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

He still needed to practice his Stupenstone Fling, but with Liene gone, there were no more moving targets. He wasn't about to start flinging rocks at the frogs loitering near the North Pond either. That would just be rude and karma-inducing. He didn't believe in karma, but he believed in not harming amphibians.

Let's return to the dorm room first and see if I can manufacture a moving target.

So, he trudged back toward his dormitory, fingers absently brushing the aggressive-looking Gravelkin in his satchel (that Liene had returned to him).

Somewhere along the way, he noticed a raven.

It was doing typical avian activities: waddling near a tree stump, pecking at the dirt, fluttering up to a low branch, preening. It even gave a noncommittal squawk when a breeze rattled the branches above it, the way normal ravens sometimes commented on the weather like bitter old men.

Fabrisse slowed anyway. That particular shade of grey in its feathers and the fraying tip on one wing gave it away.

That was Ilya's raven.

Tommaso hadn't followed him today. Neither had Ilya, at least not in person. Which meant they had probably delegated.

The raven met his gaze briefly. It hopped, tilted its head at nothing, and resumed being perfectly ordinary.

Fabrisse was just about to keep walking when the communication glyph stitched onto his sleeve flared black.

A classified reply.

No sender name displayed, but he knew that signature weave. Archmagus Rolen didn't sign his messages, and no one else would bother sending a classified message anyway.

He was about to resume walking again, when another thing happened: shadows trailing from the windowsill of the Department of Aetheric Resonance Research across the path. Inky streaks of darkness slipped out in slow ribbons, tendrils folding over one another like eel-slick cords being fed through invisible pulleys. Fabrisse squinted, instinctively lowering himself into a quieter step. He couldn't see the caster—whoever was inside hadn't stepped into view—but he could see the afterimage of practiced dark-element shaping. Judging by the dull gleam along the shadow's edge, it wasn't beginner level.

The raven gave a single flap and glided down from its branch, landing on a cobblestone uncomfortably close to his foot. Its claws clicked once.

Fabrisse jolted.

Do not be alone at any time. Lorvan's warning resurfaced with perfect clarity.

And if he didn't heed the warnings, the least that would happen was running into Cuman again.

He started walking, all the while muttering to himself, "I'm suddenly the Synod's hottest prospect, for real, huh?" He just wanted to practice throwing rocks.

He advanced exactly three steps before someone stepped into his path—a figure in deep navy robes, hood pulled back just enough to show cropped silver-blond hair and the gleam of official academy trim along the collar.

The man gave a shallow nod. "Fabrisse Kestovar?"

Fabrisse froze.

The man continued, "I'm High Magus Kairon, in service to Archmagus Iveta Monasterie. She's requested your presence."

"The Moonbear Archmagus?"

"Yes, but please don't refer to her that way."

"I'm sorry."

It was no longer in doubt: the universe had conspired for him to not fling another Stupenstone today.

"Why?"

"It concerns the offer she'd made to you the day before."

"Ah."

The raven cawed once.

Kairon knew about the offer Monasterie made to Fabrisse, which could be read as a sign he was trustworthy. However, his mentor Lorvan had introduced him to Rolen, which intuitively would make Rolen the safer option.

"I need to tell my roommate I'll be late, if you'd permit me?" Fabrisse asked.

"That is permitted," Kairon said.

"Okay. Just a moment." Fabrisse gave an apologetic smile and stepped off the path, pretending to fiddle with a ward glyph sewn into his sleeve cuff.

The moment he had his back partially turned, he exhaled and tapped twice on the comm-thread just beneath the black-flared weave. He pressed a fingertip to the edge and started writing on the glyph that surfaced, "Archmagus Rolen. I'm currently en route with High Magus Kairon, under the name of Archmagus Iveta Monasterie. She says it's about her previous offer. I'm just outside East Annex, taking the main path toward Central Hall. Will respond if able."

The glyph faded as soon as he finished.

They moved.

High Magus Kairon didn't lead him toward Central Hall as expected. Instead, he veered toward the side arcades, where the stone archways opened into quieter walkways, then up a slope where it got inexplicably foggy.

Fabrisse glanced around. Wards on the lamp-post sigils buzzed faintly, the enchantments aged and slightly out of tune. He looked down. The bricks underfoot grew older and more uneven. He could tell from the material of the bricks that they were not used to build the newer buildings after the Synod reconstructed their main divisions, which meant these bricks should be at least a few decades old.

His extensive knowledge of building materials told him that something was amiss. This isn't Synod grounds anymore, he thought. Or it is—but not a version I remember.

And the raven was gone.

He stared at Kairon's back. The man walked briskly, confidently, but too quiet. His steps made no sound on the stone. He didn't turn to check if Fabrisse followed, nor did he speak the entire time.

Panic rose fast, bubbling to his throat like a volcano waiting to burst.

No. He forced an exhale, steadying his pace. No. Think like a caster.

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"A good spellcaster doesn't panic," he whispered under his breath. His mind ran the numbers.

There were three viable options: forward, toward wherever Kairon was taking him; left, down the sloped arcade that seemed to spill into a courtyard shrouded in fog; or back the way he came

If he could time a Liminal Presence Drift right, he might be able to get out of here in time.

Darkness lurched from below. Puddles of inky darkness surged from the bricks like grabbing hands.

But they didn't go for him. They went for Kairon.

Kairon reacted instantly. He swung his arm, and a barrier glyph flared across his sleeve, hexagonal and shuddering violet.

