"Wu Song, yield your life!"
Bao Daoyi unleashed his demonic arts, and from the heavens descended the Xuan Yuan Chaos Sword, cleaving down toward Wu Song's left arm.
"Second Brother, watch out!"
Harry Potter raised his plain saber and rammed Wu Song aside. The flying sword struck instead into Harry's own chest.
"Third Brother!"
Amid Wu Song's furious roar—his eyes nearly splitting with rage—Harry opened his.
The space around him was cramped and dusty. A dim light flickered nearby…
Electric light?
"Up! Get up! Hurry!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Wake up!"
A shrill female voice—one he had not heard in more than ten years—pierced his ears.
Harry lowered his gaze and saw his own small, childish body.
Shock ran through him like lightning.
Had he… returned to Privet Drive?
Once before, he had collapsed from hunger, only to open his eyes in Yanggu County. He had been a foreign-looking youth, scarcely more than a boy. Had Wu Zhi not taken him in as a sworn brother, and Wu Song personally trained him in martial skill, he would likely have perished long ago.
And yet—Ximen Qing and Pan Jinlian, that adulterous pair, had caused his elder brother's death, forcing him and Wu Song onto the path of outlawry.
Life upon Liangshan had been carefree for a time, until Song Jiang insisted on surrendering to imperial amnesty and marching against Fang La. If Harry had not given his life moments ago, Wu Song would surely have fallen to that demonic Daoist.
Thinking thus, Harry let out a long sigh.
"So be it. Consider this life repaid to my elder brother."
He stretched his thin limbs and stepped out from beneath the cupboard.
The rich scent of roasted meat drifted toward him, stirring his appetite. He strode into the kitchen, piled a generous portion onto a plate, and sat down to devour it without ceremony.
He thought to himself: Look at this body—skin and bones. Where is the imposing presence of the Scar-Faced Gentleman now?
He would need proper nourishment.
"Dudley, you must understand—not everyone is fit to attend Smeltings…"
The modern English reached his ears clearly. Once, he had spoken it from childhood. After more than ten years in the Great Song, however, he found he could only understand it, not speak it fluently.
Heavy footsteps approached. Vernon Dursley entered with his wife and son.
The sight of Harry eating heartily turned Vernon's face the color of a boiled lobster.
Dudley pointed a thick finger at him. "Mum! Look! Harry's eating the roast! Our roast! The roast!"
Harry continued eating as if he heard nothing.
Petunia Dursley's thin lips trembled as she stood in the doorway and spat, "You ungrateful, shameless, disgusting—"
"What's all that shouting?" Harry barked, cutting her off. "I eat a little of your meat and you howl like this?"
He slapped a few crumpled banknotes onto the table—money he had saved over the years from mowing Mrs. Figg's lawn.
"Is this enough to pay for a meal?"
The Dursleys stared at him, stunned.
His speech sounded oddly theatrical—almost Shakespearean in cadence, yet rough and forceful at once. And the submissive, downtrodden boy they knew seemed to have vanished entirely.
But Dudley, thick-headed as ever, squinted his beady eyes and shouted, "Dad! He stole our money too!"
At that, Harry rose with a fork clenched in his hand and slammed the table. "Mind your slander! When have I ever stolen from your house?"
Dudley understood none of it beyond the insult.
The word "pig" reached Vernon's ears clearly enough. His face turned purple.
He rolled up his sleeves and marched forward. "Don't you dare speak to me in that tone! Boy, are you asking for trouble again?!"
Petunia nodded sharply. "Do you have any idea how much it cost us to raise you?"
Harry considered their attitude. With my skills, could I not earn my own living? Why endure such humiliation?
Very well.
"Then tell me my parents' names," Harry said evenly. "Tell me where they lie buried. We shall draw up a proper account. Every penny you spent, I will repay with interest."
At the mention of his parents, Vernon's raised fist froze in midair. He glanced at Petunia, but she pressed her lips tightly together and said nothing.
In the tense silence, the letterbox clicked. An envelope dropped onto the floor.
Vernon exhaled sharply and snapped, "You! Go get the mail!"
Harry shook his head inwardly. His uncle had the build of a formidable monk, yet lacked even a fraction of such a man's spirit.
He fetched the letters.
There were three. One was addressed to him.
Who would write to me? he wondered. He had no friends on Privet Drive, none at school. Could Dudley be playing a trick?
Returning to the dining room, he tossed two envelopes onto the table and examined the third. Its seal bore the figures of a lion, an eagle, a snake, and a badger.
Vernon suddenly felt uneasy. "Boy! What's that in your hand?!"
"My letter."
"Ha! Who would write to you? One of your imaginary friends?"
Harry ignored him and broke the seal. After reading a few lines, his brows drew together.
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? They invite me to attend?"
Magic?
Like summoning wind and rain?
At the word "Hogwarts," the Dursleys' faces drained of color. Vernon lunged.
"Give me that!"
But Harry had tempered his body through years of training. In a single smooth motion he slid beneath Vernon's reach, pivoted, and struck sharply behind his knees.
In the blink of an eye, Vernon's legs buckled. He crashed to the floor.
Young though he was, skill ran in his bones. Strength without technique was but an empty shell.
"Ahhhhh!"
Petunia shrieked. Dudley froze mid-chew, forgetting even to swallow.
Harry, irritated by the noise, crumpled the letter and tossed it aside. "Enough of that screaming."
Though he was only a boy, his commanding tone silenced Petunia instantly. Fear lingered in her eyes.
She should never have taken him in.
They should have left him to those… wizards.
The room fell quiet.
Harry dragged a chair in front of Vernon and sat down.
"Uncle," he said calmly, "have you heard of Hogwarts?"
"Explain it to me."