Chapter 1: My Name is Wednesday Addams
"When did a manor appear here… and why does it look so… old?"
Old might not have been the right word — ruined fit better. The courtyard was overgrown with wild grass, littered with crooked tombstones and eerie sculptures of every shape and size. At its center loomed a gloomy castle, its walls strangled by lifeless vines that crawled upward, disappearing into the darkness of the structure itself.
Russell Fythorne pulled his gaze away and didn't stop walking. He jogged past the rusted iron gate without a second glance.
In his memory, this place had always been an empty field. Even if someone had bought it during his years at the orphanage, no sane person would have chosen such a… morbid design.
Maybe it was some kind of haunted house attraction, he thought absently, unaware that behind one of the castle's second-floor windows, a small silhouette was silently watching him.
Panting lightly, Russell leaned against the garden fence in front of his home — a modest two-story building, one of the few things his late parents had left him.
The sky was just beginning to brighten. There was a reason he woke up so early to train; after all, who would willingly leave the comfort of a warm bed to run in the cold morning air?
Before his eyes, a translucent blue panel appeared — visible only to him.
[Name: Russell Fythorne]
[Occupation: Orphan]
[Magic: Level 2 (Weak)]
[Constitution: Level 2 (Decent for his age)]
[Skills]
[Running (Lv. 5): 405 / 1600 — Epic Trait: Sprint**]
[Cooking (Lv. 3): 134 / 400]
[Swimming (Lv. 2): 26 / 200]
...
Yes, Russell was a transmigrator. He had somehow crossed over into 1980s Britain. And this — this glowing panel — was his golden cheat, his gift.
Unlike the famous "Deep Blue" systems in novels, his panel didn't let him assign stat points freely, but it was still extremely practical.
Through repeated practice, the panel would record his progress, converting effort into experience, allowing him to continuously improve himself.
At first glance, it might not seem extraordinary. But in truth, it was revolutionary. For most people, talent was the wall they could never climb — if you were bad at math, you stayed bad at math. Yet with this panel, effort always led to results.
Sometimes, it wasn't that people didn't want to work hard — it was that their effort never bore fruit. The panel erased that despair, granting hope to perseverance.
And the best part? With every few levels gained, Russell would unlock Traits — powerful bonuses tied to his skills.
At Level 5, he received an Epic Trait.
At Level 10, a Legendary Trait.
It was his path to survival — and perhaps, something far greater.
The Epic Trait derived from his Running skill was called Sprint — but it didn't just enhance his running speed. It also sharpened his reflexes, improving the speed at which his nerves reacted to danger.
The only catch? It could only be activated while he was running.
As the skill levels grew higher, so did the required experience — exponentially so. Reaching Level 10 felt like a distant dream.
There was one thing Russell still didn't understand: the Magic stat that had recently appeared on his panel. It had shown up out of nowhere a few days ago. Then again, his panel had always been quirky. Back when his parents were still alive, his "Occupation" had been listed as Student. Only after their death had it changed to Orphan.
That felt almost cruel — as if the system itself was mocking him.
"Since when did 'orphan' become a job title?" he muttered bitterly. "If it counts, then Bruce Wayne would be the most qualified man alive."
Russell washed his face and looked up into the mirror.
Staring back was a young man with crow-black hair that shimmered faintly blue under the light, a few strands curling elegantly at his temples. His brow ridge was sharp like an Alpine crest, his gray-blue eyes clouded with quiet confusion.
A new life begins, he thought to himself, then turned to make breakfast.
British cuisine, to him, was… questionable. Aside from fish and chips, most dishes were downright unbearable. But even fried food got old fast, so he preferred cooking for himself.
This morning's meal was a simple bowl of noodles — fresh greens from yesterday's supermarket run, a bit of sliced meat, and an egg cracked on top. The fragrant steam filled the air just as he sat down to eat—
Knock, knock.
Russell froze. He had just moved in yesterday. He didn't know anyone nearby. Who would be knocking on his door at dawn?
Standing up cautiously, he reached for the wall-mounted weapon — a black Winchester M1887 shotgun, the same model used by the Terminator. It was a prized relic left by his late father, who'd been an obsessive fan of the movie. It had taken him ages to legally acquire one; after all, Britain's gun laws were far stricter than America's.
"Who's there?" Russell called, positioning himself to the side of the door.
"Wednesday Addams."
The voice that answered was calm and cold, belonging to someone young — a girl, perhaps.
Russell eased slightly, but kept his guard up. "Can I help you, Miss… Addams?"
"You can see it, can't you?"
"…See what?" he asked, frowning. Her words made no sense.
"The castle," she replied. Her tone was soft but absolute, leaving no room for doubt.
"The castle? What about it?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me there's some deep, dark secret inside?"
"You've been noticed," she said simply. "By them."
"'Them'? You mean the people inside the castle?" He lifted a corner of the curtain to peek outside.
Standing at his doorstep was a young girl — pale as porcelain, wearing a knee-length black dress. Two long braids hung neatly behind her ears, exposing a smooth forehead. Her arms were crossed, her expression utterly blank.
This has to be a prank, Russell thought, amused. But instead of calling her out, he played along, voice trembling in mock fear.
"Oh no… what do I do? Are they going to kidnap me? Sell me? Eat my organs?"
"No," she said flatly. "They'll just bury you in the garden. So you can keep the other children company."
You look younger than me, Russell thought dryly. He relaxed and, not wanting to scare her, returned the shotgun to its mount. Then he opened the door with a faint smile.
"Well then, are you here to rescue me, Miss Addams?"
"That's correct."
She nodded with an air of unshakable confidence — as if saving strangers from haunted castles was the most natural thing in the world. Still, she made no move to step inside.
"Not coming in?" Russell asked.
"Is that an invitation?"
When he nodded, she finally crossed the threshold.
"Have you had breakfast? If not, you're welcome to try mine."
Wednesday seemed about to refuse, but Russell's warmth disarmed her. Before she could protest, he'd already guided her to the table.
Fine, she thought, I'll eat a little.
She ignored the fork he'd set out for her and instead picked up a pair of chopsticks. Her movements were clumsy at first, but within moments, she handled them with surprising precision — enough to make Russell blink.
"You've used chopsticks before?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"No," she replied, calm as ever. "I just learned from watching you."
After breakfast, Wednesday sat motionless on the sofa, her dark eyes fixed on him in silence. The weight of her stare made Russell uneasy; despite her young age, she exuded a strange, commanding presence.
"Uh… Miss Addams—" he began, clearing his throat.
"Call me Wednesday," she interrupted coolly. "What's your name?"
"Oh—Russell Fythorne. Nice to meet you. I just moved in yesterday. Do you live nearby?"
She nodded once.
"Then I guess we're neighbors. You're welcome to visit anytime."
"Now's not the time for that," she said curtly. "We need to move."
"Move?" Russell frowned. "What kind of game are you playing—"
Before he could finish, Wednesday raised her hand.
In her palm, a swirl of black mist gathered, twisting and churning like something alive — shifting shape, whispering faintly as it pulsed with dark energy.
Russell's words died in his throat.
This… was no prank.