The twenty-pound dumbbell spun in the air, a miniature moon orbiting a nascent planet. Anduin, seated at his desk, observed its precise movements with the cold focus of a scientist. His mind was a calm sea, beneath which the nascent Strength flowed.
He had quickly discovered a critical flaw in his initial training methodology: the lack of fatigue.
As a soul with ingrained knowledge of physical mastery, he knew that muscular growth required microscopic tearing and subsequent repair. If he could lift the heavy objects for extended periods without feeling physically strained or truly exhausted, he was fundamentally training his body, not his mysterious ability.
"A change in resistance doesn't equate to growth in power," he mused, the truth clicking into place. "It's about endurance, not weight."
He swiftly discarded the weight-centric approach. He transitioned to time-lapse endurance training, focused entirely on using his 'telekinesis' to maintain the suspension and manipulation of objects for the maximum possible duration. The effort wasn't physical; it was purely mental.
The results were immediate and startling.
The first few attempts beyond five minutes brought on a crushing wave of dizziness, a sensation akin to severe motion sickness followed by a sharp, piercing headache that felt like his consciousness was being stretched thin. He had the discipline to halt instantly, never pushing past the comfort zone into the realm of permanent damage. He was training an unknown energy source, and recklessness was suicide.
Thankfully, after a day of rest, his mental faculties felt completely reset, with no residual fogginess. This reassured him and allowed him to weave the nightly sessions into his rigid schedule. Over the span of a year—a year characterized by the mundane, predictable rhythm of orphanage life and the secret pursuit of power—Anduin's endurance skyrocketed.
He was now able to maintain the complex manipulation of multiple objects for nearly forty minutes.
The floating dumbbell was soon joined by a heavy book and a chipped ceramic mug. They danced around him in an intricate, silent ballet. The dumbbell performed figure eights, the book spun on its axis, and the mug traced perfect vertical lines. This was no longer simple lifting; this was demanding, high-precision orchestration of invisible forces.
After achieving forty-five minutes of this strenuous mental choreography, Anduin felt the familiar, dull ache behind his eyes. He gently lowered all the objects back to their resting places. A faint sheen of sweat covered his brow, a sign not of physical exertion, but of deep mental strain. He stretched his shoulders, letting the tension drain out of his body.
"The control is tightening. The precision is improving," he whispered to the empty room, a flicker of satisfaction in his gaze. He mentally reviewed his current capabilities. He could lift an equivalent of thirty kilograms with conscious effort, but more importantly, he could manage intricate, separate movements simultaneously.
"I wonder when this 'Strength' will be sufficient to support my own weight? Flying with a sword, slicing through the air like the legendary heroes in the old texts... that's the ultimate goal."
Deep in this contemplation, focusing solely on the internal system he was perfecting, Anduin was utterly oblivious to the dramatic, world-altering development unfolding a hundred miles north. A
t Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a specific, dedicated brown owl had taken flight, carrying a weighty envelope directly toward the unassuming Ellens Church Welfare House in the dreary streets of London.
The next morning, the clock had barely struck 6 a.m. The orphanage was cloaked in the deep, silent lull before dawn, the air cool and crisp. Anduin, already fully awake, opened his window, allowing a draft of fresh morning air to revitalize him. After quickly donning a lightweight practice uniform—a stark contrast to the rough institutional clothes—he slipped out to the courtyard.
With practiced grace, he launched into a complex series of Tongbei Quan movements, a martial style focused on long-range power and sudden, explosive force. The routine was mechanical, fluid, and demanding, forcing his body into a state of peak, focused alertness.
Finished, a light layer of perspiration coating his skin, Anduin let out a deep, satisfying breath. The physical rigor balanced the mental strain of the previous night. He stretched leisurely, then headed toward the dimly lit, comforting warmth of the cafeteria.
"Good morning, Sister Triss. Your pumpkin porridge always smells like a promise of a better day," Anduin greeted the kindly nun, offering a genuine, polite smile that was part manners, part strategic maintenance of his 'model orphan' persona.
Sister Triss, a woman whose face was creased with hard work and enduring warmth, beamed at him. "Good morning to you, Anduin. Back from your morning discipline, I see. You rise so early every day. If only the other children possessed your determination and sensibility, my worries would certainly shrink by half." She served him a generous bowl of steaming, golden porridge.
Anduin accepted the breakfast with a gentle nod, choosing silence over a response. How could he explain that the sensibility she praised was the calculated pragmatism of a weary adult soul? The difficulty in maintaining this facade, the constant need to police his instincts and vocabulary, was more tiring than the martial arts themselves.
He finished his portion quickly, thanked Sister Triss sincerely, and made his way back to his room.
The instant his hand touched the doorknob, the subtle, deep-seated instincts honed in a past life screamed a warning. Something was profoundly wrong.
He opened the door and surveyed the room. The air felt charged, different. His gaze snapped to his wooden desk. Perched upon it, next to the small stack of reading materials, was a large, unfamiliar brown owl.
