White Phoenix Academy – Combat Magic Theory
The door swung open with an audible creak, and silence swept through the classroom like a hush before a storm.
In walked a man who seemed carved from stone and tempered by war. Standing a towering 6'6", he had the physique of an elite soldier—shoulders broad, arms thick with corded muscle. His dark brown hair was cropped in a strict military cut, and the rough stubble on his jaw suggested he didn't care much for appearances. He wore no robes—only a tight black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that could probably crush a mana crystal in one hand.
He looked nothing like a professor.
Which made his presence even more commanding.
"First of all," he said, voice low and gravelly, "let me introduce myself. My name is Jian Trasque. I was born a commoner."
He paused.
Long enough for the statement to echo through the classroom. Long enough to study the faces in front of him like a predator observing prey. His gaze swept across the room, silently cataloging every flinch, smirk, or flicker of disdain from the noble-born students.
Those who showed disgust?
Mental note.
"Back in my day," he continued, "I was rejected by the Fire Dragon Academy. No family name. No coin. No connections. So I joined the Mage's Association as a home-schooled candidate. Scraped through missions, crawled through blood and ash, and clawed my way to the top as an adventurer. Eventually, I earned my specializations the hard way."
He crossed his arms, his muscles tensing beneath his sleeves.
"And now? I've been appointed professor at White Phoenix Academy. The headmaster of Fire Dragon—the one who rejected me? Fired. For incompetence. If any of you agree with his methods, feel free to join him."
He pointed toward the classroom door.
Not a single soul moved.
Some nobles paled. Others looked down. A few clenched their fists—but none dared rise.
"Good," Trasque said. "Now we can begin with the good stuff."
He took a step forward, boots thudding like distant thunder.
"Theory of Combat Magic. You're all thinking the same thing: What the hell does that even mean? You already know the first three tiers. You've cast fireballs, raised barriers. What could I possibly teach you?"
He smiled—but it wasn't kind.
"The answer? How to survive. How to live long enough to cast your precious Tier Threes in an actual fight. How to use First Magic—yes, that pathetic-sounding term—to make sure your corpse doesn't end up fertilizing a battlefield."
The nobles shifted uncomfortably.
"You were all taught Chore Magic as children. You mocked it. Considered it beneath you. But have you ever asked why it's the first thing the academies demand you master? Why, of all the powerful spells in existence, they start you with flickering flames and self-cleaning charms?"
His tone sharpened.
"Because chore magic—what I call first magic—is the only reason most of you will ever live long enough to see real combat. Tier One may be weak, but Tier Three takes time to cast. If someone charges you with a dagger, do you really think you'll have the luxury of a glowing incantation?"
A pause.
"No. You'll be dead. Gutted like a fish. And all the coin your parents spent on robes, staffs, and tutors will be wasted."
The silence was suffocating.
Trasque strode to the center of the room and began sketching scenes midair with his fingers—holograms forming of battlefield scenarios: an ambush in a forest, a collapsing bridge, a wounded comrade bleeding out during a siege.
"You'll survive with light spells. Trip spells. Smoke puffs. Pressure points and misdirection. You'll shield with basic barriers. You'll strike with illusions and stings. You'll run. You'll adapt. That's First Magic."
Most of the class was now frantically taking notes, their faces pale but attentive.
Only a handful—Victoria among them—watched with calm intensity. She wasn't surprised. Not by the truth, and not by the fear around her.
Because she had already learned what pain and panic felt like.
After two grueling hours, Trasque finally crossed his arms and nodded once.
"That's it for theory. Everything I said today? Covered—albeit more boringly—in the first twenty pages of your textbooks. For the next session, read up to page fifty. I expect you to own it."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door.
"Also, we're done with this classroom. Next session, we meet in the combat training halls. From Fourth Year onward, it's blood, sweat, and real failure. If you fall behind, you're out. No exceptions. No retakes."
The door slammed shut behind him.
After the Lesson
The air was thick with anxiety.
Students murmured in nervous clusters. The reality of Trasque's class had settled like a weight across their shoulders. This was no longer just theory and exams. This was training to survive.
In the back, Victoria sat calmly with Alex and Stella, flipping through her notebook with deliberate movements.
That's when they approached.
Three figures moved with practiced grace, all wearing pristine robes edged in gold thread. Their expressions were regal—and condescending.
The one in front was tall and slim, with glacial-blue eyes and an effortless smirk.
"I'm Olivia Hallowell," she said smoothly. "And these are my companions—Maximilian Pegasus and Miles Genys."
Miles gave a mock bow. Maximilian didn't bother hiding his curiosity.
Olivia tilted her head, eyeing Alex and Stella with an arched brow.
"Why don't you come sit with us, Noble?" Her voice was thick with disdain. "You don't need to waste your time with… these commoners."
Victoria didn't even blink.
"Because unlike you," she said coolly, "they earned their place here. They bled for their magic. Your parents handed you a spellbook and called it a day."
The trio recoiled.
Maximilian stepped forward. "Did you really not have tutors?"
Victoria met his gaze without hesitation.
"I learned First Magic from our house servants," she said. "And I taught myself Tiers One through Three without anyone's help."
Her words landed like stones.
The nobles had nothing to say.
A New Arrival
Before the tension could thicken, the door opened again.
A woman entered with a clipboard in one hand and a smile that made half the classroom straighten reflexively.
"Good morning, boys and girls," she said. "I'm Professor Valesa Nalear. Nice to meet you all."
Victoria looked up—and froze.
Professor Nalear appeared to be in her mid-twenties, standing around 5'7". Her face was heart-shaped, with delicate features and soft, expressive eyes. Her hair, a honey-gold laced with strands of lavender, was tied back in a practical ponytail. She wore a crisp academic robe, buttoned to the neck—but it hugged her form just enough to draw the attention of every trained eye in the room.
Victoria blinked.
Her heart skipped, just once.
Not from infatuation—but caution.
Nalear moved with an ease that came not from elegance, but from control. Every step was measured. Every smile, intentional.
Alex leaned over and whispered, "Why are you staring?"
"Because," Victoria murmured, closing her notebook, "no one looks that harmless… unless they aren't."