Akara’s tent was so quiet that one could hear the faint flicker of the candlelight.
She stared at the hideous, shriveled zombie claw on the table, remaining silent for a long time.
The congealed dark blood and clinging mud upon it spoke silently of a real, desperate struggle.
Finally, she looked up.
Complex emotions swirled in her world-weary eyes—astonishment, worry, but above all, an unmistakable exhaustion and helplessness.
“You actually did it,” she said, breaking the silence.
“A promise is a promise, Aunt Akara.” Rayleigh puffed out his small chest.
Though he was covered in dirt and blood, his stance exuded uncompromising determination.
“I told you I would prove myself.” “Prove yourself?
You call *this* proving yourself?” Akara’s voice rose sharply, a stern aura instantly filling the tent.
“You call running out there covered in blood, nearly throwing your life away, proving yourself?
Rayleigh, you’re only eleven years old!
You have no idea what you’re dealing with!” “Of course I know!” Rayleigh met her gaze without backing down.
“I’m dealing with a bunch of mindless monsters that act purely on instinct to tear me apart!
To fight them, I need strength, not sitting here listening to you repeat over and over that I’m ‘too young’!” He took a step forward, pressing his small hands against the edge of the table.
“Without a class, I can’t even lift a decent weapon.
Without skills, I can’t even protect myself.
Do you expect me to wait until I’m eighteen and then go reason with the lords of Hell holding this rusty little sword Aunt Charsi gave me?” “…” Akara was momentarily at a loss for words.
She looked at the boy before her—clearly still a young child, yet possessing an obstinacy and logic far beyond his years.
“Initiate my class change, Aunt Akara,” Rayleigh pleaded, his tone softening slightly.
“Give me the power to protect myself.
I don’t want to just hide in the camp like a mascot, relying on everyone else for protection.” Akara closed her eyes and let out a long sigh.
When she opened them again, the sternness in her eyes had faded, replaced by resolute determination.
“Very well.
If this is your choice.” She stood up.
“Follow me.
Once the class change ceremony begins, there is no turning back.
The class you receive is not chosen by you, but dictated by your soul and potential.
Whatever the result, you must accept it.” Rayleigh felt a surge of joy, though he put on a serious face and nodded.
“I’m ready.” The ceremony took place in a secluded, isolated tent.
Ancient, complex runic formations were carved into the ground, and a mysterious scent of herbs and dust filled the air.
Akara instructed Rayleigh to stand in the center of the magic circle, then stepped back and began chanting an ancient prayer.
It was a language Rayleigh couldn’t understand at all, its syllables solemn and melodious, carrying a force that seemed to commune with heaven and earth.
As she chanted, the runes on the ground illuminated one by one, wrapping Rayleigh in a soft white glow.
Rayleigh felt weightless as a strange energy surged through his body and soul.
The power was cold and precise, seemingly analyzing his every cell and thought.
[Unknown energy system detected…
Analyzing…] [Analysis complete.
Energy system: Mana.] [Adapting to Diablo class system…] [Analyzing potential…
Determining soul inclination…] [Determination complete.
Optimal class path identified.] [Class conferred: Sorcerer (Fire).] [Body digitization commencing…] A series of cold notification tones rang in Rayleigh’s head.
In the next instant, he felt a monumental shift in his body.
Gone was the warmth of flesh and blood, replaced by a cold…
sense of being formatted.
He could clearly “see” his health turn into a red bar, alongside a blue bar.
[Digitization complete.
Health: 40/40.
Mana: 35/35.] [Acquired basic class skill: Fireball (Level 1).] The light dissipated, marking the end of the ceremony.
Akara walked over tiredly and handed Rayleigh a bottle of water.
“How do you feel?” “Very…
strange.” Rayleigh flexed his hands and feet, feeling that something was definitely off.
He gave his arm a pinch.
There was pain, but it felt bizarre—distinctly different from before.
Then, driven by some strange impulse, he dragged his short sword across his arm.
Instantly, a prompt popped up in his mind: [Took 1 point of physical damage.
Health: 39/40.] Rayleigh: “…” He had really done it now.
He bade farewell to Shara, who bore a complex expression, and returned to his bedroom in the real world.
The soft bed and warm lighting gave him a grounding sense of reality.
He couldn’t wait to test a few things out.
He raised his wand, pointed it at a feather on his desk, and softly recited, “Wingardium Leviosa.” The feather wobbled and drifted into the air.
