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

A column rose from the center: hexagonal, clear as water, with veins of copper and iron braided through like a vascular system. From it, four arching ribs vaulted, each assembling itself from grains of stone plucked directly from a glowing leyfield clinging onto it.

They fitted together. Silently.

He raised a giant stone structure without a sound.

When it was complete, the structure resembled a flower made of tectonic memory: layered petals of slate and agate fanned like protective shields, their inner faces engraved with impossibly tight glyphs.

Draeth simply stepped back and let the spell stand.

"This," he said, "is the legacy they erased."

That's . . . impressive. It didn't look impressive, not in the explosive, world-bending way he'd always imagined a Rank IX spell might be. But if Draeth morphed that flower from aether alone . . . This is art; craftsmanship.

This should be the kind of spell whose weight wasn't felt on the skin, but in the geometry of the room itself. As if the world was quietly choosing to accept it rather than resist.

Why would they erase this?

He almost asked. The question caught behind his teeth like a splinter, but he wasn't sure if it was safe to say aloud.

Then, from his right, Lorvan spoke, "I think Mr. Kestovar's been meaning to ask . . . Why would the Order want something like this erased?"

Draeth did not look at Lorvan. He looked at the spell he had shaped—this quiet, geometric miracle born from nothing but will and memory. Then, with a slow breath, he began, "Muradius is a coward." He said the name like it burned his mouth.

Muradius? Is he talking about Thaumarch Muradius? The High Prelate of our most holy Order that he heaps praises upon during every single ceremony?

Draeth continued, "Thaumarch Muradius of the Twelvefold Flames. High Prelate of our most holy Order. Do you know what terrifies him? Not heresy. Not collapse. Not even the end of the age." He turned his gaze to Fabrisse, and that gaze was soon fixed in stillness, frozen in place. "No. What terrifies that man is irrelevance. The knowledge that something older, something greater, might eclipse him. That an artifact—some fragment of a dead age—could hold more truth, more power, more vision than he will ever claw together in his lifetime."

Lorvan and Kaldrin looked at each other. Fabrisse looked at them, not daring to return Draeth's gaze.

"He knows. Of course he knows. He's seen what just one ancient artifact can do; what it undoes." Draeth stepped toward the flower again, but didn't touch it. His hand hovered over one of the petals. "A single shard from the Aetherfall could unmake a mountain or speak a language no living magus understands. That kind of power doesn't fit his mold. So he labeled them a menace."

Draeth's fingers hovered above the petal, then curled into a loose fist.

For a breath, he said nothing.

Maybe the man finally realized he's said too much . . .

Then—without gesture or word—the structure unmade itself. The petals folded in, the ribs arched down, and the central column dissolved as if time itself reversed its decision. The particles returned to the leyfield, the air cleared, and the room felt emptier than it had before.

"I suggest if you wish to pursue Earth Thaumaturgy," Headmaster Draeth intoned. "You are to do so in silence."

A pause followed.

Then, carefully, Kaldrin spoke. "With respect, Headmaster. The boy's bound to the Eidralith. If he's going to survive what comes next, then someone will have to make time, privately."

He didn't say you, but he didn't have to.

Draeth studied him for a long moment, then glanced once at Fabrisse. There was a weight behind that glance, the kind that measured outcomes. "Very well. Kestovar." He stepped forward. "You are to be under my tutelage."

He no longer spoke for another five seconds, which just made the words hang thicker.

Draeth continued, "You may pursue other disciplines within the Synod if you please. Satisfy your curiosities. Follow your mentors. But remember this." He took another step, and Fabrisse found it impossible not to meet his eyes. "If you were to accept—truly accept—then the decision is irreversible. You are not signing up for a discipline. You are being inducted into a foundation older than the Orders, older than the flames they pretend to carry. You will be part of something bigger than yourself, bigger than any doctrine." His voice dropped, a final note beneath the bedrock. "And in return, perhaps, we can mold you into something bigger than they ever imagined you could be. Perhaps."

