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

Fabrisse had tried his best to revise his form. He'd really tried. He'd stayed up until three in the morning, correcting his own form from theory and memory. In return, he got rewarded with a 2% gain in progress and dark circles under his eyes.

Lorvan had taken one look at his attempt that morning and made an unpleasant noise like he'd swallowed a lemon whole. He hadn't left any feedback apart from a sigh, a mutter of 'again,' and that disappointing shake of the head that somehow made Fabrisse feel like a kicked dog.

No feedback from Lorvan meant no feedback at all. A weird thing about synaptic threading was that because it was an exercise on recognizing aether threads, there would be no aetheric threads forming at all if one got it wrong, which meant no weird tingling or any sensation to tell you you have gone astray. That made it really difficult to self-correct.

"Is there any alternative form?" Fabrisse whined as he rubbed his sore wrists. His fingers already felt like overcooked noodles.

"Practice makes perfect. This is the best form. Don't take shortcuts."

There had to be. How could there only be one best practice for training towards understanding aether and timing of resonance? Even baking had alternative methods. His mother could make choux pastry with or without eggs if pushed.

"I just think," Fabrisse began, "that maybe if I tried the Varnic iteration—"

"No," Lorvan cut in. "That method is not Synod-sanctioned. Did Miss Lugano teach you that?"

"No . . . But—"

"No."

As always, half the mnemonics, stances, and emotion/intent combination were Synod-sanctioned. One could not deviate from the standard methods in Practical exams.

He groaned and got back into the arc stance, shoulders hunched forward, right hand just above the abdomen, left extended as though offering the aether a polite handshake.

"You're twirling your fingers," Lorvan said, already pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm trying to twirl my fingers," Fabrisse grumbled. "That's how the Varnic—no, sorry. Forget I said anything."

Just as he began to settle back into the Standard form, the system chimed.

Fabrisse stared at the notification. "Wait, mentor. The number just jumped. I'm at 27%."

"You mean 2.7."

"No. Twenty-seven. Full numbers!" He tried to angle the system interface toward Lorvan. "I'm not making this up. I swear."

Lorvan said, "You know I can't see that, Kestovar."

"But it's there. Look, the system doesn't just—"

"—sometimes progress catches up all at once," Lorvan said. "You've probably been accumulating knowledge through all your failed attempts. It trickles in. Then numbers jump. It happens."

"But it couldn't have been such a coincidence, could it?" Fabrisse argued. "Unless . . ." He trailed off, very deliberately not looking smug. "It wasn't."

"What are you insinuating?"

"Just once!" Fabrisse pleaded. "Please. Teach me how to do the Varnic form properly, just once. If there's no visible change, I'll go back to the sanctioned form. I swear on my Eidralith."

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Lorvan stared at him with an exhausted gaze. But he didn't say no.

"Three attempts," he said slowly, holding up a single finger. "I will guide, and you will have three attempts to repeat the form. But do be aware that the Varnic iteration is not used for a reason."

Fabrisse tilted his head. "Because it's not Synod-sanctioned?"

"Because it's simplistic to the point of carelessness," Lorvan replied. "It skips the preliminary arc sweeps used to detect ambient aether threads. Without those, you're casting blind."

"But if I already know where the threads are—"

"—then you still risk bypassing your own alignment. The Standard form trains your field awareness. Varnic assumes you already have it and urges you to be comfortable and relaxed." Lorvan said, his voice low and stern. "And shortcuts are for show-offs and corpses."

Fabrisse winced. "Show-offs and corpses, got it. Loud and clear. But three tries, right?"

Lorvan sighed. "Position your hands—no, left over right. You're not presenting a roast goose to the Council, adjust your stance. Now initiate the entry sweep, but cut it at the midpoint. You're not tracing the full arc, just enough to form a foothold for resonance. Keep your breath in tandem with the gesture—inhale after the second knuckle fold, not before. Watch me."

Lorvan started his demonstration with restrained grace, but the movements were perfect. Fabrisse knew he had clearly done this thousands of times before but would never admit to doing it once. His movements were tighter and snappier than the Standard form, but standing close enough to him, Fabrisse could still feel a slight tingling.

Fabrisse mirrored him the best he could.

First attempt: his hands got tangled somewhere between the knuckle fold and the breath cue.

"Again," Lorvan said.

Second attempt: closer. He maintained the breath, hit the midpoint cut, even remembered to keep his spine aligned. He still couldn't feel anything.

At least, he got feedback from the system in the form of numbers.

"Again," Lorvan said.

Fabrisse nodded once. "Right. Again. I remember."

Third attempt: he let go. Not in the lazy way Lorvan was always warning him about, but in the way he'd once heard musicians talk about muscle memory—how your body remembers what your mind can't force. He let his fingers fall into place, and his breath follow the cadence.

Then he felt the faintest of sensation, like a cat had laid its smooth paw on the back of his neck then let go immediately.

Fabrisse's eyes widened. "Thirty-one. It went up again."

Lorvan didn't answer. He was watching the spot where the thread had taken form.

Fabrisse couldn't help it. He grinned. "That wasn't bad, was it?"

Lorvan gave him a long look. "You're still sloppy."

"Sure."

"Your third finger twitched during the fold."

"It does that sometimes."

"And you nearly inhaled too early again."

"But I didn't."

Lorvan stared at him, then muttered, "Damn shortcut."

Fabrisse responded with a smile. "So . . . can I keep doing it this way?"

Lorvan stared harder, and Fabrisse was certain the man was micro-analyzing again, watching Fabrisse's stance, scrutinizing the tiniest of distortion from the drawn thread that lingered near his fingertips.

Finally, he spoke. "Not in your exams. But for now? Train with what works."

Fabrisse grinned. "That's basically an endorsement." And an unprecedented one, at that. Like many other Instructants, Lorvan was told by the Synod to only do it by the books.

But the man had to know by now. Fabrisse didn't learn by perfect repetition and sure as heck didn't thrive under rigid doctrine. Maybe that was what that long pause had meant, the way his eyes had lingered on the thread like it held more than just structure. Maybe, Fabrisse was the kind of student who could only improve if the path curved a little.

Lorvan sighed, then muttered. "Again—" Then, suddenly as if remembering something, he changed his tone of voice to a lower cadence. "You should remember this, and I need to tell you this before I forget."

"Huh?" He asked.

"Do you know it gets pretty obvious when you're staring into the Eidralith?"

"Oh? I . . . I didn't know, actually." Only now did he realize his friends had noticed more than once whenever he muttered to himself. At least Liene absolutely had. She had even peered through the glyph once.

"Remember to refrain from doing that. You're always distracted, so it doesn't look suspicious. However, the distraction might cost you one of these days."

"Yes, Mentor." Lorvan was very correct. He told himself to remember this.

His mentor nodded. "Now. From the top."