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

Fabrisse crept along a patch of whispergrass still warm from the sun. He kept his breathing shallow and steady. Three down. Seven to go.

His wrist ached a little from channeling the same spell in repetition. His knees were sore from crouching. And the sweat beading at the back of his neck was making his collar itch. The thrill of his first few clean kills had given way to a slow, creeping burn of fatigue.

Is this what hunters do all day? he wondered. Sneak, squat, and sweat while praying a flying puffball doesn't explode in your face?

He repositioned himself low behind a clump of sagegrass and spotted his next target: a lone Skitterwhit bobbing in the air not five meters ahead. It hovered erratically, more like a jellyfish than a bird, but stayed within a tight radius.

Fabrisse sucked in a breath, took aim, and flicked the empowered stone forward.

The stone veered slightly to the left. It clipped the edge of a stem and dropped to the ground.

Fabrisse blinked. That was less than five meters. He shouldn't have missed from this range.

The Skitterwhit twitched but didn't flee. It gave a squeaky, curious warble and spun in a lazy figure-eight.

Fabrisse retrieved the stone as quietly as he could, brushing off the dirt. His fingers had already reached for another stupenstone.

Breathe. Breathe.

Another Skitterwhit had drifted into view like a dandelion seed, slightly higher in altitude. It was a little farther, but still within range.

He narrowed his eyes, let the stone charge again with a curl of amber light, then flicked it. The stone flew, clean and sharp.

Thunk.

The stone smacked directly into a low-hanging iron wind-chime strung between two posts near the edge of the field—likely some sort of old aetheric-harmonics marker. The impact rang out like a broken bell dropped from a height.

Oh no.

Half a dozen Skitterwhits jolted at once. Sparks flared. One let out a squeaky wheeze of panic and zipped straight up. The others scattered wide.

Fabrisse lurched forward by instinct but stopped himself just in time.

He clenched his fists and dropped back into the grass.

No. Don't run after them. You chase one, and the others think you're a predator.

He took a slow breath.

He exhaled again, deeper this time, and let the moment pass.

The arc had peaked too soon. Too much force, but not enough forward push. The spell's curve was eating velocity. If he had flung it straighter, he would've hit the target cleanly and at a higher speed.

Now, to see if I can apply my analysis without my SYN and RES ruining the party.

Above him, a single Skitterwhit peeked out from the curve of a tall reed, watching from a cautious distance, still flaring with nervous sparks.

He eased backward into a new crouch, patience pressed tight behind his teeth.

Reset. Wait. Stay low. Boring.

I won't miss this time.

He stayed crouched in the whispergrass, eyes scanning. Another Skitterwhit wobbled into view near a low copse of dragonstem—mid-range, unalerted, about four and a half meters out. It dipped once, hovered.

Fabrisse adjusted his posture.

Lower elbow. Shorter draw. No loft.

He fed a steady trickle of aether into the stupenstone until it gave a quiet buzz of readiness—amber veins lighting from within, smooth and solid in his palm. Then he released it, wrist firm, no correction.

A perfect hit. The Skitterwhit jerked mid-hover and dropped like a plucked blossom, trailing a wisp of spent sparks.

Fabrisse let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Surely I can make it two in a row.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

He didn't move yet—just listened. The rustle of grass. The barely-there hum of charged stone in his palm. His fingers itched to adjust, but he kept them still.

The next Skitterwhit was calm now, orbiting a seed pod like it had already forgotten the wind-chime incident. It hovered in a lazy parabola, trailing faint aether residue from its core. It was more than three meters out.

Fabrisse's mind began mapping the throw before his fingers twitched.

Wind resistance is minimal. The target is drifting eastward. Air drag negligible at this range. Optimal launch angle: eleven degrees off-horizontal. Arc compensation: –12% curvature, same as last time.

He raised his arm in perfect silence. He tucked his elbow, steadied his grip, controlled his breath.

He raised his arm slowly, focused on the arc—

"Hey Fabri, do you need—"

"Wha—?!"

He spun toward the voice. The stone flew from his hand by reflex.

It struck glass. Specifically, mason jar glass.

A sharp ping rang out followed by the wet crunch of aether-fuzz meeting impact.

The jar shattered.

The spark-happy Skitterwhit inside gave the tiniest, most dramatic squeal, then flopped belly-up onto the ground like an overcooked marshmallow.

Fabrisse froze. His mouth hung open.

The other Skitterwhits nearby shrieked in outrage, or possibly horror, and scattered again. A fresh wave of tiny sparks fled into the brush.

Liene stared at the remains of her once-proud mason jar. Her jaw dropped.

