Warnings: Slow build, very eventual romance, wuxia/xianxia AU, Master-of-Death!Harry

Pairing: eventual LV/HP (Voldemort/Harry Potter), eventual TMR/HP (Tom Marvolo Riddle/Harry Potter)

Summary: In a world where magic doesn't exist, supernatural power goes by another name. Hogwarts is not a school of witchcraft and wizardry but of cultivation, and new student Harry Potter has been scouted by the venerable Grand Master Riddle for his mysterious potential in martial arts.

Little does he know, the 'power the Dark Lord knows not' takes on a different meaning.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling

This fic was inspired by Chinese web-novels Tales of Demons and Gods by Mad Snail, and Coiling Dragon by I Eat Tomatoes. You can read their translations on wuxiaworld(-dot-)com!

Additional Notes (Background): This fic is a wuxia (specifically xianxia) AU, a genre of Chinese novel that focuses on adventure, action, martial arts, and a protagonist that is or will eventually become OP in his/her field. Wuxia usually takes place in ancient times, or a medieval/feudal world where technology is limited and hierarchy is based on how "strong" a person is (either in their field of expertise or in martial rank). Xianxia is exactly all those things (a wuxia), except with the addition of 'magic,' or supernatural ability (with elemental spells and mystical objects that defy the laws of nature).

Thus, this work will contain the occasional Chinese term, which I will explain in the text. If you have any questions about these terms or the AU in general, feel free to PM me/leave a review with your question and I'll get back to you about it to the best of my ability.

"Where did you send me this time, Death?" Harry muttered.

Ever since he had become the Master of Death in his first life, his existence had been stuck in the cycle of reincarnation. Time and time again, into the past or into the future, Harry had been inserted in all manners of different situations. He had been born a girl as many times as he had been born a boy. From the most rural of villages to the most concentrated urban centers, he'd been born on every continent at least more than a dozen times each.

Time was not linear. Once, Harry had been born as a little boy living in ancient Mesopotamia, and another time he had been born in the 35th century United States. By and large he'd stopped wondering when it would end—the entity that he'd become acquainted with seemed to get some cosmic sort of amusement out of it all.

What Harry really wondered was what sort of life he'd be living now. Rarely was he ever given the chance to live a peaceful life. Something always happened. He'd fought everything from aliens to muggles to zombies—not inferi, zombies—and so he had enough experience to make an educated guess that the lives he lived did not necessarily take place in one universe.

Muggle multi-verse theory. He was familiar with that, now. But regardless of however it normally worked, whatever was the true answer, Harry knew he would never find an escape on his own. Death sent him wherever they pleased. If there was a door out of here, Death had the sole copy of the key, and they weren't going to hand it over anytime soon.

Harry was, after all, the only occupant of the being's world. What world of the afterlife there was, Death had no power over, and the earthly realm that humans lived in was something like beneath their dinner table. They rarely went there, and if they did it was because they had 'dropped' something. They were not a deity to be worshipped, to lord over the mortals below—their job, simply enough, was that of the ferryman's, bringing souls from life to death.

That was why Harry wasn't angry with them. He was somewhat tired of living over and over again, but he could take breaks in limbo when he wanted to. The train would come whenever he got too bored. He could not see those who had passed, but he'd long come to terms with that, too. It was a part of life—to meet and to part ways, momentarily crossing and walking the same path before taking different turns down the fork in the road. That was okay.

Death's sense of emotions was vague and maybe even just Harry's imagination, but he believed that any being with sentience could feel lonely. If Harry could abate some of that loneliness, then they were some form of friends. Besides, it wasn't like Death was malicious or sadistic. They simply…were. He found happiness as often as he did sorrow in his lives, pain as much as there was laughter.

Another thing was that, even though he'd called it reincarnation, Harry wasn't always…born. He usually started off at a young age, but that also wasn't always the case. This time—he looked down at his hands, finding it too dark to see very well but the outline and shape was small and still developing. There were calluses, rough in the spots that rubbed against tools and rags, but at least he had all ten fingers this time.

The place he was in was…very small. But his body fit, and he felt that if he stood up then he would just barely brush the ceiling of it at the right spot. It was not entirely straight, the ceiling. Rather, it moved down at a slant like the roof of a house, but he couldn't possibly be in an attic. So where was he?

