My mother discovered my journal detailing the truth beneath my lies just as the police arrived with news of my death. She was holding the worn leather book, fingers trembling over entries about skipped classes and internet café job searches, when the officers stood awkwardly in our cramped living room. Their words—"stab wounds," "complications," "didn't make it"—hung like physical blows. Mom's scream tore through the apartment, raw and guttural, before she collapsed onto the journal, ink smearing against her tears as she cursed the school's complicity in my downfall.
Meanwhile, my crush—Sarah—had rushed to the hospital after hearing I'd saved her. She stood frozen outside the ICU doors, clutching wilted flowers, when she overheard a nurse whisper to a colleague about how I'd been set up. The truth hit her like a gut punch: her best friend's betrayal, the planted photos, the boy who'd orchestrated it all to "teach me my place" while secretly coveting her. Sarah slid down the wall, flowers scattering as she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with violent sobs. She'd liked me too, before the rumors poisoned everything—now that understanding came with the crushing weight of irreversible regret.
Through the thinning veil between life and death, I watched it all unfold—Mom's anguish over my journal, Sarah's breakdown in the sterile hallway. Their pain echoed in the strange, weightless space I now occupied, a silent observer to the wreckage left behind. Below, the fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor flickered once, then went dark.
Sarah arrived at Mom's doorstep the next morning, eyes swollen and haunted. She didn't offer empty platitudes. Instead, she clutched copies of police reports detailing how her best friend, Lisa, had planted those photos under pressure from Darren—the ringleader who'd orchestrated my downfall to eliminate competition. "He lied to Lisa," Sarah whispered, her voice raw. "He lied to everyone. And I believed them… I pushed Leon away when he needed someone." Mom stared at her, silent, until Sarah slid a worn sketchbook across the threshold—filled with drawings I'd made of Sarah between class notes, innocent and hopeful. Proof I'd never owned the camera they'd framed me with.
Together, they became an unlikely force. Sarah testified against Darren and his friends in court, her voice steady as she recounted the alley ambush and the knife that sealed my fate. Mom unearthed my internet café job applications and bank statements showing I'd saved every yen to soften the blow of my expulsion. The principal resigned after texts surfaced—Darren's father had donated heavily to the school's sports program, urging leniency for his son.
As the last gavel fell—Darren sentenced to fifteen years, his accomplices to ten, Lisa to community service—a blinding light engulfed my awareness. The pain of watching faded, replaced by a peculiar warmth spreading through my formless existence. Below, Mom placed fresh chrysanthemums at a simple grave marker. Sarah stood beside her, head bowed. Then, the light swallowed everything.
I awoke gasping, not in sterile white sheets, but on dew-damp grass beneath twin moons. Forest air, thick with pine and unfamiliar blossoms, filled my lungs. A voice, sharp and amused, cut through the rustling leaves: Took you long enough to arrive." Standing over me was a woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes like fractured amethyst, her grin revealing a faintly pointed canine.
The woman gave a chuckle welcome this is the pathway that leads to all afterlives. Yours is here too however before we get to that i have a offer.
Our protagonist looked at the woman before him and asked who are you. She smiled me im just a minor death god. names Lillian. now about that deal.
Lillian's grin widened as she gestured toward a shimmering, fractured void beyond the trees. "Every soul passes through here," she explained, her voice like wind through dry leaves. "But yours? Interrupted. Unfinished." She knelt, her amethyst eyes locking onto his fading awareness. "I offer a trade: your memories intact, rebirth in a world untouched by your pain. Random selection—no guarantees. Comfort or chaos." Her finger traced a glowing sigil in the air. "And this?" She flicked her wrist; a colossal wheel materialized, its segments pulsing with alien symbols. "Spin it. Claim a system—magic, technology, something... stranger. Your new life's foundation. Refuse?" She shrugged. "Onward to judgment."
He stared at the wheel—sections labeled "Dragonheart," "Nano-Symbiosis," "Cultivator's Path"—each humming with latent power. No more hospitals. No more Darren. Just... possibility. "Deal," he rasped, the word tearing from a throat he no longer possessed. Lillian's laugh chimed like breaking glass as she seized his wristless arm. "Attaboy." She yanked him toward the wheel. "Now *spin*."
