The next morning greeted with the sound of sothing breaking.
Which, in this place, ant: business as usual.
I stepped out onto the Class C training grounds and imdiately ducked as a tal disc flew past my head, spun midair, and embedded itself into the dummy behind with a resounding thunk.
Leo stood frozen a few ters away, holding a jagged, rune-etched boorang with guilt written all over his soul.
"...It was supposed to turn left," he muttered.
I sighed. "You just tried to assassinate your professor."
"I—!"
"Which ans you failed even at that."
His shoulders slumped. "It’s harder than it looks..."
Julien chuckled nearby. "To be fair, Professor, that boorang has a kill ratio of zero. Unless you count Leo’s dignity."
"I stopped counting that after day one," I said.
Felix arrived late, panting and disheveled, still carrying his practice gear. His sword was missing the hilt, and his greaves were on the wrong legs.
"You look like soone tried to cosplay a collapsed bookshelf," I said, pointing at his armor.
"Sorry, Professor! I tripped on the stairs. And the hallway. And the door."
"You trip on existence, Felix. One day, gravity’s going to take pity and just delete you."
He tried to respond but got distracted by his own shoelace. Which was tied to the training spear of Garrick, who hadn’t noticed yet.
I let it play out.
There was a loud crash, so tangled limbs, and a string of curses.
"Ten points for realism," I muttered. "Negative two for brain cells."
Today was individual training review.
Not for my benefit.
For theirs.
They needed the pain.
"Right," I clapped. "Line up. I want to see your progress on controlled elent strikes. Single spell. No theatrics. And if you explode, try not to ruin my boots."
Leo went first.
He stepped forward, raised his hand, and summoned a ball of water. It quivered, surged—then turned into a very confused fish.
It slapped him across the face before vanishing into steam.
I didn’t even blink. "You managed to fail both water and fish. That’s a new record."
Julien ca next. His firebolt looked pretty solid—until it booranged around and singed Garrick’s sleeve.
"I told you I was practicing redirect runes," Julien said.
"I’m impressed you redirected it to incompetence," I replied.
Wallace, of course, ca forward with a rune-inscribed potato.
"I infused it with kinetic energy and shock magic. Watch this."
He threw it.
It exploded.
Loudly.
Everyone hit the deck. The dummy in the back exploded into flaming woodchips. A small crater smoked where the potato landed.
"...That was not a drill," I said, coughing.
Wallace bead. "I call it the Spud Grenade."
"Add a warning label next ti," Leo wheezed.
"Why?" Wallace asked. "I labeled it ’Boom’ in chalk."
Eventually, it was Felix’s turn.
He approached with a kind of slow, dood determination, the way you’d walk toward your own hanging.
"Show us your fire control," I said.
He raised both hands.
A spark flickered.
Then nothing.
He frowned, tried again.
More sparks.
Then a fizzle.
He closed his eyes, concentrated—
—and managed to cast Raincloud Summon.
A single gray cloud appeared over his head and started raining on him.
"Felix," I said.
"Yes, Professor?"
"That’s the opposite of fire."
"I—I panicked..."
"You summoned your own weather to mourn your failure."
"I’m a visual learner."
"I’m a disappointed one."
The rest of Class C tried not to laugh.
Tried.
Failed.
An hour later, I let them rest.
I sat beneath the shade of a crooked training dummy and jotted notes into my Grimoire of Patterns—not spells, but movents, habits, failures.
Repeating mistakes had their own rhythm.
And rhythm could be rewritten.
Patterns, after all, were just mistakes waiting for new rules.
Felix sat nearby, still slightly damp, scribbling in his notebook.
"You’re not beyond help," I said without looking at him. "You’re just orbiting it from a great distance."
He looked up. "So there’s hope?"
"Sure. Like how there’s hope in a teor not hitting your house. Unlikely, but not impossible."
He smiled weakly.
I smirked.
And sowhere behind us, sothing exploded again.
I didn’t even flinch.
"That better not be another potato," I muttered.
Right," I said, dusting off the scorch marks from my coat. "Now that you’ve all successfully embarrassed yourselves, it’s ti for drills."
Leo groaned. "We just did drills—"
"You did public confessions of incompetence," I cut in. "Now you’ll train."
Garrick stood tall. "What kind of drills?"
"The kind that might make you less embarrassing to be associated with. Pair up."
I watched as they shuffled around. Julien and Wallace paired up, Leo and Garrick tead up, which left—
"Felix, you’re with ."
He blinked. "Wait, no, that’s unfair—"
"You’re right," I said. "To ."
I handed him a dulled training blade and motioned him to the center.
"I’m going to attack. You will try—try—to not die. That’s it. Basic defensive form."
He swallowed. "You’re not actually gonna kill , right?"
"Felix."
"Y-Yes?"
"If I wanted you dead, you’d already be haunting the mop closet."
He raised his blade. Shaking.
I stepped forward. A slow, simple swing.
He flinched and blocked—barely.
I tilted my head. "Not bad. Terrible, but not embarrassing. Again."
This ti, I moved faster.
He backpedaled, stumbled, and accidentally stabbed a hay dummy behind him.
"Bonus points," I said flatly. "You killed the only thing on campus worse than your reflexes."
The others tried not to laugh.
Julien failed.
Wallace shouted, "Felix just ended a legacy!"
I walked among the others next, correcting stances, mocking missteps.
Leo’s fire form was decent, but he kept chanting under his breath.
"You’re not casting a prayer," I said. "The mana isn’t going to pity you."
"I’m just focusing!"
"You sound like you’re summoning forgiveness from your ancestors."
Wallace’s modified runes sparked again, and a wooden sword burst into flas.
He looked proud.
Then it exploded.
Again.
"You just invented spontaneous regret," I said. "Congratulations."
Eventually, Mira and Cassandra returned to the field, looking unbothered by the chaos.
"You missed nothing," I said dryly. "Unless you enjoy secondhand humiliation."
Mira smirked. "Sounds like a normal training day."
Cassandra tilted her head, eyes flicking over Felix’s ash-covered form.
"He summoned a storm and then nearly drowned in his own puddle," I added.
She blinked. "...That’s new."
"It’s also why we now call him Felix the Moist."
Felix buried his face in his hands.
By the ti the sun was halfway overhead, Class C was steaming—sweaty, bruised, and mildly traumatized. In other words, improving.
I called them together.
"Progress check," I said. "Julien, less flashy. Wallace, fewer grenades. Leo, breathe quieter. Felix..."
He flinched.
"...Stop apologizing to your sword."
"It has feelings."
"It wants to be wielded with dignity, not babysat."
I let them slump into shade, offered canteens, and pulled out my own notebook again.
Not my Grimoire this ti.
Just a simple log.
Every student. Every mistake. Every spark of progress.
They weren’t strong yet. Not even close.
And if soone was going to shape these disasters into sothing useful?
Might as well be the Academy’s least-trusted, most-likely-to-be-fired instructor with a goddamn grudge.
.
Lucian Drelmont.
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