The thick, inky fog of London seeped through the window cracks, carrying the damp night breeze and the earthy scent of the Thames into a cramped, dimly lit room.
Mold spread like inkblots across the peeling walls, while a pale, flickering light swayed overhead, casting twisted, dreamlike shadows.
"Adam Morgan, this is your final psychological evaluation before the Wizengamot trial. If any question makes you uncomfortable, you have the right to remain silent."
A young witch dipped her quill sharply into the ink bottle, the dark liquid spreading like bloodstains across the parchment.
In the shadows, a boy sat curled up, silent.
"Have you ever felt pain or loneliness during your time at Wool's Orphanage?"
The quill hovered above the form, as if waiting for an answer that could change his fate.
"…Who's the one feeling pain and loneliness?"
The boy tilted his head slightly, his question slow and deliberate.
The witch paused, then marked a box on the form with a single stroke.
"Have you ever, in a moment of extreme emotion—like anger or hatred—hurt someone close to you?"
"No. I rarely get angry, and I don't hold grudges."
The boy stayed hunched in his chair, his gaze fixed on the paper in front of him, his tone flat, betraying no emotion.
"You seem very attached to the people in those portraits. Can you tell me who they are?"
Her words seemed to flip a hidden switch. For the first time since entering the room, the boy slowly raised his head, allowing her to see his face clearly.
His black hair was as dark as ink, his deep black eyes almost hypnotic. Strands of messy hair clung to his pale, delicate face, and the slight curve of his eyes gave him an oddly vulnerable, almost pitiful expression.
"This is Alan. A while back, he asked me to find his lost toy…"
"Even though, five years ago on Christmas Eve, between 11:30 and 11:40 PM, he sneaked into my room while I was out and stole my little cake. But what can I say? I'm too kind-hearted to hold it against him."
"This is Evia. She wants to find her birth father and ask why he abandoned her and her mother."
"And this is Colin…"
The boy methodically flipped through the portraits, his clear gaze sending a chill down the young witch's spine.
She pulled out documents from a file. The records read: Alan Swinton, drowned in suburban London, December 29, 1985. Evia Evans, died June 12, 1984, suspected suicide alongside her mother, involved in a dark cult…
The witch's eyelids twitched. Her quill scribbled the boy's words onto the parchment.
Pausing, she revisited the earlier question about grudges, crossed out her previous note, and checked the final box, writing "severely abnormal" in the blank space.
"Next question. Do you believe death is a form of homecoming? For example, would you preserve a beloved pet as a taxidermy specimen to keep it with you forever?"
…
As the quill's final drop of ink bled into the parchment, the brass clock struck its thirtieth chime.
The witch's knuckles whitened around the quill. She looked at the small, hunched figure in the shadows—a child too young to even reach the trial bench.
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In the aftermath of the bloody war ten years ago, the Post-War Psychological Assessment Act was passed amid heated debates in the Wizengamot.
Written in dragon's blood, this amendment to the wizarding constitution had been a lifeline for countless wrongfully accused witches and wizards.
A score of 75 was the passing line—a lifeline in the wizarding world. It allowed those mistakenly detained by the Ministry of Magic to clear their names and became a polished badge of achievement for the current Minister, splashed across the front page of The Daily Prophet each month.
But the abyss below that passing line was far more treacherous than anyone imagined.
The gray zone between 30 and 75 points had become a haven for some Death Eater remnants, who escaped justice under the guise of "magical corruption therapy."
The witch's fingers brushed the parchment, the single-digit score glaring up at her.
This eleven-year-old boy hadn't even earned the bare minimum of compassion points.
And below 30…
No trial was needed. Immediate transfer to—Azkaban.
She couldn't help but glance at him again.
In the chilly midnight breeze, the boy tugged at his coat, curling up tighter.
She struggled to imagine this child crossing the vast, endless sea to that isolated island shrouded in North Sea mist.
Once he stepped into that terrifying prison, he'd face not only the most vile dark wizards but also soul-devouring Dementors and an eternity of darkness.
The witch's nails dug into her palm, the ink on the parchment wavering in the flickering light. How could an eleven-year-old survive a place like that?
But she was merely a small cog in this judgment machine.
"May I ask you one last question?" she said, her voice tinged with guilt.
The boy looked up, puzzled, and nodded slightly.
"Those so-called clients and friends… they're all in your imagination, aren't they?"
