"This is your room," Mordo said, stepping into a space that was aggressively minimalist. It had a bed, a desk, and enough stone-cold atmosphere to make a monk feel pampered. "Clothes are on the table. If you wish to wash away the... residue of your previous world, you may use the shower first."
He placed a set of rough, tea-colored robes on the table with the precision of a man who folded his socks by geometric angles.
"As for learning magic, I suggest you start with theory. Jumping into the deep end without a flotation device usually ends in someone being turned into a sentient teapot." He handed Ethan a heavy, leather-bound tome. The title read: General Introduction to the Basics of Magic.
"Of course," Mordo added, his voice dry enough to cause dehydration, "if you find these texts too 'dry,' you can come to the training square. I can show you a few basic spells."
Mordo turned to leave, but stopped at the door as if a stray thought had finally caught up to him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper.
"Here you go."
Ethan took the note. On it, in elegant script, was a single word: 'shamballa'.
Ethan's eyes widened. He knew this bit! "The Wi-Fi password! Look at you guys, being all '21st century' and—"
His hand instinctively slapped his pants pocket. Empty. No glass rectangle. No endless scroll of memes. No connection to the world of cat videos and bad takes.
"Wait... my phone. I don't have my phone."
Mordo didn't answer. He simply closed the door with a soft, final thud.
****
Ethan collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"What the actual hell? Marvel? I'm in the Marvel Cinematic Universe? The place where aliens rain from the sky like bad hail? Where a giant green rage-monster treats skyscrapers like LEGO sets? Thanos is out there right now, probably moisturizing his chin and getting ready to delete half the population with a snap!"
He sat up, throwing his hands in the air. This wasn't a world; it was a cosmic shooting gallery, and he was a target made of wet tissue paper.
"Hey! Transmigrator God!" he shouted at the rafters, his voice cracking with genuine panic. "Are you kidding me? You sent me here? People die here as a hobby! Where is my golden finger? My superpower? My cheat code? Give me something before a stray Hulk-fart levels this entire mountain range!"
[Ding!]
The sound wasn't a pleasant chime. It was a sharp, digital needle that felt like it pierced through his eardrums and vibrated against his brain.
[Transmigration detected...]
[Loading the Transmigration Perk...]
[Scanning for suitable 'Golden Finger'...]
[Suitable Golden Finger found: Supreme Template System]
"Finally!" Ethan breathed, a manic grin spreading across his face. "The exclusive perk! I knew the heavens wouldn't leave me hanging. Give me that Reality Stone level power! Give me the—"
"Template system… what the fuck is that?"
Ethan spent the next fifteen minutes navigating the blue screens. It was a setup he was painfully familiar with—the predatory, soul-crushing world of Gacha gaming. How many times had he been scammed by developers promising a 1% drop rate only to give him a 'Common Sword' for the hundredth time?
The tiers were color-coded and cruel: Common, Rare, Super Rare (SR), SSR, and LSSR.
The rules were simple:
Draw a character template from across the multiverse.
Inherit their powers, skills, and even their physical stats.
Synchronization starts low. You reach 100% by acting like the character or completing "destiny" missions.
[Welcome Bonus Package Detected!]
[Reward: 1x Guaranteed SSR Template Pull]
[Fixed Starting Sync: 10%]
Ethan took a deep breath. He wiped his sweaty palms on his new robes. "Okay. No whammies. No useless characters. Please, don't give me a character whose only power is 'Infinite Crying' or 'Really Good at Cooking Pasta.' I need a heavy hitter."
He pressed the 'SUMMON' button in his mind.
A golden light, far brighter than the others, erupted behind his eyelids. A silhouette began to form—a tall man with a long, flowing beard, half-moon spectacles, and an aura of profound, whimsical wisdom.
[SSR Character Drawn: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore (Headmaster of Hogwarts, Order of Merlin First Class, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock, and Grand Sorcerer)]
[Current Sync: 10%]
[Bonus Unlocked: 'The Wizarding Core' (Passive)]
"What the actual f—" Ethan started, his jaw dropping at the absurdly long list of titles. "Did this guy get paid per syllable?"
