[Years from now, as we marvel at the boundless wisdom and knowledge of “Magical Emperor” Soren Reed, we cannot help but wonder about the source of his extraordinary creativity and impossible achievements.
When we trace history back to that lazy, sun-drenched summer, we finally understand: greatness is born from the ordinary, and miracles are forged through relentless dedication.
– Chronicles of the Magical Emperor: Origins]
London, England.
The once-mighty British Empire was grinding through the pain of economic decline.
A global slowdown had sent unemployment soaring and businesses collapsing, and the misery distributed itself without prejudice, crushing everyone from factory workers to shopkeepers.
Fortunately, even in such dreary times, certain institutions remained untouched by the world outside, enjoying a splendid isolation.
Take Brent Orphanage in Bermondsey, London, for instance.
Not because government welfare was generous, but because orphans turned no profit.
Society looked the other way, and the children lived their quiet, threadbare lives year after year, unchanged.
But on a late July afternoon, something shifted.
“Soren…
Director Brent wants to see you.
Says to come right now.”
The words came from a timid little girl, her voice breaking the stillness of a hidden clearing behind the orphanage, nestled among overgrown flower beds.
The thin boy crouched on the ground, busy with something, paused.
He lifted his head, revealing a sharp, clean-featured face.
He was slight for his age, with short black hair and striking features.
His dark eyes carried a calm detachment far beyond his years, lending him an air of distant coolness that discouraged casual approach.
Soren’s gaze lingered on the girl for a moment, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.
“Got it.
Head back, I’ll come once I’m done here.”
She nodded quickly.
Before leaving, curiosity got the better of her, and she stole a glance at the ground beneath him.
The carefully swept earth was littered with severed limbs and broken bodies, scattered across the entire “battlefield.”
Small mercy: the corpses belonged to neither humans nor animals, but to insects of every size.
A sweep of the area revealed grasshoppers, spiders, ladybugs, and ants, a full roster of common garden bugs.
Most lay still.
A few twitched in their death throes.
Remembering the horror stories that circulated among the orphans, the girl shuddered, pretended she had seen nothing, and turned to flee.
Soren’s calm voice caught her from behind.
“Ayla, are the others still giving you trouble?”
“Huh!?” Caught off guard, Ayla turned back hesitantly, forcing an awkward smile.
“Oh, no, not anymore…
Thanks for always helping.”
“Don’t mention it.
We’re all orphans with no one to rely on.
We go further when we help each other.”
Soren dispensed this nugget of wisdom as casually as if he weren’t addressing a ten-year-old girl.
Something in his words seemed to ease her nerves.
Ayla stole a glance at his face, then ducked her head, fighting down her fluster.
“Y-yes, you’re right.
Thank you, really.”
“You’ve already thanked me plenty.
Go on.
I need to hurry up too.
If I keep Director Brent waiting, she’ll start nagging again.”
“Okay…
I’ll go then…”
Ayla walked away with lighter steps.
Still nervous, but no longer as frightened as before.
In her heart, she believed Soren was actually a good person.
His hobbies were…
unconventional, sure, and he got into fights with other kids often enough.
But he never picked on anyone first, and he always looked out for her.
He was no dark wizard.
Those older kids just loved spreading nonsense.
Once she was gone, Soren looked down at the day’s practice results and let out a breath of quiet satisfaction.
Not bad.
His telekinesis, forged through relentless daily training, had finally become useful.
Beyond its practical applications in fights, he could now manipulate objects light enough to fall within his range.
His fine control had improved dramatically too.
He could already command these bugs to reenact a live-action version of Worms.
He extended a hand, palm facing the ground, and concentrated.
The scattered insect remains trembled, then rose slowly into the air, lifted by an invisible grip, floating impossibly above the earth.
Had anyone else witnessed this, they would have called it a miracle.
Soren watched without surprise or excitement.
This had been his ordinary routine since awakening his telekinesis at age seven.
He carried another secret no one knew: he was a reincarnator.
He had a system and superpowers!
His ability was the legendary telekinesis, or perhaps the Force.
With no one to teach him, he couldn’t be certain exactly what it was, so he could only figure it out on his own.
But of one thing he was absolutely sure: with the triple buff of reincarnation, a system, and superpowers, his life would be nothing short of legendary!
Suppressing his excitement, he used his secondhand trench coat to shield the anomaly from view, walked to a corner of the garden, and dumped the insect corpses beside an anthill.
The ants poured out in anticipation, feasting on heaven’s bounty.
