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

Fabrisse grumbled to himself as he walked back to his dorm from the Wing of Stratal Studies. He had spent two hours shuffling through different rock samples, matching fracture planes, resonance signatures, and mineral impurities with all the care of threading a needle in the dark. This was serious work—actual thaumaturgic expertise, precise focus, the kind of thing that left his head ringing after long stretches. And the Eidralith had the gall to toss him less than half the EXP he'd once earned for an afternoon of flailing through some 'basic combat drill'.

Fabrisse knew better than waste his mental energy arguing with the Eidralith. The system had obviously made up its mind on what it considered the most efficient path to strength, as with everything else. He had something else to be giddy about, and he wasn't about to let obtuse point-scoring logic ruin his delight today.

He had spent two hours going through all the Common-grade rock samples there were in the archive, and came to this conclusion: Trinav and Ouroboros-Zeta would boost his RES. Basalt Core and Split-slate clusters seemed tuned toward FOR; veined obsidian: STR; Cimberlance: DEX; cavern-born quartz and a lattice-scarred shale each aligned with SYN; And only one lonely sample, Larmine crystal, gave any reading at all for EMO, which struck him as both irritating and on-brand.

There was no longer anyone around by the time he returned to his dorm. Well, except for Ilya, who waited by the Wing of Stratal Studies, followed him around like a creepy stalker, and now was resting her back against an oak tree, a book in her hand. Her raven was perched on her shoulder, peeking at her book like it could read. But having Ilya around felt very much like having no one around.

"Uh . . . Can you help me with Stone spellcasting then?" Fabrisse scratched his head.

"I don't get paid for that." She said as she flicked a giant floating snowflake over to Fabrisse.

He dodged the snowflake as he muttered, "But you do nothing much anyway . . ."

She said with her voice unchanged, "I'm not a good teacher. But Ardefiamme can help you."

"He's not here."

"He's not here, yet," Ilya corrected him.

"Huh?"

A swirling flame, no larger than a coin, spun through the clearing like a playful firefly. It traced a looping arc overhead before descending and fizzing out in a puff of ale-scented smoke just above Fabrisse's nose.

Tommaso strolled into view, his coat trailing smoke like he'd just stepped off a battlefield. Unlike his usual full-blown infernos, this display was almost tasteful—if you ignored the tiny embers still dancing around his boots.

"I heard someone was in need of a stone spellcasting consultant," he said, placing extra flair on the last word.

Fabrisse stared at him. "How do you always show up like this?"

"Like what?" he asked. "Last time I didn't bring ale."

"Where—"

Tommaso reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a sweating bottle of ale. He gave it a reverent look, then popped it open with a flick of his thumb. The cap vanished in a puff of sparks.

He took a long chug, then leaned one elbow against the crooked wooden sign just behind him. NO ALCOHOL ON DORM GROUNDS, it read in stern red lettering, partially obscured now by the lazy drift of smoke curling off his sleeves.

Tommaso exhaled with a satisfied "Ahhh," then glanced up at the sign. "Oh," he said. "This still here?" Then he reached into another coat pocket and pulled out another bottle of ale. "You want one?"

The bottle in Tommaso's hand froze and zipped to the side, trailing a fine mist of snowflakes, straight into Ilya's waiting hand. She didn't look up from her book as she caught it.

Tommaso grinned. "Good call! It's better when it's cold."

"No alcohol on dorm grounds," she said as she stood and closed her book with one hand. Then, without another word, ice bloomed beneath her feet like a spreading flower, lifting her effortlessly into the air. She glided upward and over the campus fence, leaving behind a sparkling trail.

She touched down just past the boundary marker, cracked the bottle open with her thumb, and took a long drink.

Tommaso watched her go with something like admiration. "Elegant and responsible. That's a fineeee combo."

For two people who claimed to be in a relationship, Fabrisse didn't think he'd ever seen these two engaged in anything remotely romantic.

Then Tommaso turned back to Fabrisse, wagging the remaining bottle invitingly. "C'mon. Just one. It builds character."

Quite a character Fabrisse became the last time he'd drunk . . .

"Don't you know what's happening in two days?" Fabrisse asked.

"Of course I'm aware."

"Then maybe we shouldn't be drinking right now?"

Tommaso held the bottle out like a peace offering. "Exactly why we should. The more stressed you are, the more reason to let loose. That's basic spellcaster logic."

"That's not logic. That's a coping mechanism."

Tommaso raised the bottle to his lips. "Potato, flaming potato," he said, then took a long, showy gulp.

Fabrisse folded his arms. "I'm serious. I have two days to learn something useful, and I'll get it done with or without your help."

Tommaso raised an eyebrow as the bottle paused halfway to his mouth. "If you're so serious, tell me what you're vying for."

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Fabrisse flipped through the pages of the books he'd consulted, pointing out specifically the path he wanted to take: Tremblehold into Faultweave.

"Boring," Tommaso interrupted, waving the bottle. "You know what you need? Pebblecast."

"Why?" Fabrisse asked.

Tommaso jabbed a finger in the air triumphantly. "It's super fast to cast and doesn't require any emotion. Faultweave requires neutral emotions, which isn't a high bar to cast, but neither Shame nor Joy are neutral emotions. Also, how am I going to contribute to tilting the ground and making it look cool at the same time?"

"We don't have to make it look cool."

"You launch those pebbly little needles; I turn them into miniature lava blades. Boom. Instant collaboration. That's synergy, my friend."

". . . Can you help me with Tremblehold?"

