It was his eleventh birthday.
Alvin Rozier sat at the breakfast table, focused on stabbing the fried egg on his plate, determined to mash the yolk into oblivion.
He categorized this behavior as art—the art of destruction.
“Brother.”
A voice called out from across the table.
It was his younger brother Peter—Peter Rozier—a “prodigy” who had learned to look down his nose at people since he was a toddler.
Alvin didn’t look up.
“Keep your mouth shut when you’re eating.
Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”
Peter choked on his words for a moment, but quickly raised his volume, ensuring the parents at the head of the table could hear him.
“I just wanted to ask: do you know what day it is today?”
Alvin glanced up at him.
“The anniversary of the day a troll stepped on your head?”
“Hmph, today is July 24th—someone’s eleventh birthday!” Peter sneered.
“You’re eleven now, and if I recall correctly, you haven’t had a single accidental magic outburst, have you?
Not a single Hogwarts owl has flown in.
You wouldn’t happen to be a Squib, would you?
Hahaha!”
The table fell silent instantly.
Alvin set down his fork and sighed.
He picked up the ketchup bottle, unscrewed the cap, and gave it a violent shake.
*Splat!*
An entire bottle’s worth of bright red ketchup was slung precisely across Peter’s head and face.
Peter froze.
The ketchup dripped down his hair, gummed up his eyes, and stained his exquisite robes embroidered with the family crest.
“Arghhh—!”
Peter screamed a moment later, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
“Oops!
My apologies, my hand slipped.”
Peter wiped the ketchup from his face.
“You!
You did that on purpose, you damn…”
Alvin didn’t wait for him to finish, cutting him off directly.
“Tsk, tsk, my poor little brother.
As a genius who had his magic outburst at age five, surely you haven’t failed to learn even a basic Scourgify by now?”
“You haven’t, have you?
Do you need your big brother to teach you how to use soap?”
“You!!” Peter trembled with rage, pointing a finger at Alvin.
A faint spark flickered at his fingertip.
“Peter.” At the head of the table, their father, Caspar Rozier, spoke.
Peter withered instantly.
He sat down resentfully, his eyes glaring at Alvin with murderous intent.
Alvin ignored him and went back to stabbing his egg.
Caspar’s gaze fell on Alvin, his eyes devoid of any warmth a father should have.
“Alvin, after breakfast, come to my study.”
Alvin set his fork down.
“Now is fine.”
The family was stunned.
Alvin pushed his chair back and stood up.
The chair legs scraped against the floor, making a harsh, piercing noise.
*Screeeech—*
“I can’t eat any more anyway.”
He let out a grin.
“Might as well get it over with.
Early death, early reincarnation, right?”
Caspar’s brow furrowed imperceptibly.
***
The study.
Green flames burned eerily in the fireplace.
A row of house-elf heads on the wall watched silently from the shadows.
The decor style was “ancestral macabre.”
Caspar stood before the fireplace, his back turned to Alvin.
“Alvin, you are eleven years old.”
Alvin nodded.
“And?
Are you giving me a birthday present?”
Caspar frowned and turned slowly.
“The Rozier family is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Honor, bloodline, and power—these are the foundations upon which we stand.
Every Rozier carries the expectations of the family.”
Alvin continued to nod.
“I get it.
Pure-blood supremacy, Squibs get lost.
Right?
Just say it; don’t beat around the bush.”
Caspar was momentarily choked by Alvin’s bluntness.
His frown deepened.
He seemed unaccustomed to his “Squib son” being so direct.
Caspar took a step closer, looking down at him.
“Alvin, it has been eleven years.
From your birth until now, you have not triggered even a single accidental magic outburst.
There hasn’t been even the slightest sign.”
“We call people like that ‘Squibs.’ This was the year you were supposed to start school, yet you haven’t even received a Hogwarts acceptance letter.
This only confirms it.”
The word had finally been laid out on the table.
In the past, he was “slow to develop magic” or “subject to observation.” Now, they were nailing the coffin shut, weren’t they?
“A Squib appearing in the Rozier family is the most total betrayal of our bloodline—an unforgivable desecration of our ancestors’ glory.” Caspar’s voice remained steady, but his words grew sharper.
“Your very existence is a walking stain.
It will tarnish Peter’s future, shake my position in the Ministry, and make the entire family the laughingstock of the pure-blood circle.”
“The family cannot bear such a risk.
Nor can I.”
Here it comes.
Alvin had known this day would arrive.
How could a bloodline fanatic, a Death Eater currently working hard to “launder” his reputation and climb the ladder of power, tolerate a Squib son living by his side?
“As your father, we gave you life, and we gave you eleven years to prove yourself.
Now, that proof has failed.”
“Today is your birthday.
As your father, I will give you one last gift.”
He raised his hand slightly.
“Dora.”
From the shadows, the house-elf Dora shuffled out, her large eyes filled with terror.
She bowed deeply.
“Master, please give your orders.”
“Tonight, take Alvin to ‘that place.’ You know what to do.
Clean it up thoroughly.”
Dora trembled violently upon hearing this.
“Y-yes, Master!
Dora understands!
Dora will take the Young Master to…
to that place!”
An alarm blared in Alvin’s mind.
Where was “that place”?
Alvin didn’t even have to guess.
It was likely some lab, a forbidden zone, or a volcanic crater.
In short, if you went there and expected to survive, you were dreaming!
His dear father’s “paternal love” had finally turned into a landslide—aiming to bury him once and for all!
Alvin looked up, a smile suddenly spreading across his face that was so bright it was almost eerie.
“Really, Father?
Is there a birthday gift for me at that place?”
Caspar’s lip twitched—it might have been pity, or perhaps total impatience.
“In a manner of speaking.” He turned away, no longer looking at Alvin.
“Go and prepare.
Do not mention this to anyone, including Peter.”
“You got it!” Alvin replied crisply and walked out.
Dora followed Alvin out the door, tears beginning to splash down.
“Y-Young Master…
Dora will come to fetch you very, very late tonight…
P-please be ready…”
Alvin glanced at her.
This poor elf was merely a tool for executing orders.
After responding, he tilted his head to look into the nearby shadows for a moment.
He said nothing and turned back to his bedroom, which was barely larger than a broom closet.
The moment the door closed, all expression drained from his face.
He leaned against the rough wooden door and slowly let out a breath.
“An elimination order as a birthday present?
And it’s being carried out tonight?
How lovely!” Alvin curled his lip.
“Too bad.
I’m not sticking around for the party.”
Just as the thought crossed his mind, a *hum* resonated deep within his brain!
That system interface screen—which had been in a shattered, darkened state deep in his consciousness since his transmigration—had one small section that finally lit up.
Alvin froze.
In the next second, wild joy surged in his heart.
“Holy crap!
After eating eleven years’ worth of my magic, you’ve finally repaired a part of yourself?!”
He quickly focused his mind, sinking his consciousness into that faint glow.
The halo spread and outlined itself, finally stabilizing like a piece of a barely-repaired jigsaw puzzle.
And the content of this piece was something he was more than familiar with.
It was exactly a part of the private-server game interface he had been playing just before he transmigrated.
Alvin stared at the repaired section of the panel, silent for five whole seconds.
Then, his mouth began to twitch involuntarily.
“Why…”
“Why is *this* the part that got fixed first?!”