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The Hog's Head Bar, inside the 'most luxurious' room.
His nephew's unusual, intense interest in the Frye Family gloves didn't bother Alphard in the slightest. Instead, he felt it was a refreshing reminder of exactly how a normal teenager should behave.
Who hasn't been obsessed with overly dramatic things when they were young? Alphard himself fell in love with Muggle motorcycles the very first time he saw one roaring down a London street as a child. For months afterward, countless small wooden models were enchanted by his wand, zooming and sputtering around his bedroom ceiling.
"Ethan couldn't use it, and neither could I. So, we arrived at a working theory—" Alphard said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the scarred wooden table. "Is it possible that only Wizards bearing the Frye Family bloodline can trigger these gloves? After all, many ancient spells and artifacts are intrinsically tied to bloodlines."
"So..." Sirius said thoughtfully, tracing the rim of his Butterbeer glass. "Jacob and Evie?"
"Yes," Alphard nodded. "The twins have never worn these gloves before. Ever since we formulated this possibility, Ethan has been incredibly eager for the twins to try them on. But there's still some time until the next holiday."
The next scheduled school holiday was Easter, falling in mid-April.
"I think trying them at Hogwarts would be a good idea. The ambient magical field there is strong enough; maybe it will help the mechanism respond. Plus, you have Professor Dumbledore looking after you, so safety is guaranteed."
"So the most important reason for calling you here today is to pass the gloves on to Evie and Jacob to try," he looked seriously at the circle of Little Wizards. "I'll come back to the castle later in the term to pick them up."
Looking at the authentic 'Assassin's Creed gloves' resting on the dark green velvet, Regulus finally couldn't resist the itch in his gamer soul. He looked up at Al.
"Can I try?" he asked, a rare, genuine hint of pleading slipping into his tone. "...Uncle Al! Alphard!"
Regulus blinked his grey eyes, putting on what he calculated to be the most sincere, innocent, and cute expression possible—though he had no idea if his usually stoic face actually pulled it off.
He had never practiced this specific expression in the mirror before.
His uncharacteristic, wide-eyed look successfully broke the tension, causing the Wizards present to burst into ringing laughter.
"Of course," Alphard nodded, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
Regulus's eyes visibly lit up, shining in the firelight.
"I specifically asked Ethan about this, and he said it's okay, but you must keep it safe!" Alphard warned, pushing the Dragon hide box across the table. "There's a heavy anti-loss charm woven into this box, and I think that spatial alarm ring of yours is also quite good..."
He pushed the box closer to Regulus, his own eyes sparkling with curiosity and interest, carefully observing his nephew's every movement.
"Thank you!"
Regulus blinked, taking a deep, steadying breath. To calm his racing heart, he couldn't help but murmur the classic, albeit slightly localized phrase, "Got nothing to lose, do what you want."
Only then did he reach out. His hand moved slowly yet firmly towards the 'Assassin's Creed gloves'—
The cold metallic surface of the bracer gleamed warmly in the candlelight, throwing fractured reflections across the stone walls. The 'gamer's heart' in his chest pulsed with a clear, undeniable rhythm.
What kind of weapon was this?
He remembered that in Assassin's Creed: Origins, when Aya, a fierce descendant of Kassandra, handed the Hidden Blade to her husband Bayek for the first time, she called it—
'A weapon of justice'.
Justice?
He had, of course, spent long nights lying awake in his four-poster bed thinking about why he was chosen to transmigrate. The fantasy of time-space magic, the sci-fi tropes of alien technology, the ancient philosophy of Zhuang Zhou dreaming he was a butterfly... Fate was full of complex questions hiding in every shadow, yet it rarely provided definite answers.
And in the chaotic torrent of fate, trying to desperately anchor oneself by seeking absolute answers was futile. He didn't need to know all the cosmic answers. He only needed to know one thing—
That no matter where he was, or what timeline he inhabited, the core beliefs in his heart would not change.
In all the video games he had ever played in his previous life, he never plundered or stole from innocent civilians. He would carefully steer his horse to avoid crowds on the road, and he never abused his power to do whatever he pleased simply because he wore the plot armor of the protagonist.
For example, he only learned from reading game forums that killing civilians or cats in Origins would lead to instant desynchronization. Or in Skyrim, if the 'Dragonborn' recklessly killed a villager's chicken, they would be aggressively attacked by the entire town. He would never do such chaotic things in a game. He even strictly played the pacifist route in Undertale on his very first blind playthrough, a feat that had utterly amazed his old college roommate.
Although games were fundamentally just digital entertainment, for him, respecting the lore of every world, finding ways to save minor NPCs from scripted misfortune, and contemplating the heavy meaning behind dialogue choices—this respect for real-world rules—was not only a vital part of the immersion but also a very cool, principled way to play.