It worked.
But at the same time, Rayleigh clearly felt the blue bar in his mind—his Mana—drop from 35/35 to 33/35.
Rayleigh froze completely.
He tried casting another spell: “*Lumos*.” A light flared at the tip of his wand, and his Mana dropped to 31/35.
“Holy crap!” Rayleigh couldn’t help swearing out loud.
What was going on?
Since when did Harry Potter magic require a mana bar?!
Nowhere in the original books did anyone run out of magic just from casting a few Levitation Charms!
Wasn’t magical power supposed to grow naturally as a wizard matured, causing exhaustion rather than having a fixed numerical limit like a video game?
His cheat had actually “formatted” his magic power into video game Mana!
This wasn’t a gold finger—this was a golden ball and chain!
The total Mana of an eleven-year-old wizard was now hard-capped at thirty-five points!
Cast a dozen minor spells, and he’d be completely tapped out!
How was he supposed to survive at Hogwarts?
Was he going to duel someone, stop halfway, and shout, “Hold on, I’m out of mana, let me chug a potion first”?
Rayleigh wanted to cry.
Talk about an epic nerf!
Just as he was sinking into despair, a thought suddenly crossed his mind.
If Harry Potter spells consumed Mana…
what about Diablo skills?
He focused his mind, visualizing the form of the Fireball spell.
No incantation, no wand waving.
A fist-sized sphere of scorching flame materialized out of thin air above his palm, hovering silently and radiating intense heat.
Rayleigh stared blankly at the fireball.
Instant cast!
Wandless!
Silent!
He immediately checked his Mana: 26/35.
A Level 1 Fireball cost 5 points of Mana.
The crushing disappointment vanished, instantly replaced by wild ecstasy!
Though constrained by Mana, he had gained the ability to cast Diablo skills instantly!
What did that mean?
It meant that during a wizard duel, while others were still loudly incanting and waving their wands, he could already shove a fireball down their throat!
What a massive advantage!
“Trading high mana consumption for high efficiency…
This isn’t a loss at all, it’s a huge win!” Rayleigh instantly adjusted his mindset, the shrewd analytical mind of the Stark family whirring into high gear.
In the days that followed, Rayleigh lived like an ascetic monk.
By day, like a true straight-A student, he frantically practiced all the first-year Hogwarts spells.
He wanted to test a theory: whether repeatedly casting Harry Potter spells to train himself could increase his maximum Mana pool.
By night, he entered the Rogue Encampment on schedule, plunging into the Blood Moor with his short sword and newly acquired Fireball to begin his long grind of killing monsters and leveling up.
It was during this time that he realized just how infuriatingly slow his cheat’s leveling speed actually was.
In the Diablo II game, killing a few monsters was enough to level up.
But here, after fighting for a whole night—spending six sleepless hours blasting zombies and Fallen with Fireballs—his exp bar had increased by less than a fifth.
“Six hours!
I still need to grow taller!
I can’t do any more than this!” Rayleigh rubbed his bleary eyes and cried out in despair at the snail-paced growth of his exp bar.
And so, in this grueling cycle of practicing spells by day and grinding monsters by night, the day of departure finally arrived.
September first, King’s Cross Station.
Mr.
Watson Stark, dressed in a flashy custom-tailored suit, dramatically held Rayleigh’s trunk, drawing plenty of curious stares from bystanders.
“Son, remember,” Watson instructed with utmost gravity.
“If anyone tries to bully you at school, just tell them your dad is the chief director of London’s largest proctology hospital!” “We Starks can pick on others, but no one gets to pick on us!” Natasha rolled her eyes at him.
Stepping forward, she straightened Rayleigh’s collar and whispered, “Don’t listen to your father’s nonsense.
Keep a low profile at school and protect yourself.
As for that gun…
you know how to use it.” Rayleigh nodded, caught between laughter and tears.
One telling him to crush people with money, the other telling him to solve problems with a gun—his parents really were a match made in heaven.
“Alright, off you go, or you’ll be late,” Watson urged.
Rayleigh took a deep breath and pushed his trolley toward the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he walked straight into it.
The expected impact never came.
Instead, he felt a wondrous sensation, like passing through a curtain of water.
A wall of bustling noise washed over him, and a deep red steam engine rested quietly along the platform, bearing a sign at the front: *Hogwarts Express*.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters had arrived.