There was a door to his right that some light shone through the bottom. At his side was some sort of desk surface, though the room he was in was too small to house an actual desk. It must be some type of bedside table, or cabinet. Placed on top in some manner of orderliness were three plastic toy soldiers, a cardboard box, a near-empty-but-not-quite crinkled water bottle, and some other miscellaneous trinkets.

They looked like objects that were picked up somewhere rather than bought. There was no rhyme or reason to their identity, just that they all existed in the same room placed on the same surface and were under the (presumably) same ownership. Harry reached out, picking up a toy soldier that fit a good deal better in his child hands.

He wiggled his toes. All ten were there. When he shifted, he could hear the creak of the cot so he knew he wasn't deaf. Very quietly he made some noise to test if he was mute—his voice was that of a young boy's yet gone through puberty, but it worked. All of his limbs seemed to be in working order, and that he had the youth of a child probably saved him from back pain he would've gotten sleeping on the poor excuse of a bed he had.

The final test was the test of magic. Harry reached inside himself—done absently with the experience a supreme expert would have—and tried to summon up the well of magic circulating within his magical core. Wandless magic was not difficult for him. Unlike popular knowledge, wandless ability was not the mark of a powerful core—it took expertise and skill. If not possessing a great understanding of magic, then practice similar to flexing a muscle would suffice.

Now tried being the key word, of course, because Harry discovered he had no magical core. Rather, there was something else instead…not necessarily attached to his soul like a leech or a compartment, but outside like a container.

He had never seen this before. And, well, that was saying something.

Harry tried probing the container. It stretched a bit, but it was more like a thick wall of rubber than the thin body of a balloon. It was also protective in nature, though from the well of knowledge ingrained within his mind, Harry knew as it was now it was actually rather flimsy. He imagined it could be strengthened somehow, but he didn't yet know the methods to do so.

It wasn't the first time he had been without a magical core. It also wasn't the first time he had a different power than magic—but it was the first time he had seen something of this nature, and being in a dark and enclosed space really didn't help.

Really, Harry mused, where am I?

"The cupboard under the stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," a mild voice supplied in his mind. "Master, we thought this would be a pleasant trip for you."

"How generous of you," Harry said aloud. Death's laughter sounded like wind blowing through a chamber of bones. "I suppose that's all you're going to tell me."

"We could tell you more, but you wouldn't understand any of it. The naming system of the universe is beyond your comprehension."

Even Death had a system. Harry acquiesced the point using silence as a reply, and the presence of his friend soon faded to a distant murmur. Death didn't take breaks—their job was endless; there was an infinite amount of souls to ferry and but only infinite power to ferry them with. Or at least, that was what he was told, but there were some things that Harry as a mortal would not understand. An eternal being as Death was on an entirely different level, even if they existed within the same scope.

English, then. It had taken awhile for him to learn enough languages where he would be able to get by from the get-go—and that wasn't accounting dialects yet; 'getting by' was closer to 'yes, no, thank you' than anything. 10th century English was vastly different from 20th century English, and 30th century English was another beast, never mind whether it was across the pond or on a different planet.

He was currently on a 5-life streak, according to Death. Harry wasn't one to keep track of these things, but Death's only entertainment was Harry—ergo, he had an extra set of eyes for the trivialities.

Very well; first things first—gather information. And what better way to gather information than to live? Children lived to learn, Harry mused with a rather sardonic grin.

The world was divided into two realms—the jianghu, and the yamen. Jianghu was a distinctly Chinese term inherited like any other French or German word that lacked a smooth translation; yamen, as its effective opposite, was also used in the same context.

The jianghu took up more physical land due to its nature. The yamen, with technological advances, could house a higher number of residents and facilities—it was the 'modern' world, the world where the people's power lied in science and digitalization, computers and their components.

Yamen meant something along the lines of government office or administration, which was accurate enough. Simply, the yamen had governments and bureaucratic hierarchy. The jianghu did not.

Tom Riddle was born in the yamen, but he had the capability to live in the jianghu. It had been his one true desire as a child—it was a place that, in summary, one could live by one's own power. Those who were strong flourished at the top, and those who were weak survived at the bottom.

Vast lands stretched the visual scope of the sky, tall mountains stood as obstacles, homes, and places to train. Rivers ran clean and unobstructed; those who fought, fought for their own reasons and purposes. The jianghu was the home of martial artists, those who had the capability to cultivate their martial power and ascend from their human restrictions. They were the peak of humanity—power equal to any weapon those in the yamen could create.