Only by immersing himself in the truth of each world was it worth the price of the game.
He also almost never reloaded or reset his saves to fix a mistake. Even if he sometimes made the wrong narrative choices, he learned to live with the consequences, choosing not to regret them afterward.
Wishes and real life were two very different things. He did what he could with the resources he had—as for everything else, it was simply beyond his control.
He could no longer remember how much random knowledge he had absorbed from gaming, the ninth art. It covered vast swathes of astronomy, geography, medieval politics, and ancient history. But more important than the trivia were the moral questions the games, through the grueling experiences of their heroes, had posed to him.
For example, the Assassin's Creed franchise. Although it is a game overflowing with stealth and killing, the assassins throughout history never stopped agonizing, questioning themselves with the most profound philosophical burdens—
Whose life is truly worth saving? Whose life can justifiably be ended? Who holds the right to define justice? And when ancient evil is finally put on the scales, is there still room for redemption?
Regulus didn't know who could answer these grand questions. But for himself, sitting in a dusty pub in Hogsmeade, he knew only his own choices could forge the answers.
Just seek to have a clear conscience!
It was the same rule here at Hogwarts.
Perhaps infected by Regulus's sudden, intense solemnity, everyone around the table held their breath, watching him intently.
The expression on the young man's pale face shifted from solemn to relaxed, transitioning from lingering doubt to sharp determination. Finally, his fingers brushed the leather, and he carefully picked up the heavy 'Assassin's Creed glove'.
Sirius watched his younger brother without blinking, an unspeakable sense of deep, fraternal trust surging in his chest.
He suddenly felt a profound certainty that Regulus could make it work!
Severus secretly crossed his index and middle fingers under the table, silently praying to whatever magical forces existed for Regulus's success.
Regulus first checked the internal mechanisms, confirming the exact sliding position of the Hidden Blade—he couldn't afford to make the rookie mistake of Ezio Auditore and accidentally sever his own ring finger. Finding the clearance safe, he firmly strapped the heavy leather and metal glove onto his left forearm. The bracer fit astonishingly well, the internal straps and magical fibers seemingly adapting automatically to his specific hand shape and wrist diameter.
He rotated his wrist, the leather creaking softly. He flexed his fingers, admiring the sleek, deadly appearance of the gauntlet, the ambient noise of the pub fading away as he almost forgot everything around him.
Next, he scanned the positions of the people sitting around the table. Aiming towards an empty angle near the stone fireplace, he solemnly raised his arm level. He closed his eyes, intuitively guiding the micro-movements of his forearm muscles, adjusting, probing the hidden tension wires, searching for the trigger point. Finally—
Schwing!
A slender, razor-sharp steel blade glinting with an eerie, lethal light quietly sprang out from beneath his wrist, locking into place with a satisfying mechanical click.
James gasped aloud. Sirius and Remus's eyes widened to the size of Galleons, and Severus clenched his fist under the table, revealing a triumphant 'I knew it' smile.
"...Regulus." A brilliant light of astonishment flashed in Alphard's grey eyes.
As for all the awe directed at him, Regulus seemed deaf to it, still fully immersed in his own internal rhythm. He suddenly stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. He walked to the center of the cramped room and raised his right arm high, pointing the bracer straight at the wooden ceiling beams.
(◎o◎)
The Wizards present all watched Regulus, who seemed to be inexplicably showing off, completely bewildered by his posture.
Following an imperceptible flick of his wrist muscle, a mechanical thwip sounded. A small, heavy grappling hook shot out from a secondary housing like a ghost, trailing a high-tensile wire. The steel prongs bit deep, directly embedding themselves into the solid oak of the ceiling beam.
With almost zero reaction time, Regulus hit the retraction trigger and let himself go. He was hoisted violently into the air by a huge, mechanical pulling force, his boots leaving the floor as he gently swayed back and forth beneath the heavy beam.
The entire room of brilliant Wizards was left utterly dumbfounded, staring up at the boy hanging from the ceiling.
Regulus, suspended comfortably in the air, flashed a wide, boyish grin. He swung lively for a moment, enjoying the sheer physics of it, then triggered the release. He retracted the rope dart with a sharp zip, landed softly on the wooden floorboards with bent knees, and slowly lowered his arm.
The very moment the heavy metal rope dart retracted back into its housing with a loud clack, the spinning Sneakoscope resting on the floor suddenly flared, flashing with blinding bursts of warning red light.
Then—
Knock, knock, knock!
"Hey!" A hoarse, angry voice barked from the corridor outside the door. "What the bloody hell are you doing in there? No damaging bar property!"
It was Aberforth Dumbledore, the grumpy bar owner.
"Open the door! You'll have to pay for any damaged items with your own Galleons!"
... ...
Everyone inside the room looked at each other, hands covering their mouths, and burst into silent, shaking laughter.
...