Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotional Incompetent [A Magical Academy LitRPG]

This was going to be a reverse throw. If he wanted the stone to hit, it had to curve over him in a reverse arc, peak just above the swarm, then come down to intercept them. The apex had to match their current elevation plus the distance they would cover while the stone was in flight.

The equation was simple enough. He just needed to channel an emotion—

There was no time to think.

The first Nymph was already over him. Its armored forelegs arched, and Fabrisse had no room to aim. He stumbled backward and flung his arm out. He didn't know which emotion to channel. He didn't know if he'd even cast the spell he needed.

Dark purple sparks shot from his palm. The stone shot toward him at impossible speed, spinning in the exact arc he'd thrown earlier.

Fabrisse scrambled backward, one hand clawing at the ground while the other thrust forward instinctively to approximate the arc he needed. The first Nymph was almost on top of him now. abrisse twisted his body just enough to avoid the forelegs but kept his outstretched arm aligned with the stone's invisible trajectory. The insect, locked in its charge, was directly in the path he had improvised.

The collision was thunderous. The stone slammed into the back of the Nymph with enough force to punch through its chitin, flipping the creature in midair before it crashed into the cavern floor.

The stone clattered against the cavern floor, tumbling to a stop just inches from the fallen Nymph. Another Nymph was already lunging toward him. Fabrisse now scrambled forward, snatching the Stupenstone. He didn't think. He aimed and flung.

The impact hit just behind its mandibles. The creature convulsed then dropped dead.

I . . . I channeled fear back then. I didn't even have mastery over fear. But I guess any emotion worked for the spell as long as it was unadulterated.

The third Nymph, half the size of his head, barreled toward him. Instinct kicked in, and he cast Stillbrace.

The Nymph's momentum barely faltered. Its chitin scraped against the air as it slammed into him. Mandibles punched through his robe, and pain coursed through his right shoulder. He gritted his teeth, forcing back a groan, refusing to let the sting distract him. Blood welled at the puncture, sticky and warm, but he couldn't stop.

Another surge of instinct guided his hands. He channeled Whirlweave, but got nothing.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The creature's forelegs scraped against the stone as it tumbled off him, but the sting in his shoulder reminded him just how close he had been to disaster. Fabrisse's breath came in ragged gasps.

The third Nymph wasn't finished. It twisted, legs scrabbling across the stone floor as it reoriented toward him. A fourth one was coming in fast. He had no spell to deal with one insect, let alone two.

Panic surged. He dug a hand into his aetherrealm robe pocket, grasping blindly. I have to get the Mantis out. Please don't bite me.

His fingers closed on a foreign shape, and instinct screamed at him: don't push too deep. What if it bites? If I attempt it and fail, I'll lose my finger, then die. If I don't attempt it, I'll also die, but with my fingers intact.

Then he yelled at himself. Stop thinking about stupid things! That was enough to bring him back.

He flinched before yanking his hand back. That was enough.

A Chasm Mantis shot out from his pocket. Its jagged forelegs glinted in the firelight as it hurtled toward the oncoming Nymph.

The Mantis collided with the fourth Nymph as it charged. Chitin splintered, mandibles snapped, and the two insects tumbled into each other in a violent crash. Both lay still as dust and shards of carapace settled on the floor.

It actually worked.

But there was one more Nymph. His shoulder throbbed, his robes were scorched and torn, and yet instinct guided his hands once again.

He flung his robe. The Nymph hurtled toward him, but the expanded aetheric pocket gaped open. With a flash of instinctive calculation, Fabrisse adjusted the angle, and the Nymph was swallowed whole before it could reach him. A faint chitter echoed from inside the pocket, then silence.

Fabrisse sank to one knee, robes billowing, shoulder bleeding, and allowed himself a single, shuddering breath. Somehow . . . somehow he had survived another wave.

But he'd forgotten the third insect.

A scraping thud against his shoulder jarred him upright. Pain shot through his arm as the third Nymph, not dead after all, lunged again.

The swarm, the firelight, the spinning shadows—everything blurred into chaotic motion. He could feel its momentum, smell the acrid scent of chitin and insect pheromone, but the creature itself was obscured by the chaos.

He flung his hand up, but his shoulder pain prevented the parry. The insect smashed in the head.

The force of the headbutt sent him sprawling. For a moment, he couldn't even tell where the Nymph was. Blood filled his nostrils. Fabrisse tried to raise his arm, to steady himself, but the pain pinned him down.

Fabrisse's vision swam back into focus just in time to see the third Nymph dive straight at his face. His hands trembled, his right arm useless from the shoulder puncture, his fingers too weak to even attempt a spell.

Am I going to die to an insect?

The Nymph's mandibles gleamed, inches from his nose. Then it went limp.

It fell sideways, dead, before it could strike.

What just happened?

A shadow loomed over him, and then a steady voice came, "Easy there."

Tom crouched beside him, already checking his head, pressing a cloth to the bleeding shoulder. Fabrisse tried to sit upright but got pinned down by Tom. "What . . . what happened?" he croaked.

"Save your breath, dude," Tom said as he pressed the cloth more firmly against Fabrisse's shoulder, checking the puncture and gently cleaning the blood from his forehead and nose. "You did good."

Fabrisse's head lolled, dazed. "Did . . . did they all . . . drop dead?"

"Yeah. All of them."

"How?"

"Montreal killed the Broodmother," Tom announced.