Well, not all of them. Just like how a bullet was stronger than an arrow, a bomb stronger than a hand grenade, not all martial artists were born equal and not all martial artists could climb to the peak of power. Usually, those born in the jianghu had the natural advantage, but Tom was an exception. Born to powerless parents in the yamen, he had an abnormal talent, and soon had the strength to dominate much of the jianghu.

So Tom Riddle grew up into Voldemort, the leader of the Dark Sect known as the Death Eaters. They were infamously known for straying from the 'pure' path of cultivation, using dark and immoral means to obtain their power. And, while that may be true for most of the normal Death Eaters, those at the top—Voldemort and his Inner Circle—knew differently. They were the only masters who comprehended the true path of darkness.

An alliance of several sects was made to combat the Death Eaters. They were known as the Order of the Phoenix, lead by Grand Master Albus Dumbledore. Through some mysterious and murky means, Voldemort perished, and without his leadership the Order was able to suppress the Death Eaters. They were not entirely gone—as a Dark Sect, they were experts at survival in the shadows—but suppressed enough that the alliance disbanded, claiming the evil had been vanquished from the land.

With the end to the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore also passed down his Heavenly Phoenix Sect to a successor and instead became the Headmaster of Hogwarts, a neutral school of cultivation for aspiring martial artists. Several Grand Masters also lived and taught here, so naturally all new martial artists desired to become students in hopes of becoming their disciples.

The acceptance rate was terrible, because Hogwarts only accepted those with a high potential in martial arts and a strong soul realm. These two things were not mutually exclusive, but the chances of meeting the requirements as an examinee were not more than one in a hundred thousand, if not less.

And now the annual examination was taking place. Before they could even be applicants, aspiring martial artists had to either be recommended or prove their capability through a series of tests, the main goal of which was to find the exam location. It took place at a different location every year, and in the vast lands of the jianghu, a simple guess was not going to cut it.

There were usually at least two or three Grand Masters hidden, but present during the examination week. If there was a particularly brilliant student, rumor has it that they would be personally invited by a Grand Master to become their disciple. That wish existed in the hearts of all the applicants—to meet a Grand Master! To learn powerful cultivation techniques! Not one disciple of a Grand Master had ever failed in becoming well known.

Unknown to many, but this year, the Headmaster of Hogwarts had come to watch. It could be said that he was expecting someone…so much so that he would bear the presence of Grand Master Riddle, another instructor of the school.

Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore were notoriously on bad terms with each other. Rarely were they ever in the same room at the same time despite the fact that they were colleagues. Not even dinner at the Grand Hall could bring them together. That they both appeared now to watch the examinations was practically unheard of, and would remain unheard of outside the knowledge of the other Grand Masters.

Actually, Tom didn't know today was supposed to be any different than the other examinations. He had decided to come this year because he had not gone the several years before, and finding god-like potential in a new disciple was the goal of every expert in the jianghu. It was Dumbledore that, upon hearing Tom was going, had gone despite the fact.

Neither had ever fought the other, but that was to keep any power gap hidden. The best weapon a martial artist could have was secrecy—in the direst times, a secret skill unknown to their opponent could save their life. They were trapped then in a perpetual cold war; Hogwarts being neutral was the only thing that stopped the school from becoming a battleground.

Minerva McGonagall was not a Grand Master, but she was an expert of the highest degree. She was also one of Dumbledore's disciples and for the week, held the title of Head Examiner.

Another professor administered the tests.

"Orange soul realm, excellent potential," declared the examiner. It was a rather good result—any other school would definitely take that student—but it did not meet Hogwarts' standards.

Soul realms were separated into colors, visualizations of power. In truth, soul realms did not have color but the crystals which soul energy was injected into reflected different shades. The testing process for soul realm strength was thus one, the basic ability to control soul energy, and two, the color reflected by the crystal.

The first part was easier. Any person who stepped foot into the jianghu had to have that capability, or it was as good as a death sentence. That was why the yamen and the jianghu were vastly conflicting landscapes—where one had skyscrapers and cars, the other had dirt roads and largely kept to nature.