He didn't have time to curse the dead wizard's vanity, because a split second later, it felt like someone had driven a glowing hot railroad spike directly into his forehead.
Information didn't just pour into his brain; it violently breached the dam. It was a torrential flood of decades—no, over a century—of arcane study, magical theory, and battlefield experience. If this was only ten percent of Dumbledore's strength, the old man must have had a brain the size of a small planet.
Ethan's eyes rolled back in his head. The pain was absolute, blinding, and totally overwhelming. Before his knees even hit the cold stone floor, he was out cold.
When he finally opened his eyes, the room was bathed in the pale, silvery light of the moon. It was midnight.
He groaned, peeling his face off the floor and rubbing his temples. The stone beneath him was freezing. He looked around the aggressively minimalist room, the shadows stretching across the bare walls.
"Not a dream, then," he muttered, his voice raspy. "Still in Kamar-Taj. Still trapped in a universe that gets invaded by purple aliens."
Dragging himself up, he noticed a wooden tray resting on his small desk. On it sat a covered plate of food, still faintly warm, a cup of water, and a neatly folded set of spare apprentice robes.
"Well, they didn't let me starve while I was unconscious," he mumbled, lifting the cover to find some rice and vegetables. "Very considerate for a cult of interdimensional monks."
He shoved a mouthful of food into his mouth, his mind suddenly hyper-aware. The headache was gone, replaced by a crystalline clarity that he had never experienced in his life. Closing his eyes, he focused inward, sifting through the chaotic library that had just been installed in his head.
It was a bizarre mix of the familiar and the deeply, intimately unfamiliar.
Familiar, because he recognized the names. He had seen the movies. But unfamiliar because it wasn't just trivia anymore—it was hands-on, practical muscle memory. He knew exactly how to flick his wrist, exactly what intent to hold in his mind, and exactly how the syllables were supposed to roll off his tongue.
Reparo. He knew how to mend shattered glass and broken wood.
Protego. He knew how to manifest a shield of hard light to deflect incoming curses.
Expelliarmus. He knew the precise magical torque required to rip a weapon from an enemy's grasp.
Accio, Lumos, Alohomora... the list went on.
"This is just ten percent?" Ethan whispered to the empty room, looking at his trembling hands. "That old man was a walking weapon of mass destruction."
But the difference wasn't just mental. It was profoundly physical.
Ethan felt a strange, thrumming warmth blooming in the center of his chest. It radiated outward, flowing through his veins alongside his blood. He didn't need a textbook to tell him what it was. He could feel it pulsing with his heartbeat.
Magic.
In the Harry Potter universe, magic was biological. It was a genetic trait, a force woven into the very fabric of a wizard's DNA. It was an internal battery.
He remembered the book Mordo had given him, the one he hadn't even opened yet. MCU sorcerers were essentially living appliances. They didn't produce magic; they channeled it. They had to plug themselves into a cosmic outlet, drawing energy from the dimensional lords. Kamar Taj sorceress mostly borrowed their magic from Vishanti. If the entity they were borrowing from got annoyed or simply cut the cord, the sorcerer was just a guy in a fancy bathrobe doing awkward hand signs.
But Ethan? With Dumbledore's template merging with his body, he had just become a portable generator.
[System Note: Congratulations on no longer being entirely useless. Please refrain from blowing yourself up during the tutorial phase.]
"Shut up," Ethan smirked, ignoring the glowing blue text fading from his vision.
Even at a mere ten percent synchronization, the sheer, raw talent for magic he had just inherited was staggering. He didn't have to bargain with extra-dimensional deities. He didn't have to pay a toll to cast a spell. He had the genius of one of the greatest wizards to ever live coursing through his veins.
"Smooth sailing," Ethan chuckled quietly, taking another bite of his cold rice. "With this kind of talent, Kamar-Taj is going to be a breeze. No cosmic begging for me."