Her words were difficult to say, breaking the rules of the psychological evaluation.
"Of course not. They live in the Otherworld, a beautiful little town beneath a snowy mountain. A bard there told me it's home to gods, elves, and fairies—but also hideous monsters and giants. I've never seen those, though."
His words sent a chill through her. She forced a smile.
"Can I take these portraits? They might help your case."
With his permission, she gathered the portraits, tucked them into her file, and hurried out with the forms.
As she left, she saw the boy close his eyes. Thoughtfully, she turned off the light.
The narrow, shadowy room filled with a soft, misty haze. In the gentle moonlight, the boy's curled-up silhouette blurred, as if teetering on the edge of dawn and dusk, where the world flickered between light and dark.
In an instant, the dreamlike scene vanished. The empty room echoed with a faint, lingering voice.
"Why is it that no one believes the truth these days?"
…
The rain had stopped, and a shimmering rainbow arched across the sky like silk. From a nearby emerald forest, the soft call of a deer echoed.
Birds swooped through the air, brushing treetops as mist rose, glowing dreamlike in the sunlight, like stepping into a fairytale wonderland.
Adam emerged from the lush forest, passing a gently flowing stream. In the distance, towering mountains loomed ever grander, standing like the heavens themselves.
At the edge of the snowy mountain town, a few figures waited eagerly for his return.
"Adam, you're back! Where's my teddy bear?"
"Adam, it's been ages! Did you find my father?"
The boy in the black coat sighed, rubbing his forehead. He pulled a handful of candies from his pocket, quieting the children, who were half a head shorter than him.
He turned to the one child who hadn't taken a candy and handed over an old, mud-stained teddy bear.
"Alan, here's your bear. Hold onto it tighter in your next life."
The child grabbed the toy with delight, clutching it tightly and thanking Adam.
[Task completed: Alan's request. Reward: Slight increase in magical power.]
"As for you, Evia, I found traces of your father while visiting a church in Greenwich. Sadly, the pastor said he died in battle years ago."
"But I can confirm he loved you and your mother until the end. This is his last letter, written as he lay dying. It's been kept in the church's attic."
Tears welled in the girl's eyes as she took the bloodstained envelope, whispering a thank you before running off into the town.
[Task completed: Evia's request. Reward: Slight increase in magical power.]
Adam shooed the other children away and sat beneath a tree, pulling up his status panel.
Name: Adam Morgan
Magic Level: 3
Skills:
Language Mastery (Level 4): 348/2000 Cold Weapon Combat (Level 1): 20/500 Beast Taming (Level 2): 170/1000 Firearms Handling (Level 2): 187/1000 Boundary of Life and Death (Max Level): ???
After nine years in this strange world, Adam had finally unlocked his unique system—a panel that allowed him to learn new skills and level them up by gaining proficiency.
The final ability on the panel wasn't so much a skill as it was a gift. With it, he could freely travel between reality and this mysterious place.
The locals called it the Otherworld.
At first, Adam thought he'd stumbled into a parallel world, until a bard revealed the truth.
This was the land of the dead, known in myths as the grim Underworld, the Yellow Springs of Eastern tales, or the lost, misty realm of wizarding fables.
In the Otherworld's town, Adam had unexpectedly reunited with people he'd known who had passed away years ago.
Through their introductions, he began taking on tasks from the dead, earning strange rewards and skills in return.
His firearms skill, for instance, came from a Western cowboy who claimed to be his ancestor. The cowboy said if Adam ever went to America, he should look for someone named John—and if Adam bought him the finest rum, he'd teach him the legendary Deadeye of the West.
Most of Adam's skills, though, were mundane—painting, sewing, brewing—likely tied to the lives and memories of the dead.
He stared at the first task on his quest panel, one he hadn't completed despite years of trying, and fell into deep thought.
With a sigh, he propped his chin on his hand and trudged to a quaint little house, knocking on the door with a resentful shout.
"Hey, it's me again! Can't you change that blasted task?!"
"I can't beat Dumbledore!"
[Task: A girl lingering in the Otherworld has asked you to help her reunite with her beloved brother.]
[Rewards: Magic Ascension, Elder Wand, Phoenix's Favor, 5 Skill Points, Legendary Mark]
[Note: A certain angel believes killing can be a form of salvation, and death a homecoming—but only if you have the strength to pull it off.]