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

Fabrisse had once wished his fellow students would no longer call him The Chosen One or Wet Goblin behind his back. Today, his wish had been granted.

Unfortunately, they had simply come up with something worse.

"Oh look. It's the petal hugger!" Someone stage-whispered from under the shade of the east archway as he walked past the campus courtyard.

"I heard he has problems with uncontrolled touching of other people," another voice chimed in from a study table in a tone full of genuine concern. "One time he even tried to touch Archmagus Rolen's nose!"

"That's just a baseless rumor," came the sage reply. "You can't touch Archmagi's noses without permission."

It was almost like they'd made sure to make him hear it.

Fabrisse didn't stop walking. He didn't run, either. That would've been worse. He just marched stiffly, past the ivy-covered lecture hall, past the dew court, past the group of girls fanning themselves with spellwork notes as they tried—and failed—not to laugh too loudly.

"Did you see how he held her? Right in the middle of the sanctified basin spiral. I almost cried."

One girl caught sight of him as he passed, and instead of whispering, actually jumped to her feet and whistled with both fingers in her mouth.

"You're the best!" she called. "We ship you!"

Fabrisse's face turned seven different shades of no-thank-you.

Great. Now I'm a walking romance subplot.

From somewhere behind him, another voice shouted, "Give her a spin next time, petal hugger!"

He broke into a jog.

Fabrisse didn't stop until he'd put three courtyards, one spirit fountain, and a very judgmental statue of Archmagus Draeth (the father of the current Archmagus Draeth) between him and the last shout.

Only then did he duck behind the old glasshouse near the east arboretum—a place no one visited anymore because it smelled of overripe mingleberry and moldy incense. The vines had swallowed the bulk of the greenhouse wall, but there was still a small bench beneath one warped windowpane.

He collapsed onto it with a sigh, hands braced on his knees. His ears were still hot. His dignity was probably being held hostage in some group glyphchat.

"Okay," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Fine. You know what? Let's see what all that panic-hugging got me."

There was one burning question in his head: Is there any way I can brute force my way into mastering Stone Resonant Carry, Rank II, or are Mastery Points the only way?

Fabrisse squinted at the skill list, jabbing a finger at the newest passive.

He focused on Stone Resonant Carry (Rank I).

Meditate? That's not what Thaumaturges do. We aren't Monks. But for the rest? I probably can work with that.

"I heard you hugged Liene and she sniffed your neck in front of everyone," came a sudden voice.

He recognized the voice. That was Ilya. She was standing a few paces away, aetheric ink glowing along her fingertips as she traced a complicated lattice spell midair.

Fabrisse's soul left his body. "That is categorically untrue. Also . . . why are you here?"

"I'm your assigned guardian," she said, adjusting one floating sigil. "I go where you go. Are you ready to reconcile with Ardefiamme?"

Fabrisse found it kind of weird how she'd always refer to her literal boyfriend by his last name, but maybe Tommaso found it endearing.

Fabrisse slouched further down the bench like gravity had increased just for him. "No. I am not ready to reconcile with Ardefia—Tommaso. Especially not today."

"He has an idea, and he told me to tell you about it. It can help with your innate resonance, he said."

"But . . . resonance is innate." The whole point of 'innate' was that it couldn't be changed.

"Have you ever aetherically interacted with a leyfield?"

"Yes." His petal had, when he was busy hugging Liene yesterday.

"Do you know there's one right above your head right now?"

"Huh?"

Ilya reached into the air and flicked her fingers twice before murmuring a chant that sounded more like a children's skipping rhyme than an incantation,

"Thread and shimmer, fold and line,
Veins of sky and roots combine."

The aetheric ink flaring blue-gold for a half-second before she snapped her fingers and launched a thread-thin spark straight ahead.

A long, twisting filament of faint, golden light appeared overhead. It looked like someone had drawn a river through the sky with a glowing thread. Faint flickers of magenta and frost-white shimmered along its edges, barely perceptible unless you stared directly at it.

Fabrisse's jaw dropped. "That's—"

"That's a minor leyline," Ilya said calmly. "Not a deep vein, but clean enough. It's been here for decades. They built the arboretum around it."

Fabrisse stared upward, the glow dancing faintly in his eyes. "I've walked through here a hundred times. I have never seen—"

"Because your resonance isn't tuned to it. Yet." She tilted her head, spellwork still orbiting her wrist like lazy moons. "But maybe we can change that."

A mental ping came from the system.

A Questline?

Wait, what do you mean lock me out? What other tuning pathways?

The system remained blissfully silent.

"So?" Ilya folded her arms, and her spellwork disappeared. "Do you fancy the idea?"