmly issued his own command in Parseltongue to the basilisk resting inside the chamber's pipes: "Oi, go back to sleep. Your task is complete, and I'll bring you food tomorrow."

Riddle's eyes widened in shock upon hearing Rhys speak Parseltongue.

"You can speak Parseltongue?!" he exclaimed, stunned. Then, as if a light had gone on in his mind, everything fell into place.

Now he understood why things had gone awry after his revival.

Rhys had gotten to the Basilisk first, wresting control away from him and sealing off the original chamber entrance. Clever! No wonder Rhys had shown no reaction to the grandeur of the chamber earlier.

But it didn't matter, Riddle thought, his confidence surging again. He still had the upper hand now. Tightening his grip on the wand in his hand, he subtly took two steps closer to the unconscious Ginny lying on the ground.

"See? Being able to speak Parseltongue doesn't prove you're Slytherin's heir. Neither does knowing the location of the Chamber of Secrets," Rhys said, his voice calm and even, as though critiquing a stranger. "There is no such thing as a bloodline heir to Slytherin."

Although Riddle currently existed in a state somewhere between ghost and corporeal form, his face flushed as Rhys spoke, reminiscent of a raw prawn scalded with boiling water.

"You.." Riddle could feel his temples throbbing painfully as rage coursed through him. He wanted to denounce Rhys's absurd words as madness but found himself unable to muster a proper rebuttal.

This was because Parseltongue wasn't exclusively Slytherin's legacy. Many dark wizards were also Parselmouths, including the infamous Herpo the Foul. There was even a prevailing theory that Parseltongue, like Troll or Mermish, was a learnable "foreign language."

"In Slytherin's time, any young wizard with sufficient talent would be granted access to the Chamber of Secrets for study," Rhys continued, explaining the chamber's history with an air of calm indifference. "By the standards of that era, you wouldn't have been deemed worthy to enter the chamber."

It was a perfect opportunity to twist the knife.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Riddle, finally pushed past his breaking point, unleashed a Killing Curse at Rhys.

The spell, however, vanished inexplicably just a few feet away from Rhys, dissipating into thin air.

Riddle froze. What?!

"Compared to your future self, your current form is weaker in every aspect: magical power, spell proficiency, even temperament," Rhys observed, his commentary continuing without pause. His tone was detached, as if critiquing two paintings. "But that's a good thing, isn't it? It shows you've improved over time."

For a moment, Riddle's fury was swallowed by confusion and unease. He didn't have time to be angry anymore.

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