The Will of the Strong Is Fate

If Roger's first impression of Diagon Alley was the terror of mind-twisting magic.

Then his impression of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was astonishment of another kind.

At St Mungo's, he saw all manner of bizarre injuries. On the first floor, in the Artefact Accidents Ward; the third floor, the Magical Bugs Ward; the fourth floor, the Potions and Plant Poisoning Ward; and the fifth floor, the Spell Damage Ward, there were all sorts who had experimented with magic and landed themselves in hospital.

There were also patients who had been admitted after encountering all kinds of accidents.

Elephant trunks growing from their faces, bodies becoming mechanical, magma flowing from their hands and feet, countless holes eaten through their bodies by swarms of unknown parasites...

And those wizards who bore no visible wounds were often hurt even more severely—confused memories, shattered souls, curses placed upon them, and even forms of injury Roger had never imagined.

Having witnessed wizards' pioneering spirit, their suicidal recklessness, and the dangers of the magical world, Roger felt that he had come to the right place.

Since even these seemingly intractable patients could be cured by the hospital's Healers, then his little problem should be even less of a challenge.

And indeed, just as Roger had expected, the Healer's diagnosis was that he would undergo surgery that day, remain in the hospital for observation the next day, and be discharged on the third.

.

.

.

Clank, clank...

The sound of metal colliding rang out as Roger moved his fingertips.

Bloodstained metal fragments scraped against a metal tray.

They were bullet fragments. Seven in total.

Even with an ability to sense danger to some extent, Roger could not avoid being wounded amid the terrifying chaos of war.

Some of the fragments in his body had been there so long that they had fused with his flesh. Others lay too close to vital organs and major arteries; removing them with modern medical methods carried considerable risk and could cause further injury. That was why Roger had come to this magical hospital, which had treated every kind of strange wound, to have them dealt with.

The first fragment had come from his arm. It had been embedded in the original owner's body before Roger had taken over the corpse.

The second had come from his calf, where he had been struck by a stray bullet while running around in panic after first arriving in this world.

The third had come from his waist and abdomen. After being shot, the bleeding would not stop, and he had nearly died. A Kuwaiti local had saved him with the last of his medicine.

At the brink of life and death, his magic had surged uncontrollably for the first time, granting him the ability to sense crises related to himself.

The fourth struck him with a stray bullet while he was gathering survival supplies, when his ability was still unstable.

The fifth hit him when, after his ability had stabilized, he thought he was the chosen one.

Sometimes, even if you sensed it coming, your body was too weak to evade everything.

That bullet shattered Roger's arrogance.

Roger could have dodged the sixth, but he had put himself in danger to save a child, and was shot as a result.

That shot had been within Roger's calculations; it would not kill him.

And the final shot... had taught Roger how fickle people's hearts could be.

Roger stared at those bullet fragments in silence for a moment, then pulled his thoughts away from those tumultuous memories. He took out seven small plastic bags, the sort normally used for two-inch photographs, collected the seven fragments from the tray, and marked them with numbers using a marker.

Ritual Magic was everywhere. Once all things formed connections and causal ties with other existences, they often acquired special occult significance.

Just like the bone of the father Voldemort used in his resurrection—unwittingly given; the flesh of a servant—willingly offered; and the blood of his enemy Harry—taken by force.

It was a classic ritual that used occult symbolism based on causal relationships.

Ritual Magic in this world was extraordinarily wondrous and possessed immense power. It was not limited to resurrection.

One of the ultimate forms of Transfiguration, Animagus transformation, contained quite a bit of Ritual Magic.

For instance, the first step required holding a Mandrake leaf in one's mouth for a month without spitting it out. The leaf then had to be removed on a full moon to brew a potion, after which the remaining steps had to be completed during stormy weather, and so on.

Many powerful rituals had exacting requirements for their materials. Some of these bullets had nearly killed Roger, while others had caused drastic changes in his mind. They possessed far from ordinary occult significance, so naturally Roger would not casually throw away things that might prove useful.

Roger had always adhered to one principle: "For most people, preparing for a rainy day is a good habit worth having."

Unless absolutely necessary, Roger rarely fought an unprepared battle.

After putting away the fragments, Roger began packing his luggage.

He had brought nothing else, only a few books.

Surgery on the first day, observation on the second, discharge on the third—Roger was unwilling to waste even a single day.

Carrying his bag, Roger headed to the reception desk on the first floor of St Mungo's to settle the bill.

Roger's surgery would have been difficult for a Muggle hospital to handle, but to St Mungo's Healers, it was no more troublesome than getting cupping therapy at a bathhouse: cut open the flesh, remove the fragments, use Sleekeazy's and other potions to heal the wounds and replenish blood, done.

So it had not cost much.

"Hm?" Though he had been away from the battlefield for quite some time, Roger's senses as a seer remained sharp.

As he was paying the remaining balance, he suddenly sensed someone watching him.

Following that sensation, he saw an elderly woman and a little boy who looked somewhat dull-witted.

The one staring at him was that child, who appeared to be about his age.

This combination, this place, these characteristics...

Roger roughly guessed the other person's identity.

Neville Longbottom, jokingly dubbed by many the Sword Saint of Gryffindor.

His parents had been tortured into madness by Death Eaters using The Three Unforgivable Curses. They had been hospitalized at St. Mungo's for nearly ten years and still had not recovered.

The Three Unforgivable Curses were unforgivable because there were no counter-curses. Once struck, there was no cure... at least, not for now.

The reason he seemed somewhat slow-witted was the aftereffects of a Memory Charm cast on him as a child, meant to erase the traumatic experience of being captured by Death Eaters alongside his parents in his infancy.

Once he confirmed that the other party posed no threat, Roger offered him a faint smile. After nodding in a gesture of goodwill, he withdrew his gaze.

Though he recognized him, Roger had no intention of getting acquainted or cozying up to him.

What Roger sought was Eternal Life—the endless wonders that the long years after attaining it could bring him.

He had no intention of distracting himself with too many other matters when every second counted.

However...

While Roger Virgil could be considered quite outstanding in both talent and ability, that did not mean he had no flaws.

Roger had always had a small problem: sometimes, he did not quite understand how others viewed him. By nature, he did not care much about other people's opinions of him, so he had always been rather insensitive in this regard.

Just as he had failed to notice how much turmoil his casual remarks had stirred in Professor McGonagall's heart.

Only after being clearly reminded would he belatedly realize it—like the obvious fear many wizards had shown toward him at The Leaky Cauldron.

So, as he turned and walked away, he overlooked one thing.

The strong naturally became the center of destiny's vortex. As one of the few powerful seers in the entire wizarding civilization, even if there were many matters you did not wish to meddle in, they would come looking for you on their own.

And in a world where great power rested in the hands of individuals, even a casual wave of a strong person's hand could become a storm of fate that swept up countless lives!