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(This book is faithful to the original, with no modifications—A.K. Rowling.)

The residents of Privet Drive all knew one thing: a strange boy lived at Number Four, with the Dursley family. It was said that this boy was the child of Mrs. Dursley's sister, and after his parents died in a tragic accident, the kind-hearted Dursleys had taken him in.

However, people kept a polite distance from him. After all, how many kids his age had an odd tattoo on their forehead? Rumor had it that his parents had been involved in some gang-related incident, and it wouldn't be a surprise if one day a group of men in black came knocking down the Dursleys' door to take him away.

This strange boy's name was Harry, and at this moment, he was waking up from a nightmare, his forehead drenched in cold sweat.

He grabbed his blanket and wiped his face. Although these nightmares had become less frequent and more vague as he grew older, they still left him sweating profusely whenever they occurred.

Harry opened his bedroom door and walked to the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, and a cold stream of water splashed out, gradually warming as steam began to rise. He washed the sweat from his forehead and allowed the hot water to help him relax.

Soon, the sound of running water subsided. A large hand wiped away the mist on the mirror, and Harry stared at his reflection, exhaling a long breath.

"Eleven years," he muttered, "This damn dream should be over by now."

Harry slapped his face hard and stared at himself in the mirror, lost in thought. On his forehead was a prominent scar, the outline of which resembled a Glock G18 handgun. Harry was sure of it. In his previous life, while on a trip abroad, he had fired one. After shooting three ten-round magazines at a fifty-meter target and scoring 299 points, the owner of the shooting range had waived his fee and even gifted him a gold-plated Zippo lighter as a souvenir.

But that was in his past life!

Yes, Harry was a transmigrant. Eleven years ago, he had been reborn into this world as an infant named Harry Potter.

However, this world didn't seem quite right. It was not the same as the Harry Potter world written by J.K. Rowling.

For instance, in the nightmare he had just awoken from, he had heard a terrified woman's voice calling out her husband's name. The man was named James. After a loud bang, the man was flung backward. A woman, who must have been his mother, threw herself in front of him, as if trying to shield him with her own body. Harry couldn't hear what she said clearly, but then there was another bang, and she fell as well.

A handsome yet twisted-looking man stood over him, laughing maniacally, raising a Desert Eagle .50-caliber pistol, with blinding green flames erupting from the barrel.

What the hell was going on?

If this were the Harry Potter world, shouldn't Voldemort be waving a little wooden stick and shouting "Avada Kedavra" at him?

It was green light, but something was definitely off!

This wasn't J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter. This was A.K. Rowling's "Hallelujah"! God in a bikini bless you from stray bullets! Hallelujah! (Hallelujah: Praise be to you, Lord!)

Just thinking about this absurd setup made Harry's jaw ache. Worse yet, as a transmigrant, he didn't even seem to have any special abilities. No system interface, no powers—nothing. Aside from these ridiculous nightmares, everything about him appeared to be completely normal—or at least, as normal as it seemed.

Maybe he was just losing his mind. After all, his name was Harry, he lived on Privet Drive with his uncle, aunt, and cousin Dudley, and he even had a bedroom next to Dudley's, not a cupboard under the stairs. He and Dudley liked to hang out, playing video games where they fought off alien invaders, sharing fries and fried chicken, and squishing together on the couch to watch TV. Dudley was big and strong, both fat and muscular, while Harry was lean and muscular, with impressive explosive strength. The two of them had even dominated the Southeast Youth Boxing Championships, beating guys two or three age groups older than them.

The Dursleys treated Harry well. Other than never mentioning his parents, they weren't harsh on him at all. In fact, they hoped both boys would get into the Royal Military Academy together, where they could look out for one another.

Feeling refreshed after his shower, Harry kicked open Dudley's slightly ajar door.

"Get up, bro! I'm planning to try a 200-kilogram squat today. Want to give it a shot?"

Dudley, slapped awake, rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. "Squat, my ass. Last time, I split my pants and nearly threw out my back. Let's stick to bench presses. Squats don't help you grow taller anyway."

Dudley, rubbing his hair as he climbed out of bed, stood up straight next to Harry. Although their weights were almost the same, Dudley, who was half a head shorter, looked much bulkier—like a stocky horse.

"Alright, hurry up and wash your face and brush your teeth. I'll fix us breakfast. Steak or pork chop? Or maybe some roasted venison?"

"Venison," Dudley said, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth as if he could already smell it. "When your birthday rolls around next weekend, let's ask Dad to take us to the countryside again. We can shoot a couple of deer—nothing like venison to warm you up and give you energy."

"Deal. Now hurry up. I'll just pop it in the oven to warm it, and we'll be good to go."

Harry slapped his hands together and headed downstairs. Another thing that confirmed this world wasn't the one from the original Harry Potter series was its tech. Here, guns existed, and the Dursleys had a hunting rifle. It took two hours to charge and could fire five pulse laser beams. The high-energy batteries were regulated, and civilian guns used low-powered rechargeable ones.

This world had plasma weapons, high-energy beam weapons, but no powder-based guns like the ones Harry remembered from his previous life.

No Glock 18, no Desert Eagle .50. Nothing. That's why Harry was convinced that his nightmares were caused by memories from his past life, since he had been shot dead in a gang fight on the streets of Brooklyn. He probably shouldn't have been wandering around there in the first place.

The venison was leftovers from last time—half-cooked and ready to go. Just fifteen minutes in the oven, and the five kilograms of venison would be sizzling and juicy, enough to fill both their stomachs before heading to the gym to torture the equipment. Working out was addictive; a day without exercise left them restless.

At seven in the morning, the milkman and paperboy arrived in quick succession. Harry wiped the grease from his mouth, opened the door, grabbed a few bottles of milk, and rummaged through the mailbox, pulling out a stack of freshly delivered letters.

"Uncle Vernon, last month's bills are here, and so is the prize check from Dudley's and my boxing match. It's for two thousand pounds in total."

"Is it now?"

Uncle Vernon, who was sipping coffee and eating buttered toast, looked up and clapped Dudley on the back so hard he almost pushed him into his plate.

"You boys are doing well!" He patted his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and handed it to them. "Three hundred each. Buy yourselves something you like. We'll save the rest for your university tuition."

The Royal Military Academy wasn't cheap, and even though Uncle Vernon's drilling business was doing well, it would still be a challenge to cover tuition for both boys. That's why they occasionally entered prize matches—to ease the financial burden a bit.

"Hey! Time to get myself a new pair of gloves," Dudley grinned, stuffing the cash into his pocket and finishing his plate in a few bites.

"What's up, Harry? What are you staring at?"

Dudley noticed Harry holding a letter, staring at it in disbelief, and curiously leaned over to look.

*Hogwarts School of Magic Warfare*

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(President of the International Confederation of Wizards, First-Class Grand Sorcerer of the Order of Merlin, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Magic Warfare. Enclosed is a list of required books and equipment.

The term begins on September 1st. We await your reply by no later than July 31st. At 8 a.m. on the morning of your acceptance, our loyal representative, Rubeus Hagrid, will visit your home to explain everything and answer any questions you may have. We look forward to meeting you.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress (Female)

Harry's mind exploded! His head buzzed, and the letters slipped from his hands, scattering across the floor. He stood there, frozen in shock.

"Harry! Harry! Wake up! Snap out of it!"

Dudley looked at him with concern. After a moment of hesitation, he raised his right hand, spit on his palm, and rubbed his hands together.

(End of Chapter)