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

Fabrisse exhaled slowly, eyes closed, legs folded awkwardly on the floor of Rolen's makeshift training alcove—if you could call a place lined with scorched shelves, broken sigil plates, and buzzing artifacts 'makeshift.' Fabrisse didn't know why the artifacts buzzed as if they held a can of portable lightning inside, but he assumed that was just something high-level items do.

The room had gotten hotter. Not from a flame, but from him.

He wasn't sweating; not anymore. The first few days had been hours—burning brain fog, nosebleeds, a near panic attack when the Lodestone cracked a little—but he'd made it through.

And now he was casting a passive fire spell without even moving.

It was deceptively useful—if you knew what you were doing. The boost only triggered when another Fire spell was active in close proximity, or if he was casting one himself, since SYN was only useful during the stage of synchronization, which was decidedly before the spell was cast.

Because SYN affected a spell before it was even released, the trick was to stay in motion and keep spellwork flowing like a chain reaction. However, this spell would still be helpful right now, for as long as Tommaso was near.

The air around him gleamed, not from heat, but from a soft optical haze that dulled his presence in the aether.

"Not bad," Rolen said, stepping into the ripple of warmth with a raised brow. "You picked that up faster than I expected, especially considering your almost nonexistent Fire affinity."

Fabrisse cracked one eye open. "So that's praise?"

"That's an observation," Rolen gave him a cheeky smile. "But yes, praise as well. Good control of Glasveil will do more than just hide your aura or push your synchronization. It'll build the affinity itself. A trickle now, but give it time."

"It can do that?"

"Use it enough, let the aether resonate, and the bond deepens." Rolen gestured toward him. "Ask the Eidralith. See what it says."

Fabrisse focused. The familiar pane of script shimmered to life in his mind's eye.

His mouth fell open. That was at 45! It went up!

"So?" Rolen said, amused.

"So?! The Eidralith agrees!"

"Then congratulations," Rolen said dryly. "But time is of the essence and you need to learn your second spell."

Fabrisse straightened a little. "Another fire one?"

"Of course. You're already primed. We'll keep it basic: Cindermark."

Before Fabrisse could ask what that meant, Rolen raised one hand.

A vertical flare of orange fire appeared from his palm, punching upward in a clean, narrow column. It reached nearly to the ceiling before fizzling out without a sound, nor heat, nor smoke, nor any scorch mark.

"It's a signal spell," Rolen said, lowering his hand. "Used to mark positions, call for backup, or send a warning. Because you only focus on the flare and remove the need to call upon heat at all, it can travel rather far even at the base level."

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Fabrisse blinked. "You didn't even move."

"That was the move," Rolen replied. "Cindermark is all about control. You're not building a fireball. Now take out your Lodestone."

Fabrisse reached into his robe. The cool weight of the Lodestone settled into his palm, and immediately, he felt the resonance thread open. He really wished he'd unlocked some synergistic channeling with Celestial Hoarding already—then the spell might've triggered even from inside his robe. Gravelkin (Rank II) would allow him to tap into that.

But using 10 Earth Thaumaturgy mastery points on a spell would be a big commitment, and this was only a training scenario. He hadn't even had the time to fully check if there were skills yet to be registered in Eidralith's system, between training like mad and not getting kidnapped, and ideally, he wouldn't make commitments he didn't have a full understanding of.

He stared at his own outstretched hand, brow furrowed in concentration. He tried to picture the spell the way Rolen had: clean, narrow, efficient.

He gathered heat, shaped a draft of fire in his mind, and . . . nothing. Of course. Nothing.

"First problem," Rolen said, nudging Fabrisse's elbow with two fingers, "your arm's too high. You're choking the flow. Let it drop slightly—yes, like that. Now square your shoulders."

Fabrisse adjusted, feeling awkward.

Rolen tapped his spine next. "Back straight. You're collapsing your conduit line from the base. Fire doesn't like bending around corners."

"Conduit line?"

"Your posture is part of the casting. Think of your bones as channels, not scaffolding." He circled around to face him. "There's a reason people with weak affinities can still cast—because alignment makes up the difference. So align."

Fabrisse tried again, this time taking a breath to steady himself.

Rolen watched carefully, then added, "When you raise your arm, don't lead with your hand. Lead with intent. Like pointing, but from the chest. Your center of will, not your wrist."

"This is starting to sound like martial arts."

Rolen smiled faintly. "That's because it is. The aether responds to form. Now reset, and I'll give you a mnemonic to anchor the motion."

"But you don't use a mnemonic."

"There are more than one way to cast a spell," Rolen said. "You can take shortcuts once your mastery of the element elevates."

Are there, though? Intuitively, there obviously should be, but he had only ever seen one Aetheric Reaction Equation for every skill he got.

Before he could even voice the doubt aloud, the Eidralith jumped at him.

Oh, really? Two casting profiles for the same spell? I have to see it for myself.

His hand curled, steady now. He needed this to work.

He reset his posture. Bones aligned, chest open, breath measured. He remembered Rolen's instruction: lead from the center. Not the wrist. Not the shoulder. Will first, motion second.

Rolen nodded in approval. "Good. Now repeat after me." He raised two fingers, then intoned clearly:

"Ash above, ember below.
Sight the flame and let it go."

He let the intent surge from somewhere behind his sternum, not his fingers. The heat responded this time, not as a blaze, but a thread of warmth that twisted upward—

fwsshh—

A thin column of orange light burst from his palm, barely half a meter high. It fizzled out in under half a second.

But it was a flare.

He blinked. "Did you see that?! It looked awesome for . . . half a second."

Rolen gave a single nod. "That was 'crazy-yo', or whatever you younglings say these days." Nobody used 'crazy-yo' ever.

The Eidralith responded:

Fabrisse grinned like an idiot. "I knew it was possible."

"Then do it a thousand more times," Rolen said. "Until you can turn possibilities into certainty."