The Sorting Ceremony proceeded in an orderly fashion in the Great Hall.
Professor McGonagall held a long parchment list, reading off the first-years’ names one by one.
“Hannah Abbott!” A pink-cheeked girl with blonde pigtails stumbled forward and put on the battered Sorting Hat.
Almost instantly, the hat shouted, “Hufflepuff!” Standing in the queue, Rayleigh yawned out of sheer boredom.
The process was exactly as he remembered.
Completely dull.
His eyes scanned the four house tables.
Slytherin’s looked the coolest; everyone there put on aristocratic airs, exuding an aloof, keep-your-distance vibe.
That was where he wanted to go.
After all, the Stark family had money, influence, and the Dark Magic Bowel-Plucking Curse—it would be a waste of talent if he didn’t go to Slytherin.
“Rayleigh Stark!” Finally, Professor McGonagall called his name.
Rayleigh adjusted his brand-new robes and walked up with steady, measured steps.
He sat on the four-legged stool, and the filthy old hat dropped over his head, blocking his entire line of sight.
“Hmm…” A tiny voice, audible only to him, echoed inside his head.
“An interesting little fellow.
Ambitious, hungry for power, willing to use any means to achieve his goals…
Prime material for Slytherin.” Rayleigh felt smug.
*See?
Certified by a professional.* “However…” The hat pivoted abruptly.
“Why is there so much bizarre junk floating in your mind?
*Spinning Crunchy Blood-Soaked Tyrant Super Butcher*?
What on earth is that supposed to be?” Rayleigh thought, *…Stop snooping.* It seemed the Sorting Hat could only read surface-level thoughts—whatever he was actively thinking at the moment.
He breathed a quiet sigh of relief; otherwise, his secrets of being a transmigrator and possessing the Diablo system would have been exposed.
That had been his lingering worry, but having found no solution, he had simply been forced to face Hogwarts head-on.
It turned out his previous guess was correct.
If the Sorting Hat could read a person’s deepest secrets, pure-blood families would lose their minds.
Imagine placing the hat on a pure-blood heir’s head, only for it to scream, “His father is a Death Eater!” For now, he just needed to keep his head down around the Old Bee.
The Sorting Hat continued in a whisper, “Furthermore, deep within your soul, I smell the stench of…
a reckless brute.” “Huh?” Rayleigh was offended.
*Watch your mouth!
That’s called grand strategy and master planning!
How am I a reckless brute?* “Oh?
Is that so?” the Sorting Hat drawled.
“Suppose someone harbors hostility toward you, and you suspect they might harm you.
What do you do?” *Strike first, of course!
…Wait, no, report it to a professor first!* Rayleigh hastily backpedaled.
“Heheh, child, follow your true heart,” the hat pointed out incisively.
“In your bones lies a Gryffindor impulse—reckless and unyielding.
You do not crave power for its own sake, but victory achieved in the most spectacular, unpredictable fashion.
Slytherin is far too stifling for you.” *Wait, don’t!
Brother Hat!
Let’s talk this over!
I’ll give you money!* Rayleigh panicked.
“Money holds no meaning for me, child.” *Then I’ll dry-clean you!
Polish you!
Sew sequins onto you!* “Enough!” The Sorting Hat seemed utterly fed up with him.
“Your true place is…” Gathering all its strength, it roared out to the Great Hall, “GRYFFINDOR!” Rayleigh’s vision went dark.
It was over.
Completely over.
Thunderous applause and cheers erupted from the Gryffindor table.
Expressionless, he walked down, braving the “welcome, new toy” looks from the Weasley twins, and sat down beside Harry and Ron.
“I knew you’d end up in Gryffindor!” Ron patted his shoulder excitedly.
Right now, there was no pure-blood arrogance or disdain for Muggle-borns in Ron’s eyes—proof that Gold Galleons really could work miracles.
Hermione gave him a nod, wearing a “lucky you” expression.
Rayleigh twitched his lips, feeling a familiar ache returning to his stomach.
Being in the same house as the Savior?
What did that mean?
Year one: fight a troll.
Year two: duel a Basilisk.
