“Your bed was missing or obstructed.”
On an unhidden stretch of track winding through the mountains, a steam train packed with the future hopes of the wizarding world sped northward.
The occasional sharp blast of its whistle pulled the stunned boy back to reality.
“What?”
Mason Jones, former corporate drone and hard-core Minecraft kitchen-sink modpack enthusiast, had been sitting in front of his computer a minute ago, getting chased down and beaten like a dog by the Lord of the Dead.
The moment his character’s health bar hit zero, he had suddenly materialized in a completely foreign environment.
Foreign air, foreign language, even a foreign body—*Who fed me APTX-4869?!*
“I said—have you seen a toad?”
A tiny, unfamiliar hand waved in front of Mason’s eyes, making sure his gaze was locked forward.
No double-check needed: before him stood a girl with extraordinarily bushy hair, and behind her stood a rather foolish-looking chubby boy.
Mason frowned, studying the person blocking his way.
English rolled off his tongue automatically, along with a word buried deep in his mind:
“Miss Beaver?”
“What?!” Now it was the young lady’s turn to be utterly outraged.
She glared at Mason in disbelief, raised a trembling index finger toward him, and then quickly clamped her hands over her mouth.
Her face turned as red as an autumn apple.
“I’m sorry!” Seeing that Miss Beaver was on the verge of pulling out her wand in tears, Mason spoke up just in time.
“I just thought of my aunt.
She said she’d see me off this morning, but she overslept and forgot to brush her hair—”
*You’d have been better off not explaining!*
Mason took a punch to the shoulder—not too hard, but not light either.
His gaze drifted past Miss Beaver to meet the eyes of the wide-eyed, chubby boy behind her.
All right, he could read the boy’s look loud and clear.
Fuming, Miss Beaver desperately wanted to turn around and leave, but they had been searching all the way from the rear carriages, and this annoying guy was standing right in the middle of the corridor, blocking the way ahead.
“I don’t know where the toad is either.
I haven’t even seen one,” Mason said, raising both hands in surrender.
“As an apology, let me help.
More eyes are better than two, right?”
“My name is Hermione—Hermione Granger.
This is Neville,” Hermione said, looking like she didn’t particularly want to talk to him.
“We…
we’re looking for…
Trevor,” Neville supplied the pet’s name.
*Well, you’d better pray Chang Wei isn’t on this train…*
The trio set off in a slow crawl down the corridor.
Mason kept his head down, pretending to search while his mind spun with his own thoughts, gradually falling behind the other two.
Honestly, not transmigrating straight into a pixelated Minecraft world was a stroke of luck.
Mason couldn’t imagine whether a voxelized version of himself would still look stylish.
Besides, the kitchen-sink pack he had been playing before transmigrating was loaded with horror mods.
If he hadn’t been hijacked into this universe, he’d be running for his life right now—where would he get the chance to stroll around good old Britain and admire the scenery?
As for his golden finger, his trusty character inventory had come along with him.
However, the godlike right hand capable of crafting and breaking anything seemed bound to pixel graphics, making it incompatible with Mason’s handsome face.
When Mason punched a carriage door in stubborn refusal to give up, he was met with a look from Hermione that suggested she was concerned for his mental health.
His inventory was squeaky clean, with not a single vanilla Minecraft resource remaining.
Only a few items from the Iron’s Spells mod lay inside alone: two bottles of Common Quality Ink, an Elder Staff, and a Novice Spellbook.
Well, whatever.
With the inventory around, even if Mason didn’t pass his exams to join the Ministry of Magic after graduation, he could still make mountains of Gold Galleons by smuggling…
Oh right, where did I put my luggage?
Mason quickly queried his brain’s search history, only to let out a sigh of complete emptiness three minutes later.
*I really transmigrated in my actual body.
Don’t tell me…
I snuck onto this train without a ticket?*
Hearing his sigh, Neville’s face went pale.
They had already passed through more than half the train without a trace of Trevor, forcing him to consider the absolute worst outcome.
“It’s fine, Neville.
We’ll definitely find Trevor,” Hermione turned to comfort him, though her eyes darted back to Mason every now and then.
After a moment of thought, she cleared her throat.
“Maybe we missed somewhere earlier.
You can go back and ask around, and I’ll check the last few carriages.
As for Mason…
I suppose I believe you didn’t mean any harm earlier, so we won’t trouble you any further.”
Mason nodded.
He happened to want to pull his inventory items out to inspect them, and continuing to wander around with the two of them wasn’t ideal anyway.
