It ast 8 pm at the Ellens Church Welfare Home, and a single flickering light bulb cast faint shadows that danced across the walls.

  The room was small, with just the basics—a worn bed, a wardrobe, and a simple desk. But it was enough for the boy who lived there.

  “Oh, I ’t stand this anymore.”

  Alex Wilson, a slim boy of about eleven, stared at his refle in the mirror. He rubbed his absently, flexing his fingers as if trying to catething in the air. His slender but strong hands opened and closed, a habit he barely noticed anymore.

  It had been eleven years since he found himself in this strange world. He’d arrived here as a baby, yet with the memories of a grown man. Being stu an orphanage in the 1980s, with no puters or cell phones, felt unbearably slow to someone from his old life. Every day, he yearned for more than this b, quiet existence.

  A loud knoterrupted his thoughts.

  “Alex, boss, you in there?” a voice called.

  Alex frowned, crossing the room. “What are you doing yelling at this hour?” he asked, opening the door a crack. “Aren’t you worried the staff will catch you?”

  Standing outside was William, a boy aroueen, taller but scruffier than Alex. His shirt was wrinkled, and his pants, held up by suspenders, looked like they’d seeer days. Still, William grirying to hide his weariness as he held a rge cardboard box.

  “Sorry, boss. This thing’s heavy and nearly wore me out,” William chuckled nervously.

  Alex rolled his eyes. “Why are you so te? You didn’t run into those guys from the North District again, did you?”

  William quickly shook his head. “Nah, ever since you teach them a lesson, they’ve kept their dista just took lohan expected today. We picked up a lot of good stuff,” he said, handing Alex a few folded banknotes. “Here’s our share for the week.”

  Alex took the money, his face calm. “Good wet some rest.”

  He turo the box, ready to open it, but William lingered, lookiant. Alex raised an eyebrow.

  “What is it? I’ve got practice to get to.”

  William ughed awkwardly. “Well…si’s still early, we were thinking we could—”

  “Py poker?” Alex cut him off. “Fine, but don’t gamble. If Mama catches you again, she’ll fiscate everything.”

  William’s face brightened as he grabbed a wooden box from uhe bed. “Thanks, boss! I’ll bring it ba a couple of days.” With that, he hurried off, leaving Alex alone.

  Shaking his head, Alex muttered, “Teag them poker robably a mistake. Now they’re hooked.” He sighed but smiled as he turned back to the cardboard box. Inside were items he’d been looking forward to—bottles of soy sauce, sesame oil, vinegar, and other ents. Just seeing them made him feel a bit more at home.

  “Finally, some proper seasoning,” he said with satisfa. “If I have to eat bnd food one more day, I might actually lose my mind.”

  Living in an orphanage wasn’t easy, especially without modern forts. Alex often wondered if he had been reinated or just thrown into a new world. The only thing he knew was that he had to adapt. With memories of his past life as a soldier, staying calm and focused came naturally to him. There was no point in panig. He packed away the ents, log his door out of habit. After all, he had a secret no one else knew about.

  Alex looked over at a dumbbell in the er, a heavy 25-kilogram weight. He lifted his hand, fog on the object. Slowly, as if guided by an invisible force, the dumbbell floated, h a few inches off the ground.

  He grihe ability to move things with his mind—his “superpower,” as he called it—was something he discovered years ago.

  It had happened one day after a long workout. Too tired to get up and grab his water, he wished it would e to him, and, to his shock, it did. Ever sihen, Alex practiced his power i, careful not to let anyone see.

  He khat in a pce like this, run by the church, people would view him as a freak if they ever found out. They might even try to get rid of him. Alex watched the dumbbell float above his head as he walked to his desk and sat down, flipping open a worn-out book. This was his routine—he’d practice trolling his power while reading or rexing. He called it “time-pse training.”

  After testing his abilities over the years, he found that training his body gave him better trol over his powers. It was as if his physical aal strength were ected. The calmer he was, the stronger his powers became.

  Alex gently lowered the dumbbell back to the ground, feeling his mind rex as the strain eased. As a soldier in his past life, he had set up a strict routine for himself. Every day, he practiced martial arts, meditated, and trained his power. He wao master it, uanding that in a world like this, powers like his were both a gift and a curse.

  Still, part of him couldn't help but wonder if he was wasting his time here, stu an orphanage, hidden away from the world.

  With a quiet sigh, Alex looked out the window into the dim London night. “I don’t know where this path will lead…but I’ll be ready wheime es.”

  Retly, he noticed that liftis didn’t tire him out like it used to. From years of training, he khat without feeling the strain, he wasn’t truly building strength. Realizing this, he adjusted his approach.

  Instead of only addi, he started practig “time-pse training,” where he’d keep objects floating for as long as possible, stretg his powers’ limits.

  It worked. At first, he could only keep objects in the air for about five minutes before feeling dizzy.

  Alex knew better than to push himself too hard without uanding the limits of his ability, so he stopped whenever he felt too tired. After resting for a day and feeling no stial strain, he was reassured that the training was safe. Sihen, he practiced every night, slowly building up his stamina. Over the years, he noticed steady progress. What started as five miurned into much longer.

  Now, after more than a year of practice, Alex could keep an object afloat for nearly forty minutes without feeling tired.

  Tonight, he made a dumbbell float, orbiting around him like a p cirg the sun. Each time it rotated, he ged its path—sometimes in a figure-eight, other times flipping it up and down in plex movements. The strain was beginning to build, and he could feel the pressure in his mind.

  Sensing the session was nearly over, he guided the dumbbell back to its spot in the er and stretched his arms. “It’s getting easier,” he muttered to himself. “Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll be flying swords like those guys in the novels.”

  Little did he know, as he joked with himself about the future, far to the north, in a magical school called Hogwarts, owls were bei out with acceptaters. One of those owls was already flying through the night sky, making its way to the Ellens Church Welfare Home in London.