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

Fabrisse had tried to calm Lorvan by claiming that he had thought of a brilliant plan to end the assaults once and for all. Upon hearing the plan, Lorvan became unreasonably mad.

"Using yourself as bait? Do you actually think they will fall for that lousy little scheme?" Lorvan seethed as he rose from his desk. Fabrisse stood awkwardly near the doorway, begging for the rage to stop so he could retreat in peace.

Lorvan paced around in his room, crossing in front of the tall case displaying the miniature airships. Today, his quarters bore a strange dissonance. A partially unrolled scroll lay skewed across the desk, a blot of ink staining its edge like a spill of oil. One of the normally upright quills had fallen onto the floor. The glass display case of miniature airships remained untouched, but a clean cloth meant for dusting sat folded and unused beside it.

"I—" Fabrisse began.

"No. You didn't think," Lorvan's voice was serrated. "You've equated recklessness with strategy, and worse, you think self-sacrifice is clever. I won't dignify it by pretending it's noble." He dragged a hand through his hair. "Do you want to die?" he asked.

"No. Not really," he gulped. He had seen Lorvan mad, but he had never seen him this verbally mad.

He spun toward the desk, gripping its edge for a moment like he needed to ground himself. "What happens if they take the bait and bring backup? What if they cut you off into the Void realm which they could guard much more easily if you try to bait them into a vast and secluded area? Did you think about contingencies?"

Fabrisse stared at the inkblot on the scroll for a few seconds. In a tiny voice, he mumbled, "Both Archmagus Rolen and Professor Kaldrin approve of the plan. You should hear it first."

Lorvan finally stopped his tirade. Then he let out an elongated, exasperated sigh, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Present your plan then."

Fabrisse hesitated, then began to lay out the strategy he, Archmagus Rolen, and Professor Kaldrin had spent the day refining. Lorvan didn't interrupt. His fingers remained at the bridge of his nose for most of it, and when they finally dropped to his side, his gaze had dimmed into something murky. He didn't look convinced, but he wasn't shouting anymore either.

"Rolen must know the aggressors can sense it when they're baited," Lorvan muttered. "They aren't fools."

"Of course they will. But from their reckless attack patterns, I suspect they'll willingly walk into a trap," Fabrisse replied. "They're probably that confident in themselves. And if they don't take the bait, then no one's in danger to begin with."

Lorvan's lips pressed into a tight line. He turned away, pacing again, slower this time. "Fine. If you want to heedlessly risk your life and not regret it, you'll need to rapidly improve. And you'll need to rapidly improve in two days."

The Grand Library of the Synod's South Westris Branch stretched high above Fabrisse as he sat on one of the long benches tucked between towering shelves of polished ironwood. An awe-inducing sprawl of arching domes and luminous vaults, each surface of the Grand Library was painted with sprawling celestial diagrams and scenes of ancient scholars transcribing from memory by starlight. Light poured down from the glass oculi in soft golden shafts, illuminating dust motes that drifted like tiny spirits between the layered balconies.

Overhead, a mural of the First Scriptorium stretched from one end of the dome to the other, so masterfully painted that Fabrisse had to remind himself it wasn't a window into another world. It made him feel small, but in a good way—like he was on the cusp of something meaningful.

He'd done well.

The interview had taken place in one of the quieter antechambers, behind a gilded screen woven with the Sigil of Records. Fabrisse had anticipated every question, from citation hierarchies to restoration procedures. His hands had not trembled once during the live book-handling assessment, and the Subcurate's assistant had even murmured something close to perfect.

Now, with the bulk of nerves behind him, he simply let himself sit. He folded his hands, allowed himself a small smile, and exhaled.

His interviewer—the Deputy Subcurate of Lore Management—had told him to wait for the final result to be brought in writing. "Protocol," she'd said with a brisk smile, already moving to sort the next candidate's folios. "But between us, I'd say you've little to worry about."

With newfound confidence, some time to spare, and both Lorvan and Ilya guarding nearby positions, he turned his attention to his total Mastery Point accumulation. Last time, he'd used 10 points to upgrade Gravelkin to Rank II. While it might have been the right decision, ideally he didn't want to have to upgrade something without thoroughly understanding the long-term implications of such actions.

He'd actually checked what would happen if he upgraded his Stupenstone Fling to Level 4.

He hadn't had the time to read through the sub-sections below, but at first glance, it didn't seem worth it already. It took five times the points to upgrade it to Rank IV, and both the base force and range would only double that of Rank II.

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There was no point upgrading Stupenstone Fling with Mastery Points anymore. But . . . they're my Stupenstones though . . .

He buried his hands in the satchel full of useless stones. They'd stayed comparatively useless even with great effort, and his chest ached a bit at the thought of setting them aside.

Maybe some collectibles should just stay collectibles.

But if not Stupenstones, then what should I do? Should I unlock a new Tier 1 skill?

No. Not right now. I need to acquaint myself with as many unlockable skills as I can; preferably getting to know Tier 2 and Tier 3 skills too. Then I'll know which skills are the best to unlock.

He was, after all, in the Grand Library. It was a better time than any to comb through the collective knowledge of the greats.

He strolled over to the Earth Thaumaturgy section, tucked all the way in the western wing mezzanine, hidden behind a spiral staircase and flanked by two decorative columns that had long since fallen out of alignment with the rest of the architecture. Years ago, when he'd first begun formal studies under Lorvan's reluctant mentorship, he'd made the effort to find out exactly where the foundational categories were kept.

