The fog at King’s Cross Station in London was as thick as overnight porridge, cloying and unpleasant.
Alvin stood before the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10, his fingers inconspicuously brushing against the silk cords of the brocade pouch at his waist.
Inside the pouch rested three jade talismans crafted by his father, nestled beside a neatly folded stack of yellow cinnabar paper charms: Dust-Repelling Talismans, Heart-Cleansing Talismans, Soul-Guiding Talismans…
and two Earth-Shrinking Talismans he had newly drawn just the previous night.
“Here we are, Xuan’er,” his mother, Elizabeth, said softly.
Her English carried the refined lilt distinct to London, and when she called him by his childhood pet name, a gentle warmth flickered in her eyes.
“Or perhaps I should call you Alvin?
After all, it is a way of ‘doing as the Romans do,’ so to speak.”
“You may call me whatever you like, Mother,” Alvin replied in Chinese, a faint trace of helplessness in his eyes.
This was the first time he had ever left the Daoist temple at the foot of Mount Qingcheng, and his first time crossing the ocean to this unfamiliar land.
For the past eleven years, his world had been defined by morning bells and evening drums, meditative breathing and qi refinement, and his father’s study packed with ancient texts and alchemical formulas.
Now, he was about to step into a world that his mother described as one where people “cast spells with wands and fly across the sky on broomsticks.”
“Remember,” his mother said, crouching down to adjust his collar—which was already perfectly neat, marking the third time she had done so today.
“Hogwarts is the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world.
You will make friends and learn incredible magic.
But—”
Her voice dropped even lower, switching into fluent Chinese.
“—do not abandon what your father taught you.
Complete your morning breathing exercises at least three times a week.
And if you ever find yourself in true danger…”
She did not finish the sentence, but Alvin understood.
He nodded and pressed his hand against the brocade pouch.
Through the fabric, the jade talismans radiated a gentle, soothing warmth.
They were protective artifacts his father, Zhou Yunshen, had refined by channeling the spirit energy of the earth’s veins during eighty-one days of secluded cultivation.
On the night before his departure, his father had uncharacteristically refrained from testing his talisman work.
Instead, he had sat on a stone stool in the courtyard and brewed a pot of aged Pu’er tea.
“Western magic places its weight on external manifestation, relying on innate bloodline gifts, incantations, and wands to mobilize the natural elements,” his father’s voice had rung clear in the night air.
“Its explosive power is formidable, yet it lacks endurance.
Our Daoist qi refinement cultivates the inner universe, drawing ambient spiritual energy into the body, transforming essence into qi, and refining qi into spirit.
It appears slow, yet its foundation is unshakeable.”
Alvin had listened quietly, knowing this was no ordinary lecture.
“Your mother’s family has dwindled, and she wishes for you to return and see it.
That is only natural,” his father had said, pushing a cup of tea toward him.
“This journey will take you thousands of miles away, where everything will be different.
Keep only this in mind: do not forget where you came from merely to fit into that world.
All arts lead to the same truth—guard your original heart.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Take these.” His father had drawn three white jade talismans tied with red cord from his sleeve.
In the moonlight, the cloud patterns etched into their surfaces with spiritual energy shimmered faintly.
“If tainted by evil spirits or fouled by wicked things, activate them with your spiritual power.
For ordinary magical attacks, handle them with your own skills.”
Now, those three jade talismans were safely tucked inside his pouch.
Alvin took a deep breath.
Rather than inhaling the damp, murky London air, he used Daoist breathing techniques to guide the strand of spiritual energy he had cultivated for five years, circulating it through his meridians in a small heavenly cycle.
Only then did the cloying discomfort recede like an ebbing tide.
“Are you ready?” His mother stood up and pointed toward the solid wall.
“Just walk straight through.
Don’t hesitate.
I’ll be waiting on the other side of the platform.
Oh, and your grandfather is here as well—he wanted to see you off in person.”
