1 Chapter 1

On the night of July 15, 1991, in London, in a small alley, a blond young boy stood facing off against a large black dog with dull, lackluster fur.

The boy held a metal rod in his right hand, seemingly dismantled from some machinery, with jagged edges at the broken end. He stepped back with his right foot, body slightly bent in a fighting stance, behind him were several large garbage bins, overflowing and emitting a foul smell. However, the standoff between the boy and the dog was clearly over the pile of garbage.

In the dark not far from the alley, two figures were observing the scene.

One, an old man with a long white beard, whispered, "Minerva, do you think he can scare off that dog?"

"We can't just watch the child and the dog fight; he'll get hurt, Albus!" The tall woman beside him, clearly displeased, pursed her lips tightly, her wrinkles quivering as she spoke and drew her wand, ready to step forward.

But the white-bearded old man held her back with a hand, "Wait."

Meanwhile, in the alley.

The large black dog, unable to contain its hunger, lunged at the boy with its mouth full of sharp teeth and drooling.

On the other hand, the boy, closely watching the approaching shadow, suddenly dodged to the right, avoiding the black dog's lunge. At the same time, he swung the rod in his hand. The rod's initial speed was not fast, but it suddenly accelerated midway, turning into a blur as it struck the large black dog.

The large black dog whimpered and fell to the ground, then quickly got up, its tail tucked tightly between its legs. It limped out of the alleyway as the blow just now had broken its right front leg.

"It seems our little Mike has won," the old man with a white beard squinted his eyes and smiled.

However, inside the alley, Mike didn't seem to intend to let go of the large black dog that had attempted to snatch food from him.

Mike took a few quick steps towards the large black dog, raising his short stick high in his right hand and aiming it at the dog's waist.

With its right front leg injured, the large black dog's speed was greatly reduced. Moreover, with its back to Mike, it could only move forward in a limping manner.

With a "poof," the large black dog fell to the ground once again.

Mike then sat on top of the dog, relentlessly striking its head with the short stick.

After some time, Mike, panting heavily, stopped and the life had already left the large black dog. Its head was a bloody mess, and a small pool of blood was slowly expanding underneath it.

Catching his breath, Mike stood up, rod in one hand, dragging the large black dog towards the darkness outside the alley, not even glancing at the garbage bins they had been fighting over.

Nearby, the two onlookers were speechless. The events of the past few minutes had taken them by surprise.

These two were Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall, the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the head of Gryffindor House, respectively, also a professor of Transfiguration.

They had assumed that Mike, a boy not even eleven years old, facing a large dog that stood to his waist, would try to scare it off or repel it. However, to their utter surprise, Mike had chosen to kill the large black dog and, it seemed, prepare it for his dinner.

Professor McGonagall, turning stiffly to Dumbledore, said, "After all, he is a child who has been a homeless orphan for five years. If he were tender-hearted, he might have died long ago. He's still a child, Dumbledore." Her tone was pleading; she knew Dumbledore well, and Mike's actions would undoubtedly displease him.

"Don't worry, Minerva. I can see that the boy is not inherently bad, and besides, he has us teachers, doesn't he?" Dumbledore did not turn around, continuing to look towards the darkness where Mike had disappeared.

And our Mike, seemingly unaware that two wizards had witnessed his actions, hummed a tune as he walked along the deserted road.

Mike was on the hunt for food, his usual spots being the trash bins in his area. It appears that in some places, perhaps owing to abundant resources, there's a tendency for food to be discarded more freely. This practice, while not ideal, meant Mike could reliably find something to eat each day.

Luck was on Mike's side this time when a sizable black dog emerged unexpectedly, presenting itself as a potential meal for Mike. With this improved option, Mike naturally had no inclination to bother with the foul-smelling trash cans anymore. Despite being a homeless orphan with no entitlement to be choosy, prioritizing cleanliness was still preferable as excessive filth could easily lead to illness.

Mike, indeed an orphan, should have technically been in an orphanage. However, he was well aware that not all orphanages lived up to their supposed benevolence. In reality, many were implicated in various forms of human exploitation.

Mike had never stayed in any of these orphanages, but he was well aware of these practices. Everything in this world requires money, including entry into a good orphanage.

For street orphans like Mike, of an older age, no matter how long you've been wandering, even if it was just for a day, your "price" would plummet.

The treatment of orphans in these institutions was something Mike could hardly bear to recall, and the most despairing fact was that no one was willing to adopt children from these orphanages. Even if there were, their intentions were definitely not kind, as everyone in London knew what kind of children were kept in these institutions.

So, to avoid being caught by those "hyenas" and thrown into an orphanage, Mike had to stay away from the city center and build a shack in a forest on the outskirts. Moreover, Mike even named this shack, which he built with his own hands, the Trash House, a fitting name as the house was indeed made of trash.

At this moment, our Mike, having eaten his fill, was lying on an old mattress inside the Trash House, his eyes fixed on a wind chime hanging from the ceiling.

After staring at it for about 20 minutes, the wind chime suddenly began to sway and tinkle in the still air.

Looking at the wind chime, Mike's face broke into a bright smile, the first time he had voluntarily used his power in six months to make the wind chime move.

Mike considered himself a person with superpowers, as supernatural phenomena would occur around him whenever he was emotionally agitated. Sometimes, the glass in his hand would suddenly crack, and other times, a fire would spontaneously ignite around him.

The severity of these supernatural phenomena depended entirely on the intensity of his emotions and was completely uncontrollable. This was also the reason why Mike moved to the small forest; if these supernatural phenomena frequently manifested in public, he would certainly be under investigation, and he might end up being dissected for research.

Since discovering that his powers were linked to his emotional fluctuations, Mike began to learn to control his emotions. He found that mastering his emotions allowed him to control his powers to some extent, making his abilities manifest as he wished.

Clearly, the efforts of the past six months were not in vain.

Just now, during the fight with the big black dog, he successfully activated his power. At that moment, all he thought about was killing the dog, and it seemed as if his short stick was enchanted, with both speed and strength greatly enhanced.

"With this, the next step in my plan can proceed."

In the darkness, the boy's eyes sparkled, and soon, soft snoring sounds filled the small cabin. The consecutive activation of his powers twice tonight was too exhausting for the frail boy.