Chapter Twenty-Five: True Intelligence

As time went on, Zhao Xu finally discovered the matter that had been troubling him. Perhaps, he truly lacked that innate talent.

In his previous life, when he wanted to play Arthur, his roommate had analyzed the situation for him. Although the mage class was beginning to rise, it was still too difficult for a novice like him, so his roommate recommended warrior instead.

Thus, Zhao Xu never really knew whether he possessed the aptitude for magic. Aside from basic intelligence, there was some indescribable talent that no one could clearly explain. Otherwise, in Arthur, any creature with an intelligence score of eleven would qualify to become a mage.

A month later, there was a notorious event: hundreds of players with the maximum intelligence score of eighteen, unable to complete the novice mage training, agreed to delete their accounts together. This incident caused the number of new mage players to plummet.

This time, his studies in the floating city of Mystra marked Zhao Xu’s first real encounter with mage coursework. In his previous life, after everyone had crossed over, all lost the privilege of deleting their accounts and starting anew; whatever account they had, they had to see it through, dead ends included.

That bitter feeling of struggling to even grasp the basics made Zhao Xu conflicted. It was like reaching the end of an exam: he hadn’t filled in the answer sheet, nor started the last big question. If only he alone felt this sting, it would have been bearable, but Antinoa had spent these days as if idle, quietly sitting in his dormitory, waiting for his questions. She went nowhere, just teaching him, and the sensation of someone watching him stagnate made it all the more uncomfortable.

Had he fully understood the structure of spells, he could blame unsuccessful transcriptions on his "Insightful Spellcaster" ability. But of the nineteen zero-level spells, he understood not a single one.

At first, Zhao Xu thought it was a matter of spell affinity, but even after switching through five different zero-level spells in succession, he still couldn’t comprehend any of them.

Antinoa gave him hints: to sense the flow of those models, like calligraphy, each stroke with its own depth and outline. He could feel it, but could never piece it together—like failing to even imitate the form.

“Teacher, how long did you linger at this threshold?” In the end, Zhao Xu sighed and asked Antinoa about her experience. He’d read enough player guides these past days.

Tonight, he delayed logging in by an hour just to study more strategy posts, but they had been of no use. There was a membrane—dividing the abyss from the open road.

“Me? I watched and transcribed at the same time,” she replied.

“Mentor, you didn’t need to understand?” Zhao Xu asked.

“Understand? To me, they were as clear as words—what’s there to understand? Not like first-level arcana, which carries risks and thus requires twenty-four hours of study to mitigate them.”

“Zero-level spells don’t require that?” Zhao Xu pressed.

“If they did, they wouldn’t be cantrips. These nineteen spells are the safest, simplest ones we’ve researched—no matter how you play, they can’t explode.”

Zhao Xu felt like a slacker facing a genius. He could only ask again, more gently, “Then, mentor, before you truly began learning these zero-level spells, how many years had you studied magic?”

“Three years,” Antinoa replied.

Zhao Xu exhaled lightly. Others had three years of accumulated, effortless progress, while he was trying to master it in a week—he shouldn’t expect too much. That was why others could develop spells, while players could only use them.

Every arcane and some divine spells in Arthur had their origins and stories recorded in detail.

“But why can I never understand?” Zhao Xu finally voiced his dilemma.

Antinoa chuckled softly. “You finally couldn’t hold back from asking?”

“In Arthur, once someone attains level one in a basic profession, they can sense their character sheet. You know this, don’t you?”

Zhao Xu nodded; for them, the players, they could see it even without level one. The natives of Arthur had to reach level one to access their character sheet, and gained more modules as they leveled up.

In essence, adventurers in Arthur all had a personal character sheet system. That was why levels, feats, and class abilities could be quantified—this had never been a secret.

“And your player system covers the six attributes—strength, dexterity, constitution, charisma, perception—all compensated for by the system. Even if your perception is low, the system informs you, so you can simulate your attribute panel’s perception value.”

“Only intelligence, the system never evolves for you.”

“If the real you doesn’t have sixteen points of intelligence, naturally, you can’t quickly understand.”

Zhao Xu finally saw the truth. Intelligence was the one trait shared between Earth and Arthur for players; it was understandable that charisma and perception differed between worlds. But if someone discovered that their Arthur self was smarter, or that playing the game made them smarter, it would break the immersion.

That’s why Arthur never enhanced their intelligence. That was why the mage community had been stuck for so long.

Human average intelligence was ten, a normal distribution from eight to twelve covered most people. Zhao Xu guessed he could barely reach thirteen at best.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen were levels of exceptional genius, even photographic memory, so naturally, such individuals were rare.

Some people simply couldn’t learn to be mages—even if they set their intelligence to eighteen, without at least eleven in real intelligence, the system refused to compensate, making understanding impossible.

Most of Arthur’s population likely couldn’t grasp this fact; only legendary figures like Antinoa could see it clearly.

“Mentor, I accept that I’m not as smart as I thought. Is there any remedy?” Zhao Xu admitted to lacking sixteen points of intelligence.

“Of course there’s a way,” Antinoa replied, smiling as if delighted at his admission of dullness. “Let me ask you, why must you understand?”

“How else can I transcribe them into my mind?” Zhao Xu was more confused.

“You know a sword thrust is coming—you dodge, that’s enough. Why must you be clever enough to know from where it’s coming?”

Zhao Xu was suddenly struck. He felt as if he’d reached some threshold, but like a novice swimmer, he couldn’t kick out that leg to truly swim.

Seeing his frowning face, Antinoa understood exactly what trouble he was facing.

“You’re in a river’s current—you don’t have to swim, you can ride a boat downstream.”

Seeing he still hadn’t grasped it, she clarified further, “Just follow the wave, stroke by stroke.”

Go with the flow!

Zhao Xu instantly understood. He hurriedly opened his copy of “Compendium of Zero-Level Spells” to the first page.

All the supplementary text faded from his mind. His focus was solely on the models.

Suddenly, everything came alive—the models began to shift and transform.

His mind danced along, his brush flowing like dragons and serpents.

“Read Magic”—transcription complete.

“Detect Magic”—transcription successful.

“Dancing Lights”—transcription successful.

...

“Prestidigitation”—transcription complete.

In the end, all nineteen zero-level spells were transcribed deep into his mind, interwoven like mysterious, flickering paintings.

If someone had been watching, they would have been utterly astonished—someone had transcribed all nineteen zero-level spells in one go!