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

He charged his Stupenstone for what felt like less than a second and released.

The pebble arced even more beautifully than in his training runs with Tommaso. The throwmitts steadied his grip; the angle was clean; the follow-through smooth. Amber sparks followed the pebble like celebratory fireflies. It soared in a gentle rise, then curved downward just the way he had wanted it to be. It must've been the best throw he'd ever made.

The first glyphlight lit like a torch.

The second lit like a torch, but brighter.

The third didn't.

The stone dipped too early, sliding off its line. He scrambled to twist his hand and send it on an upward arc, but it was too late. The stone skidded into the grass just past the second checkpoint.

Above the field, the band of glyphscript read:

"4.8 ARC · 8° deviation · 2 GLY-PASS · no chain"

Ilya took a bite of her baguette, chewed thoughtfully, and called out, "Five points."

He felt his fingers curl in frustration. His throw was better than Ploosh's worst; better than his own usual throws. But this was supposed to be a Rank III throw, and that looked nothing like a Rank III skill. He had the mitts on, his Silvian quartz in his pockets, and everything.

It all happened too fast. Even though he only had 11 registered RES, he knew the unspecified boost from the Silvian quartz would add up to over 15, enough for him to bend the arc of the stone during flight. He'd tried.

"Not bad," Celine called out from the bench. "At least your pebble didn't cry on the way down, like your Liene!"

"I'm right here!" Liene yelled.

Fabrisse adjusted the strap on his throwmitt and paced a slow semicircle around the edge of the casting line. His eyes traced the glyphlights, the curvature of the ground, the tall scoring banner waving gently with the breeze. The breeze! I noticed it this time. The wind wasn't enough to disrupt a heavy throw, but enough to toy with a pebble.

He bent his knees, lined the mitts against his thigh, and let his breath steady into rhythm with the flag's swaying. His next throw had to be better. He was already calculating the release curve, re-plotting the angle of the breeze against the glyphlights, when he noticed Anabeth staring, wide-eyed.

Wait. Anabeth?

The mitt strap bit against his wrist. Why her? They'd spoken maybe twice before today.

She crossed the grass in deliberate, almost reverent steps. He tightened his grip on the pebble, the familiar weight suddenly treacherous. Her friends were whispering, craning to see too, as though they couldn't believe she was actually moving closer.

She stopped just short of the casting line, leaned in, and peered at the pebbles in his pouch. Then, in a whisper low enough to drown beneath the wind, she asked, "Is that a Silico-Dormant Obscura, Grade Theta?"

His throat went dry. He managed, "Yes."

Her eyes widened further, gleaming. "You really are the Chosen One."

It clicked like a glyphlock.

No one had ever managed to aetherically fling a Stupenstone. The idea was almost heretical in its impossibility. But here was the twist: barely anyone even knew these stones were Stupenstones. To most, they were just rocks with a fancy academy nickname. It took a specialist, a genuine rock zealot, to recognize one at a glance.

"What other stones can you handle? Lazurite Nullborn?" She named another rock that was notoriously inert.

"I can only throw this."

"You jest." Her eyes widened even more. Her face was pretty round with puffy rosy cheeks, and when she stared at him with her big round eyes, she looked uncannily like a doll.

Fabrisse's eyes veered left. Celine was scribbling madly into her notebook, her quill darting like it was chasing fireflies. His stomach tightened. If she recorded this wrong—if she spread it—

Anabeth followed his gaze and said in a voice pitched just for him, "We'll have time to talk about this. I'll meet you in the Wing."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The Wing? His pulse stumbled. Did she mean his Wing? Substratal Studies?

Okay. I can't care about this now. It's distracting.

Anabeth returned to her position, and Rinna immediately asked her something, presumably about why she had come over. Anabeth just shook her head.

Fabrisse rolled his next Stupenstone between his fingers. The calibration had to be tighter. His angle had been good, but too passive in the follow-through. He needed a firmer push to keep the pebble from listing under pressure.

He breathed in, visualized the glyphpath, and channeled the charge just below overcast.