Year three: hunt an escaped convict…
No days off all year round!
His plan to become the Tony Stark of the wizarding world was bankrupt before it had even launched.
After the feast concluded, Prefect Percy Weasley led the Gryffindor first-years through the noisy corridors to the portrait of The Fat Lady.
“Remember the password: ‘Pig Snout’.” The portrait swung open, revealing the common room behind it.
A warm hearth, cozy armchairs—everything looked thoroughly inviting.
But Rayleigh was in no mood to appreciate it.
He cared about only one thing right now: his dormitory.
Percy pointed to a parchment notice on the wall.
“Here are this year’s dormitory assignments.
Boys, over that way.” Rayleigh pushed through the crowd, quickly searching the list for his name.
Found it.
*Rayleigh Stark, Seamus Finnigan.* Rayleigh’s brain short-circuited for three seconds.
Seamus…
Finnigan?
The pyrotechnic prodigy?
The walking artillery piece who could turn a feather into a bomb?
He was roomed with a guy who could detonate on the spot at any given second?
And even though it wasn’t a four-bed room, it was a two-person room!
How was he supposed to survive this?
How was he going to sneak into that Diablo world at night to farm mobs and level up?
A living human vanishing into thin air—unless his roommate was blind, he’d spot the problem immediately!
“Hey!
Are you Rayleigh Stark?” A voice thick with an Irish accent piped up behind him.
Rayleigh turned around stiffly to see a boy with sandy hair and a face full of freckles grinning at him.
“I’m Seamus Finnigan!
We’re roommates!
Brilliant!” Looking at that beam of enthusiasm, Rayleigh felt his vision dimming again.
That wasn’t a roommate; that was a walking time bomb.
The two walked into their dorm together.
The room wasn’t large, but it was neat, featuring two four-poster beds against the walls with a small nightstand in between.
As soon as they entered, Seamus whipped his wand out from his robes and began chanting at a glass on the table.
“Me mam says I inherited me dad’s magical talent.
He could always turn a cup of water into a fine glass of rum!” He waved his wand, reciting an obscure incantation.
*Bang!* A light explosion rang out.
The glass remained intact, but a plume of acrid black smoke curled up from the water inside.
“Erm…
looks like I need a bit more practice,” Seamus said, scratching his head awkwardly.
Rayleigh silently dragged his bed half a meter further away from him.
Life was impossible.
Late at night, silence finally settled over the room.
Rayleigh lay in bed, pulling his bed curtains tight around him, his mind racing furiously.
What should he do?
Was he really going to give up his nighttime mob-grinding sessions?
No way!
Absolutely not!
Level and gear were his true foundation for survival!
Just as anxiety was gnawing at him, a steady, rhythmic snoring sounded from the adjacent bed.
Rayleigh pricked up his ears.
Seamus was asleep.
Here was his chance.
He decided to conduct a risk assessment.
He gave a soft cough.
The snoring continued uninterrupted.
Emboldened, he rolled over, deliberately causing the bed slats to creak loudly.
The snoring remained as steady as ever, even switching up its rhythm slightly.
Rayleigh sat up, his heart pounding.
He pushed aside the curtains and tiptoed over to Seamus’s bedside.
Under the moonlight, Seamus was sound asleep, mouth slightly agape, drool practically running out.
Rayleigh took a deep breath and decided to go big.
He leaned down to Seamus’s ear and called out in a moderate voice, “Seamus!
Get up and take a leak!” No reaction.
“Seamus!
Merlin’s buying you a rum!” Still no reaction.
Refusing to believe it, Rayleigh extended a finger and lightly poked Seamus’s cheek.
Soft, warm, and completely unresponsive.
Rayleigh was thoroughly stunned.
Was this guy a pig?
Could nothing wake him?
Pure ecstasy surged through his heart.
Heaven hadn’t forsaken me!
As long as he managed his time well and returned before this “sleeping volcano” erupted, everything would be fine!
He rushed back to his bed, drew the curtains tight, and focused his mind.
“Enter!” After the familiar wave of dizziness passed, cold, damp air flooded his nostrils.
In his ears rang the growls of the undead and the cawing of crows.