The second part was based on a person's natural talent. Most people moved up only one color through cultivation after years of training. Thus, it could be said that some were born to be powerful martial artists, and some were not. Of course it was impossible to get anywhere without cultivation and dedicated hard work, but one's soul realm could either be a big obstacle or a tall booster seat.

The color of soul realms were as such: red was weak, orange was average, yellow was above average, cyan was strong, blue was one-in-a-million strength, and purple was one-in-a-billion strength. To be accepted into Hogwarts, at least yellow color was necessary.

Strength of a soul realm roughly equated to capacity. The amount of soul energy a realm could contain, and thus the 'ceiling of strength' a person had was entirely dependent on this capacity. A Grand Master would need to end up with a purple soul realm, but the path to get that soul realm was easier from cyan to purple, rather than orange to purple.

On the other hand, potential was the speed at which the soul realm grew. The rates were as such: poor, ordinary, good, excellent, extraordinary, and god level. One's potential never changed through cultivation—it could only be changed through rare medicines and secret rituals. Hogwarts required at least an excellent potential for admittance.

The jianghu could be a merciless place. Students at Hogwarts were granted safety for the duration of their studies, which gave them enough time to fully make use of their potential. However, in order to keep Hogwarts' resources exclusively to those who could make use of it, excellent potential was required to guarantee timely progress.

A soul realm's color was a marker. Potential was the true roll of the die.

"Next!" the examiner shouted. "Hermione Granger!"

A young girl stepped up. Her parents nervously watched from the side—they were from the yamen, but had been escorted here by a distant relative from the jianghu who had heard of their daughter's capability. The worlds were separate, but at some points they crossed. If Hermione could become a powerful martial artist, she would be well respected in both worlds and live comfortably for the rest of her life if she wished.

"Cyan soul realm, excellent potential. You pass. Go meet Head Examiner McGonagall."

The examinations continued.

"Ron Weasley! A Weasley. Your brothers are a lot of trouble, you know? Now, let's see…yellow soul realm, extraordinary potential. Hmph, guess you pass. Your brothers had blue soul realms! Wonder if the energy was diluted by the time you were born," the examiner muttered.

Ron wrinkled his nose and shot the man a dirty look, but a tap on his head by his mother reprimanded him.

Most people who passed had excellent potential. Around a quarter had extraordinary. There were none who had god level, which was to be expected. The number of alumni of Hogwarts who had god level amounted to less than a hundred, and Hogwarts had existed for at least four thousand years.

More names were called, and some passed, the majority didn't. The number of students Hogwarts accepted per year averaged three hundred, and the number of applicants that came during the week was around a hundred times that.

On the very last day of examinations came the person Albus was waiting for.

"Harry Potter!"

A boy no older than eleven stepped forward. He placed his hand on the crystal, and instantly it filled with a deep, rich color. Most took at least thirty seconds to completely fill it, but Harry took less than five seconds. It was because of this oddity that the examiner gave his special attention even before the color settled.

"Is…is this…"

Harry glanced up at him as the crystal was taken out of his hands. There was no curiosity in his eyes, only confidence. His crystal had filled like a vat of water had been poured into a cup, and the color was so rich that it mirrored a generous glass of brandy.

As it flowed inside the crystal, its viscosity was unlike any the examiner had ever seen before—thick like the finest honey, glistening like fresh oil.

"Purple soul realm," the examiner breathed in disbelief. Harry coughed politely to bring his attention back to the test at hand.

"Ah, yes, very good, now let's see, the potential is…"

At his word, Harry released his soul energy into the air to reveal his aura. It was quite similar to using magic as a sensor, and had been the first thing he'd learned since coming to this world.

Naturally, with a purple soul realm the examiner expected a very high potential! But what he saw was not so. Actually, he didn't even know what he was seeing. Harry's aura was an erratic gossamer cloth, one second bright and almost tangible, the next thin like a spider web. He did not know what to call it, but as it was unstable and instability was a mark of bad potential, he said, "Potential is…poor."

What a waste! What a shame. Purple soul realm, one-in-a-billion chance, and yet this kid had poor potential? God must really hate him was what the examiner thought. Maybe he had bad karma and was carrying the curses of his past life. Absolutely horrible, like finding an unopened CD in the trash, only to find the disc was so scratched it was unusable!

"I'm sorry," the examiner said, genuinely apologetic and pitying unlike his other dismissals, "You failed."

