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

The North Pond was off-limits today, but a No Entry sign had never stopped Tommaso Ardefiamme before.

With one quick hop, he planted a boot on the lowest rung of the fence and vaulted over it like it was a stage prop. His hair, tousled by the wind, fell over one side of his shoulder as loose waves danced with the motion. The barrier wasn't even aether-imbued—just ironwood slats and faded paint. It wasn't meant to stop anyone, really, but still existed as a polite warning.

Tommaso landed on the other side with the tiniest of noises and turned back with a grin, brushing his fingers through his wind-tousled hair. "Are you coming, or do you need a push?"

Fabrisse hesitated, casting a wary glance at the fence. There was only one reason why these places would ever be off-limits. Everyone knew the leyline beneath the pond had flared last year and badly burned a third-year.

The pressure dropped around Fabrisse like being sucked into a storm. Then, whoomph, he was airborne, lifted and pushed by an unseen current, just high enough to clear the fence. He landed gracelessly on the other side, staggering before catching the fence with his back. The wind tugged at his cloak like it was laughing at him.

Tommaso didn't so much as flinch. "Points for style," he said, already halfway down the path toward the pond, the rust-brown fall of his hair swaying like a comet's tail behind him. "Minus several dozen for coordination."

Fabrisse straightened his coat with deliberate care. "Next time, maybe ask before flinging me like a skipping stone."

Tommaso raised a hand without turning. "But then we'd lose the element of surprise."

They walked toward the water. The aetheric dome encasing the entire perimeter of the pond and its vicinity had now become transparent, but tinged with silvery hues where the threads of raw aether twisted into overlapping runes. It curved like a protective shell over the pond and surrounding grounds, a feat of structural spellwork too refined to be recent, and yet Fabrisse knew it had only been reconstructed this week.

The timing had been too convenient.

Just yesterday, Headmaster Draeth's voice had echoed through the mess hall like thunder in a jar, official and absolutely final. The North Pond and surrounding glade were to be declared strictly off-limits until further notice due to 'an urgent leyline irregularity.' A leak, he'd said. Possibly dangerous. Spellcast dampeners were to be installed, patrol routes adjusted, and all field lessons redirected to the southern ranges.

That had been all the students needed to hear. No one questioned a leyline disturbance—not after the last third-year had to regrow half their skin. Even the most arrogant enchanters knew better than to tempt that kind of volatility.

They entered through a doorlike space shaped by vertical seams in the weave, where glowing aether clustered into shapes vaguely resembling doorknobs.

The day had come.

Fabrisse stared at the notification glyph that'd shown up since half an hour earlier:

And his attributes:

His DEX had increased naturally by 1 since his commencement of Tremblehold training, and he was wearing the throwing mitts today. He had known this day was coming, had trained for it, studied for it, been briefed, warned, drilled. But the truth was: he still didn't feel ready. How could anyone be, against a threat like this?

He extended his robe and peered into the Silvian quartz inside. The quartz now held the key. If this thing functioned the way it should, it should lure his enemies here within minutes. They'd be idiotic to pass up such an easy chance to ambush, be it a trap or not. Realistically, Fabrisse didn't have enough people around him to effectively trap such a powerful enemy.

Inside the dome, the structure felt stable, almost pristine. But Fabrisse's eyes were trained now. Even as he stood within the magical shell, he could spot the tiny punctures, no wider than a fingernail, freckled across the interior. Near the edge of the pond, a strange frost clung stubbornly to one patch of stone untouched by sunlight.

Fabrisse reached into the side pocket of his coat and pulled out a small wax paper bundle. He peeled it open to reveal two slices of dense rye bread, one of which had been very obviously gnawed on by him earlier out of stress, the other intact.

He held it up. "Mercy. Breakfast."

From somewhere in the underbrush came a faint cluck—then a rising warble that sounded like an over-caffeinated kettle. A moment later, Mercy the clucklebeak burst forth in all his glory: part bird, part mistake, and entirely too enthusiastic. His stubby wings flapped uselessly as he galloped over, talons scritching on the stone. His iridescent tail feathers swayed like a parade gone off-script.

