"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era;"
"The mysterious ruler over the gray fog;"
"The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck."
Dudley murmured the sacred honorifics, his spirit already reaching for the familiar, majestic bronze table, for the endless expanse of gray fog where he would hear the cheerful greeting of Miss Justice. He anticipated seeing that divine, towering figure shrouded in mystery, the one they called The Fool.
But the fog never came.
Instead, his eyes snapped open.
An intense wave of vertigo washed over him as he stared at his surroundings, a place both deeply familiar and yet impossibly alien.
The first thing he registered was the softness of the bed beneath him, the comforting weight of a warm quilt. Cool, fresh air filled the room, and morning light streamed through a gap in the curtains, illuminating lazy dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. It was a scene of profound peace, filled with a calming aura he hadn't felt in a lifetime.
Then came the scent—not of mildewed machinery or otherworldly incense, but of clean laundry and the faint, sweet smell of the rose bushes from the garden below.
It was the scent of home.
"This… this is my childhood bedroom…" Dudley whispered, his voice cracking.
He remembered. This was his room, his own private space from before he was ripped away and thrown into a world of madness and cosmic horror. This was home.
Tears welled in his eyes, hot and sudden. He couldn't find the words to describe the feeling. It was like floating, a dizzying sense of unreality combined with a bone-deep relief that threatened to shatter him.
"Dudders, my darling, are you awake?" A voice, so familiar it ached, called from outside his door. His mother. "Today's your birthday! We promised we'd go to the zoo, so no being a lazy bones!"
"I… I'm up," Dudley managed to reply, forcing his voice to remain steady.
"Oh, wonderful, darling! Get dressed and come down quickly. There are piles of presents waiting for you to unwrap!" Her voice was filled with pure joy. "Happy birthday, my sweet boy."
He heard her footsteps retreating. From outside the door, Petunia Dursley was beaming. Her little angel was being so good today, getting up the moment she called. He was truly growing up, becoming a little man. She felt a surge of pride.
The moment she reached the bottom of the stairs, however, her smile vanished. Her face soured, her expression longer than a horse's.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Get up! Now!" she shrieked, rapping her knuckles sharply on the cupboard door under the stairs. Compared to her precious son, that nephew of hers was nothing but trouble. It was Dudley's eleventh birthday, and the freak was still asleep.
Upstairs, Dudley mechanically pulled on his clothes and stood before the mirror. He stared at the reflection, and a jolt of revulsion went through him.
A shock of blond hair was plastered to a portly head. A body so plump his neck was a mere suggestion. A round, pink face set with small, watery blue eyes.
"Was I really this… soft?" he muttered, a grimace twisting his lips. "This... spoiled?"
He couldn't stand the sight. Turning away from the mirror, he strode to the window and pulled the curtains wide. Bright sunlight flooded the room, instantly warming his skin and casting him in a faint yellow halo.
He closed his eyes, soaking it in. This was real.
No more facing a world of insanity and dread. No more constant, gnawing fear of losing control to the powers coursing through him. No more sudden attacks from unspeakable horrors.
No more warding his dreams against psychic intrusion. No more worrying that the next Potion he drank might unexpectedly turn him into a woman. That had been a close call.
He inhaled the fresh, damp air, savoring the profound beauty of this simple, peaceful life.
"Run slower! Wait for me!"
"Haha, come and get me!"
Outside on the quiet street of Privet Drive, a few children were chasing each other, their laughter echoing in the morning air.
An old instinct took over. Dudley raised his right hand, almost unconsciously, and his lips formed the familiar syllables of the Hermes language.
"Running is forbidden here."
He watched the children. They continued their game, racing across the pavement, completely unaffected.
A genuine, relieved laugh escaped him. It failed. Of course, it failed. This was a normal world, free from Beyonders and their terrifying powers. How wonderful.
Though that other world offered a path to godhood itself, home was still home. Family was still family. You only truly understood what something was worth after you lost it—especially after you'd traded it for a reality woven from nightmares.
He remembered what someone once said: Beyonders are just a pitiful group of wretches, forever battling madness and danger.
"It's good to be back," he sighed. "It feels so good." Without supernatural abilities, he could finally live an ordinary life. "Oh, right. Mum and Dad… they can't stand anything remotely strange. If they ever found out their son was a transmigrator from a world of horrors, they'd probably have a heart attack on the spot."
He laughed, a wave of childhood memories washing over him, clearer now, yet feeling like they belonged to another life.
"Sweetheart, are you dressed?" Petunia's voice called up again.
"Yes! Coming down now!" Dudley replied, snapping back to the present.
It was his eleventh birthday. He was going to enjoy it.
He opened the door and walked downstairs to be smothered in warm kisses and happy birthday wishes from his parents. And as they fussed over him, Dudley saw him.
A small, thin figure stood by the stove, frying bacon. He had messy black hair, wore old, taped-together glasses, and was drowning in clothes that were obviously Dudley's cast-offs. He glanced over at the birthday celebration, his expression a flicker of wariness and undeniable envy.
"Harry."
The name landed in his mind, and the memories came with it, sharp and ugly. He saw himself chasing and hitting his smaller cousin. Using Harry as a living punching bag. Turning the entire school against him until Harry had no friends left at all.
Did I really do all that?
The thought was sickening, but he knew it was the truth.
The sight hit him like a physical blow because he remembered. He remembered being that small, that helpless. When he'd first been flung into that other world, an orphan of six or seven living with cruel relatives, he had been Harry. He knew the gnawing hunger, the constant abuse, and the chill of threadbare clothes. He'd been beaten, forced to work in dark, dangerous factories, and was once almost sold off to a wealthy merchant.
He had been so spoiled, so weak. He never would have survived if his future captain hadn't saved him, setting him upon the Beyonder path.
Back then, Dudley had always believed it was his punishment. His retribution. He was suffering because of what he had done to Harry. In a world with real gods, such things weren't left to chance. You couldn't escape the consequences of your actions.
You only truly understood the depths of your own cruelty when you were forced to experience that same despair yourself.
Later, as he grew stronger and climbed higher along his Sequence Pathway, he never returned to seek revenge on those relatives. He had accepted it as a karmic debt, a penance he deserved to bear.
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