Flying Bookworm

The Slytherin dungeon, meanwhile, presented a different scene.

"He's just a coward." Malfoy spoke in his trademark drawl, dripping with aristocratic disdain, as he gave his two loyal sidekicks, Crabbe and Goyle, his considered opinion. "He was scared! He knew that if he dared take the field, our Slytherin players would smash him and his pathetic broomstick to pieces! So he came up with a lousy excuse about 'reading' and hid in that musty tortoise shell of a library!"

Crabbe and Goyle nodded like machines that could do nothing but agree, eagerly chiming in. "That's right, Draco! He's a coward!"

Yet in another, far more niche circle at Hogwarts, one brimming with curiosity and academic spirit, Lin Yuan had been given a new nickname—one steeped in reverence, almost touched by a holy aura.

"Saint of the Library."

Or, to put it more plainly—"Flying Bookworm."

The nickname spread widely, especially among the more technically minded and academically inclined students in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.

"You don't understand," a Ravenclaw senior wearing thick glasses explained to her scornful classmates over lunch. "A friend of mine is Wood's roommate, and he heard Wood himself describe what happened, sounding completely shell-shocked. That was absolute mastery over a broom! Lin isn't refusing Quidditch because he's afraid, or because he's weird. It's because, in his eyes, Quidditch might really seem as childish as kindergarteners playing in the mud to us. Just... too low-level."

This interpretation was undoubtedly the closest to the truth.

Unfortunately, only a handful of people were capable of understanding it on that level.

As for all the commotion, the endless discussions and gossip raging outside, Lin Yuan himself—the person at the center of the storm—couldn't have cared less.

Just as he'd said, he had plunged headfirst into Hogwarts' vast, ocean-deep temple of magical knowledge: the library.

And he loved every minute of it.

For someone who had once spent ten years poring over dry, arcane cultivation texts and ancient formation diagrams—works that ran to millions of words—in his sect's scripture repository, the "children's books" in the Hogwarts Library, full of strange tales and fascinating magic, were simply heaven!

At this stage, it was the perfect playground for passing the time.

And so, a regular routine quietly took shape at Hogwarts.

Every day, aside from the necessary classes and mealtimes, you could almost always find that seemingly nonexistent figure in the quietest corner by the window, deep in the library.

Sunlight streamed through the tall, intricately patterned stained-glass windows, falling across him and casting a faint golden glow over his black hair.

The air held the library's unique, comforting scent—a mixture of ancient parchment, dried ink, and the faintest hint of magical dust.

There was always a small stack of books in front of him, but never many—three or four, at most.

And he read at an astonishing speed.

He didn't study every word carefully like Hermione, as if she meant to carve each punctuation mark into her brain.

He merely skimmed through the pages, seemingly at random, taking in line after line at a glance.

His dark eyes were like high-precision scanners, swiftly capturing everything on the pages—words, illustrations, even faint magical fluctuations hidden between the lines—then sorting, organizing, analyzing, and modeling it all in a mind (or rather, a Spiritual Sense) like a supercomputer.

Then a thick book that might take someone else a week to read was finished in less than half an hour.

He would close the book, shut his eyes, lean back in his chair, and quietly digest what he'd read for a few minutes.

It was as though he were running a massive data-processing program.

Then he would open his eyes, gently set the book aside, and pick up the next one.

The whole process was smooth and effortless, possessed of a peculiar beauty born of sheer efficiency.

This almost ascetic approach to reading soon caught the attention of the library's highest authority: Madam Irma Pince, the librarian, notorious for her temper, her love of books, and her bat-sharp eyes.

At first, she thought he was just another misbehaving student who used books as a cover to sneak a nap or get up to mischief in the library.

Like a ghost, she silently patrolled over to Lin Yuan's seat and fixed him with a scrutinizing stare that could have stopped an ordinary student's heart.

But she was disappointed.

The boy wasn't sleeping, eating, whispering to anyone, or even turning the pages any louder than a feather drifting to the ground.

He treated each book with the utmost care, as if it were some priceless treasure.

What she found most unbelievable was that several times she had nearly opened her mouth to remind him in her trademark hoarse voice, "Don't just flip through the pages—read them!" But each time, she held back.

Because she sensed something in the boy that she had never felt in any other student.

It was a pure, heartfelt respect for and desire to pursue knowledge itself.

At last, one day, when Lin Yuan returned a book called A Chronology of Major Events in Medieval Magic to the shelf and went to look for another "toy," Madam Pince—the "library witch" feared by every student—actually spoke to him first.

"Child," she said. Her voice was still hoarse, but lacked its usual sharpness and impatience. "I've noticed that you're very interested in History of Magic."

Lin Yuan looked at her in some surprise, then politely nodded. "Yes, Madam. I'd like to learn about this world's past."

"If you truly wish to learn about the 'past,'" Madam Pince said, a rare expression that looked almost like "appreciation" appearing on her face, as withered as old parchment, "then you should visit the Ancient Runes section."

She pointed toward a section deeper in the library with one bony finger.

It was a part of the stacks that almost no one ever visited, covered in cobwebs and steeped in the musty smell of age.

"History is written by the victors. And the 'truth' is often hidden in ancient texts that have long since been forgotten."