When Roger read Harry Potter in his previous life, a question would occasionally flash through his mind—one that lingered even as he turned the pages. Why did wizards, possessing such an extraordinary power, never transcend their mortal limitations? Why did they not continue to evolve until they became beings akin to gods or immortals? Instead, they hid themselves in the shadows of human society under the constraints of the International Statute of Secrecy, living lives that were remarkable, yet bound by inexplicable limitations.
In Roger's eyes, the magic depicted in the Harry Potter world was nothing short of miraculous, an omnipotent force akin to a wish-granting machine. The capabilities it provided were immense: material manipulation, time travel, spatial interference, soul splitting, life extension, healing, transformation of life forms, influencing luck, modifying memory—the list was nearly endless. Although the destructive force of magic as seen in battle might not have been on par with the most exaggerated depictions in fantasy, the sheer versatility and depth of magic's potential were undeniable. It seemed that with enough knowledge and control, a wizard could achieve almost anything. So, why had no wizard ever ascended beyond the boundaries of mortality?
As Roger delved into the books provided by Professor McGonagall, he gradually uncovered the answer. The reason wizards had not become gods boiled down to two fundamental issues: the nature of magic itself and the limitations of the human mind.
The first obstacle lay in the very essence of magic, which remained largely incomprehensible, even to the most brilliant wizards. Throughout history, those who attempted to study magic in its purest form ultimately failed. The wizards who had come before had managed to construct a seemingly functional, yet inherently flawed system of magical practice—a system built not on true understanding but on accumulated empirical knowledge. It was, in a way, akin to how ancient medical theories were developed. Consider the theory of the four humors or the yin-yang and five elements approach in traditional medicine: these systems could sometimes yield effective treatments, but their underlying principles were often speculative and unscientific. Similarly, the magic system that wizards relied on was not necessarily based on the actual essence of magic, but rather on centuries of trial and error, forming a set of guidelines that worked but were fundamentally incomplete.
If magic were likened to a futuristic device—perhaps Doraemon's What-If Phone Booth—then the wizards' understanding of it would be akin to a user manual compiled through repeated experimentation, without ever grasping the actual mechanics of how the machine worked. They had methods, spells, and rituals that allowed them to manipulate magic, but they did not truly comprehend its core principles. This lack of understanding severely hindered progress. Without a tool akin to a microscope—an instrument capable of revealing the finer details of magic at its most fundamental level—wizards were effectively stumbling in the dark. Until they could unlock a way to directly observe and study the fabric of magic itself, their civilization would remain trapped in its current state, unable to break through to higher realms of existence.
The second limiting factor was the role of the mind in channeling magic. Magic, as Roger learned, was not solely an external force but was shaped and constrained by the wizard's mental capacity. Even if a wizard's magical power were theoretically boundless, their mind acted as a bottleneck, determining the extent to which they could wield that power. It was analogous to a high-performance computer: no matter how advanced its components might be, its actual output would always be limited by its operating system and environmental conditions, such as memory or temperature. Likewise, a wizard's magic was ultimately governed by the strength of their mind.
Recognizing this limitation, various wizards throughout history had attempted different approaches to overcoming it. Some believed that the human mind itself was inherently insufficient for true magical mastery—just as a bee, no matter how evolved, could never develop human-level intelligence. If the human mental framework was inadequate, then the solution, some reasoned, was to transcend human nature entirely.
This gave rise to wizards who sought evolution beyond humanity. Some experimented with hybridizing themselves with magical creatures, infusing their blood with that of beings possessing greater magical potential. These mixed-blood wizards indeed exhibited increased magical capabilities, but this method had its own problems. First, while hybridization raised the upper limit of potential, it did not fundamentally change the baseline of the wizard's abilities. A wizard still had to develop their own mental fortitude and magical prowess; simply possessing the genetic advantages of a magical creature was not enough. Furthermore, very few wizards were willing or capable of pushing themselves to the extremes necessary to fully exploit this potential. Just as human beings technically have the ability to develop unparalleled physical strength and combat skills, the reality is that few ever train to such a degree—most remain far below their maximum potential, comfortably settled in their ordinary lives. Without an existential threat to drive them, few wizards had the motivation or discipline to reach such heights.
Additionally, even for those who did pursue the path of hybridization, there remained a ceiling. Their increased capabilities made them stronger than ordinary wizards, but they still fell short of true immortality or divinity. Their new limits, though higher, remained limits nonetheless.
Others turned their attention to different methods of transcendence. Some delved into the mysteries of Transfiguration, hoping to reshape themselves into superior forms. Others pursued the darkest branches of soul magic, attempting to refine their minds and spirits beyond mortal constraints. Yet all of these paths met with failure. Transfiguration, at its peak, allowed for Animagus transformations, but even these had restrictions—no wizard had ever managed to transform into a magical creature. The improvements were marginal at best. The pursuit of soul magic often led to irreversible corruption or destruction of the self, making it a perilous gamble with no guarantee of success.