His essence collided with the glowing rim. The wheel shrieked, accelerating into a blur of light and shadow. Segments merged and split—a kaleidoscope of futures. He glimpsed empires built on runes, starships fueled by qi, dungeons breathing like living things. Then—*clunk*. The wheel shuddered to a halt. One segment blazed gold: **[HAREM KEEPER SYSTEM - ACQUIRED]**. Lillian whistled. "Oho. Interesting choice." She winked. "Try not to drown in... complications." Before he could protest, she shoved him backward into the screaming light.
Cool stone pressed against his cheek. The scent of damp earth and ozone replaced sterile antiseptic. He gasped—a real breath, raw and aching. Pain lanced through his ribs, sharp but distant, like an old memory. A translucent blue screen flickered before his eyes: **[SYSTEM INITIALIZING... WELCOME, LEON FREASE]**. He blinked. Leon. His rebirth name—solid, unfamiliar. Alive. Somewhere, Lillian's laughter echoed on the wind.
He pushed himself up slowly, wincing at phantom pains. The blue grey moon cast silver light through towering pines, illuminating moss-covered boulders and strange, bioluminescent fungi pulsing softly near his feet. Earth-like, yes, but wrong. The air tasted too clean, too charged. He focused inward. The system screen stabilized: **\[AGE: 11\]**, **\[STATUS: REBORN - MINOR PHYSICAL TRAUMA LINGERING\]**, **\[ATTRIBUTES: STR 5, AGI 5, INT 8, CHA 7\]**. Basic. Utterly mundane except for the final tab glowing faintly crimson: **\[HAREM\]**. He touched it instinctively.
The screen shifted. A single entry pulsed: **\[SARAH WHITLOCK - STATUS: ALIVE (ORIGIN WORLD) - BOND LEVEL: UNFORGOTTEN (1/10)\]**. A pang struck him—sharp, unexpected. Her face surfaced in his mind: tear-streaked in the hospital hallway. Below her name, a simple mission glowed: **\[MISSION 001: ESTABLISH SANCTUARY. REQUIRED: SHELTER, SUSTAINABLE WATER SOURCE. REWARD: SYSTEM SHOP UNLOCK\]**. Practical. Survival. He swiped back to the main screen and tapped **\[SHOP\]**. It remained stubbornly greyed out, locked behind the mission. Only the **\[HAREM\]** tab pulsed with potential, a silent, complicated promise.
Leon stood, testing limbs that felt both too small and strangely resilient. Eleven years old. Alone. In an alien forest under a large blue grey moon. The system was his compass, his burden. Sanctuary first. Water. Shelter. He scanned the moonlit trees, listening to the unfamiliar chorus of night insects. Somewhere, a predator screamed. Leon Frease smiled grimly. Complicated indeed. He started walking, bare feet silent on the moss, eyes already searching the shadows for a stream.
He found it two days later—a ribbon of clear water slicing through a rocky gorge. Following it upstream led him to a cave mouth hidden beneath a waterfall's spray. Not deep, but dry near the entrance, with a sandy floor and a fissure overhead letting in moonlight. Perfect. He gathered fallen branches for a fire pit, piled moss for bedding, and used smooth stones to dam a shallow pool in the stream's edge. His **[SANCTUARY]** mission pulsed brighter: **\[SHELTER ACQUIRED. WATER SOURCE SECURED. REWARD: SYSTEM SHOP UNLOCKED\]**. He tapped the notification. The greyed-out **[SHOP]** tab flared gold.
The shop interface was sparse, shimmering like liquid metal. Categories glowed: **[SUSTENANCE]**, **[TOOLS]**, **[DEFENSE]**, **[ARCANA]**. Only the cheapest items were unlocked: **\[Hardtack Biscuit (x5) - 1 System Credit\]**, **\[Flint & Steel - 1 SC\]**, **\[Crude Stone Knife - 2 SC\]**. His starting balance: **\[SC: 10\]**. Leon bought the knife and flint. The items materialized beside him with a soft *thump*. Solid. Real. He tested the blade against a branch; it bit deep. Survival had tools now.
A week blurred into routine. Dawn: exercise—push-ups against cave walls, sprints along the stream bank, lifting heavy stones. He tracked his stats obsessively. **\[STR: 5 → 6\]** after hauling boulders for a better windbreak. **\[AGI: 5 → 6\]** from scrambling up cliffsides. Slow, hard-won gains. Evenings: foraging berries that didn't glow, roasting squirrel-like creatures caught in snares. The woods remained unnervingly quiet—no wolves, no bears, just rustlings in the underbrush and distant, haunting cries. He sharpened his knife, honed his senses, and tried not to think about the crimson **[HAREM]** tab pulsing softly in his peripheral vision. Sanctuary was built. Now, the world awaited.
