For the residents of 86 Eastleigh Road, Southampton, Hampshire, July 29 was anything but ordinary.
At precisely seven o'clock, Jon Hart was already out of bed.
He brushed aside a copy of Nature magazine that had been resting on his chest and dashed out of his room toward the kitchen.
"Mom, any letters?"
Mrs. Judy Hart, the lady of the house, was a petite blonde woman, just a bit taller than her 11-year-old son.
"Sorry, dear. Not yet," she replied while frying chips, glancing back at him with a warm smile. "Your father's by the door, waiting."
Jon stepped into the yard—sure enough, Mr. Eric Hart was pacing nervously at the entrance.
"There's really no need to be so worked up, Eric," Jon said calmly.
"Nervous? Me? Not in the slightest!" Mr. Hart attempted to sound composed, shooting his son a quick look. "Those old professors at Windsor Palace should be honored. Eton is lucky to have a student like you!"
Still, his feet kept tapping restlessly.
Eric Hart was a well-known local lawyer, and Judy was a respected fashion designer. Both were stars in their fields, pulling in a combined annual income of nearly £200,000. Even in an expensive port city like Southampton, they lived a very comfortable life.
But their greatest pride was their son, Jon. In their eyes, no child could compare.
Jon had always been precocious. While other kids cried and whined, he was already having clear conversations with his parents. When others begged for toys, he was reading dense scientific journals.
At age five, during a street interview, he gave an impromptu speech titled "The Falkland Islands Have Always Been an Inseparable Part of Great Britain." It went viral, earning widespread praise.
Just a month ago, he scored perfect marks on all six subjects of the national SATs—a feat nearly unheard of in Hampshire's hundred-year history.
Jon Hart was a transmigrant.
In his past life, he had been a PhD student studying microbiology and immunology at a second-tier 211 university in China. After a car accident left him unconscious, he woke up as a baby in a middle-class British family in the 1980s.
Despite over two decades of schooling, Jon didn't know any lottery numbers, nor did he have a knack for finance. Realistically, by the late 20th and early 21st centuries, class structures in developed capitalist countries were already deeply entrenched. Trying to get rich on scraps of past-life knowledge was wishful thinking.
He didn't receive any cheat codes—just one small bonus: an extraordinary, nearly photographic memory.
So, he chose the academic route—study hard, pursue research, and one day contribute to the world with what he learned.
By the age of five, he had already drafted a detailed thirty-year plan.
He would start by playing the "child prodigy" card, ace the SATs, and aim for elite secondary schools like St. Paul's, Magdalen, or Eton.
Then, leveraging the prestige of those schools and stellar A-Level results, he'd apply to study microbiology at Oxford or Cambridge.
Armed with his exceptional memory, he could recall decades of research data from his past life, bypassing many pitfalls typical in scientific exploration.
At university, he'd begin to shine—conducting groundbreaking experiments on innate immunity regulation. His research, published around the year 2000, would shake the microbiology world. He'd use that momentum to network with scientific giants like John Robert Vane, John E. Sulston, and Niels Kaj Jerne.
With a solid reputation, he'd seek their endorsements and gain early admission into graduate programs at Harvard or MIT.
For his master's, Jon planned to isolate and cultivate a SARS virus strain during its initial outbreak in China, analyze its pathogenic mechanisms, and develop a subunit vaccine.
For his PhD, he'd pivot to cancer research, exploring the use of negative immune regulation as a treatment strategy...
Barring any accidents, he'd publish three to five landmark papers in Nature, The Lancet, or CA: A Cancer Journal for Clinicians before completing his doctorate.
With those credentials, landing a professorship at Harvard or MIT would be a breeze.
He would continue his research and—if all went well—his contributions to microbiology and immunology might earn him the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine between 2015 and 2020.
Then he would return to China, become a visiting professor at Tsinghua or Peking University, reclaim Chinese citizenship, and dedicate his life to national progress.
A wonderful plan—but first, reality.
He had to get into a top-tier British secondary school. Truth be told, Eton wasn't his ideal pick—it was a traditional aristocratic institution that had only recently begun admitting students from non-noble backgrounds, and its standards were notoriously strict.
