The night draped itself like a heavy sheet of black velvet, sealing the entire house in darkness. In the living room, the pendulum clock ticked in a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm—the only sound breaking the silence.
Moonlight spilled past the window ledge into Alan's room, cutting a cold, rectangular patch of light across the floor.
He lay flat on the bed, chest rising and falling in near-perfect rhythm, eyelids closed as though he had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
But that was only the illusion of the physical body.
His consciousness—his core processor—had already slipped free from the shackles of flesh and bone.
In a boundless mental space, constructed of nothing but pure logic and light, floated a vast and awe-inspiring hall. Though intangible, its structure was the most rigorous in existence. Every column was an axiom; every stone tile bore a theorem.
This was his Mind Palace.
The day's encounters now flowed into the central core of this palace, unraveling into raw, immense streams of data to be replayed, deconstructed, and analyzed.
Every word Mr. Ollivander had spoken in his shop had been broken down into syllables and tone, the hidden weight behind them calculated into concrete values of "information entropy."
The dazzling magical objects on display in Diagon Alley—each faintly radiating its own energy—had their patterns of decay modeled, archived, and cross-referenced against the known laws of physics.
Here, everything vague, emotional, or "mysterious" was forcibly converted into cold, comprehensible, and utilizable knowledge.
And Alan's will was the sole sovereign of this palace.
"Allocate all experience gained today into the two core modules: Magical Theory and Mental Focus."
The command was given.
No voice, no delay. Deep within the palace, two logical trees made of glowing pathways—the base skills—flared to life at once.
"Booom—"
A soundless roar shook the mental space, a torrent of data rushing through.
Countless new nodes sprang into existence along the light-trees, with more complex, more efficient pathways built, optimized, and solidified in an instant. The skill levels represented by each tree leapt clearly from 1 to 2.
Almost simultaneously, Alan's body—still lying on the bed in the real world—registered the feedback of this protocol upgrade.
A sharpness unlike anything he had ever known spread from his cerebral cortex through his entire being.
If, before, his sense of ambient magic had been like peering at blurred lights through frosted glass, now the glass was gone—wiped utterly clean. He could feel the faint, cool magic particles drifting in the moonlight. He could distinguish the sluggish, inert energy settled within the wooden furniture of his room.
His mental power was no longer a scattered mass, but compressed into a sharpened, invisible awl—ready to strike at any moment.
This was a leap in cognitive foundations themselves.
He rose in silence, his movements so fluid that even the rustle of fabric made no sound.
On the nightstand rested his wand—thirteen inches, ashwood, with unicorn tail hair.
He picked it up.
The Mending Charm he had cast earlier in Diagon Alley replayed in his Mind Palace, its complete process summoned for a new round of simulation.
With "Magical Theory" now leveled up, dozens of unnoticed details revealed themselves.
The curve of magical output did not need to climb as a stiff, straight line. Instead, it could flow smoother, more energy-efficiently—as a graceful "S-shaped" arc.
The path of spiritual power guiding the flow of magic was not fixed; it could shift dynamically—down to the micron—depending on the material and degree of damage of the object to be repaired, achieving the most optimal effect.
Alan's gaze fell upon a scrap of parchment on his desk, crumpled into a ball after a failed calculation.
He did not speak the incantation.
Silent casting—a higher demand on both magical control and mental focus.
He merely lifted his wrist, the motion so slight it could have been mistaken for brushing away dust.
An invisible ripple of magic spread precisely over the crumpled parchment.
No light. No sound.
The wrinkled ball of paper seemed to be smoothed by an unseen hand, with tenderness and precision that defied physical limits. In an instant, it lay flat upon the desk, pristine as new—without the faintest crease. Even the ink regained its original sheen.
Flawless.
The effect surpassed his daylight demonstration at Ollivanders by more than a full magnitude.
A pale-blue line of virtual text flashed briefly across his vision:
["Reparo" proficiency increased to Level 1]
He felt no surprise. It was simply the inevitable result of logical deduction.
Next, he opened his fresh copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. His finger trailed across the index before stopping at a new entry-Spongify.
According to the description, this spell could temporarily restructure a solid object at the molecular level, rendering it as soft and springy as a sponge.
A spell of immense research value.
His eyes shifted toward the sturdy oak at the foot of his bed.
He raised his wand, its tip aimed squarely at the target.
In his Mind Palace, the theoretical model for Spongify was summoned. Though only basic theory from the textbook, it was sufficient for a first attempt.
He focused, simulating the magical structure required, channeling it into the wand.
The tip glimmered faintly—then went dark.
Failure.
The oak bedframe still shone in the moonlight with its same hard, steady luster, its physical properties unchanged.
But within his Mind Palace, the failed attempt was like a key sliding into a locked door.
The skill tree for Spongify lit up, fully unlocked by this failure now infused with real-world data.
Countless formulas and alchemical models for matter transformation and the temporary weakening of molecular bonds began to sprout automatically at the roots of the skill tree, evolving and branching out. The structure remained incomplete, riddled with gaps—but it had already laid before Alan a clear, unmistakable path toward eventual success.
Just then—
"Alan? What are you doing?"
A drowsy, soft child's voice drifted in through the crack of the door.
Alan froze.
He turned his head to see his sister Lilia, rubbing her sleepy eyes, standing small in the half-open doorway. The hallway light glowed faintly behind her, catching on her pajama top with its little teddy bear print, making it look almost fluffy.
She had likely woken for a drink of water, only to glimpse the faint flash of his wandlight.
Almost in the same instant her voice reached him, Alan had already whisked his wand out of sight—slipped beneath the pillow with a motion so swift it blurred. The focused, cold expression vanished from his face, replaced by a calculated, gentle smile—one designed to soothe any child.
"Nothing, Lilia," he said softly, with just the right note of indulgence. "I was working on some magical theory research. It requires complete silence. Go back to bed—you've got an early morning tomorrow."
"Oh…"
Still half-asleep, Lilia nodded. Her brother's words always carried absolute authority for her. With a yawn, she obediently shuffled back to her room, gently closing the door behind her.
Alan did not return to bed immediately.
He moved to the door, pressing his ear to the cool wood, his mental power spilling outward like mercury, listening intently to every sound in the house.
He heard the faint rustle of Lilia climbing back into bed.
He heard the steady, even breathing of his parents in the master bedroom.
He even heard the refrigerator compressor downstairs click off, its hum fading away.
Only after confirming that the entire house had once again fallen into perfect silence did he carefully close his door and slide the bolt into place.
He glanced at the cold, shining moon outside the window, and decided to end the night's exploration here.
Biting off more than one can chew leads only to waste.
Step by step, steady and methodical—squeezing the value out of every attempt to its fullest—this was the most rational way to grow.