"H-how?" Kairon barked. "How did you get in my—" The magus had already been pulled halfway to the ground.

Now. Executing Scoot of Dire Retreat.

His skills activated at once.

Fabrisse slipped into motion, back to the exact path he'd entered through. He walked with a steady, even pace, resisting the urge to sprint or look over his shoulder. Sudden movement draws attention.

The environment around him blurred slightly under Drift. His silhouette became the suggestion of a person rather than a fixed presence. Sound failed to cling to him. The old wards he passed flickered uncertainly, but their detection threads did not catch him.

Kairon was still on one knee, cloak tattered at the edge, but his barrier glyph had reformed—no longer violet, now etched with overlapping circles of dull cobalt. Around him, the black tendrils thrashed, writhing as each one struck a wall and dissolved into ashes.

"Clever bastards," Kairon spat, voice crackling with magical distortion. "I'll get your apprentice one way or another."

Fabrisse didn't stay to watch the rest. The fog at the lower slope billowed, but he bypassed it.

He passed the crooked gutter rune. Then the lopsided lamppost. Then the crack in the bricks that looked vaguely like a yawning dog.

The fog had thinned behind him. The chill in the air retreated. Everything returned to normal.

Then someone stepped into view ahead.

High Magus Kairon.

From the opposite direction.

His pace was casual this time. Confident, but not hurrying. Gone were the signs of magical distress, and his robes no longer possessed the tears.

He looked like he'd just come from a faculty tea break.

Fabrisse halted. Cold sweat broke across his back. His mouth felt too dry.

"Fabrisse Kestovar," Kairon greeted, tone steady and polite, "Archmagus Iveta Monasterie has requested your presence."

Fabrisse stared at him.

Kairon's voice was the same. His posture was the same. Except . . . this time, he was ahead of Fabrisse, not behind him.

His head whipped around.

The muted walkway, the one of brittle bricks and buzzing old sigils . . . was gone.

The path behind him now showed nothing but standard paving stones and a view of the East Annex quad. Bright, structured, restored. The garden hedge he'd passed earlier swayed in the breeze like nothing strange had ever happened.

He turned back. Kairon still stood there, hands at his sides.

"I believe she'd like to speak to you regarding yesterday's offer," he repeated.

Fabrisse's mind raced.

Was he in some kind of trance? Had the first Kairon been a fake? Or was this one the imposter?

Wait. The skills I attempted earlier were counted as part of a 'combat' . . .

Before he could decide what to say or whether to bolt, another voice cut through the air behind him.

"Hello."

He nearly jumped.

Ilya stepped into view from the East Annex hedge path, calm as always, as if she hadn't just materialized out of nowhere. Her raven, now perched on her shoulder, tilted its head and hollered a clack.

She gave Kairon a once-over. "High Magus Kairon."

Kairon regarded her with faint surprise, or perhaps the faint mimicry of it. "You know me?"

"I've seen you accompany Archmagus Monasterie. North Zunga sector. Northern Pioneer Troop, Second Deployment Unit."

"We are heading to the Central Wing," Kairon said.

"Me too," Ilya replied.

Neither invited nor dismissed, she fell into step behind Kairon, trailing just far enough that it was clear she wasn't accompanying him.

Fabrisse stared at her back for half a second longer than he should have, then moved to follow.

He didn't ask her why she was here.

He already knew.

She's here to ensure I don't disappear.

But that left another question tangled in the back of his mind, the one he'd been avoiding since he'd escaped that strange fog-bound path.

What about those dark hands?

The ones that had attacked Kairon. Or . . . whatever that version of Kairon was.

He turned the memory over carefully, cautiously, as they walked.

That version of the Synod hadn't matched anything on official maps. The material of the bricks, the age of the wards, the smell of the air itself—all of it was off, as though it belonged to a place adjacent to their own. Parallel, but not aligned.

He remembered, too well, how it had felt the last time something had dragged him close to the Void.

So the earlier Kairon wasn't Kairon. That thing had been luring him deeper.

Which meant—

The hands of darkness had saved him.

His feet moved of their own accord. The steady rhythm of the cobblestone walk kept him grounded as his mind reeled forward.

Who had cast those hands?

The caster must've been inside that windowed building earlier. But what kind of caster breaks a Void projection like that? Not with fire or light, not even with pure force, but with darkness?

At first, he'd thought it was coincidence. But the more he thought about it, the more the logic fell into place.

The fake Kairon had come prepared. The trap was deliberate. But so had the other caster. They were already stationed there, as if they had anticipated the snare.

But was the trap Void at all? From his last encounter, Void had either lacked a distinct color, or it had been pitch black. When he was in whatever that mirage was, the colors were only dulled. He couldn't tell.

Looks like I need to borrow a few books on Dark Magic from the Synod library.

The comm glyph flared again, not black but blue. Unclassified.

Fabrisse pressed a finger to the rune and opened the thread.

A single line glowed on the glyph.

Information received. I have assigned help should I not arrive in time. — Rolen

It all makes sense now. That was Rolen's aid.

He was sure of it. There was no other way to explain the timing, the precision, the fact that those hands hadn't targeted him.

"Apprentice Kestovar," Kairon said ahead, tone crisp. "You can stop walking now."

Only when Kairon spoke again did he realize they'd arrived. His body had been walking on autopilot the entire time.

Fabrisse blinked, looking up at the looming façade of the Central Wing. Then he looked forward to spot Ilya walking away from him and Kairon, acting like she had somewhere else to be.

Right. He was still being summoned.