Tommaso stared at him for another while and said, "Fine." Then he craned his neck and drank the last of the ale. "I've already smoldered the cork. Guess this is the only choice."

"Repeat this sequence, man. It ain't that hard." Tommaso mimicked the gesture he'd skimmed from Anabeth's book. He hadn't even seen Celine model the movement earlier, yet somehow, he was already closer to getting it right than Fabrisse.

Guess it isn't much trouble for someone so fast, Fabrisse thought. His Spectral Appraisal had returned Tommaso's two physical attributes: STR 69 and DEX 89. Fabrisse had been somewhat proud of his 14 DEX, and until he realized what that kind of gap actually looked like. At least the scales were relative. Each point might represent only a sliver of improvement; small enough that even eight times his DEX wouldn't turn him into a trapeze artist overnight.

Actually . . . how dexterous is someone with a DEX of 89, Eidralith?

So he's like lightning striking.

Fabrisse planted his feet and tried to follow the sequence, and do all of that without shifting weight to the back leg or tilting the spine more than five degrees. The moment he reached the third motion, his body felt like it had locked up in protest. The angle made no sense. His knee wanted to rotate with the hip, but the shoulder demanded the opposite. His spine tried to help and only made everything worse. It felt less like a casting form and more like trying to assemble furniture from directions written by a sadist.

"This is worse than Faultweave," he muttered, gritting his teeth. The truth was that he had unlocked Tremblehold the moment he accumulated exactly 5 Master points, and he regretted spending those points already.

Tommaso, by contrast, flowed through the movements again with casual precision. His body moved like it remembered the shape before his mind did—shoulders rolling with whip-smooth ease, knees gliding into stance like they had practice on a different axis of gravity.

It's actually ridiculous how Stone spells require ridiculous dexterity to get done right, he thought, but he got that he had to nail the area of effect. Stone is stable, weighty, and resistant to rapid change. Launching a stone is a different matter, but to shape or command existing shapes effectively with magic, a caster must coax it into motion through very specific geometric patterns, almost like guiding tectonic energy along faultlines.

"Tier III and IV spells require much more complex patterns than this," Tommaso said as he repeated the sequence. "So you better get used to it. You're doing better already."

Fabrisse exhaled and centered his stance, or at least what felt like center. He completed the sequence and cast the spell. A muted thrum pulsed from his hand into the ground, but it wasn't sharp; it staggered like a hiccup.

Fabrisse clenched his jaw and muttered, "Self-directed Query Invocation."

Semi-transparent projections of himself re-enacted the cast in a glowing, fragmented sequence. Each motion left behind drifting Sparks—residue markers of spell alignment and Aetheric timing.

There—a cluster of nearly transparent sparks flared out from his left hip during transition. And near the tail end of the form, another set of yellow flickers bled from his casting hand, flaring after the pulse had already fired.

So he still released the spell late. His knees were too wide, his back foot came up a moment too early, and the activation spark from his palm lagged behind the grounding pulse by what looked like almost a full second. His stance had thrown everything off.

"Fix the stance and your movements will get better. You don't need a Query Invocation to tell you that," Tommaso walked up to him.

But it will help me tonight, when I pull an all-nighter to train, Fabrisse thought.

Fabrisse squinted up, only now noticing the orange spill of sunset across the clouds. The long shadow of the training pylon had stretched halfway across the field without him realizing.

"Is it really almost sundown?"

Tommaso tilted his head. "Time flies when your knees are at war with your spine."

Fabrisse exhaled a short laugh, wiping sweat off his brow. "Hey, uh . . . Do you mind sticking around for a while? Maybe like . . . three more hours? I've gotta get this sequence locked before it burns a crater in my brain."

Tommaso gave him a look like he'd just asked if air was optional. "Why not? I was called back to hang out with my best buddy anyway." He ruffled Fabrisse's hair, smirking. "If Lorvan's too busy brooding in a library tower or being a cryptic ass, that makes me your official stand-in mentor."

Fabrisse slapped the hand away, half-smiling. "Then where were you the past few days, huh?"

Tommaso's grin thinned. "Business."

"What kind of business?"

"Well, have you heard from Professor Kaldrin?"

"I've heard many things . . ."

"About the . . ." He looked around, and when he saw there was no one but Ilya, mouthed soundlessly. "Investigation team."

"Ah. Yes."

"Your friend's been following you around. We should pay him a visit."

"Friend? You mean Celine?"

"No. I've tracked Celine for a day, and she only snapped sketch-scrolls of the Synod's Skybrace team like a tabloid hawk."

"Then who?"

"Well, him." Tommaso nodded toward a tall pylon across the field, half-shrouded by the creeping dusk near the dorm garden's edge.

Fabrisse opened his mouth to ask again, but the hairs on his arms prickled.

A sliver of motion peeled away from the pylon's shadow. The outline of a figure in a dull charcoal cloak emerged, not by stepping forward, but by letting the veil of shade roll off him in strips. For a moment, it was impossible to tell where the shadow ended and the spell began.

"Excellent stealth spell for a third-year student, Rimmar Ciemnosc," Tommaso said, "What's your business?"

Rimmar Ciemnosc stepped into full view. Ilya, standing to the side of the training field, glanced at Tommaso and gave a short nod.

Tommaso inclined his head in return, then leaned toward Fabrisse and muttered under his breath, "He's not casting spells anymore. No malice, for now."

Rimmar kept walking, each step unhurried but even. "I'm just here to lend a hand," he said. "No one's following me, or stalking you. But go ahead, see for yourself."