18. Didn't you go to the office to ask the teacher?

At seven o'clock that evening, He Shenyan was in his office grading his students' new assignments.

He was quite satisfied with this batch of work; the basic theory of meditation had been taught, and the feedback in most of the assignments submitted was positive.

It seemed it was time to let them attempt their first meditation. He was immersed in his thoughts, the firewood in the fireplace crackling beside him.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought, and he said, "Come in."

A red-haired boy poked his head around the door, looking extremely nervous.

He Shenyan stood up and gestured for the boy to enter. He recognized him as Ron Weasley, one of the new students. A boy with some talent, but very inattentive in class.

Ron was becoming increasingly terrified by his expressionless face, fearing he had interrupted some important work of the professor's. He was about to make an excuse to leave, but He Shenyan pressed him down into a soft chair in front of the desk.

"Mr. Weasley, is there something you need?"

He sat back down, his black eyes fixed on Ron.

Ron swallowed hard and spoke nervously: "Er, Professor, I just... no, I am very sorry if I am disturbing you, but I just wanted to ask a few questions, if that's alright?"

He Shenyan raised an eyebrow, an ambiguous expression that broke Ron out in a cold sweat.

He simply couldn't interact with this professor with a calm heart; he always held an inexplicable sense of awe.

But He Shenyan suddenly smiled and said, "Very well. You are the second student this semester brave enough to come and ask me questions. Speak, Mr. Weasley, what is it you wish to ask?"

Ron's nervousness did not diminish as he asked: "It's like this, Professor, I lost focus during your class four days ago. I didn't hear a word about the basic application of mental power, and I can't make sense of the other students' notes."

He looked away, afraid to meet He Shenyan's face, fearing he would see disappointment there. However, he only heard a calm voice: "Write down every word I am about to say, Mr. Weasley."

"Do you remember what the essence of spellcasting is?"

"Using willpower to influence the real world?"

"Correct, but how do you influence it? If human willpower could so easily sway the powerful laws of reality, the world would not be as we see it. This depends on mental power. Once you succeed in your first meditation, you will be able to channel magic in a comfortable way. And what is required to channel magic is precisely mental power."

The warm flames in the fireplace crackled, and the red-haired boy, not daring to look up, scribbled furiously on the professor's desk. His professor leaned back in his chair, explaining the lesson he had already taught.

There was not a hint of impatience.

"So, this is where you have always bought your wands?"

He Shenyan looked at the dilapidated little shop before him with some curiosity.

The shop was small and shabby, the gold lettering on the door peeling away, reading: "Ollivander: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC."

In the shop window, a single wand lay on a faded purple cushion, looking quite pathetic.

Not only that, but the shop itself was tiny; apart from a bench in the corner, there was nothing else. Thousands of narrow boxes containing wands were stacked from floor to ceiling, with a thin layer of dust everywhere.

Dumbledore led him inside with a chuckle and greeted a somewhat eccentric old man with silver hair and silver eyes: "Ollivander!"

The old man looked up from a broken wand in front of him. He broke into a surprised smile, wiped his hands on his robes, and shook hands with Dumbledore: "Ah, hello! Mr. Dumbledore, have you brought this gentleman here to purchase a wand?"

"No." He Shenyan shook his head.

He said straightforwardly: "Actually, I am here to try making a wand."

The enthusiastic smile on Ollivander's face turned into an awkward one. He looked at Dumbledore, but Dumbledore merely signaled calmly for him to listen on. The old man had no choice but to comply.

He Shenyan waved his hand toward a box on the top of the nearest shelf, and the dusty box opened on its own, a plain, unadorned black wand flying out.

He held it in his hand, examined it, and said: "Ebony, nine and a half inches, dragon heartstring, am I correct?"

He suddenly sighed and actually offered an apology: "I apologize for my tone being so rude just now; I simply could not bear to see these materials wasted in such a state. They could have had a much more magnificent and outstanding form."

"Like this."

Light suddenly flared in his hand. Ollivander watched in shock as the wand he had crafted himself softened and deformed in a mere instant, the dragon heartstring extracted completely intact.

The tough heartstring, which he had soaked in family-secret potions, was scorched by flames the young man summoned from nowhere, actually taking on a silver luster.

He then summoned a green flame, a brief glimpse of which made Ollivander tremble with fear. The green flame vanished in the blink of an eye, and the dragon heartstring now lost all its luster, floating in the air like those materials Ollivander had failed to process—utterly lifeless.

He Shenyan's fingers moved slightly, and a green magic circle appeared out of thin air, imprinting itself onto the ebony to become mysterious and beautiful patterns. Then, amidst a white light, it was reshaped, defying the conservation of matter to become the shape of a walking stick.

The dragon heartstring turned into a beam of light and flew into the stick. The head of the stick twisted, turning into a dragon's head with closed eyes.

That wasn't all; he even used his magic to form a sharp carving knife on his finger, beginning to carve the dragon's eyes bit by bit, with meticulous detail.

Furthermore, Ollivander discovered that as he did this, the wooden dragon head actually opened its eyes, allowing him to carve two miniature magic circles into each pupil, which shimmered with powerful magical light.

The old man couldn't understand what he was doing at all, but he was deeply shaken.

He Shenyan handed the stick to him: "Try my work. Thirty-one and a quarter inches, the materials remain the same. But it has undergone special enchanting, with some minor changes."

Ollivander was speechless, taking the stick with trembling hands. It felt warm to the touch, then radiated a surge of heat. He gripped the head of the stick and actually felt it vibrating slightly, as if it were breathing.

The man who had made wands his entire life now cast everything else aside, unable to help but break into a smile. Magic poured from his hand into the wand, and the casting experience, which was even smoother than his own wand, made him feel as if he had been rejuvenated in that instant. He shouted: "Lumos!"

That day, the sky over Diagon Alley lit up for half the night.