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

Rolen set down the teacup and steepled his fingers. "What do you remember about the exact moment the dimensional pressure hit? Did your body feel heavy? Were there distortions in sound? Or perhaps, peripheral movement?"

"Well, uh . . ." How do I touch his nose? He's like two meters away from me. And I don't have long arms.

"Start with the aether signature," Rolen prompted gently. "Which hue was it? Did it favor an element?"

Fabrisse nodded very slowly. "It wasn't—it didn't feel elemental at all. It was more like . . . an absence of elements?" He adjusted his seat ever so slightly, sliding an inch to his left, toward the desk. I need to get close to him.

Rolen tilted his head, intrigued. "Explain in anxiety-free language, please."

"Yeah. Like the color wasn't from any spectrum I know." Fabrisse moved again to the left. He was no longer sitting diagonally across from Rolen—he'd drifted closer, angling his seat to what was now an adjacent corner. Just off to the Archmagus's right, within potential nose-touching radius. The chair creaked faintly.

Shift diagonally, then fake a deep moment of emotional distress. Lean in, elbows on desk, and go for it while pretending to tremble with trauma.

Touch nose. Exit with dignity.

Rolen didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he was choosing not to acknowledge it. "Describe the spell rupture. Did the aether recoil or discharge?"

Fabrisse nodded slowly. "There was a snap. Like . . . like a silk sheet tearing underwater." It's shifting time.

The moment he leaned in, the Archmagus . . . scratched his nose.

With not one finger. Not two. Three fingers! It was a full defensive formation. He almost covered his entire nose.

Fabrisse froze, one elbow awkwardly balanced on the desk.

Rolen kept talking, entirely unfazed. "That kind of tear could indicate a forcibly induced boundary fold, though I'll need more data to confirm." He glanced at Fabrisse. "You look tense."

"I'm—uh—just emotionally processing," Fabrisse croaked.

Rolen turned ever so slightly in his seat and took a sip of tea from the third cup. Which meant his nose was temporarily guarded by a ceramic rim.

It was like trying to sneak up on a squirrel that kept checking over its shoulder.

Why is this so hard. Come on; come on. I need to touch his nose so bad.

"Hmm . . . Do you see any color after the fold first appeared?" Rolen asked again, setting his cup down.

Fabrisse continued, inching another half-step closer. "It wrapped around my ribs, and my legs too. And the color—it wasn't just black. It was like it ate every color around it."

Rolen nodded again, picking up the second teacup. "I see. We might know what it is. What did it feel like?"

"Uh. I couldn't even think. My mind just kept looping the same thought: why me?" He pushed forward another inch. His thigh bumped the corner of the desk. Almost there.

"Good," Rolen said, setting down the cup. "Emotional state is crucial. It tells us how the spell compromised your resonance threshold. Did it feel targeted?"

He nodded slowly, hand drifting closer across the wood grain. "Yes. Very. I felt—I felt like they wanted something from me. Like they were trying to drag me into a—"

"Are you alright?" Rolen asked.

Fabrisse froze. "W-what?"

"You're sweating."

Fabrisse laughed too quickly. "Haha. Sorry. Trauma. Just . . . just trauma. You know. Classic trauma."

He scooted back a little, trying not to look like he was retreating. It was just now that he realized a critical flaw in his carefully crafted plan.

I CAN'T TOUCH HIS NOSE IF HE'S LOOKING STRAIGHT AT ME.

"Would you like water?" Rolen asked. "Or what is it that you fancy kids drink these days? Logan Prime?"

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"No, thank you. I'm fine." Maybe my stealth arsenal can help. Anything that can get me out of this situation.

"Are you sure? I have citrus-flavored Logan Prime."

Fabrisse's eyes darted to the side of his interface.

Great. All his skills were nearly useless.

Still, he had to try.

Attempt #1: Liminal Presence Drift

He activated Liminal Presence Drift (Rank III) with a subtle mental flick. His posture softened, his breathing slowed, and he imagined his very presence blurring around the edges.

Rolen stared at him. "Kestovar? Are you dissociating?"

Fabrisse panicked. "No! Just . . . regulating my trauma emissions. And no . . . no Logan Prime, please."

Rolen nodded, apparently accepting this answer.

He leaned in again—elbow grazing the desk, hand poised like he might simply scratch his own cheek—then pivoted that same hand to nose-tap.

Almost . . .

Attempt #2: Shadowed Reposition Protocol

Fabrisse leaned a few centimeters forward, enough to shift his knee under the desk and slide his palm halfway toward the zone of nose.

Unfortunately, this made the chair creak.

Very loudly.

Rolen raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to resummon the memory of the moment? Is that what the squirming's about?"

Fabrisse laughed again, far too loud. "Ha! Yes. Somatic recall. Very helpful for emotional reconstruction!"

He was internally sobbing.

Attempt #3: Veil of Shame

Desperate, Fabrisse flared Veil of Shame (Rank I)—his hand tingled with residual memory from every single time he'd tripped in public.

That was enough. Maybe. He could do this.

He lifted his fingers again. Inched closer. Rolen was looking down at his notes. It was now.

And then, a fly appeared.

A lazy-winged, blessed miracle of a bug, buzzed in from the open window and landed lightly on the Archmagus's cheek. Then walked across the bridge of his nose.

Rolen didn't even flinch. He just kept drinking.

Fabrisse stared at it.

This is it. This is the moment. The world is handing it to me on a silver glyph-plated platter.

He reached—

But then the fly launched itself toward him, buzzing near his own face. Fabrisse flinched violently, swatted blindly, and knocked over one of the tea cups with a loud CLINK–splash.

Rolen looked up as a few drops of herbal tea soaked into his paperwork. ". . . Is that somatic recall too?"

Fabrisse said nothing.

Lorvan sighed audibly. That had been his only contribution to the conversation so far.

The tea soaked deeper into the parchment as Fabrisse sat frozen, one hand hovering near the overturned cup like it might apologize on his behalf.

Rolen calmly lifted the wet sheet, shook it once, and set it aside to dry. Then he looked up and said, with all the unflinching solemnity of someone reciting doctrine before a tribunal, "Do you want to touch my nose?"

Fabrisse made a strangled noise. "What—no—I mean—what? No?"

Rolen raised one eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

Fabrisse tried to recover with dignity. "Absolutely. That would be unprofessional."

Silence.

Rolen then turned over to ask Lorvan, "Does he like to touch people's noses unprofessionally?"

"Not that I'm aware of," said Lorvan. "Maybe he learned that from my sister."

"N-no!" Fabrisse blurted out, red-faced. He could no longer bear the shame. "The Eidralith told me to!"

Both Rolen and Lorvan stared at him.