"Lord Ben, the Literature Department of Cambridge University has sent you another invitation. They earnestly wish to appoint you as a lifetime professor."
"The publishing house would also like to confirm your book signing schedule again. For your safety, they are hiring the highest standard security team."
"Your eleventh birthday is approaching. Both The Times and The London Times have confirmed it will be their front-page headline."
A well-dressed, meticulous butler reported these matters one by one with practiced precision.
The one listening to the report was not a political bigwig or a business tycoon, but a boy who looked barely ten years old.
This was Ben—the most famous literary genius in Britain, and perhaps even the world.
Without a doubt, Ben was a transmigrator.
He had been an ordinary young man in his previous life before transmigrating to this world. From an orphanage to becoming a globally acclaimed young literary master, ten years had passed in the blink of an eye.
If everything went smoothly, Ben believed he would live a textbook-perfect life. His name would surely be recorded in literary history textbooks for generations to come.
But then, something unexpected happened.
Ben looked at the pen on his desk. It had intricate designs and a metallic luster, looking more like a work of art than a writing instrument. This pen had been a gift from the Queen of England for his tenth birthday. Supposedly, it was made from rare metals that ensured it would never wear out—a symbol of the hope that Ben's literary flame would never be extinguished, that he might become a Shakespeare-like figure in British literature.
But now, the pen was twisted and mangled—crumpled like a pretzel.
Ben took a deep breath.
All he could remember was experiencing severe writer's block the day before. Frustrated, he had angrily wished to break the pen in his hand.
Then, as if responding to that wish, the pen had twisted on its own. Afterward, he had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Now, staring at the deformed pen, Ben's worldview was completely shaken.
"Was it a dream?"
"Or some kind of prank?"
One by one, guesses flashed through Ben's mind, only to be dismissed just as quickly.
Dreams don't feel this real.
As for pranks, that was even less likely.
Only the butler had access to his study, and the man was so strict and reliable that he wouldn't even joke about tea, let alone pull a prank like this.
"Then there's only one possible explanation left."
Ben stared at his palm.
The power that had twisted the pen—was it real?
Magic?
Telekinesis?
Or something else?
Could this be a world of supernatural powers?
The butler's reporting gradually slowed to a stop. He could see Ben was deep in thought, and the rule of the mansion was clear: no one was to disturb Lord Ben while he was thinking. Interrupting a flash of inspiration could mean killing the next masterpiece before it was even born, and fans of his books were fanatical enough to tear someone apart for such a crime.
Suddenly, Ben's eyes lit up as if he'd recalled something.
"This year is 1991. That sounds incredibly familiar..."
"What's my birth year? 1980."
He walked to his bookshelf and pulled out the 1980 edition of the newspaper, part of his meticulously organized research materials.
The front pages were filled with odd stories. People claimed to have seen strange individuals in cloaks wandering the streets. Some reported seeing flying broomsticks. Others swore they'd seen a motorcycle soaring through the sky.
Reading these reports was like being struck by lightning.
Ben finally understood where he was.
This was the world of Harry Potter.
And he... he was a wizard.
The strange power that had twisted his pen? That must've been a magical outburst—his latent power finally awakening.
Just then, the clock struck midnight.
Ben's eleventh birthday had officially arrived.
At that moment, the sound of wings flapping came from outside the window.
Ben's heart skipped a beat. He turned to the butler. "Open the window."
With a startled exclamation, the butler obeyed.
An owl flew in and dropped a letter on Ben's desk.
It was sealed with a crest—lion, eagle, badger, and snake.
The butler stared in disbelief. "Lord Ben, is this… a fan prank?"
"We've coordinated with the post office. Only authorized senders can contact us. Who would go so far as to train an owl to deliver mail?"
"Shall I dispose of it?"
Ben's expression turned serious. "No, Frand. I know exactly what this letter is. Please leave and close the door behind you."
The butler hesitated, then nodded and exited the room.
Ben stared at the envelope for a moment before opening it.
The parchment inside read:
Dear Mr. Ben Snow,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Enclosed is a list of required books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st.
Ben's hands trembled slightly.
A Hogwarts acceptance letter.
This was real.
It was impossible not to be excited. After all, who hadn't dreamed of receiving one?
Anyone who had read Harry Potter as a child had dreamed of living in a magical world.
But then, another thought surfaced.
In the magical world, the timing of one's first magical outburst was seen as a sign of magical talent. Dumbledore and Grindelwald had both displayed signs of magic from an early age. On the other hand, Neville—once thought to be a Squib—had his first magical incident much later.
Ben's own magical awakening had only occurred the day before his eleventh birthday—just in time to receive the Hogwarts letter.
His magical talent, it seemed, was barely acceptable.
Ben sighed in disappointment.
"So much for becoming a magical prodigy… Punching Dumbledore and kicking Voldemort? Forget it."
"Maybe I should just lie low in the magical world. Avoid danger. Live peacefully, and continue my literary pursuits."
"It'd be great if I had a system..."
As soon as he finished the thought, a soft chime rang in his ears.
[System Activated]
Ben's eyes widened with excitement.
A system?!
Could it be a magical system? A potion system? An alchemy system?
He didn't care what kind—it was a system!
Then came the next message:
[Congratulations to the host for joining Chan Sect. The Primordial Connections System is now officially bound.]
Ben froze.
"...Huh?"
"What are you talking about?"
"This is the magical world. What the hell is the Primordial Connections System!?"