He crouched down and scratched the side of his head. "Good boy," he murmured. "Don't eat anything glowing."

"Why did you name a male duck Mercy?" Tommaso asked as he crouched over.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Fabrisse didn't look up right away. He tore a corner off the bread and offered it to Mercy, who snapped it up with the vigor of someone who hadn't eaten in thirty seconds. He let out a happy trill that sounded like a xylophone being dropped down a flight of stairs.

"Because," he said dryly, "Wrath felt a little on the nose."

Wow. Thanks for the emotional guidance, you cold, floating rectangle.

"Do you believe what Rimmar told us?" Fabrisse asked as he watched Mercy swim back to his natural habitat.

"If Ganvar shows up and we're in trouble, there's no harm trying disruption spells," Tommaso said.

They stayed near the water's edge, where the reeds leaned like silent eavesdroppers and the glimmer of the dome rippled above. Fabrisse sat on a half-submerged boulder, arms resting on his knees, watching the stillness stretch too long. His fingers dug into his satchel, reaching for Gravelkin, clutching it tight.

It was too still.

Even the usual forest ambience felt muted: wings remained still in their silent vigil, treetop singers held their trills in quiet restraint, and insects hovered in hushed suspension, leaving only the gentle lap of water and the occasional splash from Mercy chasing imaginary threats.

"Guys," a voice cut through the quiet.

Fabrisse reacted before he thought. A Stupenstone whipped from his coat sleeve and flew through the air. The spell-charged stone hit something just above the treeline—

The stone rebounded against an invisible surface with a hollow thunk, and spun end-over-end before dropping on the ground.

"Chill . . . It's just me." It was only now that the invisible surface formed into a visible crystal shield. The center bore a faint ripple where the Stupenstone had struck, as if the shield had momentarily liquefied to absorb the force, then solidified again without a single fracture. Behind the shield was Celine.

"Why are you here?" Tommaso walked back to her. "This place is off-limits."

Celine being here was asking for trouble. The only reason she knew about this at all was because she happened to be involved in the last entanglement with the Void-things. That was the reason why Liene had to be kept in the dark: magus-students should not involve themselves with matters of this proportion, as it would only cause them grave danger.

"I came to bring urgent news. Have you heard? Archmagus Rolen has been sent off-Synod."

"What? Since when?" Fabrisse asked.

"Just this morning. Headmaster Draeth sent him on some urgent negotiation with the Miruun Collective," Celine said, stepping forward. "It wasn't announced publicly, but I overheard two of the logistics scribes whispering about it in the Hall of Cinders."

Tommaso exchanged a look with Fabrisse. "Rolen's gone? That's insane. He's the fallback."

According to the original plan, Archmagus Rolen was the final-tier failsafe. Without him here, there would be no one powerful enough to deter whoever was controlling the Void-thing. They were free to go full-force.

Fabrisse grabbed another Stupenstone so hard his palm started to hurt. The real danger starts now.

But why would Headmaster Draeth send Rolen away right at this moment?

Above them, aetheric light writhed and twisted just a little sharper at the seams.

"You need to get out," Tommaso pointed at the entrance as he commanded Celine. "Out."

But it was already too late.

The ripple overhead, a rift of pure blackness on the dome's weave, tore itself open. Then came the sound, like knuckles being popped.

Fabrisse turned toward the water just in time to see the first one rise.

It unfolded from the shadow beneath a lily pad, wrong and twitching. The creature looked like a stitched amalgam of wet driftwood and eel-flesh, with too many joints and a face that almost had eyes. Its movements were jerky, like it couldn't quite remember how a body should work. It dragged itself halfway out of the pond, then stopped—waiting.

