The world suddenly spun. There was no light, no body. Only silence... and words.
Not mine. Not foreign. Words I both knew and didn't. As if someone was pouring them directly into my mind.
And here's what I heard:
A long, long time ago, when magic was still young, three brothers named Peverell stood before a river that could not be crossed. Everyone knows the story—how they tricked Death, received gifts, and died through their own pride, desire, or grief.
But the tale rarely tells what happened next.
For the third brother, the one who received the invisibility cloak, did not leave the world as Death expected. Before he passed, he left behind a son.
The boy was quiet and wise, raised by his father in the shadow of the cloak and in the light of truth. But when his father finally surrendered to Death willingly, she—humiliated by the old deception—looked at the child with rage.
"I won't take you now," she said, "but I'll make sure every one of your descendants pays for the arrogance of your bloodline." And so the Peverell curse was born—a family blessed with power and cursed by time.
Each generation bore only one man—a Heir who carried within his eyes the gift known as the Sight of Death. Those eyes saw what others could not: spirits, the traces of passing, the lies of life and the truths of death.
But that gift came at a cost—not drawn from magic, but from life itself. The eyes consumed the lifeforce of their bearer. None lived to see old age. None left behind large families. And the bloodline that once played with Death faded with each generation… until it was no longer remembered.
But blood does not forget.
And magic remembers.
I opened my eyes with a faint daze on my face. Everything felt different from what I remembered. The world was... quieter, as if covered in a thin layer of silence. Every sound—the creak of wood, the whisper of wind outside the window—sounded strange, but clear.
"Interesting... they didn't mention that in the books." I didn't feel panic. I wasn't afraid. On the contrary—I felt excited.
I was cursed. But that didn't matter. The reason was simple: I was probably the greatest magical talent to ever walk this world.
A surprising thought—and yet incredibly thrilling. Suddenly, everything made sense. Everything had a purpose. I already had a goal, a first step, a first challenge.
This life was going to be completely different. I was going to be special, powerful. And that was the most motivating part—the limited time that wouldn't let me stand still.
The part about the unusual eyes was... honestly, very exciting. This might be the world of Harry Potter, but I felt like I had landed in some Chinese novel about cultivators and immortal masters. All that was missing was a special body constitution, a "Golden Soul Core," and a young master I had yet to offend.
"Death's Sight"—it sounded powerful. Bloody powerful. Seeing the lies of life and the truths of death... that wasn't basic magic. That was mythical level stuff.
There was also a mention of ghosts. In this world, ghosts were quite normal—maybe not everyday, but certainly not rare. Wizards didn't worry about them much. Hogwarts was the best example—after all, the history teacher was a ghost, and bumping into a translucent hallway resident wasn't unusual.
But those eyes... were supposed to see more. Not just ghosts. Maybe even what ghosts themselves tried to hide. I was genuinely curious how this power would work. And what else it would let me see.
I breathed deeply, allowing myself to just exist for a moment. A new body. A new world. A new me.
I shook off those thoughts and looked at myself. Hands—small, pale, skinny, with the soft skin of a child. Legs—short, almost cartoonish compared to what I remembered of my old body. I was short. Maybe shorter than other kids my age. Though, to be fair, I never cared how tall an eight-year-old should be.
"Something to get used to," I muttered quietly to myself, slightly amused.
I looked around the room slowly.
The floor was wooden, old, full of scratches and dark stains better left unquestioned. The walls—faded, cracked in places, with peeling paint. It smelled of dust, moisture, and something undefined—something orphanage-like.
One window, partly covered by a torn curtain, let in pale moonlight, casting long shadows on the floor. In the corner stood a bed—metal-framed, with a thin rolled-up mattress. Opposite it, a warped wardrobe swollen with moisture. Next to it—a desk and a chair that probably remembered the days when the war was still fresh in people's memories.
Everything had a soul. Worn out, tired, but present.
"An orphanage. That checks out." I stood there in silence, soaking it all in. And then it started.
Images, sounds, words began to flood my mind. But it wasn't like before—this wasn't a calm vision. It was like an explosion of someone else's memories, poured forcefully into my consciousness.
They weren't mine. I didn't understand them. They were violent. Painful.
I grabbed my head, trying not to make a sound. My teeth clenched involuntarily. I dropped to my knees, trying to endure.
And then... as if nothing had happened—the pain vanished.
Only knowledge remained. Cold, heavy, unfamiliar.
"So that's how it works…"
My name is Oliver Peverell. I live in an orphanage in London. I was found at the doorstep—wrapped in old, worn-out clothes. No one knows who gave birth to me. No one knows who my parents were. Everyone assumed I was abandoned by a mother who didn't want anyone to know I existed.
Next to me was only a note. One name. One surname: Oliver Peverell. A name that couldn't be found in any Muggle database. A name without history. Without a past. And now—it had me. For eight years, I didn't form any relationships. I was quiet. Withdrawn. I showed no signs of accidental magic.
And yet... the other kids avoided me. They didn't bully me. Didn't tease me. They just... didn't see me. They acted like I didn't exist. Like I was a shadow among them.
"Well, that's actually fine," I thought with strange calm. Having to deal with other kids would've just been another irritating problem.
It was already late. Most people in the orphanage were asleep, which meant only one thing: the perfect time for magic experiments.
I didn't have a wand—but that wasn't a problem. I was a genius, after all. Wandless magic? Should be easy.
But it wasn't.
I tried casting a simple Lumos, making an instinctive motion with my hand. But nothing happened. Not even a flicker of light. Not even a spark.
"Maybe I'm doing it wrong..." I muttered, trying not to look stupid. Even in front of myself.
I sighed quietly and lay down on my bed, which was far from comfortable. The springs dug into my back, and the thin mattress creaked with every move. I closed my eyes. Tried to feel something inside myself.
A magical core. A spark. Anything.
I took a deep breath. My thoughts slowly faded. Only I remained.
I lay there for a long while. My body relaxed, but my mind stayed alert.
I almost fell asleep a few times, but something kept me awake—curiosity, maybe. Or stubbornness.
And then... Something stirred.
Not physically. Not in my muscles.
Inside.
Like a thin thread, something immaterial, quivered—trembled—and was immediately crushed by something heavy. A tug. A knock against an inner wall.
"Strange… I don't recall anything like this happening in the books." It didn't feel natural. Whatever it was… it was bound. As if there was a source inside me that someone had deliberately suppressed.
"Lumos," I whispered softly, moving my hand. Nothing. Just quiet darkness. But the feeling returned. That same tug. Weaker, shorter, but familiar.
Not a lack of magic. Chains. Magical chains.
Instead of discouragement, I felt something else entirely. Intrigue.
As if I had just found the first piece of a puzzle.
I calmed myself. I hadn't done anything impressive, and yet I felt like I'd run a marathon.
I was exhausted. "Guess I should go to sleep…" I muttered.
I closed my eyes. And this time, sleep came quickly. Deep, silent, and... disturbingly calm.
AN: Well, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Now, let me ask you something:What if Oliver turned out to be a squib? No magic in a magical world—tragic, right?
But hey, you've read those Chinese cultivation novels, haven't you? So... what if instead of cultivating magic like everyone else, he started cultivating his body?
Let me know what you think.