But this was Eric's idea. He believed enrolling at Eton would allow Jon to rub shoulders with future elites and build connections early on.
And frankly, Eric had a point.
If Jon's memory served him right, both Prince William and Prince Harry would soon enroll at Eton. William, the direct heir to the throne, would likely be in the same year as Jon.
Being classmates with the future King of England? That was pretty cool.
Then again, it felt surreal. When Jon died in his past life, Prince William's grandmother was still in good health—a legendary figure in her own right.
As Jon mulled over these thoughts, a click echoed from the mailbox.
"Oh... God... It's here!" Eric paled, voice trembling.
"I'll get it!"
Jon opened the gate. The mailbox—decorated with three golden lions trampling a dead brown bear—had been custom-made by Eric six months ago to mark the occasion.
Next to it sat a spotted cat, eyes fixed on the front door.
"Shoo!" Jon kicked the stray aside and retrieved a bundle of letters.
As he walked back inside, flipping through them, Eric and Judy rushed to meet him.
The first letter was a gas bill.
The second, a postcard from Aunt Elia to Judy.
The third—this one was for him. Jon carefully opened it:
"Dear Mr. Hart,
We are pleased to inform you that, after careful consideration, you have been selected to join Eton College as one of the 247 new students for the class of 1992.
Yours faithfully,
Tony Rido
Headmaster, Eton College"
"Oh my god," Jon exhaled at last.
"How was it?" Eric and Judy asked in unison.
"I got in!" he said, smiling as he handed them the letter.
They read it closely. Their expressions shifted—from anxiety to astonishment to pure elation.
"Jon... My dear, I knew you could do it!" Judy pulled him into a tight hug, covering him in kisses.
"I'm telling all my colleagues! They need to know how amazing my son is!" Eric shouted gleefully from the courtyard.
And right there in the yard, the couple kissed passionately, oblivious to everything else.
For a child from a non-noble background, receiving an offer from Eton was a remarkable achievement—especially in a country so obsessed with "happy education."
Throughout his six years of primary school, none of Jon's teachers had ever asked about his academic performance. The only question that seemed to matter was, "Are you happy at school?"
Most of his classmates grew up under that philosophy.
Only a few were exceptions.
Take Susan, for instance—a girl in his year. Her father was an absurdly wealthy banker in Southampton. Every day at 3 p.m., while others headed to clubs and hobbies, Susan was whisked away in her father's Rolls-Royce.
According to her, she was forced to practice piano and dance daily, with three private tutors constantly assigning homework.
Everyone pitied her...
Then, just a week ago, news came that 11-year-old Susan had scored over 95 on every SAT subject and was immediately accepted into St. Paul's Girls' School in London.
The classmates who once pitied her now had no choice but to enroll in local public schools and continue their "happy education."
British education might champion "joyful learning," but when it came to selection, it was merciless.
The SATs, taken at age 11, had an average pass rate of only 30–50%. Results, along with recommendation letters, determined not only one's secondary school—but often their entire future.
The gap between elite schools and regular ones was immense.
Top universities like Oxford and Cambridge wouldn't even glance at transcripts from standard public schools, much less consider their principals' endorsements. Regardless of your grades, it was almost impossible to get noticed. But graduates of elite schools like Eton or St. Paul's—with halfway decent A-Levels—stood nearly a 50% chance of making it to Oxbridge. The rest usually studied abroad...
Watching his parents celebrate so enthusiastically, Jon couldn't help but smile.
Phase one of his plan was complete—he already had one foot in Oxbridge.
He began picturing himself celebrating lab experiments, publishing in top journals, even accepting the Nobel Prize...
The only downside? Eton was an all-boys school. For the next seven years, meeting girls his age would be… a challenge.
As his thoughts wandered, Jon glanced at the final letter.
Addressed to Mr. Jon Hart, 86 Eastleigh Road, Southampton, Hampshire.
It was made of thick parchment, written in emerald green ink, with no stamp.
Hands trembling, Jon flipped it over. The wax seal bore a crest: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake encircling the capital letter "H."
"Oh sh*t," Jon muttered in Chinese.
In that instant, it felt like a thousand wild horses were stampeding through his chest.