Early July 1980, London, England
It was past 8 p.m., and a flickering light still lingered in a room at the Ellens Church Welfare Home.
"Ugh, I can't take this anymore."
The young man in the room stared at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. He repeatedly ran his fingers over his chin and occasionally stretched his hands out. His slender yet well-defined hands opened and closed rhythmically, as if grasping at empty air.
Eleven years.
Eleven years since he'd arrived in this shattered world, and here he was, still stuck in an 1980s orphanage with no computers or mobile phones. It was hard to fathom how he'd survived.
"Anduin, boss, the stuff you wanted—" Before the young man could finish his sigh, a loud knock jolted him back to reality.
"Why the shouting? Aren't you afraid someone'll catch you out this late?" Anduin opened the door, scowling.
"Uh, sorry. Just… really tired from hauling this big box, heh…" replied a boy who looked around sixteen or seventeen. His wrinkled shirt wasn't old, and his suspender-clipped trousers fit snugly. His hair, however, was a wild, disheveled mess.
The boy handing Anduin the box was William. A few years older, he was another orphan from the home.
"So, why're you back so late? Those North District thugs giving you trouble again?" Anduin frowned, tilting his head.
"No way! After you taught those North District punks a lesson last time, nobody's dared mess with us. Today, me and the boys scored some good stuff—that's why we're late." William dug into his pockets, pulled out a few bills, and handed them over. "Oh, right. This week's cut."
Anduin said nothing, calmly taking the money. "Alright. Thanks for the hard work."
As he moved to open the box, he noticed William still lingering, grinning awkwardly and rubbing his hands.
"What now? I've got practice."
"Well… it's still early. We just wanna unwind a bit…"
"Fine. You want the mahjong set, don't you?" Anduin cut in. Without another word, he walked to his bed and pulled out a wooden box from beneath it. "Play. No betting, or the matron will confiscate it again."
"Got it. Don't worry—I'll return it in two days!" William snatched the box and vanished down the hall.
"There goes another one, lost to the madness. Did I even teach them the right rules…?" Anduin shut the door, shaking his head.
Then, rubbing his hands eagerly, he tore open the cardboard box William had delivered.
"Soy sauce, sesame paste, vinegar, cooking wine… Long time no see, old friends. No phones, no computers—gotta make up for it somehow. I'm so done with British food every day."
The box held the seasonings Anduin had asked William to fetch from Chinatown.
Anduin Wilson wasn't sure if he'd time-traveled or reincarnated to end up here. In his past life, he'd been a soldier—disciplined, resilient, and sharp-minded.
He didn't know whether this world was the same as before. Born into an orphanage in the '60s-'70s, he'd adapted to local customs. With an adult's memories and instincts, he avoided standing out.
The church-run orphanage housed William and his "brothers," all slightly older but obedient to Anduin. Why?
Because they had to be.
In his past life, Anduin had trained in martial arts, and his soldier's discipline drove him to build physical strength early here. These habits became instinct, easily reclaimed.
Despite being younger, 9-year-old Anduin had muscled his way into the orphanage hierarchy. William's crew behaved—mostly. Under Anduin's guidance, they'd even started a side hustle.
"Keep this up, and I'll be a full-time gang leader, collecting protection money." He chuckled darkly, shelving the thought. He stored the condiments, planning to cook proper Chinese food as a reward.
After tidying up, he locked his door.
There was a secret only he knew: he had superpowers.
Anduin stared at a ten-kilogram dumbbell in the corner. With a slight finger gesture, it silently levitated, tugged by an invisible force.
Leaving the dumbbell hovering, he walked to his desk and opened a book. This was his self-invented "superpower training"—what he called delayed training.
Around age seven or eight, he'd realized he was different. Once, after exercising, he'd willed a water glass to fly to his hand.
Careful observation confirmed he alone had this gift. If discovered, they'd call him a monster.
He dubbed it "superpower." Through trial and error, he'd grown from sporadic control to mastery.
He found that stillness and meditation sharpened his focus, making the power easier to harness. A blank mind was key.
Since then, Anduin followed a strict routine: martial arts, meditation, and superpower drills.
He started small—cups, books—then progressed to furniture. His skill grew, but so did his caution.