When he turned eleven, it took Lynn a long time to accept two facts: first, that he had acquired an upgrade template called “Sequence 9: Spectator” in his mind, and second, that his parents were hopelessly terrible actors.
Take right now, across the dining table.
His father, Arthur Grey, was holding up a newspaper, reading the Prime Minister’s latest policy announcement aloud with an overly dramatic flair, as if he were commentating an exciting sports match.
Out of the corner of his eye, he cast a tentative, cautious glance toward Lynn with pinpoint accuracy every five seconds.
Meanwhile, his mother, Helen, bustled back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, complaining one moment that the milk was too hot, and the next that today’s bread wasn’t soft enough.
She rearranged the plates more frequently than the heroine of her favorite soap opera changed outfits.
“Dear, don’t be so nervous.” Lynn sliced through his fried egg unhurriedly with a butter knife, letting the yolk run out.
He didn’t look up, his voice gentle.
“You’re holding the newspaper upside down, Dad.” Arthur’s reading abruptly ceased.
Embarrassed, he turned the paper a hundred and eighty degrees and cleared his throat.
“Oh, right.
I was just…
practicing reading upside down.
You know, to give the brain a workout.” “Mom, the milk is at the perfect temperature, and the bread is fine.” Lynn looked up at his mother standing in the kitchen doorway, a gentle smile on his face.
“You’ve moved my fork from the left to the right three times now.
Any more and it’s going to learn to walk by itself.” Helen froze awkwardly, rubbing her hands repeatedly on her apron.
“I just…
wanted you to have a perfect breakfast.” “I’ve already eaten.” Lynn popped the last bite of egg into his mouth and wiped his face with a napkin.
“It was perfect.
Thank you.” He stood up, preparing to return to his room.
Mr.
and Mrs.
Grey exchanged a look, their eyes swirling with a complex silent exchange: *What do we do?
You tell him.
No, you do it.* Lynn sighed internally.
Ever since he transmigrated into this world as a British boy named Lynn Grey, he had noticed something wrong with himself.
His eyes saw far too clearly.
His parents loved him, but they were also afraid of him.
Ever since he was seven, he could easily see through every lie.
Fairy tales like “Santa Claus will bring you presents” or threats like “Monsters will snatch you up if you misbehave” were full of holes to him.
He could read the forced exhaustion behind the slight upturn of his mother’s lips.
He could hear the concealed anxiety within his father’s boisterous laughter.
Most absurd of all, his mind contained things that didn’t belong to this world.
A complete advancement system called “Spectator.” [Sequence 9: Spectator] [Core Instinct: Insight into the human heart, recording the world] [Abilities: Extraordinary Insight, Photographic Memory, Micro-Expression Recognition, Premonition of Malice, Mental Shielding] [Advancement Ritual: In a large public institution, as a bystander, witness a major historical turning point and discern the true motivations of all key figures involved.] Lynn had once thought he was losing his mind.
He had secretly written these details on paper and hidden them under his bed, trying to analyze his own “condition.” These terms—Sequences, potions, advancement rituals—all pointed to a novel he had read in his past life.
But this was peaceful, comfortable modern Britain, not a crazy world of steam and eldritch horrors.
Where on earth was he supposed to find “Deep-Sea Naga Brain Fluid” or “Blood of a Mature Spirit World Predator”?
It was pure fantasy.
So, he chose to play the role of an ordinary, quiet, slightly introverted good boy.
He feigned ignorance regarding his parents’ worry and cautious probing.
Every day he sat by the window, watching people come and go on the street, treating their expressions, conversations, and hidden emotions as a never-ending pantomime.
It was quite entertaining.
Far better than anything on television.
“Lynn.” His mother, Helen, finally gathered her courage and called out to him.
“There’s something we feel we must tell you.” Lynn turned around and looked at her quietly.
He knew there had to be a specific reason for his parents’ unusual behavior today.
His face displayed just the right amount of confusion—not too much, lest it make them even more tense.
“What is it, Mom?” Arthur put down his newspaper as well, standing up solemnly to walk over to his wife and take her hand.
“Son, do…
do you remember how sometimes you could make strange things happen?” “Like when your cousin, the one you dislike, had his hair suddenly turn green?” “Or when the upstairs neighbor’s dog barked at you, and ended up tripping over itself and rolling down the stairs?” Lynn nodded.
“I remember.” Of course he remembered.
It wasn’t magic—at least, not in his view.
When his cousin was showing off a new toy, Lynn had clearly “seen” the spite and envy in the boy’s heart.
That intense surge of mental energy had seemed to trigger something.
The same went for the neighbor’s dog; he had sensed its pure, unadulterated aggression, so he had simply thought to himself, *You’d better trip.* And it came true.
It felt more like an embryonic form of spiritual power stemming from his Spectator instincts.
“Those weren’t accidents, Lynn.” Helen took a deep breath, as though making a momentous decision.
“Because…
because like me, our family has wizard blood.” The expression on Lynn’s face didn’t change at all.
He just looked at his mother quietly, as if listening to gossip about a neighbor.
Inside, however, his mind was racing.
Wizards?
What kind of “wizards” belonged to this world?
Fairy-tale characters in pointed hats brewing herbs?
Or…
The most absurd yet logical guess in his mind?
Seeing his son’s overly calm reaction, Arthur grew even more flustered.
“Son, don’t scare me.
Say something.” “I’m listening,” Lynn replied, then added, “It’s strange, but very interesting.” Just then…
*Tap, tap, tap.* Someone—or something—was tapping at the window.
It wasn’t a person.
It was an elderly-looking owl, a thick parchment envelope strapped to its leg, with an address written in emerald-green ink.
Lynn’s gaze fell upon the address.
*Surrey, Little Whinging, 4 Privet Drive, the Cupboard under the Stairs…* No, wait.
*The Smallest Bedroom upstairs.* *Mr.
Lynn Grey.* On the back of the envelope was a crest he knew all too well.
A lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter “H.” Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Lynn fell silent.
In his past life, he had read the original books thoroughly and watched the movies at least twenty times.
He knew what this was.
So the Spectator advancement ritual in his head wasn’t a delusion after all.
There really was magic in this world.
Then again…
In a world with Harry Potter, the appearance of a Spectator wasn’t all that difficult to accept.
It was just…
He glanced at the envelope, then back at the crystal-clear advancement ritual in his mind.
[In a large public institution, as a bystander, witness a major historical turning point and discern the true motivations of all key figures involved.] A large public institution.
A historical turning point.
Key figures.
The corners of Lynn’s mouth curved upward ever so slightly, beyond his control.
Was there any place more perfect for his advancement than future Hogwarts?