"You shouldn't be so reckless. It's one thing to enjoy a good battle—I know that feeling intimately—but enjoying the feeling of beating someone down? That's different. That's disgusting."
The scar-faced instructor barked a quick order to heal my opponent. Then, he gave me one last, lingering look before turning on his heel and walking off, leaving me standing there alone.
What the fuck? I clearly wasn't enjoying beating him! I was just defending myself! What kind of psycho enjoys kicking a guy when he's already down?
I looked around at the crowd still gathered nearby, and a wave of self-consciousness crept in. Without another word, I made a swift exit and headed back toward my dorm.
The hallways of this castle-like school stretched endlessly, and I had just started zoning out when I heard a familiar voice echo down the corridor.
"AMIT!"
I turned and saw the same meathead I had just beaten in the sparring match. He seemed to have been running to catch up, but despite that, he wasn't even a little out of breath.
Sometimes I forget I'm in a world full of superhumans.
"Thanks for the spar," he said, grinning. "Although I must say, your fighting style is... unique. I've never seen a mage fight so viciously."
I chuckled. "Me? Vicious? Says the guy who walked through my first fireball and brute-forced every trick I threw at him."
He laughed. "Eh, that's just how I am. I'm a simple man—if there's a wall, I break it! The wall might've been stronger than me this time, but next time, that wall's going down!"
"Is that a challenge?" I smirked.
"It is. But not now. First, I have to fulfill our bet…" His mood visibly deflated. Hm. I could probably use that somehow. Maybe later.
"You don't have to do it," I said, casually.
His face lit up. I could practically hear the relationship points increasing.
"But! You'll owe me a favor later. I don't know when, I don't know what, but when I ask—you answer."
"Hm… as long as it's nothing too crazy, I think I can help."
"I've gotta go get some rest. Aether exhaustion is catching up to me."
"Alright, see you."
I turned and continued toward my dorm, my limbs finally starting to feel heavy. By the time I got there, I was too exhausted to even consider showering. I just collapsed into bed, sweaty clothes and all.
I wonder what classes have in store for me tomorrow…
I woke up the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed.
Teeth? Brushed.
Shower? Taken.
Uniform? On.
I grabbed my bag, walked toward the door, and took a glance at the clock on the wall.
Class starts at 9:00 a.m.It was 9:20.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
I burst out the door, sprinting down the hallway like a madman. Nine more minutes passed before I finally reached the classroom.
It's not my fault, okay? This school is massive, and the halls all look the same! Even with Amit's memories, it's easy to get lost in this damn maze.
The door read:Professor Quin Veylar — Magical Theory
I opened it, and immediately the eyes of forty students locked onto me.
"Ah, the Ghost of Tintor finally decides to show up!" Professor Veylar announced, arms crossed.
Really? Not only did he call me out, he had to use my nickname? I mean, sure, it sounds cool—but still. Shouldn't he be a little more professional?
I gave a polite nod and quickly made eye contact with a few familiar faces before ignoring them all and heading straight to the farthest seat in the back.
The lesson continued.
"Alright. Listen up. I'm only doing this once. After that, if you blow off your own eyebrows, I'm not helping."
"Spells are built from constructs. Mental blueprints, basically. Made from skill, practice—and yeah, very basic runic magic. Like caveman-tier stuff."
I didn't know this? it might actually be worth listening I definitely could experiment with this later. but i could get some more sleep hm what to do?
"This—" taps rune "—is the rune for ignite. And this—" draws swirl "—is for wind gust."
"What spell do you think that makes?"
"…Fireball?" A random student answers
"Correct."
"Fireball. The magical equivalent of punching someone with a hot potato."
"Spells aren't actually that hard to make. That's the joke. They're easy. What's hard is making one without blowing yourself up like a jackass. Which is why—drumroll—you do extensive research."
"Test your constructs. Tune your runes. Or die screaming. Up to you, really."
"Oh, and yeah. There's chanting."
"Chanting bypasses the need for spell constructs. Sounds great, right? Wrong."
'Fire—'Oops, I sneezed. Guess I'm dead.
"Chanting sucks. It's long. It's loud. It's basically a neon sign flashing 'Hey enemy, stab me while I'm busy!'"
"Learning how to speed up your construct creation is just better. It's cleaner. Safer. More flexible. And doesn't rely on remembering sixteen syllables of an ancient language while someone's trying to separate you from your liver."
"You can chant if you want. Some rituals demand it. But in a fight? Good luck."
"How do you get faster at building constructs?" the same student from earlier asks
"Practice. Also, templating. You memorize your common spell shapes—or bind them into items. Keep 'em preloaded like arrows in a quiver."
That was about the point my brain checked out, and I drifted off to sleep in the back of class.