The bird was actively engaged in a careful process of 'unloading.' This did not involve any avian waste; rather, the creature was efficiently depositing a thick, creamy envelope from its talons onto the desk's surface before silently hopping onto the windowsill. There, it adopted a pose of profound stillness, its large, intelligent eyes fixed unnervingly on Anduin.
The sheer absurdity of the image—a large messenger bird, acting with human-like deliberation in a working-class London orphanage room—was staggering.
Anduin closed and locked the door slowly, his military training taking over the initial shock. He moved directly to the desk, his movements economical and cautious. He picked up the envelope.
It was heavy, made of thick parchment, and possessed no postage stamp. In the center, a single line of script shimmered in brilliant, impossible emerald-green ink:
Mr. Anduin Wilson, Ellens Church Welfare House, Shaftesbury Street, London
He flipped the envelope over. A complex, circular shield emblem was pressed into the wax seal. A bold, stylized 'H' dominated the center, flanked at the cardinal points by the intricate carvings of four distinct, powerful creatures: a Lion, an Eagle, a Badger, and a Serpent.
"What bizarre organization uses such excessive theatrics for basic communication?" Anduin murmured, breaking the seal with a clinical flick of his thumbnail. He pulled out two sheets of parchment: a formal letter and a comprehensive list.
He scanned the letterhead.
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (President of the International Confederation of Wizards, Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, Grand Sorcerer, First Class Order of Merlin with distinction, etc., etc.)
Dear Mr. Wilson:
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The list of necessary books and equipment is attached. Term begins on September 1st. We await your response via the accompanying owl no later than July 31st.
Submitted most sincerely by Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall.
Anduin's world, already off-kilter by the phenomenon of his 'Strength,' tilted violently on its axis.
"Witchcraft and Wizardry?" He stared blankly at the text, then at the silent, predatory owl on the sill. A cold, analytical dread began to settle in his gut.
"This is... the Harry Potter universe?"
The stunning revelation hit him with the force of a full-body tackle. He had always compartmentalized his 'Superpower' as an odd, singular anomaly. He had never considered the possibility of a systemic, established world of the extraordinary existing alongside the mundane.
He sank slowly onto his cot, the list of required equipment—robes, pointed hat, protective gloves—clutched loosely in his hand.
The shock quickly morphed into frustration, thick and bitter.
"I didn't read the books! I barely saw the films!" Anduin exclaimed to the impassive owl. His memories of the source material were frustratingly vague—just names like Dumbledore, Harry Potter, and Voldemort, and a nebulous understanding of "wands and magic." He knew nothing of the core plot mechanics, the social landscape, or the political currents.
He also remembered a crucial, timeline-shattering detail: "The core storyline takes place in the nineties! I'm in 1980! I'm a decade too early for the main events!"
The realization was dizzying. He wasn't entering the story; he was entering the prelude. He was in the middle of a conflict he barely understood, without a script. The one consistent belief he had held—that he possessed a unique, isolated gift—was demolished.
"I thought I was a superhero. It turns out I'm just an exceptionally well-trained member of the local population," he summarized wryly, a touch of dark humor bleeding through his calculated facade.
He took three deep, controlled breaths, the soldier's technique for centering the mind. Panic was a waste of resources. The fact remained: the power he had spent years cultivating was actually Magic. And now, he had an invitation to learn the system.
Anduin refocused on the owl, which remained a statue of anticipation on the sill.
"So, you're the designated courier, waiting for my acceptance, aren't you?" He tapped his chin, his mind already formulating a precise strategy. "It's a great shame I can't offer you a treat, as I've never managed to secure a pet budget for myself."
He grabbed his pen and a fresh sheet of paper. He couldn't afford to merely accept; he had to leverage this communication.
Anduin composed his reply in his neat, educated script. He expressed sincere gratitude and enthusiasm for the unprecedented opportunity to study at the venerable institution. He then shifted the tone, injecting carefully worded elements designed to elicit immediate assistance.
He stressed his complete ignorance of the Wizarding World and his status as a poor orphan within the Muggle (he instinctively used the term, recalling it from a fragment of a movie trailer) system. He politely, yet firmly, requested the school's aid in explaining the process and acquiring the mandated, likely expensive, initial equipment.
He signed it neatly, folded the note, and secured it with a sliver of adhesive from a nearby envelope. He presented the letter to the owl.
The majestic bird finally moved, hopping forward, snatching the note deftly in its beak, and then, with a silent, powerful thrust of its wings, it vanished out the window, soaring toward the northeastern sky and the hidden castle of Hogwarts.
Anduin stood, watching the empty sky, the acceptance letter still on his desk. His secret power was not unique, but institutional. His solitary path was now intertwined with a destiny he had only vague, cinematic fragments of knowledge about.
Witchcraft and Wizardry. The system of magic was now available for him to systematically dismantle, understand, and master. The Thunder God's Inheritance had just received its first instruction manual.