Alvin nodded and tightened his grip on his brand-new cherry wood wand—Mr.
Ollivander in Diagon Alley had remarked that it was “surprisingly well-suited to wizards with an unusual way of thinking.” He then glanced at the woven wicker trunk in his other hand.
A small bronze bell hung from the corner of the trunk—a relic from the Daoist temple’s mountain gate that made no sound when he walked.
He stepped forward.
The moment he passed through the wall, there was no resistance, only a subtle chill, as though he had walked through a thin curtain of water.
Then, a wave of clamor washed over him.
A crimson steam locomotive stood beside a platform packed with people, billowing clouds of white steam.
Owls hooted from their cages, children dashed about hauling their trunks, and parents called out last-minute reminders over the noise.
The air was thick with the scent of coal smoke, animal fur, and a peculiar…
ripple of energy.
*Magic.*
Alvin judged in his mind.
Unlike the spiritual energy of Mount Qingcheng, which permeated every pore, this power was looser and more volatile, like the crackle of static electricity in the air before a summer thunderstorm.
“Alvin!”
An aged yet hearty voice called out.
Alvin turned to see an elderly man walking briskly toward him, dressed in dark green velvet robes and carrying a silver-topped cane.
Though his hair and beard were completely white, his back was straight, and a deep warmth filled his blue eyes—the same shade of the sea that was distinct to the Selwyn family, identical to his mother’s.
“Grandfather.”
Alvin bowed slightly, offering a traditional Daoist greeting for elders.
Confronted with the unfamiliar etiquette, old Mr.
Selwyn paused for a moment before bursting into laughter.
“Elizabeth, did he learn these manners from that Chinese husband of yours?
Fascinating, truly fascinating!”
He looked Alvin up and down, his gaze lingering on a striking streak of silver-white hair blended among the black.
“Though you didn’t inherit our family’s signature blue eyes, your hair certainly marks you as a Selwyn.
You know, your great-great-grandmother had a streak just like that, though hers was on the right…
She was a renowned charms master in our family back in her day.
If only she were still around…”
As he spoke, old Mr.
Selwyn began to drift into reminiscence, prompting Elizabeth to gently cut in.
“Father, the train is about to leave.”
“Right, right, of course.
On the train you go.” Old Mr.
Selwyn snapped back to reality and patted Alvin’s shoulder with considerable force.
“Listen, lad.
The Selwyn family may not be as populous as it once was, but our name still carries weight.
At school, there’s no need to be ostentatious, but don’t let anyone look down on you either.
Ravenclaw or Slytherin would both be fine—it all depends on the Sorting Hat.
If you run into any trouble, write home.
Not with those paper cranes your father folds, but with an owl.
That’s our tradition here, as your mother should have taught you.”
“I understand, Grandfather.”
Alvin bowed once more, then turned and walked toward the train.
He could feel two pairs of eyes following him from behind—one soft with reluctance, the other brimming with high hopes.
By the time he boarded the steam engine, the corridor was already quite crowded.
Carrying his trunk, Alvin walked past several compartments before finally finding one occupied by only two people.
A dark-haired boy wearing glasses was clumsily trying to heave his trunk onto the luggage rack, while a red-haired boy beside him was helping—or rather, attempting to help.
The red-haired boy’s arms were trembling under the strain; clearly, his strength was nowhere near enough to support a trunk large enough to fit someone his size.
“Do you need a hand?” Alvin asked in English, his voice calm and even.
Both boys turned around at once.
The boy with glasses had bright emerald-green eyes and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
Alvin’s gaze lingered on the scar for half a second.
It was not mere curiosity; rather, his keen perception sensed an extremely faint, bizarre aura clinging to the scar, though he could not tell what it was.
“Oh, thanks!” the red-haired boy panted, breaking his train of thought.
“This thing feels like it’s full of rocks!
I’m Ron Weasley, and this is Harry Potter.”
*Harry Potter.* Alvin recalled