One morning, Leon awoke not to birdsong, but to voices. Clear, sharp syllables cutting through the forest stillness. *English?* Impossible. Yet there it was—a man's deep rumble, a woman's softer tone, and a girl's bright chatter. He froze, knife already in hand, pressed flat against the damp moss behind a thick curtain of hanging vines. Silence became his armor. He ghosted forward, bare feet soundless, following the sound upstream toward a sun-dappled clearing.
Peering through a gap in the foliage, Leon saw them: a family. The father, broad-shouldered and weary-looking, scanned the trees while adjusting a heavy pack. The mother knelt by the stream, filling a waterskin, her movements efficient but tense. And the girl—maybe ten or eleven—skipped along the bank, humming. Her hair was a wild, bushy cascade of chestnut brown, framing a face where slightly-too-large front teeth gave her a rabbit-like earnestness. Beneath that, Leon noted an underlying sweetness—wide, curious eyes and a spray of freckles across her nose. Harmless. Probably. He stayed hidden, muscles coiled, watching for weapons, for predatory stillness in their posture. They seemed... lost.
The girl paused near his hiding spot, bending to examine a cluster of glowing blue mushrooms. "Look, Papa! Fairy lights!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying pure wonder. Her father grunted, shifting his pack. "Don't touch, Hermione. We don't know what's safe here." The name struck Leon like a physical blow. *Hermione.* A bushy-haired, bookish girl with large front teeth. His breath hitched. The **\[HAREM\]** tab flickered violently in his vision, pulsing crimson.
Leon mentally clicked the tab. The persistent **????** that had lingered since his rebirth dissolved instantly. New text scrolled across the screen: **\\\[CURRENT WORLD IDENTIFIED: HARRY POTTER (EARLY TIMELINE - PRE-HOGWARTS)\\\]**. Below Hermione's entry, glowing softly: **\\\[HERMIONE GRANGER - STATUS: PRESENT - BOND LEVEL: POTENTIAL (0/10)\\\]**. A secondary notification flashed: **\\\[WORLD SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE. SYSTEM ADAPTING...\\\]**. He stared at the screen, then back at the girl humming happily by the stream. Magic. Wizards. Hogwarts. A strange thrill warred with disbelief.
The mother snapped the waterskin shut, dear we shouldn't linger. There could be dangerous animals and you don't have a hunting rifle.
Leon now knowing the world realized this is Hermione and her muggle parents but it seems that the girl before him still hasn't gotten her Hogwarts letter and doesn't know she is a witch
Hermione skipped closer, stopping barely five feet from Leon's hiding place. She crouched, peering intently at a beetle crawling across a leaf. Her large, intelligent eyes scanned the undergrowth – and froze. She'd spotted his bare foot, half-hidden behind the mossy roots. Her breath caught. Slowly, her gaze lifted, locking directly onto Leon's wide, startled eyes through the foliage. Recognition flickered in her expression – not fear, but intense, burning curiosity. Before she could cry out, Leon pressed a finger urgently to her lips. *Silence.*
Her eyes narrowed instantly, blazing with indignation. She jerked her head back, breaking contact. "Mom! Daddy!" Her voice, sharp as shattered glass, sliced through the forest calm. "There's a boy in the bushes! A wild boy!" She scrambled backwards, pointing an accusing finger directly at Leon's hiding spot. Her parents whirled around, faces etched with alarm. The father dropped his pack, instinctively stepping protectively in front of his wife and daughter, his fists clenching. The mother gasped, pulling Hermione close. "Stay back!" the man barked, scanning the dense greenery where Leon remained frozen.
Leon didn't run. He stepped slowly from behind the vines, hands raised palms-out. His ragged, makeshift clothes hung loosely on his eleven-year-old frame, stained with mud and berry juice. Dirt smudged his cheeks, and his dark hair was tangled with twigs. He looked every bit the feral child Hermione had declared. "I'm not wild," he stated, his voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in his hands. "I'm lost." He kept his gaze locked on Hermione's parents, deliberately avoiding the girl's fierce, scrutinizing stare. The **[HAREM]** tab pulsed crimson-hot in his peripheral vision.