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You didn't have to add that final 'perhaps' . . .

Lorvan kept nursing his arm. Kaldrin's arms were still folded. And Fabrisse—staggered by the gravity of it—felt the words settle into him like strata.

Hold on. So I won't get to complete the quest given by Varys?

"Headmaster," Fabrisse said, more evenly than he expected, "I'll need a week to decide."

Draeth stared at him for a few seconds too long, then turned to Lorvan. "What have I told you?" Draeth said, voice colder than before. "The boy lacks ambition."

It's not that I don't want to accept, but the other quest offers 500 EXP for simply showing up. I can make a choice then . . .

Then Fabrisse thought to himself again. Do I really want to venture alone to an entirely new place; an entirely new branch of magic, by myself? Without knowing anyone? What if I return, then Draeth finds out I've been sneaking out and gets offended by it?

This is the most powerful Stone Thaumaturge in history we're talking about. Is 500 EXP really worth the risk?

Do I really want to keep studying Thaumaturgy?

Lorvan stirred. His posture, up until now quietly strained, shifted forward. He stood—awkwardly, but with purpose—and extended his injured hand.

"Headmaster, if I may," Lorvan said, showing the black-rimmed cuts wrapped with a blood-dark belt. "Mr. Kestovar must be overwhelmed. I suggest you give him a day of thought . . ." Draeth turned around to him, and he extended his injured hand "Before you write him off."

Fabrisse's breath caught.

Draeth's expression changed.

For a second, the air around the Headmaster crackled with silent calculation. He took one sharp step forward and grasped Lorvan's forearm, inspecting the wounds without ceremony.

"You performed your end of the Cadence of Severance?" Draeth asked.

"I did, after you've performed yours."

"That should've halted any spread. The corruption shouldn't be this advanced."

"It shouldn't," Lorvan replied.

Fabrisse couldn't help it. He took a step closer, his voice taut. "What's happening to Mentor Lugano?"

Draeth looked at him, for once without disdain. "Void Erasure. A minor variant, at least by classification. The spell itself wasn't powerful, but it made contact with exposed flesh. This is what happens when your shielding fails for less than a second."

He released Lorvan's arm and muttered a short invocation. With a sharp, glacial snap, Draeth's hand lit with a muted grey-white pulse. The air grew colder. He pressed two fingers to the worst gash, and the light vanished inside.

Lorvan winced, barely. "That will slow the decay. For now."

Fabrisse frowned hard. "Why didn't we bring in a healer?"

"Even the best healer won't know better than me," Draeth said. "This spell is undocumented. It doesn't burn or poison; it erases. The moment it touched your mentor, it began rewriting his skin as if it had never existed."

"T-then, what can we do?" Sparks of charcoal tingled on his fingertips. The color of fear.

Draeth stood to his full height, the red glow from the archway behind him drawing long shadows across his face. "He will live. The worst that can happen is he loses an arm."

Kaldrin pressed his lips thin and stared downward. "I take responsibility. I should've seen the voidcaster coming."

Fabrisse didn't hear the rest.

His eyes were still on Lorvan—on the black-rimmed gash at his forearm, pulsing like an open mouth trying to swallow.

That's my mentor.

That was his mentor risking his shielding in a frontline spell against something undocumented, unrecorded, unreal, to keep him safe.

Even though the Headmaster had all but dismissed him. Even though not a single ranking mage had spoken for him when the Eidralith bound. Even though his very presence in this room was seen as an inconvenience, an error.

And Fabrisse had the audacity to—

To hesitate. Over a better EXP payout. Over some nebulous promise of Varys's questline. Over options.

Fabrisse clenched his hands until his knuckles blanched. The static at his fingertips flared again—charcoal-gray, fault-line bright—but now it burned with a different kind of heat. Ivory.

"Headmaster," Fabrisse said clearly. "I accept the directive."

The arch behind Draeth flared crimson once more. He nodded.