He passed it by. Rows of bronze-inked treatises glowed with curated charmspells to keep them dust-free and ever-legible. Titles floated lightly in front of the spines, like docile familiars ready to be called upon. Tectonic Channeling: From Ripple to Quake. Granular Intent and the Mutable Core. All good starting points—but too general for his needs today.

What he needed was Stone Thaumaturgy.

He circled twice around the inner ring of the mezzanine, brows furrowed. If he'd known a locator charm, it would've been useful. But then he'd have to master Sound, which would mean he would have to master Air.

It wasn't until he noticed the layer of undisturbed dust clinging to a carved lintel that something clicked. Following the trail, he reached a half-lit stairwell coiled into a narrow ledge that looked like it hadn't been swept in decades. There wasn't any protective charmspells here; just a few crooked plaques nailed in at inconsistent intervals—Petric Studies, Gravitic Manifestations, and finally, half-hidden behind a drooping banner for the Siltform Symposium:

Stone Thaumaturgy and Subharmonic Applications

The section was cramped and irregular, but that only made it feel more personal. The spines here were rougher, bound in cracked resin and faded cord.

He crouched, running his fingers along the uneven spines until one stopped him. "Fundamentals of Stratiform Manipulation: A Primer for Aspiring Petramancers." It was written by Professor Margenholt herself.

He flipped past the foreword, past the embellished but unhelpful dedication (To those who coax strength from stone rather than shatter it—), and dove into the contents.

There they were.

A whole cluster of minor forms and construct-style utilities tucked into the "Core Frameworks" chapter:

Grainbind (Tier I):

temporarily compresses loose particulates into a bonded shape, up to 200g mass.

Stratum Step (Tier I):

reinforces stone beneath the user's feet for shock absorption.

Echo Vein (Tier I):

allows low-range stone resonance tracing, useful for underground mapping or pulse-based communication.

By the brief description alone, Grainbind looked very promising. If there were, say, sand around, he could turn them into stones and launch them with a different spell.

He flipped through the pages eagerly, scanning every diagram and margin note, pausing at footnotes with a kind of reverent focus. The book explained the logic of grain cohesion, the subtle pulsing of aether across particulate bonds, the need for short rhythmic inflections in the casting breath. It even included a visualized aetheric cycle showing the spell's expected anchoring effect on dry vs. damp material.

Still, no system ping.

He frowned. "Eidralith," he muttered under his breath, tapping the side of his temple. "Why didn't you register the spell?"

There was a slight delay, and then:

He scowled at the glowing system text, then glanced back down at the open page.

Incomplete comprehension? But the book had a step-by-step guide. It wasn't like the entry was vague. It even outlined the aetheric sequence, the intake breath patterns, the expected resonance timing.

Or maybe Pattern Intuition, but he had used Trajectory Insight to check how to best increase mastery for this skill. This was the result:

Which was silly. Does reading from books not count as engaging with patterns? They have specific steps.

Maybe his Intuition stat wasn't sufficient. He required real-world feedback.

He closed the book and tapped it against his knee.

"Fine. You want intuition?" he muttered, slinging the worn volume into his satchel beside his battered notes and the ever-present pouch of sad, mostly useless stones. "I'll give you intuition."

He'd borrow the book, bring it back home and set aside an afternoon. Maybe do some practice shaping with the sand patch outside the dormitory laundry chute. He'd start with ugly spell attempts first and adjust from there.

Things will turn out well. I have time for preparation, and I'm getting a job which pays me 6,000 Kohns a month. I'll figure out the rest later.

He picked up another three Stone Thaumaturgy books he believed would include higher-level skills, then walked out. When he returned to the front antechamber, the Deputy Subcurate was already there, standing beside the brass-inlaid registry podium, arms folded neatly behind her back. A sealed folio lay atop the podium's surface.

"You should read the final decision yourself," she said, formal again.

Fabrisse stared at her, confused. "Oh. I thought you said—"

"I did," she said, softly now. "And I meant it. Your scores were exceptional. Your handling placed you among the top two this year." Then she glanced aside. "But in the end, the slot was filled via discretionary appointment."

Discretionary?

Fabrisse turned to look past her.

Standing at the far end of the room, just inside the threshold of the Grand Library's western transit vestibule, was a young man dressed in finely tailored charcoal silks with barely noticeable arcweave threading. He was about Fabrisse's age, maybe slightly younger.

That's the assistant butler for House Montreal. The butler for the butler.

Fabrisse stared, stunned.

He's not even enrolled in the Synod. I've never seen him in a single seminar, not once.

And the girl standing beside them, leafing disinterestedly through a bound treatise on darkness-anchored glyph matrices?

Severa Montreal.

He didn't need to see her eyes to know she had seen him, the way she scrunched her nose and the near-invisible sneer tugging at her otherwise impassive lips.

He'd nailed every question. But what did that matter when Severa Montreal could walk in and hand a title to the butler's butler?

How am I going to earn enough money now?

He turned back toward the Subcurate, his face calm again. "Understood," he said.

Then he picked up the folio, tore the seal without ceremony, and read the rejection for himself. He folded it once, slid it into his back pocket, and left without a word.