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

The puffball didn't even squeak as the Stupenstone hit it. It simply sparked, stiffened, and dropped like a feather.

Fabrisse stood slowly, stretching out one sore shoulder and letting out a long exhale. His fingers were covered in dirt. His legs ached again. But he'd done it.

He looked out across the Eastern Field.

There were still Skitterwhits everywhere. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them were still hovering, flitting, sparking, zipping between grass stalks like someone had shaken up a bottle of magical static and dumped it over a lawn.

"Wait. How are there still this many?"

A familiar barefoot presence strolled up beside him. "Do you know where Tom is?" It was Liene.

"No idea."

"Did he say when he'll be back?"

"It's Tom. Of course not."

"There's no way we're clearing all of them without Tom," Fabrisse said.

"Nope."

"So we're sitting here now?"

"It's better than go look for him. We might get lost and he might get lost trying to find us."

They sat under the settling sun, where patches of darker green and brown suggested dips and rises, all cloaked in the fading light. For a moment, the only sounds were the faint buzzing of distant Skitterwhits and the sleepy creak of a wind-chime swaying from the aetheric post that stood like a crooked shepherd's staff planted in the earth. That post gave the faculty a way to track magical disturbances, and they made good hangers for wind-chimes and bird-lanterns.

Fabrisse rubbed a dirt smear off his cheek and waited for the inevitable: the moment when Liene would start babbling about nothing in particular.

Usually, when they sat like this, she talked about things like what animal would win in a mud-wrestling tournament (her money was still on badgers), or whether socks were a form of emotional protection, or how the entire moon-cycle calendar was actually a government scam to keep thaumaturges from napping during proper aether tides.

But today, she pulled a book from her satchel. Not a notebook. Not a comic scroll. A book.

Fabrisse stared at the cover, then stared at Liene like she was a gargoyle.

Advanced Principles of Structured Lumen Theory and Applied Restoration Weaving: An Academic Companion to Light Thaumaturgy Across the Nine Affinities.

"You study now?" He asked.

She cracked the spine and flipped to a chapter titled Spectral Diffusion and Emotional Harmonics in Tertiary Healing Zones and summoned a tiny light-wisp between her fingertips. "My study light," she murmured, before dimming the light-wisp a bit. "Is this brightness okay for you?"

"It's fine."

"Tell me if it's too bright."

"Thank you." Liene was one of the few who were aware of his light sensitivity, and she'd always asked him if a certain level of brightness was acceptable. However, he hadn't always remembered to thank her, so he made sure to do so this time.

The orb hovered obediently above the page, glowing a pale gold, perfectly steady and shockingly bright despite is miniscule size.

"I'm a final-year student now, Fabri," she said, dead serious. "The earlier I graduate, the earlier I can go back to bumbling around. My parents already said I can't go see the regional bison fighting if I don't pass my finals."

Fabrisse stared harder. "So you're doing advanced restoration theory . . . to go watch bison fights?"

"They wear armor and charge each other with aetheric power. It's cultural."

Sometimes Fabrisse forgot Liene was still an enrolling student of the Synod due to how much unauthorized arcane tomfoolery she was up to. Sometimes, he forgot how austere of a family she was from. He couldn't name a single Lugano who wasn't a pillar of arcane discipline. Her father had been a High Magus Instructant. Her mother too. Her cousins all held posts in different Synod branches.

The path was obvious.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"So that was why you went on an excursion for half a year?" Fabrisse asked.

"Kinda," Liene said. "Lorvan sent me to a clinic."

"A what?"

"A real clinic!" She confirmed. "Healing spells, support work, aether triage. He said my affinity profile made me a good candidate." She conjured a tiny spiral of golden light above her palm, then popped it like a soap bubble. "I've got a knack for light-aligned restoration, you know."

Why a clinic, Fabrisse asked himself. If Lorvan wanted her groomed for an institutional post, he could've made her an assistant mentor or researcher within a heartbeat.

But then again . . . it was Liene.

"Did you do well?"

Liene shrugged, pulling up one knee and resting her chin on it. "Technically. I mean, I healed people and oversaw no death."

"Well, that's good—"

"But emotionally," she added, "I don't think I'd be a great nurse."

"Why?"

She looked up at the canopy of clouds. "Because patients don't like it when you sing while doing wound closure. Or ask them if they've considered becoming slightly less frail."

Fabrisse gave her a look.

Liene grinned without looking back. "Apparently 'Whispermint' is not a substitute for 'Staunchroot.' Who knew?"

He shook his head. "So what do you want to do?"

"I don't know," she said softly. "Maybe I'll be a nurse anyway. A field nurse, though. I don't want myself stationed at any major academy. Just . . . far from the structured stuff."

"Really?"

"Why not?" she said, shrugging with both shoulders. "It's quiet out there. I'd get to sleep in trees and catch fireflies. Maybe my mother can't ground me if I move far enough East. I'm twenty and still get grounded, Fabri. Can you believe it?" She broke into a quiet giggle.

"I thought Lorvan does the grounding."

"Lorvan hands me punishment so mom doesn't hand me a worse one." She grinned. "Sometimes, he even lets me sneak out, as long as I don't cause trouble."

"Well, I think you'd be a good nurse, Liene."

It was her turn to stare at him like he was a gargoyle. "Huh?"

"You're good with people. You're not afraid of weird situations. You remember which spells make people feel better. And . . ." He paused. "You brought me a fake energy drink and spent your own reserves just so I wouldn't collapse on fuzz duty."

Liene blinked rapidly. "Aww. That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in a while." She folded her hands in her lap, and for a split second, her usual grin softened into something quieter.

