Summer 1991, London, England.
As one of the most prestigious hotels in Britain, the Ritz London had long been renowned for its opulent surroundings and exceptional service.
Its iconic Baroque dome, dazzling crystal chandeliers, exquisite marble sculptures, and gilded trim everywhere gave the entire building a rich, classical atmosphere.
Waiters in formal attire and white gloves served the guests, every motion dripping with the refinement of British high society.
Finger sandwiches, smoked salmon, roast ham, premium raisins, raisin scones, and other tea-time treats were arranged on tiered stands, each one almost too delicate to eat.
Since opening its doors in 1906, the Ritz London had been a gathering place for the elite.
World-famous politicians, celebrities, and even royalty had all appeared here and left glowing reviews.
The elegant environment, impeccable service, exquisite food, and glamorous reputation were more than enough to attract every country bumpkin who came to the big city.
They’d empty their wallets just to stroll around the neighborhood, hoping to catch a glimpse of some Hollywood starlet passing through.
Elavin Yakute was exactly that kind of small-town nobody, drawn by the reputation.
Only, he wasn’t satisfied with just strolling around the neighborhood or stealing a glance from afar.
He marched straight in, luggage in hand, and somehow secured a check-in.
Of course, the hotel was terrifyingly expensive.
But money was never an issue for Elavin.
As a boy freshly arrived from a small-town orphanage, he certainly didn’t have that kind of savings.
So how was he sitting here, enjoying afternoon tea that cost tens or even hundreds of pounds alongside those well-dressed, elegant members of high society, without a single person questioning anything?
Simple — he’d used some shady little tricks.
“Waiter!” At his call, a server from the corner walked gracefully to Elavin’s side, bent slightly, and inquired in perfect, magnetic British English.
“How may I be of service, sir?” His manner and voice were so proper it felt unreal.
But such flawless courtesy received a less-than-gentlemanly reply.
“The same afternoon tea set, plus these few items on the menu — prepare another…
no, make it two orders.
Send them to my room.” Two orders?
Can one kid even eat that much?
The waiter gave Elavin a somewhat surprised once-over.
Around ten years old, short light-blond hair, blue eyes, handsome features, well-dressed — he looked like a prince born into some aristocratic family.
This wasn’t just some ordinary kid.
This was the boy the hotel manager had personally escorted to check in, with instructions to satisfy any request he might make.
And by “any request,” they meant any request.
That alone said his status was far from ordinary.
A young master from that kind of background — would he be lacking for food at home?
Absolutely not.
So maybe he was just in a growth spurt and needed to eat a lot?
Or maybe the hotel’s afternoon tea really suited his taste, and he couldn’t resist having more?
Despite his curiosity, the waiter was a professional.
He’d never voice such thoughts in front of a guest.
His only job was to maintain a standard smile and perfect deference, treating the boy like a British prince.
“Understood, sir.
It will be my pleasure.
I’ll have the refreshments sent to your room shortly.
Is there anything else I can do for you?” Elavin waved a hand.
“That’s all for now.
You can go.” With that, he leisurely made his way back to his room.
At his door, after making sure no one was around, Elavin finally relaxed.
And the moment he relaxed, all the aristocratic poise he’d been faking evaporated completely.
“This place is nice, but pretending all the time is such a hassle.
Next time, I’ll stay somewhere a little less fancy.” Muttering to himself, Elavin pushed the door open.
The room was just as luxurious as the rest of the hotel, more exquisite than anything an ordinary person would see in a lifetime, nothing like the place he’d lived before — that now-decommissioned small-town orphanage.
Powder-white walls, silk-smooth curtains, a gorgeous chandelier, a soft and comfortable bed, clean floors, an old man with a white beard, delicate furniture, and expensive tea sets arranged on top…
Wait a minute.
Something was wrong.
Where did this white-bearded old coot come from?
Instinct kicked in.
He stepped back immediately.
Elavin leaped backward.
“You old coot, where the hell did you come from?” He wasn’t being paranoid.
After all, he was still in a state of “staying at the hotel and eating for free.” And on top of that, this old man was just too bizarre.
The door had been locked.
The windows were closed.
How did he get in?
His clothes were also strangely old-fashioned; it was 1991, and someone was wearing this kind of weird robe at the Ritz London?
Elavin hadn’t heard about any movie stars filming here right now…
All signs pointed to this old man being no ordinary person.
“Don’t be nervous, Mr.
Yakute.
I mean you no harm.” Hearing that only made Elavin more nervous.
When he’d tampered with the hotel manager’s memory to secure the check-in, he’d used a fake name.
Not just the rare surname “Yakute”; even the given name “Elavin” hadn’t been exposed.
How did this guy identify him?
Had the authorities noticed his little tricks?
This is bad.
Better get out first.
Ah, my beloved afternoon tea…
I’ll have to savor you another time.
Elavin stepped back into the hallway, slammed the door shut, turned, and ran.
But the next moment, he found himself dragged backward into the room.
The room twisted as he was pulled back inside.
The door slammed shut with a BANG, followed by a sharp click as it locked again.
By the time Elavin regained his senses, he was lying on the big bed in the room.
No way out.
Instinct kicked in again.
He grabbed the bedsheet beneath him, yanked it hard to the right, and flung it up between them, blocking their vision.
The moment the sheet blocked their vision— Requip Magic: Handgun!
When the sheet fell, a handgun had appeared in Elavin’s grip.
“Don’t move—” Before he could finish, the gun suddenly turned into a green cobra.
It coiled up his arm and opened its mouth to strike at his neck.
Elavin’s eyes went wide.
He clenched his right hand into a fist, grabbed the snake right behind the head, and SMACK — slammed it to the floor.
Dumbledore pulled out a wand and pointed it at Elavin, about to speak.
Just then— Requip Magic: Dual Pistols!
The Requip Magic activated again.
This time, Elavin was holding two guns.
Dumbledore: “…” A rare silence followed.
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