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

The Eastern Target Fields were technically outside the bounds of campus, which meant no faculty supervision, no spell range limiters, and plenty of dried leaves that looked extremely flammable. Tommaso had assured Liene and Fabrisse that this was 'absolutely fine' and 'sanctioned in spirit if not in detail.'

Skitterwhits were winged, jittery creatures, no bigger than a butterfly. Fabrisse had imagined something vaguely mouse-shaped, maybe with glowy eyes. Instead, they looked like a cross between a flying ferret and a puffball, covered in iridescent aether fuzz that sparked charcoal whenever they hovered over the grass.

"Okay," Tommaso said, crouching behind a slightly smoldering log. "You've got to slay them just enough to make them jitter, but not enough to make them combust."

"Why would they combust?" Fabrisse asked.

"They're called Skitterwhits, not Stablewhits," Tommaso replied. "They're not born to hold that much aether in them. You want a clean takedown, not an aether burst that takes out half the local moss growth. So even if I want to burn them all with a single spell, I shouldn't. How far can you aim with your fling?"

"A few meters." The rock should travel much further than that, but he should be more conservative as to how far he could reliably hit a target.

"Good enough. But you need to be precise. Skitterwhits are dumb, but one running amok might lead to them all running amok. Now . . ." Tommaso whipped his head around, eyes narrowing. "Hold on. Where's Liene?"

Fabrisse straightened up from behind the log. "Wasn't she right next to—"

They heard muffled footsteps, and both turned.

Liene was twenty paces away, entirely unsupervised, barefoot for some reason, and strolling through the field like it was a late-summer meadow picnic.

In her hands, she held a wide-mouthed mason jar. Inside: one thoroughly non-combusted Skitterwhit, floating in like a spark-happy dust bunny.

She grinned over her shoulder. "Hi!"

". . . What are you doing?" Tommaso asked.

"I was collecting them," she said simply, lifting the jar. "Look at this one! It tried to chew on my robe and then curled into a ball when I clamped the jar over its head. Isn't that the cutest threat display you've ever seen?"

The Skitterwhit sparked nervously inside the jar, then sneezed a tiny puff of aether that briefly turned pine green.

The System pinged in Fabrisse's vision.

Tommaso said, "Sure, Linny. Now go put the remaining five thousand Skitterwhits into your jar." He then dusted off his palms, suddenly all business. "Okay, no more playing around. These little fuzz-torpedoes will scatter if they sense danger. If you want a clean strike, you've got to get close without agitating them." He gave him a look. "Watch me, okay?"

He crouched low. His shoulders dropped, hands loose at his sides as he dropped below the tallest-standing grass. He looked less like a thaumaturge and more like a panther stalking magical prey.

"Skitterwhits don't see in the normal spectrum," he murmured. "They feel heat and mana spikes. So we stay low and boring. Got it?"

"Low, boring," Fabrisse repeated.

He slid between two tufts of moss, stopped behind a patch of whispergrass, and slowly pointed two fingers toward a lone Skitterwhit hovering above a clump of yellow clover. The creature flew in a circle but didn't flee.

His fingers flared with a tight red-orange spark with a hazy mint tail. The spell was barely bigger than a thumb, but when he released it, the dart zipped through the air and struck the Skitterwhit dead-center in the back.

The puffball let out a squeaky wheeze and dropped onto the moss, its sparks extinguished instantly.

Fabrisse opened his mouth slightly. "You actually made that look . . . professional."

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Tommaso turned, face smug. "That's because it was. We don't go full pyro on things the size of an apricot."

The System pinged again.

Tommaso slid back to Fabrisse and patted him on the calf. "Your turn, Master Fling."

Fabrisse took a slow breath and reached into his satchel. His fingers closed around the same small, smooth stupenstone he'd used last time. He crouched lower and crept between the whispergrass tufts, mimicking Tommaso's movements as best he could. He was not, in any world, as fluid or feline, but so far no Skitterwhit had scattered yet.

One such creature flitted lazily above a patch of wild myrtle, fuzz sparking faintly with sky-blue static.

Fabrisse narrowed his eyes and activated a skill: Spectral Appraisal.

It's basically a flying plushie.

"Do it clean," Tommaso whispered from behind the log. "One shot."

He slowly exhaled and let the stone hover in his palm, channeling a spark into it just in case.

A thin flare of amber coiled around his wrist as the spell charged.

He locked on the Skitterwhit's circular pattern, then lobbed the empowered stone with a quick spiral flick.

The stone struck the Skitterwhit right at its fuzz.

The creature gave an chirp then dropped like a feather. It landed, completely inert.

Fabrisse let out a breath. "I did it. I actually did it."

Tommaso nodded, pleased. "Nice throw, Master Fling. That's one fuzzball down."

Fabrisse exhaled and flexed his fingers. The tension in his wrist was still fading, but the thrill of watching the puffball drop clean was oddly satisfying.

Tommaso brushed some soot off his sleeve and gestured across the field. "Alright. Can I trust you to be on your own while I sweep the north edge? There's a cluster near the stone terrace, and I'd rather not have them setting the moss on fire before I do."

Fabrisse hesitated.

Tommaso pointed at him. "Don't go all dramatic if you miss. No flailing, no yelping, and definitely no weird emotional monologuing. Just quietly pick up your stone and try again. Dignity, Fabri."

Fabrisse opened his mouth to agree, but then remembered Lorvan's warning. 'If you're not in class, be with someone. At all times.'

"Actually," Fabrisse said, glancing back across the field, "can you call Liene over here first? Just to stick close while I do my throws."

Tommaso raised an eyebrow. "Are you scared of the Skitterwhits, dude?"

"No, I just—Lorvan said someone should always be with me."

"Ah." Tommaso gave a knowing nod. "Sure. I'll grab her on my way across. But don't let her do your job for you."

Fabrisse held up a hand solemnly. He saw a silhouette in the air and looked up to find a hooded crow that looked exactly like Ilya's familiar. Then he saw a mini-snowman flying across the sky.

Yeah . . . That's definitely Ilya's crow.

"Well, that's my cue," Tommaso craned his neck at the raven also. "Have fun with Linny."

Then he jogged toward the edge of the field, already conjuring a small containment ring in one palm.

Okay . . . It seems like he wants to spend some time with another partner. Then why did he bring me along? And didn't he say he needed exactly one partner?

Tommaso was leaving him and Liene all alone in a vast field filled with combustible luminous glowworms. He wasn't sure if this was part of the plan or not.

Fabrisse shifted in place, crouched again, and began scanning for his next quarry. Further to his left, Liene was herding another Skitterwhit with a stick.