When the castle bell chimed three times, its long, low reverberations echoing through the stone corridors, Alvin Vance watched the young wizards around him joyfully packing their books and streaming out of the classroom, falling into a brief daze.
Three o’clock.
The main classes of the day were over.
Standing in the corridor outside the Charms classroom, he watched the Gryffindors walking shoulder-to-shoulder, loudly debating where to spend their free afternoon.
He saw a group of Ravenclaws heading toward the library with books clutched to their chests, and observed Blaise Zabini of Slytherin stretch lazily, telling his companions, “I’m going back for a nap first.”
Three o’clock.
Alvin quietly calculated the time in his head.
If he were back on Mount Qingcheng, this hour, known as “Ribu”—the late afternoon—would be the busiest time for his daily training.
His father would be checking his morning recitation of the Daoist scriptures, and his martial uncle would be testing his talisman brushwork and the flow of his spiritual energy.
Even his childhood friends who went to normal schools in the town below the mountain used to complain that they had to stay in school until past five in the evening, only to go home to a “mountain” of homework that kept them up late into the night.
Yet here, at three o’clock, classes were done.
The rest of the day was entirely their own—whether you wanted to visit the library, head to the Quidditch pitch, take a stroll by the lake, sleep in the common room, play wizard’s chess in groups, eat snacks, or just chat, it was entirely up to you.
Alvin stood by a corridor window, looking out at the rare Scottish Highlands sunshine.
He suddenly felt that this thousand-year-old magical academy was, in some ways, far more…
humane than he had imagined.
He looked down at the small piece of parchment containing his class schedule, confirmed that tomorrow’s first class didn’t start until nine o’clock, and then carefully folded it and slipped it into the inner pocket of his robes.
Free time.
He decided to make good use of it.
Alvin’s first destination was the Quidditch pitch on the west side of the castle.
Over the past two days, he had heard Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini mention the word countless times, always with a mixture of worship, longing, and a sense of superiority that implied “how could you not know about this.”
Just last night before bed, Draco had even said in a tone that feigned indifference but was actually pure bragging:
“My father bought me a Nimbus 2000, the latest model.
Once first-years are allowed to bring their own broomsticks, I’ll show you what real Quidditch talent looks like.”
Quidditch.
What exactly was it?
Alvin followed a path across the lawn toward the massive pitch surrounded by towering spectator stands.
The afternoon sun washed over the neatly manicured grass, and three fifty-foot-tall golden goalposts stood at each end of the pitch, gleaming in the light.
The field was completely empty, save for the whistling wind blowing across the tops of the stands and the distant chirping of birds in the woods.
He stood at the edge of the stands, his eyes sweeping over the field that was said to drive the entire school mad.
From the fragments he had gathered from Blaise and Draco, he had pieced together a rough picture of Quidditch:
Each house had a team of seven players riding broomsticks in the air.
There were four balls—the Quaffle, two Bludgers, and the Golden Snitch.
The Chasers tried to throw the Quaffle into the opponent’s hoops to score ten points; the Beaters used bats to hit the Bludgers to protect their teammates; and the Seeker’s goal was to catch the Golden Snitch, which earned a massive hundred and fifty points and ended the match.
It sounded like a sport that combined soccer, basketball, dodgeball, and…
some kind of treasure hunt.
Only the ground was replaced by the sky.
Alvin imagined a dozen or so people on broomsticks crashing into each other in midair, and suddenly understood why Draco’s eyes lit up whenever he mentioned it.
It was indeed an activity exciting enough to showcase one’s individual abilities.
Alvin himself, however, didn’t feel much longing for it.
He had never seen anyone fly on a sword, but his martial uncle back at the temple—who was an expert in feng shui and geomancy—had once mentioned that truly advanced cultivators could “ride the wind,” traveling without relying on any external tools.
By comparison, flying in the sky on a broomstick always felt a bit like…
riding a hobbyhorse.
Just a more advanced, flying version.
Of course, if Draco heard him say that, he would probably glare at him with that “are you out of your mind?” look again.
A slight smile played on Alvin’s lips as he turned away from the pitch and continued his stroll along the shores of the Black Lake.
The water of the Black Lake appeared a deep, dark green under the afternoon sun, rippling under the gentle breeze.
Alvin walked at a leisurely pace along the lakeside path, his gaze occasionally drifting across the water, then falling onto the wild plants and flowers on the shore.
