Chapter 8: Reflections on Magic Energy

In his past life, Allen Finis, a homebound programmer, had read many online novels and was fairly familiar with most of their power systems. In fantasy novels, magic energy is a necessary condition for casting all spells, just like true qi in wuxia novels.

Moreover, magic energy can be increased through meditation and consuming heavenly treasures and earthly rarities, and it serves as a key metric for measuring strength in many novels—its growth is one of the protagonist’s markers of advancement. Yet Harry Potter, one of the most famous fantasy novels from his past life, had no concept of magic energy?

Allen couldn’t help but feel a headache. Looking at the four elements of spellcasting in his notes—specific wand movements, correct incantations, and the caster’s focus—he could understand those, but the caster’s subjective awareness of the spell’s effect? That was too idealistic!

Concepts like magic energy, true qi, and battle qi from previous novels at least made logical sense and somewhat aligned with the law of conservation of energy—but what the hell was this “subjective awareness of spell effect”? Does the size of the land depend on the boldness of the people?

In other fantasy novels, protagonists carefully ration their magic energy, using limited reserves to handle diverse situations, often falling into dire straits due to exhaustion—then entering the beloved trope of last-moment breakthroughs;

and many villains, after unleashing their ultimate spells and depleting their magic energy, are ambushed by the protagonist, allowing the hero to defeat a stronger foe.

But if magic is cast solely through idealistic force, with no magic energy limit, then every wizard in this world would be a walking artillery battery!

As a transmigrator from a world without supernatural power, Allen had dreamed many times of becoming an extraordinary being—and since magic was the only way to solve his physical problem, he had always been deeply attentive and interested in learning magic. After obtaining his magic textbook, he studied it diligently—but the more he read, the more confused he became.

Because every magic textbook read like an instruction manual!

For example, in “Standard Spells, Beginner Level,” the chapter on the Lumos spell first gave a detailed description: what scenarios it was suited for, the size of the light sphere it summoned, its brightness, the area it illuminated, and how long it lasted upon successful casting. It also included a brief history: who invented it, who later improved it, and so on.

The second part detailed the casting method: the exact wand motion required, the standard pronunciation of the incantation, the speed and rhythm of utterance, how to visualize the spell’s effect, and how to concentrate one’s focus.

The third part was a list of warnings: what not to do, and what bad consequences would follow. Honestly, this section made Allen scratch his head—what kind of human behavior was this? For a textbook aimed at readers around eleven years old, it clearly laid out these warnings. Was the author trying to provoke Ravenclaw’s curiosity, or assuming Gryffindor wasn’t brave enough?

Others might not find this odd, but to Allen, raised under the red flag and educated through twelve years of primary, middle, and high school plus four years of university, this was a huge problem.

How could a textbook be written like this? Shouldn’t it first explain the principles of magic? How does magic work? How do spells affect the physical world? Shouldn’t one understand the theory before learning the practice?

Take a rice cooker’s instruction manual: you plug it into a 220V power source, turn it on, select the mode, add the right amount of water and rice, wait the specified time—and then the rice is cooked. This is the process and result of “science” as a spell.

You can cast the “science” spell using the rice cooker’s manual, but after casting the Lumos spell from his textbook, Allen fell into deep confusion.

Because for the “rice cooker” spell, he clearly understood that electric current flows through the heating ring, resistance generates heat, and fundamentally, this is energy conversion—something he learned in middle school physics.

Yet this magical society, existing for thousands of years, and Hogwarts—the world’s finest magical school—used textbooks like this: no theory, only practice, teaching young wizards to know how without understanding why? This left Allen deeply puzzled...

Could magic in this world truly be idealistic?

Allen, skeptical, after extensive practice mastered the Lumos spell, then picked a day off and cast it wildly in his room. If he eventually couldn’t cast it, that would prove magic energy still existed—just unmentioned in the book.

After three hours of casting Lumos, Allen finally couldn’t cast it anymore—but what stopped him wasn’t the “magic energy” depletion he expected, but his aching arm, too sore to swing the wand anymore. Aside from mild mental fatigue, he felt no other abnormality—this made Allen begin to believe magic energy didn’t exist in this world.

Still, Allen didn’t fully conclude. Maybe his magic energy was unusually abundant due to some fluctuation? He had no reference point for comparison. He could only assume magic textbooks were simply like this—and perhaps Hogwarts’ in-person instruction would cover it?

Though he had a reason to comfort himself, that night Allen couldn’t sleep at all. He pulled out the magic history books he’d collected, hoping to uncover magic’s secret. After reading through the night, he finally saw the words between the lines: the entire book was filled with “idealism.”

This left Allen, who had been educated for over twenty years in materialism, utterly disoriented. That’s why he kept searching for magic energy. To him, magic energy was like electricity—the fundamental energy form for casting “magic.” Only with something akin to magic energy could the logic of supernatural power in this world form a closed loop.

Allen was so fixated on this issue for another reason: through the textbooks, he realized that while magic in this world often resembled hosting a banquet, writing an essay, or painting and embroidery—elegant, unhurried, refined, gentle, and courteous—it could turn violent when something went wrong, producing all sorts of bizarre effects: minor injuries, or death.

Most eleven-year-old brats might ignore the third section of every chapter in the magic books, but Allen, with the mature soul of his past life, reread that section countless times—he had suffered his worst injury in his past life from cutting his finger while cooking, and he had no intention of getting hurt—or killed—here by miscasting a spell.

That’s why Allen was so determined to uncover magic’s underlying principles.