What does death feel like?
For Tom Marvolo Riddle, death was no stranger.
He had torn his soul apart countless times, playing with death in the palm of his hand.
But this time was different.
That damned green light, Harry Potter's nauseating face, and the tremor of the elder wand as it turned against him in his hand... in the end, everything returned to a void.
"I am Lord Voldemort... I am eternal..."
Tom muttered unwillingly.
However, in the next second, a voice exploded in his head:
[Of course, dear, would you like to try again?]
The voice was light and bright, like a sales pitch on a Muggle television.
"Of course... of course I want to try again!"
At this moment, Tom would never give up this final chance.
[But, there will be a small price to pay.]
A price?
Tom sneered in his heart. For the sake of immortality and ruling the wizarding world, he had already paid countless prices.
If he could start over, he would pay any price!
"Fine, I don't care."
Tom replied in his heart.
Immediately after, he felt a sharp headache, accompanied by a moldy dampness entering his nostrils.
It was the scent he detested most from the depths of his memory—cheap soapy water, overboiled cabbage, and the decaying smell of old wooden floors.
Tom snapped his eyes open.
What met his eyes was not the fires of hell, nor the terrified faces of the Death Eaters, but a mottled, gray ceiling with a precarious spiderweb in the corner.
He tried to sit up, but found his body incredibly heavy, as if stuffed into a skin that didn't fit.
"Nagini?" he called out tentatively, but the sound left him stunned.
It wasn't his hoarse, cold, Parseltongue-like voice, but a crisp, youthful, and even slightly soft child's voice typical of someone who had just woken up.
Tom Riddle stiffly raised his hand.
This hand was small, the skin pale to the point of being translucent, the knuckles slender, without the calluses from years of holding a wand, nor withered from the backlash of the Black Magic.
This was a child's hand.
"Possession? Soul attachment?"
As a master of the Black Magic, his first reaction was that he had unintentionally occupied some unlucky person's body.
This wasn't hard to understand; after all, his Horcruxes were scattered everywhere.
Enduring the dizziness, he stumbled off the rusty iron bed and stepped barefoot onto the cold floor.
The room was small, with two beds; the other one was empty.
Outside the window was a gray sky and rows of brick houses devoid of any aesthetic appeal.
This scene was damnably familiar.
Wool's Orphanage.
The cage that had imprisoned his entire childhood before 1938.
"Merlin's beard..." Tom cursed under his breath, walking quickly toward the full-length mirror with a missing corner in the corner of the room.
He needed to see what he looked like now.
If it were some unknown orphan, he would have to find a way to recover his power as soon as possible, then kill everyone here and leave this hellhole.
However, when he stood before the mirror, the fearsome Dark Lord felt, for the first time in his life, a chill more terrifying than death crawl up his spine.
In the mirror was a girl.
About eleven years old.
She was wearing an obviously oversized, faded gray linen nightgown.
But none of that mattered; what mattered was that face.
It was a face so exquisite it took one's breath away.
Long, glossy black hair fell like black satin to her waist, and her skin was as fair and delicate as the finest bone china.
Those eyes, those obsidian eyes he was so proud of, were now set in a face that looked Harmless, even pitiable.
It was still Tom Riddle's face, the face from his youth that had once enchanted countless Professors and witches.
But this was a female version of him.
"This... what kind of disgusting joke is this?"
Tom's hand trembled as he reached for his throat—no Adam's apple.
He reached further down—nothing.
Just as Tom was about to pinch himself to prove this was just a foolish dream, a cheerful, almost piercing mechanical voice suddenly exploded in his mind:
[Welcome to the virtue system. This system is dedicated to saving every antisocial personality.]
[host: Tom Marvolo Riddle (Current Status: Weak/Female Body/Minor)]
[Current Time: July 24, 1991]
[Current Location: London, Wool's Orphanage]
"Who's speaking? Get out of my head!"
Tom subconsciously tried to use a spell to counterattack, only to find that the magic within his body was like a dried-up well, with only a pathetic trickle flowing.
[I am your auxiliary system. Given that the host committed many evils in his previous life and his soul is shattered, this system adheres to the principle of 'Love and Peace' to grant you a second life.]
[The price is that you must start over in this world and repair your soul and unlock your power by accumulating 'Virtue'.]
[Warm reminder: This body is a 'Body of Supreme Goodness' tailored for you by the system; please cherish it.]
"Body of Supreme Goodness?" Tom looked at the frail little girl in the mirror and laughed in extreme anger.
"I'll kill whoever I want, I am Lord Voldemort! You think this kind of trick can trap me?"
Just then, the door was burst open.
A middle-aged woman in an apron with a bloated figure walked in, holding a tin bucket.
She was the orphanage administrator; although she wasn't Mrs. Cole, she looked just as repulsive.
"Tamara! What time is it and you're still looking in the mirror?" the woman barked in a coarse voice.
"Go and scrub the hallway clean! Today is the day someone from that damned school or whatever is coming, don't embarrass me!"
Tamara? Was that his name now?
A red light flashed in Tom's eyes.
This lowly Muggle dared to order him around?
Murderous intent churned in his chest. Although he had no wand, he knew countless types of wandless magic.
Even with only a sliver of magic left, it would be easy to turn this Muggle into an idiot or make her suffocate for a few minutes.
"Cruci..."
He raised his slender hand, pointing his fingertips at the woman, silently reciting his favorite curse in his mind.
[Warning! Strong murderous intent and malicious attack behavior detected!]
[Violation of Virtue Guidelines: Rule One—Do not harm the innocent.]
[Initiating punishment: Level One Electric Shock.]
Before the magic could even condense, Tom suddenly felt a strange current instantly flow through his entire body.
This current wasn't painful; on the contrary, it brought a kind of numbing sensation that made his legs go weak.
Immediately after, an uncontrollable heat rushed to his cheeks, his heart began to beat violently, and his breathing became rapid and disordered.
"You..." Tom wanted to say, you filthy ant, get away from me.
But when it reached his lips, the voice became as thin as a thread, soft and weak, with a tremor as if he were about to cry: "You... don't come over..."