Watching them walk off into the distance, Mason slipped into a quiet corner and opened his inventory.
With a single thought, he retrieved the items he wanted into his hands.
A staff, a book, and two bottles of ink—that was his entire net worth.
In the game, the Elder Staff gave +25% Mana Regen and +10% Spell Power, but holding the staff now, Mason didn’t feel any epic power surging through his body.
He guessed the effect would only manifest when casting spells.
There wasn’t much to say about the Novice Spellbook either.
It offered five spell slots and no other stat boosts—in the game, it was the kind of beginner spellbook no one would bother keeping unless they were going for achievements.
As for the ink, that involved the core mechanic of Iron’s Spells.
In the game, a character needed to craft a Scroll Forge and combine ink, paper, and school-specific items on it to write new spells—completely customizable, provided the ink quality was high enough…
Speaking of which, where was he supposed to get ink capable of transcribing spells?
Don’t tell me these two bottles are the only items in the entire world capable of crafting Iron’s Spells scrolls?
“I don’t even have a crafting table!
Haha.”
Although he hadn’t read or watched the complete Harry Potter series, Mason knew this universe contained an alchemist who could refine the Philosopher’s Stone.
By extension, that made the guy a master of Equivalent Exchange.
Maybe he could learn a thing or two from him?
“Thinking about that now is way too premature.
The immediate problem is: how do I fake my way through the Sorting Ceremony?”
“Walk right up without waiting for Professor McGonagall?
That’d draw too much attention.
Wait until everyone else is sorted?
My surname is Jones; no matter how the list is ordered, I won’t be last…
What am I supposed to do?
Am I really going to get sorted into Azkaban?”
Muttering under his breath, Mason shuffled forward.
He had already stowed the conspicuous Elder Staff and ink back into his inventory, leaving only the Novice Spellbook clipped to his belt.
This was a strict necessity: going without a wand was fine, but without a spellbook, he couldn’t cast spells.
Still, he’d have to buy a wand later.
He was actually looking forward to seeing what would happen when someone cast *Expelliarmus* on him—would his wand fly out first, or his spellbook?
To the young witches and wizards on the train, Mason’s constant muttering made him look like a complete oddball.
He paced back and forth down the train all afternoon, and no one dared approach him.
He even ran into Hermione twice; when he looked up, all he saw was her expression of sudden realization before she hurried off.
Fortunately, Mason’s clothes were somewhat within the fashion bounds of the wizarding world, though his total lack of a wizard robe had several young wizards eagerly anticipating a scene.
“First years!
Over here!”
Even from a distance, the giant Hagrid’s booming voice nearly jumped Mason out of his skin.
Hagrid stood like a tower among the small first years.
Mason had no robes and no one approached him to talk; Hermione had contemplated going over to remind him, but she couldn’t squeeze through the dense crowd.
For a moment, Mason thought he was looking at Hercules.
Maybe in some parallel world, he really transmigrated to Fuyuki to enjoy some Holy Grail War action.
An eerie silence persisted until the first years arrived at the castle.
Professor McGonagall took over and led the chattering children to a small chamber beside the Great Hall.
Mason knew the Sorting Ceremony was just slapping an old hat on everyone’s heads and letting four factions battle it out—the other kids had no idea, staring intently at McGonagall in hopes that she might drop a hint.
“…In a few minutes, the Sorting Ceremony will take place before the entire school.
I suggest you take this time to smarten yourselves up—especially you, Mr.
Jones, was it?” Percy Weasley, having asked Mason for his name, informed McGonagall.
“Carelessness is not a good habit.” Professor McGonagall slightly raised the wand in her right hand, and in the blink of an eye, the clothes on Mason shifted into something resembling an old Gryffindor uniform.
“When they are ready for you inside, I will come back for you.”
Before leaving, Professor McGonagall paused to glare at a few children in the crowd who had buttoned their robes incorrectly.
The ghosts made their appearance after Professor McGonagall left, giving the young witches and wizards—Mason included—a fright.
“I wonder if they drop Ectoplasm…” Mason mused.
“Speaking of which, there are dragons in this world.
Can dragon blood be used to forge Dragonsteel?”
Lost in his wandering thoughts, Mason didn’t notice how fast time was flying, until he realized there wasn’t a single unsorted student standing near him anymore.
At the staff table, Professor McGonagall flipped through her roll list back and forth several times, but she couldn’t find the name “Mason Jones” anywhere on it.
The Great Hall gradually fell silent.
Every single eye in the room was fixed on Mason.