Then another crawled out from beneath the reeds. Then two more from under a split boulder. Then dozens, seeping out of cracks, shadows, reflections that hadn't been there a moment before. Each of them looked no bigger than a dog, but their long limbs and the way they moved suggested they were very nimble.

Tommaso's eyes darted from one writhing creature to the next. "They're not crawling in," he muttered. "The rift's letting them form. Anything lurking in the aether can anchor through cracks, shadows, reflections . . . whatever's weak. We need to find who cast that rift."

One of the creatures slipped from the crook of a broken tree root, crawling low like a spill of tar. The thing lunged at Celine from behind.

She spun in surprise. "Fractured and sealed!"

A burst of bluish light erupted at her feet. The creature let out a wet, metallic shriek as it was pinned beneath a crystalline cage that hadn't been there a blink ago. Fragments of sigils still hovered in the air around her palm, fading like embers.

"It's begun," Fabrisse murmured.

"Ah." Celine heaved a heavy inhale. "I shouldn't have been here."

Just as Fabrisse took a step back, the ground rippled beneath his boot—then cracked open like brittle skin. A void-creature surged, its needle limbs reaching for his ankle.

But it never made contact.

A spear of hoarfrost shot through the ground, impaling the creature and freezing it solid as it lurched, entombing it in a jagged effigy of ice and death.

Fabrisse stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.

From the center of the glistening patch of ice by the water, a figure rose as if drawn up through a mirror. Pale, composed, and rimmed in frost: Ilya Snezhnaya.

Tommaso let out a low whistle as the frost cleared. "That's my girl," he said, grinning wide. "Dramatic timing, lethal grace, and cheekbones sharp enough to—"

Ilya didn't even look at him. "Ardefiamme. Focus." Then she turned to Celine. "Since you're here," Ilya said. "Can you stay close to Kestovar?"

Celine didn't look thrilled to be included in anyone's defense plan, yet her gaze settled upon Fabrisse—still wan from his narrow escape—and after a heartbeat's pause, she nodded. "Got it."

She dashed toward him, fingers already sketching tight arcs through the air. Three crystal shields burst forth with a crack of light, locking into a tight rotation around Fabrisse like orbiting blades.

"You stay within this, okay?" she ordered, adjusting the angle of one with a flick.

Fabrisse glanced at the glimmering geometry. "What if they come from the ground?"

Celine paused. "Uh. Good question."

He stared at her. My guardian doesn't seem that reliable . . .

A pair of void-creatures lunged from the underbrush, slick limbs writhing with impossible joints.

Tommaso spun, coat flaring, arms slicing the air in sharp triangles. "Incinerate. Scatter. Dance."

A triad of fire spirals burst outward—one low, one high, one horizontal—twisting through the air in perfect synchronization. They slammed into all the creatures from three sides, compressing just before impact.

The things exploded in bursts of ash and whiplash heat.

Tommaso let the smoke part around him. "Dragon scales, I love choreography."

Ilya shrugged. With a snap of her wrist, a crown of ice shards circled above her palm.

Beside her, Tommaso swept one hand, summoning a sinuous arc of flame that coiled around his arm like a wyvern.

They stepped forward together, spellwork building at their heels.

"It's imperative we find that Voidrifter," Ilya said—

—but Tommaso cut in, flames swirling high behind him. "Let's track that shadow-sick bastard down, rip reality a new seam, and make him regret ever sliming his way out of the aether."

Ilya sighed. "Right. That."

Shadows tore themselves loose from the stone. More void-creatures erupted into form.

Tommaso grinned. "Perfect timing."

With a mirrored sweep of their hands, they cast. The spells surged—ice sharp as shattered glass, fire whirling like a dragon's breath.

They spun together, intertwining like twin serpents in a death-dance, weaving heat and chill into a single, burning helix. Steam screamed from their collision path, and wherever they struck, the voidspawn disintegrated—frozen and incinerated all at once.

"They're clearly just showboating . . ." Celine murmured.

"Yeah." Fabrisse nodded.

The battle had begun.