"Did he really?"

The examiner started. Out of thin air, Grand Master Riddle stepped forward. The crowd instantly gave him a wide berth in respect, and the examiner actually got down on his knees to prostrate.

"G-Grand—"

"I'll take him," Tom said. "Be my disciple, boy."

Not giving an option, not even having the courtesy to phrase it as a question…Grand Master Riddle was definitely different from the other experts at Hogwarts. Because they would soon have a master-disciple relationship, experts usually addressed their desired student kindly, but Riddle didn't seem to care.

Harry, though, smiled. "My name is Harry," he said. "Who might you be?"

Several people watching choked on their spit. One person in the crowd even fainted.

"I am your master," Tom claimed.

"Does my master have a name?"

Tom leveled a condescending gaze at him, but Harry remained unperturbed. "I should like to know what to call you, sir," he added.

Before Tom could answer, Albus made himself known as well.

"Now now, don't be so rude, my boy," he said, addressing Tom. "You'll frighten him."

Tom sneered. The boy hadn't fallen to his knees under the weight of his aura, so it was unlikely anything short of death would scare him. The irony of that thought was completely lost to the one who thought it.

Turning to Harry, Albus said, "My name is Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Would you like to attend this school? Though you did not pass the examination, I would be willing to take you on as my disciple."

Whispers broke out among the crowd, but with a sharp look from the present examiners, they silenced. No one wanted to be eliminated before they even tested.

Harry appeared to think it over. His eyes seemed to stare off into the distance, passing through both Grand Masters into some other dimension. No, perhaps his gaze turned inward instead to look at something inside his soul…?

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," he said after a moment, addressing Albus. "But I already have a master."

Brimming with curiosity, Albus asked, "Oh? And who might that be, my boy?"

Harry raised his hand and pointed to Tom with all the innocence an eleven-year-old boy had, who didn't know pointing was rude or had yet to grow out of the habit. "I don't know his name, so I can't tell you, but he said he was my master right before you came. I'm really sorry; you just missed it!"

It was so quiet dust could be heard floating through the air.

Then, Tom smirked. "You heard the boy," he said, eyes alight with vicious burning. "Come, brat."

"It's Harry," Harry said, but he still walked forward and followed right behind Tom like a little duckling, all the way to McGonagall.

"He is mine," Tom told her. "He'll be sorted into Slytherin. Have the Hat finalize it."

What could she do in the face of a Grand Master but acquiesce? Even though she was Albus' disciple, she was also a professor at the school. Minerva hid a glance of disappointment as she placed the tall Sorting Hat on Harry's head.

It squinted and squirmed, frowned and opened its mouth wide before closing it. The Sorting Hat should've bellowed "BETTER BE SLYTHERIN!" without a second thought just as Tom demanded, but it didn't.

Tom frowned at this display of disobedience. "Hat," he threatened.

Harry's mischievous expression was hidden behind the Sorting Hat's large brim.

"…Slytherin," it finally forced out of its mouth. The reluctance was nearly palpable, like unwanted vomit had welled in its non-existent throat and had came out as slow and heavy sludge.

"There, Tom, I did it!" the Hat spat. "You have your way, just like you always do. Yes sir, sorting students—it's definitely no business of the Sorting Hat!"

"So his name is Tom," Harry exclaimed, still wearing the Hat. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Agh!" the Sorting Hat groaned. "No one can just take what's good for them, can they? Another year, another Sorting gone wrong! But what do I know? I'm just a ratty old hat, and of course an all-powerful Grand Master would know better…regardless of the fact that I was made by four of them!"

Minerva snatched back the Hat before it could say more and incur an expert's wrath. Tom seemed to pay it no mind, instead pushing Harry toward the gates where the other accepted students went.

"Go through there. You're a student now."

Harry, for what its worth, obeyed—though not before bowing and saying, "Thanks, Master Tom."

It did its job. Tom twitched, scowling like all of his good mood had been sucked out by a straw. "Just. Master. Brat."

Harry had nearly reached the gates. He turned around, bowing again, and then right before Tom finished his disappearing act, said, "It's Harry, Master Tom!"

Tom really should've listened to what the Sorting Hat had to say.

I'll be porting this over from Ao3, since this fic actually seems to be going somewhere.

Hope you all will enjoy this!

Sincerely,

R.R.