Thus, while magic in the Harry Potter world was undeniably vast in potential, it was also constrained by fundamental barriers that prevented true ascension. Without a means to directly perceive and understand the essence of magic, wizards remained trapped in a cycle of trial and error. And without a way to enhance their mental faculties beyond the natural limits of human cognition, their ability to wield magic at godlike levels remained forever out of reach.
For Roger, this revelation was both frustrating and fascinating. The world of magic was not stagnant—it was full of possibility. But for true progress to be made, something new was needed. A breakthrough. A shift in understanding. A path beyond what wizards had ever known before.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he was the one who could find it.
And then there was Voldemort—one of the most skilled practitioners of soul black magic—who, despite his fearsome reputation, was only that strong. His mastery of the dark arts allowed him to cheat death, but even he failed to truly transcend mortality.
Beyond the transformation faction represented by bloodlines, Transfiguration, and soul black magic, there were two other major schools of thought within the wizarding world that sought to break through the upper limits of magical civilization.
One was the ritual faction.
If a single wizard's mental power was insufficient, why not harness the power of hundreds, or even thousands? This was the philosophy of ritual magic. The book Ritual Magic is More Than Just Blood Sacrifice explored this ideology in great depth, detailing the theories and practices of those who sought power through collective will and energy.
"Ritual magic is everywhere," Roger murmured, reading the title page as he sat at the dining table.
Due to a considerable debt attached to his inheritance, Roger had not been able to claim his parents' estate. Without a formal residence in England, he had been living in a rented room at the Leaky Cauldron, one of the entrances to Diagon Alley. The room was small, but affordable, making it a practical choice given his current financial situation.
In the tavern hall, he ordered his usual meal of British fare. As he ate fish and chips, he flipped through the book, absorbed in its contents. Over the past weeks, he had spent nearly all his time studying the dozens of books sent to him by Professor McGonagall, but none fascinated him as much as this seemingly ordinary volume.
The theories it presented were both profound and unsettling. The book provided extensive data suggesting that celestial bodies—the sun, moon, and stars—possessed mystical attributes, not because of any inherent magical nature, but because people believed in their power. It argued that magic itself was shaped by collective belief, that intelligent beings imbued the world with mystical properties simply by thinking about them.
Potions, magical creatures, spells—these, too, were framed as mere by-products of a greater, omnipresent ritual magic. The very fabric of reality was shaped by the subconscious thoughts of all intelligent life, forming an unbroken magical ritual spanning the entire world.
Even more astonishing was the book's claim that wizards could, in theory, use this principle to ascend to godhood. The method was clearly outlined: unify the world, control the thoughts of all Muggles, all wizards, and all magical creatures, and perform a grand artificial god ritual.
But therein lay the paradox—anyone powerful enough to achieve such absolute control would already be akin to a god, rendering the ritual unnecessary. Meanwhile, those who truly needed the ritual would never have the means to control the minds of every intelligent being on the planet. It was a closed loop, an unsolvable equation. The very idea reminded Roger of an image he had once seen online: a one-way street leading directly into a dead end.
Aside from the ritual faction, there was another, albeit smaller, group within the wizarding world: the external object faction.
This group, consisting of alchemists and potion makers, pursued a different path to transcendence. Their philosophy was similar to that of the ritualists, but instead of relying on collective belief alone, they sought to create physical objects—magical artifacts or potions—imbued with enough mystical significance to alter reality itself.
They had, to some extent, succeeded.
Artifacts such as the Deathly Hallows, the Veil of Death, and other legendary magical objects bore testament to their achievements. Some had even attempted to bypass the need for legend-based power entirely, relying solely on alchemical and magical advancements. Wizards like Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel stood as shining examples of this school of thought. Flamel had achieved immortality, though not true godhood, through the use of the Philosopher's Stone. It was a breakthrough, but still a half-measure—a temporary postponement of death rather than an actual ascension.
Ultimately, the reason wizards chose to remain hidden from the world stemmed from the unpredictability of magic in modern times. The sheer number of people in the Muggle world made it impossible to predict what might happen if the existence of magic were revealed. With so many minds capable of shaping magical reality, the potential consequences were terrifying. No one dared to take the risk.
Except, perhaps, for one infamous leader and self-proclaimed saint of World War II.
Bang!
Roger shut the book with a decisive snap.
Before him lay three possible paths to immortality, each one treacherous and incomplete. From ancient times to the present, countless brilliant and ambitious wizards had attempted to push past these barriers, yet all had failed.
If Roger truly desired to break free from the limitations of mortality, he needed to decide:
Which path would he choose?
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