Their tiny brains couldn’t comprehend what had happened, but Soren insisted this was a fair deal.
By his rules, the colony handled experimental waste disposal.
In return, whenever he ran short on test subjects, he would select a few lucky ants as payment for their services.
After erasing all suspicious traces, he washed his hands and face, cleaned his clothes as best he could, and set off for the director’s office.
Along the way, the orphans he passed watched him furtively.
A few of the older ones bolted like they’d seen a ghost.
Soren paid them no mind.
He couldn’t even muster a customer-service smile, maintaining his usual cold expression as he walked past without breaking stride.
Outside the director’s office, he composed himself and knocked politely.
Knock knock knock.
“Come in.”
Permission granted, Soren pushed the door open and swept the room with a quick glance.
July.
The height of summer.
The afternoon sun blazed through the windows of the sparsely furnished office.
Behind the paper-laden desk sat the director alone.
No tattling children in the reception area, no unfamiliar couples.
So why had she called him here?
“Good afternoon, Director Brent.”
He greeted her properly and, at her gesture, took the seat across from her desk.
His eyes roved over the miscellany on her table with open but polite curiosity.
Nothing unusual at first glance.
No clue as to why he was here.
That only deepened the mystery.
Director Brent, a woman solidly into middle age, studied him in silence.
This “problem child” of the orphanage had always been a headache.
In her memory, Soren had once been a polite little gentleman, quiet and self-contained, never causing trouble, the model child the caretakers held up as an example.
Then he started primary school, and everything changed.
He became independent, assertive, even dominant.
Since then, he had stirred up no shortage of trouble, getting into frequent conflicts and outright fights with the older boys, who came running to her in tears, claiming he was an evil wizard who knew dark magic.
Later he had claimed a corner of the garden for himself, forbidding other children from approaching, a little tyrant staking out his territory.
Small stuff, really.
Children fought.
It was natural, especially orphans, whose survival instincts sharpened early.
But this time was different.
Seeing the director remain silent, Soren’s mind raced.
He couldn’t help recalling the rumors he’d heard lately:
Word was, the government had imposed hard quotas on every orphanage, requiring a minimum number of adoptions per year or else funding would be cut.
Could it be?
Had this “wonderful opportunity” come around for him yet again?
After turning it down so many times, was the director still not giving up?
Soren didn’t bother checking whether the facts lined up.
He struck first, as always.
“Let me be upfront: I refuse any form of adoption.
I’ve explained my reasons many times.
Just consider me antisocial.
I’ll study hard, win a full scholarship, and never be a burden to this orphanage.
You have my word.”
Director Brent let out a silent sigh.
“I know, Soren.
You’ve always been the smartest and most independent child here.
This isn’t about adoption, and no one has lodged a complaint.
This is about…
your further education.”
“Further education?”
It clicked.
He was eleven this year, the age for secondary school.
With his straight-A record, even coming from a suburban primary school, he should land a decent public secondary school.
Director Brent read the understanding in his eyes.
After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the top-left drawer and withdrew a vintage-style paper envelope.
She laid it flat on the desk between them.
“You know that the orphanage handles all official correspondence for the children.
The secondary school applications haven’t come back yet, but one letter addressed to you personally arrived at the boys’ dormitory.
You weren’t around, and Alisha the caretaker wasn’t sure how to deal with the…
‘messenger,’ so she called me over.”
The rest needed no explanation.
The letter was now in her hands.
Soren nodded.
He had no issue with that.
Director Brent was a good woman, strict but fair.
Thanks to her, the orphanage’s internal conflicts never escalated beyond petty squabbles into anything genuinely dark.
His gaze dropped to the envelope, and his composed demeanor shattered in an instant.
That letter…
why did it look so familiar?
The antique envelope bore no stamp.
The emerald-green ink lent it an air of formality.
Between the envelope and the desk surface, he could just make out a deep purple wax seal, lifting the letter ever so slightly.
On the front, in elegant calligraphy, a detailed address was written:
Mr Soren Reed, Bed by the east window, Room 201, Boys’ Dormitory, Brent Private Orphanage, Bermondsey, London, England.
Extremely detailed.
Throw in his previous-life ID number and it would qualify as a full doxxing.
Soren stopped his mind from spinning further and flipped the envelope over with trembling hands.
There it was: the familiar shield crest, a capital “H” surrounded by a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake.
If this wasn’t a prank, then he had, possibly, probably, almost certainly, received his Hogwarts acceptance letter.
In that instant, Soren’s world collapsed around him.