"Sir Rhine, the Department of Literature at Cambridge University has sent another invitation. They are eager to appoint you as a tenured professor of literature."
"The publisher is requesting confirmation for the book-signing schedule. For your safety, they are hiring a first-rate security team."
"And, your eleventh birthday is approaching. Both The Times and The London Times have confirmed it will headline their front pages."
The butler, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit and tie, reported item after item with his usual meticulous precision.
But the one listening was no statesman, no business magnate. He was only a boy, barely eleven years old.
That boy was none other than Rhine—the most celebrated literary prodigy in Britain, perhaps even the world.
And Rhine… was a transmigrator.
Ten years had passed since he crossed into this life. From a nameless orphan in an ordinary world to a child genius who shook Britain's literary circles, his rise had been nothing short of legendary.
If all went well, Rhine was destined to live a life that would be written into history books.
His name would shine among the greats.
But fate always had a way of disrupting certainty.
At that very moment, Rhine's eyes fell upon the pen resting on his desk. Its intricate engravings and metallic sheen made it look more like a royal artifact than a writing tool.
It had been a gift from the Queen herself on his tenth birthday. The pen was said to be forged with a rare metal that made it virtually indestructible—a symbol of Britain's hope that Rhine's brilliance would endure, and perhaps one day rival Shakespeare's.
Yet now… the pen was bent into a twisted knot.
Rhine drew in a sharp breath.
All he remembered was the frustration of writer's block the night before. In a fit of irritation, he'd almost snapped the pen.
Then, inexplicably, it had twisted on its own… and he had collapsed into sleep.
Now, seeing its impossible shape with his own eyes, Rhine's heart trembled.
"A dream?"
"A prank?"
He entertained theory after theory, dismissing them one by one.
No dream could feel this tangible.
And as for a prank? Impossible. His study was sacred ground—only the butler, loyal to the point of obsession, was ever allowed to clean it.
Which left only one conclusion.
"The force that bent this pen… was real."
His thoughts raced.
"Magic? Telekinesis? Some other power altogether? Does this world… actually harbor the supernatural?"
The butler continued his report, but Rhine's silence grew heavier. Flanders knew his master's rule well: never interrupt him while he was thinking. If his inspiration was disrupted, the next masterpiece awaited by Britain—and the world—might never be born.
But Rhine's train of thought had shifted far beyond literature.
"This year is 1991… such a familiar year."
"When was I born again? 1980…"
He hurried to his bookshelf and pulled out a yellowed newspaper from 1980, part of his meticulously collected reference materials.
The headlines sent chills down his spine. Reports of strange, inexplicable events filled the pages.
Crowds swearing they saw cloaked figures in the streets. Rumors of flying brooms. A motorbike soaring through the night sky.
As he scanned the articles, lightning flashed in his mind.
This was… the world of Harry Potter.
The twisted pen, his sudden surge of power—these weren't coincidences. He possessed magic.
Just as the thought crystallized, the clock struck midnight.
His eleventh birthday had arrived.
And with it came the soft flutter of wings at his window.
Rhine's heart pounded. "Open it," he ordered.
The butler, startled, obeyed. The window creaked open, and to his utter astonishment, an owl swept inside, dropping a peculiar envelope onto the desk.
The butler froze, staring at the seal—four emblems: lion, eagle, badger, and snake.
"Sir Rhine… surely this must be a prank from one of your readers? We instructed the post office to block unsolicited mail. Who would possibly send you a letter by… owl?"
"I'll handle it."
Rhine's tone was firm. "Flanders, leave me. Close the door."
The butler hesitated, confusion etched across his face, but finally bowed and exited, shutting the study behind him.
Rhine's fingers trembled as he broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment.
> Dear Mr. Rhine Snow,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of required books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. Please send your reply by owl no later than July 31st.
A Hogwarts acceptance letter.
His breath caught. Even for someone who knew the story, holding it in his hands was surreal.
This was the gateway to the wizarding world—every child's dream.
And yet Rhine's expression darkened. He knew the truth hidden between the lines.
In the magical world, the earlier one's powers manifested, the greater their potential. Prodigies like Dumbledore and Grindelwald had displayed magic as children.
Neville, nearly mistaken for a Squib, had shown his magic late—and weakly.
Rhine had awakened only on the eve of his eleventh birthday. Barely within Hogwarts' cut-off. A sign his magical talent was… limited.
"Forget it," he muttered bitterly. "Beating Dumbledore, defeating Voldemort… that's just a fantasy."
"Maybe I should just lie low. Blend in, avoid trouble, and dedicate myself to literature instead. Magic can be my backdrop, not my destiny."
But then, a thought pierced him.
"If only… there were a system."
He gripped the letter tightly.
And then—
Ding!
A crisp chime echoed in his mind.
Rhine stiffened. His eyes widened with disbelief, then sudden joy.
"A system?! It's real?!"
His heart raced. "What kind is it? Magic? Potions? Alchemy? I don't care—I'll take it!"
Then, the cold voice resounded:
> Congratulations, Host. You have joined the Chan Sect. The Primordial Human Connection System is now fully activated.
Rhine blinked, dumbfounded.
"…What?"
"This is the magical world! What the hell is a Primordial Human Connection System?!"
-
End of Chapter ...