Chapter 59: Wizards Are Gods

So that's how it is. That's the truth. And yet, it's nothing more than that.

The mist that had clouded Ian's mind for so long dissipated silently at that moment. The path ahead was no longer just about climbing to the peak of the mountain.

Beyond the mist, the sky itself awaited.

"Wizards are gods..."

It was clear.

This was not merely a metaphor comparing wizards to deities—it was a fundamental truth. To impose new rules upon the material world was as natural to a wizard as it was for a god to shape reality itself.

But if wizards could rewrite reality, then why did Transfiguration eventually wear off? Ian did not voice this question aloud.

Because, in the next moment, he already had his answer.

Wizards are gods.

But the god in this equation was not an external force. It was the wizard's own magic. Magic was an inherent part of a wizard, their personal power. And in its purest form, it was the ability to impose one's will upon the world.

Any alteration of matter, any reshaping of form—it all stemmed from magic. When magic acted, it did not merely change reality; it overwrote the rules of existence.

As long as a wizard's magic remained infused in the transformed object, the new rules prevailed, bending reality to their will.

However.

Once that magic dissipated, whether due to natural entropy, the world's self-correction, or some unknown reason, the imposed rule would fade. The original form would return, just as Lily Potter's Transfiguration had unraveled the moment she died.

Because the source of that magic no longer existed.

Even if some magic lingered, it would no longer sustain the change.

"Or perhaps... it's not dissipation, but a return?" Ian wondered. If he wanted to test this theory, he needed to cast a successful Transfiguration spell and observe the results carefully.

"Vera Verto!"

Ian raised his wand and pointed at the matchstick on his desk.

This time, he discarded all unnecessary thoughts. He did not think of limitations. He did not think of restrictions.

He envisioned himself as the Creator.

[Transfiguration successful. Transfiguration skill level increased.]

His personal status panel shifted. The matchstick on his desk was no longer a matchstick. It had transformed into a slender iron needle, its surface adorned with intricate, delicate engravings.

"Exquisite spellwork. A truly perfect application of Transfiguration!"

Professor McGonagall, though she had anticipated Ian's success, couldn't suppress her admiration upon seeing the result.

It seemed the Sorting Hat had made no mistake.

A true heir to Rowena Ravenclaw, appearing for the first time in a thousand years.

"Ian! That was amazing!"

Michael clapped enthusiastically, his excitement infectious. His cheer set off a ripple effect—though some students clapped out of genuine admiration while others did so reluctantly, soon, the entire classroom was applauding.

After all, this was Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

Ravenclaws valued knowledge and skill above petty jealousy. Hufflepuffs, ever warm and supportive, joined in happily simply because someone had achieved something remarkable.

"What did the professor write just now?"

"Was it a secret Transfiguration technique?"

"Damn it! I wasn't paying attention!"

Curiosity buzzed through the classroom. Many of the Ravenclaw students felt as though they had missed out on a crucial lesson, frustrated that they hadn't caught every word exchanged between Ian and their professor.

"Thank you, Professor. I believe I understand now… but I still have unanswered questions."

Ian expressed his gratitude to Professor McGonagall, but his gaze remained fixed on the needle on his desk.

"The study of Transfiguration has no end. But for now, you've done exceptionally well."

McGonagall nodded in approval before turning to assist the other students who were still struggling with their assignments.

The classroom was lively, filled with the chatter of students excitedly attempting to reverse their Transfigurations and retrying the spell.

But Ian?

Ian remained silent, staring intently at the needle.

"A portion of my magic has entered a dormant state... but it is still a part of me."

He could feel it. The magic was still connected to him.

It was clear now.

Magic did not disappear after being used. Instead, it remained bound to its effect. The influence of that magic persisted, maintaining the transformation.

If he severed that connection, the magic would immediately return to him. But at the same time, the influence it had over the needle would vanish.

The iron needle would become a matchstick again.

That was an undeniable truth.

"Each unit of magic has a limited amount of influence. When I apply magic to reality, it gradually releases that influence into the world."

"The strength of a wizard determines how much influence each bit of magic contains. That's why increasing my magic level strengthens my spells."

On the very first day of school, Ian had already uncovered a deeper truth about magic.

Of course.

That didn't mean his previous understanding had been entirely wrong.

He had merely been following a predefined path, studying magic the way it had been structured and categorized by those who came before him. He had been learning the conclusions of others, not discovering truths for himself.

Whether it was spells or runic magic, they were methods—tools to direct and shape magic.

"Spells. Runes. They are only conduits. Only frameworks."

Ian's thoughts became clearer, sharper.

Professor McGonagall had been right. A wizard's magic was the true foundation of power.

And the act of imposing influence upon reality—that was the true path to mastery.

"Vera Verto!"

To test his revelation, Ian cast the spell again.

This time, the iron needle shimmered and began unraveling—its form dissolving into wisps of green smoke.

"Whoa! Smoke! That's so cool!"

"Hey! That's the same color as my sister's underwear!"

The class erupted in a mixture of awe and laughter.

But at the sound of that particular comment, Professor McGonagall spun around with lightning speed. Her usually composed face twisted into an expression of pure horror.

Without a second thought, she raised her wand.

"Finite Incantatem!"

The spell struck with force. The swirling smoke collapsed instantly, reforming back into a matchstick.

"Huh?"

Ian blinked, confused. He could feel the magic returning to him, the influence being withdrawn.

When he looked up, McGonagall was striding toward him like an enraged lioness, her piercing gaze locked onto his.

"Mr. Prince! Do you have any idea what you were about to do?! There are no age restrictions in Azkaban!"