Two weeks passed slowly under Mr. FluGer's routine: hours of breathing exercises and stillness. While others progressed, Alan drifted into daydreams. By the end of the second week, when most students could sense the faint presence of mana in the air, Mr. FluGer moved to purification techniques. Alan stifled a yawn.
The practical magic class broke the routine. On the training field, Ms. Wellform stood before them—a striking woman who appeared to be no older than thirty. Her attire reflected Mr. FluGer's practical elegance: a deep blue cloak draped gracefully over a rose-colored undershirt, with a bronze emblem shining at her collarbone.
Her hair fell in soft waves, its muted bronze matching her emblem. Wire-framed glasses perched on her angular nose, magnifying eyes that scanned the field with the cunning alertness of a fox.
"Your mana pool is like a muscle. Use it, or it weakens. Push it, and it grows stronger." Her knuckles wrapped around her clipboard. "Empty your mana pool completely. You'll feel sick. Your veins will feel like they are filled with broken glass. Some may hallucinate." She held up a glowing blue vial. "This revives the unconscious. But if you rely too much on it, you fail. True mages endure while awake." Her gaze hardened. "If your mind breaks before your mana restores…you will be expelled."
She stepped closer, her sharp eyes scanning the students. "Most of you already know how to cast a spell. But, for those who don't, spells come from the flow of mana. Each spell has its unique mana signature. Over time, mages discovered ways to replicate these flows through chanting—using words to sway mana. Inscription is another method: using a talisman or magic circle can direct the flow for you."
Her voice deepened slightly. "Others rely on practiced muscle movements, training their bodies to mimic the flow. And finally, there are those who can cast spells with their minds alone." Her gaze lingered on the students. "This requires immense mastery—or talents most will never possess."
"You'll practice casting spells on these dummies for two months." She gestured to the wooden targets scattered across the field. "To pass, hit ten with one spell."
"Ten at once?" a student gasped. "Impossible!"
"What if we manage it early?" Gerral asked, ignoring the protest.
"Then you skip my class."
Gerral stepped forward, arm raised. "Vine Spear!" Roots twisted from his arm, piercing through ten dummies in seconds.
"Full marks! Remarkable, Gerral!" Ms. Wellform exclaimed, her pen snapping in her grip.
"May I leave?" Gerral asked boldly.
"You may."
While the class was still dazed by Gerral's success, Nora stretched her hand forward. "Lightbeam!" A white-hot beam shot out. Silence. Then—BOOM! The ground blew inward.
"That's cheating! She used two spells," someone protested.
"One cast," Ms. Wellform corrected. "The explosion came from the beam's charge. No extra mana was used. You may go, Nora."
Ms. Wellform turned her attention to the rest of the class. "Remember, as long as your next action is an extension of the spell, it won't count as a separate cast. Position yourselves along the line and begin. Don't stop until you've drained every last drop of your mana."
The students moved along the line; confidence clashed with anxiety as they positioned themselves inside a chalk-marked circle. Emma hesitated, studying her dummies. Alan noticed her struggle. She glanced at him, scratching her scalp. He shook his head, thinking, you're on your own.
The boy to Emma's right chose that moment to cast his spell. Nine targets fell. He flashed a cocky grin, hands on his hips, chin lifted in a mocking hair-toss despite his short undercut.
"Haaaa ya!" Milla stomped (as she always does), a hefty chunk of earth—nearly as tall as her knees—wrenched free from the ground. Her fist drove it forward. "Boulder Ball!" The boulder burst, knocking over seven dummies.
Alan face-palmed. Is this spellcasting or rock-hurling? Milla's laugh grew louder at his reaction.
Emma's hand trembled. "Dark… ball? Darkshot? Dark—" Her stammering spell was interrupted by the boy's mockery: "Watch the village idiot fail at casting a basic spell!" he sneered.
Alan looked at Emma and sighed. He pointed a finger at a dummy. "Fireball." A small flame fizzled out and dissolved against a single dummy.
"What happened to your wind gust?" Milla asked.
"I thought I'd try something new," Alan smirked.
"Idiot." A slap hit his back—too hard. He almost coughed.
"Acceptable!" Ms. Wellform clapped, and the shattered dummies reassembled. "Everyone except Nora and Gerral will train for two months. Stop only when you pass out."
Her knuckles cracked. "Fail to hit ten targets before term ends, and you'll be expelled."
"Positions!"
Students returned to their chalk-marked circles. Emma's cold stare locked onto the boy beside her. He shivered.
The sky turned rust-red as spells flew. Smoke and dust swirled. Students pushed their limits. Some collapsed, others leaned on each other. Ms. Wellform revived the unconscious with mana potions, forcing them to continue.
Alan alone remained untouched by this struggle. His ability to absorb mana as effortlessly as breathing replenished his mana pool before it ever ran dry. Still, he had to train his mana pool just like the others—he could only use the mana stored in his core for spellcasting.
Out of boredom, he took more frequent breaks than others, observing their meaningless struggle from the side—keeping himself entertained. Meanwhile, Emma had been alarmingly quiet—a detail that should've struck him as suspicious.
Then it happened.
"Ahhhhhh—KA-THUNK!—Ms. Wellform—BAM!" "Ms— WHAM!—Wellform!!" THWACK. CRACK.
The boy who had taunted Emma earlier flailed like an angry ragdoll. His anguished wails filled the training field as his body bounced off one dummy after another.
Ms. Wellform raised her clipboard without looking up. "Emma. No throwing students."
"But... I don't know any other spell," Emma said, her voice sweet and innocent.
The boy crashed into yet another dummy, this time upside-down. He hung there momentarily, his legs tangled in the dummy's wooden arms before gravity decided it had had enough. He hit the ground—Thud! Oof.
Alan caught Emma's gaze—the wide-eyed, helpless, I'm-just-a-pitiful-sweet-little-girl-who-did-nothing-wrong look. A gaze that terrified even him. He had to stop her before things got out of control—not that he cared about the arrogant boy, but Lix's warning echoed behind his ears: Be normal.
He sighed heavily. "Enough, Emma. Stop."
She stopped immediately with a pout so exaggerated it could have been drawn by a cartoonist. "Fine," she grumbled, crossing her arms.
Yes, she was like a different person—gone was her reserved, shy demeanor, replaced by something…unapologetic. Something that made Alan's skin shiver every time he saw it.
"Thank you, thank you!" the boy whimpered, limping toward Alan—a mud figure of a person. "You saved me! I'm Sylas! I owe you my life!"
Alan didn't bother glancing at him. "Just stay away from Emma."
"Yes, sir!" Sylas saluted with shaky hands before scrambling to the farthest corner of the field as though the ground beneath him were on fire.
Alan turned back to Emma, whose pout had somehow managed to intensify. Milla, watching the entire scene unfold, erupted into uncontrollable laughter. She doubled over, slapping her knees. "That—was—the BEST!" she gasped between snorts. Her exhaustion was broken momentarily.
Alan sighed, taking one step closer to Milla.
As the sun dipped, the trio left the academy. Joe greeted them, his smile wide as always, undimmed by Milla's usual frown. But today, she swayed toward him with open arms, her fatigue melting into his embrace.
Joe laughed at their drained forms. He lifted the girls to his shoulders, then eyed Alan. The boy stood untouched by effort.
"Not a bead of sweat, eh?" Joe teased.
"None," Alan replied.
Their eyes met until shared laughter erupted, trailing them down the path like twilight shadows.