He had returned once more to the Blood Moor.
[Name: Rayleigh Stark] [Class: Sorcerer (Level 4)] [Experience Points: 87/500] […] Looking at his pathetic stat panel, Rayleigh sighed.
Grind!
He had to grind like crazy tonight!
Instead of wandering aimlessly outdoors, he navigated by his previously mapped route straight toward a gloomy cave entrance: the Den of Evil, home to Corpsefire!
The cave reeked of rot and decay, with Zombies and Fallen lurking around every corner.
Rayleigh pushed forward cautiously, clearing out minor mobs blocking his path with Firebolts.
Right around a corner, he caught sight of a blue glow.
An elite mob!
It was a monster significantly larger than an ordinary Zombie, exuding a frigid chill—a Cold-Enchanted blue elite Zombie!
Rayleigh snapped to full alertness, slinging Firebolts as he rushed forward.
After a tense back-and-forth, the elite Zombie collapsed with a thud along with its horde of minions.
*Clink!* With a crisp sound, a blue wand hit the ground.
Rayleigh darted forward and scooped it up.
[Sorcerer’s Short Staff of Frost] [One-Hand Damage: 2-5] [+1 to Ice Bolt] [+1 to Cold Damage] “Holy crap!
A mini god-roll!” Rayleigh nearly shouted in excitement.
With this, kiting the Extra Fast Corpsefire would be far more manageable!
Content, he swapped to the new weapon and continued exploring deeper into the cavern.
Perhaps the Goddess of Luck was working overtime today; before he had gone much further, he spotted a glowing metallic object amidst a pile of bones.
A ring!
Rayleigh’s heart skipped a beat.
Having played in this world for nearly a month, he knew the drop rate was outrageously, tear-inducingly atrocious.
He hadn’t even gathered a decent set of plain white gear yet, let alone Unique items or Set items.
The gear offered by the ladies back at Rogue Encampment required levels far too high for him to equip.
Dropping a ring was practically a miracle from his ancestors!
With trembling hands, he picked up the ring and used a Scroll of Identify.
[Gleaming Ring] [+1 to Mana] Rayleigh: “…” A wave of intense disappointment crashed over him.
After all that, it was just garbage that added a single point of Mana?
Returning to camp, he cursed under his breath, ready to vendor the ring, when his eyes accidentally caught its sell price.
[Sell Price: 668 Gold] Rayleigh froze.
He blinked, double-checking he hadn’t misread it.
668 Gold Coins?
A trash blue ring could sell for this much?
It hit him in an instant.
This wasn’t trash!
This was a walking ATM!
With this money, he could fill a whole belt with potions—why the hell would he fear Corpsefire anymore?
Speaking of potions, Rayleigh couldn’t help but recall that tear-jerkingly “filial” incident from his past.
He had brought potions from the game back to reality and discovered their effects were mind-blowing.
A single drop of Healing Potion, diluted tenfold, instantly healed a papercut on his father’s finger.
A small sip of Mana Potion instantly refreshed his father after performing surgery all night, allowing him to pull another three straight days and nights.
But when he whipped out the Stamina Potion, everything went off the rails.
His father, Dean Watson Stark, looked at him differently after trying it just once.
The next day, he was cornered in his room by his parents, who had been tossing and turning half the night.
Facing his mother’s ice-cold “give it up or die” stare and his father’s earnest, longing plea—”Good son, consider it filial piety; a middle-aged man has no choice”—he tearfully handed over the five precious Stamina Potions he had painstakingly saved up, worth over a hundred gold coins.
That had been his entire net worth saved for progression!
“Sigh, what misfortune to befall my family…” Rayleigh shook his head and sold the ring, pocketing a huge pile of gold.
Now, he stuffed all four slots on his belt with Minor Healing Potions and Mana Potions.
Fully prepared.
Returning to the Den of Evil once more, he stood at the clearing deep within the cavern.
Ahead lay Corpsefire and its huge horde of Zombie minions.
Rayleigh tightened his grip on the Short Staff of Frost, feeling the icy magic flowing from it.
“Come at me, bastard!” “Let your grandpa send you off!”