Hermione's father, Mr. Granger, studied Leon with wary disbelief. "Lost? Where are your parents, lad?" Leon met his gaze, the lie forming instantly, fueled by desperation and the system's silent pressure. "They… didn't make it through the storm. Weeks ago. I've been trying to find help." He gestured vaguely downstream. Mrs. Granger's expression softened with horrified pity. Hermione, however, tilted her head, her intense gaze dissecting Leon's story. "What storm?" she demanded, her voice cutting through her mother's murmured sympathy. "There hasn't been a storm here for months." Leon felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. The bond level flickered: **[HERMIONE GRANGER - BOND LEVEL: SUSPICIOUS (0/10)]**.
He forced his voice to crack, weaving details into the fiction. "It came out of nowhere—black clouds, wind tearing at our tent. We were camping upstream." He pointed back the way they'd come. "The river rose too fast. The tent ripped…" Leon paused, swallowing hard. "My parents pushed me onto a branch. The current snatched them. I spent days searching downstream." He described the bloodstained bushes, the snapped branches, the absence of bodies. Mrs. Granger gasped, clutching Hermione tighter. Mr. Granger's suspicion wavered, replaced by grim understanding. Hermione's scrutiny didn't relent. "And you survived alone? How?"
Leon seized the opening. He showed them his crude stone knife, the flint and steel. "Shelter. Traps. Foraging." His eyes flickered toward Hermione, holding hers. "You learn… or you die." The raw truth in those words silenced her skepticism momentarily. Mr. Granger sighed, rubbing his temples. "We're hiking back to our car. You'll come with us." Relief surged through Leon—sanctuary wasn't just a cave anymore. As they turned to leave, Hermione lingered, her gaze sharpening on Leon's worn boots. "Your feet," she whispered. "They're not bleeding. How?" Leon froze. He'd forgotten the **\[MINOR PHYSICAL TRAUMA LINGERING\]** status—his soles should have been shredded after weeks barefoot in the wild. Before he could invent another lie, thunder cracked overhead. Fat, icy raindrops began to fall, drenching them instantly. The promised storm had arrived.
Leon acted instantly. He clutched his head, staggering as if the thunderclap was a physical blow. "The noise…" he gasped, his voice thick with manufactured terror. "It sounds like… the river!" His eyes widened, staring unseeingly past the Grangers into the pelting rain. He swayed violently, mimicking the disorientation of sudden trauma. "Can't… breathe…" He choked out the words, clutching his throat with one hand while the other flailed weakly toward the roaring waterfall downstream—linking this storm to his fabricated past. He locked eyes with Hermione just long enough to see her suspicion falter into startled concern. Then, with a final, choked gasp, he crumpled forward onto the muddy ground, limbs going utterly limp. Rainwater pooled instantly around his motionless form.
Silence stretched for a heartbeat, broken only by the downpour. Mr. Granger swore, rushing forward. He knelt beside Leon, fingers pressing against the boy's neck. "He's out cold!" he shouted over the rain. Mrs. Granger hurried to Leon's other side, shielding his face from the torrent. "Trauma response!" she cried, her dental training kicking in. "The storm triggered it! We need to get him warm and dry!" Hermione stood frozen, rain plastering her bushy hair to her cheeks. She stared at Leon's pale, still face, then at his unnaturally clean, unblemished feet protruding from his ragged trousers. Doubt warred with horrified pity. The lie was seamless—too seamless? But the collapse… the terror in his eyes… It felt terrifyingly real. Her suspicion fractured, replaced by a sharp pang of guilt for questioning him. The **\\\[HAREM\\\]** tab pulsed softly: **\\\[HERMIONE GRANGER - BOND LEVEL: CONCERNED (1/10)\\\]**.
Mr. Granger scooped Leon up effortlessly, cradling the unconscious boy against his chest. "Hermione, grab my pack!" he ordered. "Jean, lead the way back to the car park—fast!" They hurried through the deluge, Leon a dead weight in Mr. Granger's arms. Hermione struggled with the heavy pack, her mind racing. The wild boy wasn't wild. He was broken. And she'd accused him. As they reached their battered Volvo, Mr. Granger laid Leon gently across the backseat. Mrs. Granger fumbled for blankets. Leon remained perfectly limp, feigning deep unconsciousness, but his mind was clear. The Grangers' car smelled of stale crisps and antiseptic wipes. He heard the engine roar to life. Wheels crunched on gravel. They were moving. Away from the forest. Toward a new world. Toward magic. And Hermione Granger, now officially part of his system's complicated promise, sat rigidly in the front passenger seat, casting anxious glances back at him through the rearview mirror.