She knelt beside the scene like a mourning widow at a hero's grave. "Noooooooo! He was just trying to nibble his way to a better future."

"I—Liene, I didn't—"

"His name was Moxley." She cradled the broken base of the jar like a fallen relic. "He was fluffy, Fabri. He was going to glow mint green when he got older."

Fabrisse looked down at the still-smoking jar remains. "You named it?"

"It's a 'him'! Of course I named him! You don't let a spark creature chew on your robe and not name him."

He winced. "I panicked. You startled me. I'm sorry!"

"Oh, I startled you?" She clasped her head in agony. "I came here to provide emotional support and instead you obliterated my spark-child." Then she reached into a pouch she'd carried with herself and took out a bottle amidst the empty mason jars inside. "Also, I brought Logan Primes. Want one?"

"W-what? Weren't you devastated just now?"

"Oh. Right!" She went back to clasping her head. "Why did you murder my child? He was going to open a moss café."

"Liene." Fabrisse sighed exasperatedly.

Liene sighed as if she wanted to out-exasperate Fabrisse's sigh. "Meh. He was kind of annoying anyway. So, you want a Logan Prime?"

Fabrisse stared at the bottle Liene had produced like it was a cursed relic from a con artist's vault. The label pulsed with aether-laced ink, and the tagline beneath the logo read, 'Rejuvenate your core. Realign your vibe.'

"I don't drink that," Fabrisse said.

"Why not? It's good. This one's Prismberry."

"You know it's made by Logan Thaumwright, right?"

"The alchemy influencer?"

"The scammy one who got kicked from the Synod's apprentice track for selling fake runestones. Now he sponsors tier-1 duelists and says things like 'drink Prime, get sublime.'"

Liene looked at the bottle. "Huh. That explains the aggressive branding." Liene looked at the bottle again, then casually chucked it over her shoulder. It bounced off a rock with a hollow fzzzt.

She then flicked her fingers in a lazy sideways spiral. "Hold still."

"Why?" Fabrisse asked, not moving.

A shimmer of pale mint spiraled into the air, catching the sunlight. The breeze around him suddenly felt cooler and drier. Liene moved her hand in slow, concentric loops, and it felt like the currents around Fabrisse were braided into a calm, directional stream.

His skin felt cooler. The ache in his fingers eased slightly.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Driftcurrent Spiral," she said, as if naming a sandwich. "It's one of the air-based restoratives I learned about last year. You can think of it as a breeze hug that helps clear aether buildup and stabilize breath intake."

"Doesn't that drain your aether reserves?"

She made a dismissive noise. "Naaaaah."

Fabrisse didn't question it. Not out loud, anyway. The restorative air curled around him like a second skin, lifting the weight from his shoulders and easing the cramp in his knees. He could think again. His hands stopped shaking. His next breath came easier.

Then Liene yawned.

She let the mint shimmer spiral once more before it waned. "Okay. That's enough. I'm—uh—gonna take a nap now. No particular reason." She dropped backward into the grass with a muffled thump, arms spread out in full dramatic sprawl, bleary-eyed. "I just feel like napping. Don't mind me."

Fabrisse glanced over. "You're not even pretending to sit upright."

She didn't answer. She was already sprawled.

Fabrisse tilted his head and activated a spell.

It definitely drained her reserves.

Fabrisse looked at her again. She was breathing fine, just . . . horizontally, in the middle of the field.

He shook his head and stood. He could get one more while she fake-napped her way back to 3 FP.

He moved to a clearer patch of wildgrass and crouched low. A Skitterwhit hovered nearby, nose twitching toward a sprig of sweetroot.

Fabrisse waited, and timed his shot with newfound focus.

Yes. Six.

He was about to look for a seventh when he heard a soft rustle. Just beyond the thicket to his right. It wasn't the zip-zap hover of a Skitterwhit nor the wind brushing whispergrass.

It was more like a slow crunch of leaf litter.

An animal?

He activated his Auditory Dissipation Field and Liminal Presence Drift. He moved low, slow, hugging the bend of a half-fallen log as he slid toward the source of the rustling.

A branch dipped. He brushed the grass aside, and found . . . nothing.

There was a flattened patch of grass, and that was it. No footprints were visible. The flattened grass wasn't quite in the direction the rustle had come from, but at this point, Fabrisse wasn't even sure if he'd heard the sound right anymore.

He paused behind a low hedge and waited.

Nothing more came.

His internal ping for threats remained blank.

He slowly canceled his stealth spells and exhaled.

Probably just a foraging badger or one of those bark-splitter deer.

He kept a stone in hand, this time fully charged before he looked for target number seven.