"Wait. Actually, no. You're also a bit of an airhead."

Her face instantly scrunched up. "Excuse me?"

"You wandered into the middle of a pest control mission barefoot and started scooping up magical vermin in a mason jar. Not nurse material."

Liene clutched her chest. "You monster. I mourned Moxley! You saw that!"

"You named him after knowing him for five minutes."

She threw her arms up. "Okay, fine, maybe I am an airhead sometimes. But look who's talking, Mr. Stone-Thrower Extraordinaire! Have you figured out what to do with your life yet?"

"Uh . . ." He scratched the back of his head. "I got admitted into the Wing of Stratal Studies. They do lots of theoretical work there. I kinda . . . want to become an aetheric geologist."

Liene tilted her head. "Oh, okay. Fair. Are you doing well?"

"Kind of. The Assistant there is giving me tasks I can actually do. I think if I keep it up for another semester, he can even write me a referral letter for sanctioned field trips."

Liene gave a small smile. "That's actually really good. Like, real progress-good. I'm proud of you."

Fabrisse scratched his head harder. "Thanks."

She gave him a nudge with her elbow. "I think you're going to be one of those cool field researchers who taps a rock with a tuning rod and instantly tells what decade it formed in."

He laughed under his breath. "That's not how it works."

"It will be once you invent the spell for it." Liene grinned and tucked her knees up to her chest.

Fabrisse rolled a pebble between his fingers. "If I ever do, I'm naming it after myself. 'Fabrisse's Stratopulse' or something equally ridiculous."

"Ooooh. Or maybe 'Geochirp.' That sounds cuter." She scooted a little closer, her bare feet brushing his boot. "You've got to market it, Fabri. If you're going to be one of those research types, you need dramatic names. They won't fund your grant if your spell sounds boring."

"Geochirp is not dramatic. It sounds like something a rock would say while napping."

She giggled, and nudged his side with her elbow again. "Exactly! That's the charm."

Fabrisse glanced over, but she was already digging back into her bag, retrieving the Advanced Light Thaumaturgy textbook and flipping it open to her marked page. She summoned the same pale gold wisp as earlier, and this time she adjusted it by wiggling two fingers so the glow angled toward the page, and coincidentally cast a mellow glow across both of their laps.

She settled in with a little sigh, and then . . . leaned her back against him. The ends of her blond hair grazed over his shoulder, tickling him.

Huh? Since when is she this close?

"Fabri. Hold still for a moment, will you?" She whispered. "I want to concentrate."

"I am still."

"Good." Her whisper became even softer.

Liene didn't say anything and just focused on reading (or at least tried to) for a while.

Fabrisse could tell she was rereading the same paragraph several times. Eventually, she closed the book, placing one hand flat against the cover like it might flutter away otherwise.

". . . I've been thinking," she murmured.

Fabrisse, still trying to flick dirt from his cuffs, glanced at her sidelong. "Oh no."

She didn't laugh this time. "Maybe I'll take a year off after graduation."

He stared at her. "What? Why?"

"I don't know. I've just—been in the system for so long. You know how it is. I've never even had time to figure out what I actually like. I think I want to try things, like riding wyverns! Or learning underwater cartography. Or painting cave murals using only resonance ink and my left hand. You know, dumb soul-searching stuff."

"That's not dumb," Fabrisse said after a pause. "Just aimless."

"Exactly," she said brightly. She leaned back slightly, enough for her head to rest just a little more solidly against his shoulder. "Hey . . . if you graduate in time," she said, voice suddenly quieter, "do you want to . . . you know . . . maybe come with me?"

He replied too quickly for any mood to form. "Come with you where?"

"Not sure yet. East, maybe. There's a whole region near Densul where the terrain still mutates after aetherstorms. Or south, where there's a rumor of buried cities that are, well, buried. I just . . . I think it'd be more fun with someone who could explain the rocks to me." She smiled to herself. "Or at least throw them."

Fabrisse turned the idea over in his head like a stone he didn't yet know the weight of.

"I know Thaumaturgy wasn't your first choice," Liene added, more gently now. "You enrolled because of the invitation. And the free tuition. But once we start finding jobs . . . you'll earn enough to enroll in a new discipline. Something you really want to learn. Like actual Geomancy, or Decorative Divination."

He didn't say anything. He could feel the intentions behind her words. This wasn't just about riding wyverns or quitting institutional magic. It wasn't even really about Densul or the buried cities. Her body language, the angle of her shoulder, the way she leaned back without looking like she was leaning in—it was all loaded with something . . . else.

His fingers curled slightly against the dirt, grounding himself.

Liene wasn't usually subtle. When she wanted something, she either stole it, announced it, or pranked it into existence. But this . . . this was tentative. And carefully delivered. She was giving him outs in every phrase.

He felt like he should know her intentions by now.

Her voice dropped further, almost shy. "Or we could learn something together. You know. If you want to."

But do I want to?

The grass convulsed. A ripple tore through the field like a silent shockwave, and from the darkest patch of moss near the aetheric post, something surged.

A Skitterwhit.

A Skitterwhit the size of a boar, pitch black, a void in the shape of fuzz, absorbing every ray of light the setting sun tried to cast on it. Even the ambient wisp Liene had summoned shrunk in its presence.

Liene sprang up from where she sat, nearly tripping over her own book. "AETHER'S TOES!" she yelped, leaping away from Fabrisse. "WHAT IS THAT?!"

The monstrosity hovered just inches off the ground, and the grass beneath it curled inward, crisping like it had been pulled into a shadow furnace.

Fabrisse stood, his hands shaking. This . . . must be the 'nothing' I sensed earlier.

That was the color of the void.

This creature meant violence.