He could feel the vibrant life force contained within the lake, whether it was the swimming patterns of the fish, the water currents disturbed by the slow movement of some massive creature, or even the faint, peculiar magical fluctuations rising from the deep.
It was likely the giant squid rumored to have lived in the lake since the founding of the school.
Alvin stood on a flat rock by the shore for a moment, closed his eyes, and used his spiritual perception to sense that massive presence.
The creature’s “Qi” was thick and slow, like a breathing mountain submerged in the water.
There was no malice, no agitation, only a near-transcendental tranquility born of the passage of countless years.
The white snake in the deep pool behind Mount Qingcheng gave off a similar feeling: ancient, powerful, and at peace with the world.
The guardian beasts of the East and West seemed to share a silent resonance across space and time.
Alvin opened his eyes and gave a small nod toward the lake in greeting.
The surface of the lake remained calm, with only the wind causing ripples to spread.
But he could feel that deep down, the massive presence seemed to shift slightly—perhaps in response, or perhaps by mere coincidence.
Who could say?
He continued forward, passing a vegetable patch enclosed by a wooden fence.
The pumpkins in the patch were as large as boulders, the cabbage leaves were thick enough to use as umbrellas, and several unrecognizable vegetables grew in bizarre shapes.
A handwritten wooden sign hung on the fence: *Hagrid’s Pumpkin Patch—Do not touch the pumpkins, they bite.*
Respecting the sign’s warning, Alvin merely glanced from afar and did not approach.
That massive but gentle-eyed gamekeeper indeed seemed like the sort of person who would grow biting pumpkins.
Walking further, passing through a sparse patch of woods, Alvin’s steps suddenly halted.
He saw a colossus.
It was a tree.
A willow tree.
But it was unlike any willow Alvin had ever seen.
Its branches did not drape gracefully; instead, they hung like countless long whips poised to strike, swaying slowly in the air as if ready to thrash anything that came near.
There was a massive gash on the trunk, looking as though it had been violently torn open and then crudely mended with magic.
The entire tree radiated a dangerous “don’t mess with me” aura.
Alvin stood over a dozen meters away, well outside the reach of the tree’s canopy, and did not take another step forward.
Alvin’s gaze lingered on the massive tear in the trunk for a moment.
He didn’t approach the tree, but merely observed it from a distance for a while, memorizing its appearance and spiritual signature.
Then, giving it a wide berth, he continued on.
Not far ahead, a deep, dark forest loomed at the edge of his vision.
The trees were tall and dense, casting dark shadows even in the afternoon sun.
A prominent warning sign stood at the forest edge:
“Forbidden Forest Students are strictly forbidden to enter.
—DANGER—”
Alvin stopped in front of the sign, his eyes drifting into the dark depths of the woods.
He could feel the complex and chaotic auras drifting from the forest—there were gentle creatures, but also dangerous predators; there was the natural scent of flora, but also…
something that triggered his instinctual vigilance.
But he did not take a step forward.
His father had taught him that when dealing with unfamiliar places, especially those explicitly marked as “dangerous,” the first thing to do was to observe and respect, not to let curiosity lead to recklessness.
The Forbidden Forest had its rules, and Hogwarts had its bans.
He was not the type of person who would break rules just to satisfy his curiosity.
Finally, Alvin gave a slight nod toward the Forbidden Forest, then turned and began to retrace his steps.
The sun was already beginning to sink, painting the castle and the lake in warm shades of orange and red.
By the time Alvin returned to the castle, the sky had turned a gradient of gold and purple.
The magical torches along the corridors lit themselves automatically, casting a warm, bright glow over the ancient stone walls.
He was in a good mood.
His afternoon of “castle exploration” had been highly fruitful.
Just as he was crossing a corridor connecting the main building and the west tower, planning to head down to the dungeons to change his robes before dinner—
*Splat!*
A yellow glob exploded at his feet, splattering liquid that stained the hem of his robes yellow.
Alvin paused, looking down at the bottom of his robes.
The thick, bright yellow liquid was slowly running down the dark fabric, emitting an odor like wet paint.
It wasn’t poison, nor was it a dark curse, but it was certainly…
unpleasant.
A second later, a chorus of shrieks and laughter erupted from nearby.
“Ha ha ha!
Another hit!
Another hit!
Look at you, Miss Granger!
You look just like a Gryffindor pumpkin!
Ha ha ha!”
Alvin looked up, his gaze passing over the scattering, panicked young wizards to lock onto the source of the noise.
It was a figure floating in midair.
Just like the Fat Friar and Professor Binns, it was a ghost.