Amidst a simple, murky action performed in the damp and dust choked gloom where cobwebs clung to every corner, a faint spark emerged to challenge the darkness that had reigned all night.
This light belonged to none other than Ron and Quân as they traversed the hallways of the spectral mansion.
"Magic is not as rare as you think."
Ron spoke as he walked.
"Everyone is born with an ontological core. When the core matures to level three, it awakens a type of magic that aligns with the perception and thoughts of its master."
Quân raised an eyebrow.
"Then what about geniuses? The kind of noble descendants who are born stronger than ordinary people?"
Ron burst out laughing.
"Regrettably, no."
"There is no type of magic that is absolutely stronger than another. What decides most of it is the circumstances and the user."
He paused for a few seconds, then continued speaking.
"To upgrade the core, two things are vital: time and experience."
"Time?"
"The core also needs to mature. A genius can learn faster than others, but you cannot force a child to become an old person overnight."
Quân nodded slightly.
At least that sounded more reasonable than the stories of heaven defying geniuses he had read.
Ron continued:
"But that is only the first half of the journey."
"Upon reaching level six, if you want to step up to level seven, you must find your own Path."
"Path?"
"A way of looking at the world. An answer belonging uniquely to you."
Ron gave a slight shrug.
"There is no formula. No textbook. Nor can anyone teach it directly to another person."
"Because of that, nine out of ten people will forever remain at level six."
Quân pondered for a moment, then inquired:
"Then what about thinkers like Karl Marx or Socrates?"
For the first time since the start of the conversation, Ron answered immediately.
"If they possessed an ontological core, the moment they stepped past the threshold of level six, it is highly probable that they would directly touch level nine or level ten."
"..."
Quân fell silent.
He began to comprehend that a Path was something far transcending memorizing knowledge or reading an immense number of books.
It was tied to how a person perceived the world and their very own self.
After a few seconds of contemplation, he asked again:
"Then what is your magic?"
Ron hesitated for a fleeting moment.
"Death Magic."
"And the core?"
"Level three," Ron replied calmly. "Other things like Gift or magic can wait."
He halted his steps.
"We have arrived."
Ron and Quân stopped simultaneously.
Before them stood a colossal gate, perhaps over three meters tall, hidden deep within the mansion.
"What the hell is this? A mansion with a Gate to the Underworld?"
Quân took an experimental step forward, having shed some of the terror that had gripped his heart during the journey.
He noted that if a transmigrator carrying a Mortality core like Ron also possessed the wisdom of a past life to conduct research, he might have already resolved the lingering issues within this estate, perhaps leaving it in ruin merely to avoid prying eyes.
Besides, Ron had no real reason to deceive him.
Right?
Quân was about to touch the exquisitely carved door when he suddenly snapped to attention.
He looked at the gate, then back at Ron and the hallway, his gaze fixed intensely on the walls.
Why... why is there no ornamentation anywhere else?
He knew that for nobles or anyone who owned a mansion grand enough to house sprawling gardens and courtyards, every piece of interior architecture would bear some mark of intricate carving.
This was not merely for aesthetics, but to assert that every centimeter of patterned wood signified their status above dozens of others.
Yet here, with the exception of this door, not a single ornate decoration could be found, even on the exterior. Even if a place were abandoned, one could not simply strip away the carvings built into the house itself.
Furthermore, if ghosts truly existed here, why had they not attacked the two of them?
Quân quickly deduced three possibilities in an instant:
They feared the light.
Ron was suppressing them.
Or they only attacked those they could locate.
Light? He was uncertain and could not prove it. However, why had Ron given him a lighter, a tool that provided minimal brightness and heat, if it were meant for protection?
Suppression? This was another factor he could not confirm.
Quân immediately realized that in this world, people were born with an intrinsic magical core.
If he were a transmigrator, he might not possess a core at all, as Ron had mentioned the maturation of the core. Furthermore, regarding the philosophers like Socrates, Ron had said that if they possessed a core, their realization would instantly elevate them.
This implied the core was a physical entity linking the mind and magic, something that could not be forced by symbolic logic alone but required time and practice. Notably, Ron had not used terms like "transmigration" or "reincarnation" when discussing the core.
This meant that Quân did not have a core body of his own.
Perhaps magic utilized these fundamental cores to track living beings, either through observation or enhanced senses. As for Ron, a man with a Mortality core, there was no telling what he was capable of.
Quân then considered the possibility that there were no ghosts or spectral stalkers at all, but that made little sense.
If that were the case, why would Ron not let him stay at his own house, or at least somewhere more hospitable? If there were ghosts, would it not be easier to monitor Quân's movements here?
Besides, if there are no ghosts, why does this place still exist?
In a world of magic, why had no one stepped up to clear out such a mansion? Was the former owner refusing to let go, or was there some darker mystery?
Quân was unsure, but he found a jarring discrepancy in his memory.
Back on the bridge in the rain, Ron only realized it was raining when the droplets hit his clothes. Even then, it was dangerous within his sight, yet some had clearly fallen on him earlier.
Why use a lighter when simple magic like transforming things into umbrellas or vines exists? Unless his magic is strictly limited to Mortality?
A powerful realization struck Quân regarding Ron's combat capability.
Back in the alley, when Ron had been shoved into the trash, he had not made a single sound, even though the impact should have been painful.
What does this mean?
Only ten seconds had passed since these thoughts began, and his final conclusion was that he had to run.
"You! I..."
Quân intended to say something, but then he collapsed to the floor.
His eyes grew vacant, and his breathing became labored. His vision blurred, and his very perception of space began to invert.