This time, when he released it, he knew it was better. His stone moved at a sharp angle, just grazing the optimal arc curve. He even accounted for the breeze with a slight wrist torque on the exit.

The stone flew. It sang.

First glyphlight: lit.

Second glyphlight: brighter.

Third glyphlight . . . swayed by the wind.

The stone dipped, caught a whisper of wind, and veered just two degrees wide. It struck the grass past the target, again, just past the second checkpoint. The board lit:

"4.8 ARC · 6° deviation · 2 GLY-PASS · no chain"

"Curses . . ." He slapped a mitt on his forehead.

"Still five," Ilya called, tearing off another bite of her baguette.

He stayed crouched, staring at the trail of sparks the pebble left in the air. It had the distance. It just didn't have the stability.

His meager 11 RES wasn't enough to stabilize the tail end. Even though he had the strength to reach the target, the pebble wobbled near the end like it had lost confidence. His channeling couldn't maintain the kinetic sheath through the final glyphlight.

Then what went wrong?

The realization hit with clarity. He looked up at the field again—the glowing glyphlights, the invisible current of the air, the way sparks trailed behind a stone like it had a dream to chase. To beat this wind, he had to feel real joy.

But how could he evoke joy when he could only think about his last two failed attempts?

"Fabrisse Kestovar. Your final try," Ilya said, voice carrying over the field. "I've called you two times already."

He blinked. The glyphlights faded from his peripheral vision as he looked up, dazed. He'd been so deep in his own self-reprimanding loops that he hadn't heard a word.

A flutter of footsteps approached.

"Hey." Liene jogged up to the casting line, unscrewing the cap on a squat silver flask. "Do you need water? You look like you're about to pass out from overthinking."

He reached up mutely, took the flask, and sipped. It was ice-cold and citrusy, exactly what she always packed. It was always something with lemonroot and mint with her.

"T-thank you," he muttered.

She nodded. "If there's anything—"

Celine called out, "Oh good! Nursemaid Lugano to the rescue. Stand behind him and fix his posture, Liene! You can do it!"

Rinna chimed in from the sidelines. "That's technically not allowed, Liene! Emotional support's an unfair advantage!" Anabeth burst out laughing. Ploosh burst out laughing more loudly.

Fabrisse flushed, tapping the side of his satchel exactly four times. That's unfair. You didn't tease Anabeth when she came over earlier.

He could tell from Liene's red ears that she was just as embarrassed, and that both of them just wanted to walk right away. But she didn't step back. Instead, she leaned in slightly and whispered, "What do you need to feel?"

He hesitated. When he spoke, he could barely hear his own voice, "Joy."

She gave a small nod. "Okay. Then think back to your last happy moment. You were able to cast joy last time, remember? And don't sweat it too much." She smiled, quiet but steady. "It's just a game. You're doing great."

Fabrisse glanced over to the gossip girls. Celine fixed her eyes on Fabrisse and grinned when he looked over. Rinna was about to say something too, but Anabeth gave her a nudge and shushed her with a finger to her lips.

"Fabri," Liene dropped to one knee in front of him. Before he could react, she was already tugging gently at the hem of his sleeve, straightening his cuff and checking the latches on his kinetic mitts with small motions. "Are you feeling nervous?"

"No."

"You're tapping your satchel."

"Oh." He glanced down. He'd been tapping at the side of his stone pouch for probably far more times than he'd have liked. He didn't expect Liene to notice it, nor did he expect him to make a connection between his habit and nervousness, however right or wrong it might be.

She gave him a small shake of her head. "Why did you wear mitts? You always forget to tighten them. If you're going to add more accessories, you should care about the little things like this." She fastened the last strap and hesitated for a breath before glancing up at him. "I—I don't mean it like—I mean. I know you're trying your best. Just have fun. You'll feel the right emotion."

All the girls were quiet now. Fabrisse wasn't sure if they were watching him or waiting for him, but for once, the silence didn't feel mocking. It felt like space.

"Have fun, okay?" Liene smiled at him. "You got this."

Liene finally stepped aside, her eyes lingering on him for just a second longer than necessary before she backed toward the sidelines.