What is spirit?
What is consciousness?
What is magic?
What is alchemy?
These aren't the kind of unfathomable mysteries that fall apart the moment you try to define them, but to truly pin them down is far from easy.
Sometimes, all it takes is a spark—an inspiration, a moment of insight—to glimpse their true nature.
That's why so many ambitious wizards in the magical world seek out such moments through every means imaginable. Some wave their wands over and over again; some brew potions until their cauldrons are stained black; some bury themselves in ancient tomes for years; some, with nothing but a wand, venture alone into the most mysterious and perilous corners of the world.
A lucky few succeed, earning the world's admiration as geniuses. Most, however, spend their lives on the threshold—never truly stepping inside, never tasting the full splendor of magic.
Late at night, with the world quiet and still, Qin Yu sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes closed in meditation. At last, he was getting down to real business.
Tonight, he was following in the footsteps of those who came before, probing the mysteries of "mental alchemy"—searching for the true essence of magic.
Not long ago, on the Hogwarts Express, a passage in a book had caught his attention: the alchemical principle of "concentration." He'd even thought of the saying, "the essence is in the distillation"—though that was more of an idle joke.
In the realm of physical alchemy, concentrating and purifying matter is straightforward. There are countless ways to do it: calcination, distillation, crystallization, extraction, and so on.
But "mental alchemy"—how does one concentrate the spirit?
As mentioned before, spirit and consciousness are slippery things. If understanding them is so hard, how can anyone hope to manipulate them?
So, Qin Yu could only rely on imagination—trying to grasp what "spirit" and "consciousness" even meant.
He closed his eyes and stilled his mind, reaching for that elusive sense of self—something there, yet not there.
It felt like a ball of light, but not light.
It felt like a drifting mist, but not mist.
It felt like a gust of wind, but not wind.
Maybe it was just a swirl of thoughts—but what are thoughts, anyway?
Confusion crept in. Frustration. A flicker of anger. The more he searched, the less he understood.
His mind grew restless, irritable—a destructive urge bubbling up inside.
The ball of light became a raging fire. The mist thickened into storm clouds. The wind twisted into a violent cyclone. His thoughts turned to wild, babbling voices.
And then, suddenly, he caught it—a flash of inspiration, a moment of clarity.
Amidst that flickering spirit, he found a single point: "I."
If "I" say it is light, then it is light. If "I" say it is fire, then it burns. If "I" say it is mist or wind or cloud or storm, so it becomes. Every thought is born from this "I."
In that instant, Qin Yu understood.
He couldn't put it into words—couldn't write it down—but he knew, at last, what spirit was.
Whatever its form or shape, spirit exists only alongside the "I."
Find the "I," and you find the spirit.
In that moment, he felt its presence as never before—vivid, alive, rejoicing with him.
And then, just at the edge of his perception, something flickered: a swirl of iridescent black light.
Iridescent and black—two words that should never go together.
But when he tried to focus on it, the light vanished as if it had never been there at all.
Maybe it was just a hallucination, he thought. After all, he was still a beginner at this whole "spirit and consciousness" business. Seeing things wasn't so strange.
The important thing was to seize this rare opportunity—to savor the insight, to prepare for the next step: true concentration.
He pushed away all distractions and let himself sink deeper.
Time slipped away. It might have been a second, or an eternity—he lost all sense of it.
…
He didn't know how long had passed. Suddenly, a jolt of instinctive warning snapped him back to himself.
He opened his eyes. Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Turning to the window, he saw daylight flooding in—it was already morning.
His mind lingered on the night's revelations, and a wave of satisfaction washed over him.
He grinned, hopped out of bed, and snorted to himself:
"This Daoist's divine art has finally reached perfection. Let's see what manner of demon dares to disturb me now!"
He flung open the door—only to find an adorable little witch standing outside!
She had her hand raised, about to knock. The sudden opening startled her into a wide-eyed daze—making her look even cuter.
Qin Yu seized her upraised hand and gently pulled the stunned girl into his room, leaning down to plant a light kiss on her forehead. "Morning, Hermione!"
"G-good morning, Qin…"
But Hermione seemed distracted, glancing past him through the open door and peering anxiously downstairs.
Luckily, her parents were busy elsewhere and hadn't noticed anything unusual.
She let out a visible sigh of relief—then shot Qin Yu a glare, clearly annoyed. Broad daylight, door wide open—what if Mum or Dad saw?!
Qin Yu could guess exactly what she was thinking. He couldn't resist pinching her adorably pouting cheek.
Which—of course—only provoked her further. She jerked her head away, then spun back and, with a swift motion, bit down on the base of his thumb.
Her neat little teeth pressed in, and a low, beast-like growl rumbled from her chest: "That's for pinching me! See if you dare again!"
"Ow! That hurts!" Qin Yu yelped, playing it up for effect.
His reaction made Hermione pause—worried she'd really hurt him. She released his hand and inspected the skin. No blood, no broken skin, not even a decent tooth mark.
She looked up at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Qin Yu kept up the act. "Ow, it really hurts!"
"Seriously? I barely bit you!" Hermione huffed.
"It's true! That's called an internal injury. You can't see it on the surface," Qin Yu replied with mock gravity.
"… " Hermione frowned, staring at him as if to say, "You're not fooling me."
"Don't believe me? Fine, I'll bite you just as hard, and you'll see how much it hurts!"
He grabbed her little hand and made a show of bringing it toward his "ferocious maw."
"No, no, no!" Hermione yanked her hand away.
"See? Now you believe me," Qin Yu said, chin held high.
"Alright, alright—I'm sorry for biting you so hard…" Hermione compared her hand to his "fangs" and gave in.
He hummed smugly, then eyed the spot where she'd bitten him and pulled a face. "Ew—your saliva's all over me!"
As Hermione stared at him in disbelief, he wiped his hand on her sleeve—again and again—until it was dry, then nodded in satisfaction.
"Qin!!!" Hermione's bushy brown hair seemed to puff up with outrage.
"What?" Qin Yu looked perfectly innocent.
"You're disgusting! That's saliva!" Hermione was utterly exasperated.
"It's your own saliva. Why are you so grossed out?" Qin Yu countered, feigning confusion.
"Why didn't you wipe it on your own clothes?" Hermione demanded, nose in the air.
"I can't do that. If I wiped it on myself, the readers would say I'm disgusting," Qin Yu shrugged.
"Huh?" Hermione was completely lost.
"Never mind. Next time, I'll just let it dry on its own," Qin Yu waved her off.
"You could go wash it," Hermione suggested automatically.
"Good idea," Qin Yu nodded.
At that, Hermione found herself at a loss for words. She wasn't even sure why she was angry—or if she should be angry at all.
In any case, she was thoroughly flustered.
A while later, as they headed downstairs together, Hermione, now calm, glanced up at him and said, puzzled, "Qin, you seem kind of strange today."
Qin Yu paused, then let out a helpless smile as understanding dawned.
Merlin's knees, so this is the side effect of probing the nature of spirit—you end up a bit loopy.
Thank goodness it wasn't too serious. At worst, he just wiped her own saliva on her sleeve.
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