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

Fabrisse crouched and reached down to the pebble he had set aside—Gravelkin, the only Stupenstone he'd ever named. Its surface was polished smooth, with a slight seam near the base like a birthmark.

Maybe a sharper cut could knife through the breeze more cleanly. But it wouldn't curve. And he needed the curve.

Fabrisse rolled Gravelkin between his palms once, then gripped it firmly in his throwmitt.

He knew he potentially had one skill, Gravelkin (Rank II), which allowed Gravelkin to mimic simple shapes. This had to be the time to use it.

He opened the Mastery interface.

He had been saving up for later, but this was as good as it could get for him if he were to spend 10 Mastery points on something. Not only would it aid him now, it would allow him to gain the benefit of the Lodestone immediately without having to actually hold it in his hand. If this new unlock allowed him to finish the Arc Pebbles quest, it was like getting an immediate 2 Mastery Points rebate. The upside was too good to pass up.

He pressed his thumb to its surface, closed his eyes, and let the shape of Anabeth's pebble play through his mind again—the curve, the balance, the way it had flown like it was born to do it. Then he murmured, low under his breath, a line he came up with on the spot:

"Weight to back, edge to air, curve the wind and split it fair."

He could feel the aether inside his palm stirring, tickling the surface of his skin. The stone responded—hesitantly at first, then with a faint shimmer along its surface. The shape didn't lock in perfectly. The curve was a bit too shallow, the back end not as cleanly rounded. But it was close enough.

Then the memory returned, to when he and Liene had managed to cast joy together. Their joint focus had kindled that shared emotion, enough to touch the ritual bowl with their petal offering. Enough to matter. He had believed in himself then, because she had believed in him too. It hadn't felt like an achievement. It had felt like relief. Like lightness.

He'd sprinted down the hill like a man on fire with laughter, feet barely catching the ground, Dubbie barking madly behind him and never catching up. Wind in his face, voice lost in the air, no shame, no second-guessing.

That feeling. That moment.

His chest lifted. The faintest warmth stirred at the edge of his vision.

Sky-blue sparks flared.

He threw the stone.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Gravelkin left his hand like it had always belonged to the air.

The sheath held, narrow and honed, precise as a needle gliding through fabric. It curved with the glyphlight's spiral, not hesitating once, tracing the arc like it had memorized the path. Sky-blue scintillation clung to its tail, arcing out, bright as frost in the morning sun.

The edge of its flare grazed the side of the second glyph, close enough that Fabrisse saw the wards shiver, threatening to knock the whole casting off its rails. Reflex, not thought, saved him: he curled a single finger in, just enough for his RES to send the stone up a miniscule angle.

The sheath slipped free, firing clean through the second glyph as though nothing had ever been amiss. It missed the third glyph by a breath, too shallow on the approach. So in awe of the motion was Fabrisse that he'd forgotten to correct the path a second time to get him pass the third hurdle. But maybe if he had corrected that path, the curve wouldn't have been that beautiful.

The score lit up beside the line:

"7.5 ARC · 5.8° deviation · 2 GLY-PASS · no chain"

"And what does that translate to?" He looked at Ilya expectantly. He'd already known. It was more than enough.

Rinna actually let out a quiet, "What?" Even Anabeth couldn't have managed a curve like that.

Ilya didn't smile, but her voice carried a distinct upward lilt. "Nine points. Your total is nineteen." She paused, letting the weight of it land. "Congratulations on second place, Kestovar."

Ploosh's jaw dropped. Rinna clicked her tongue and said, "So he does know his stuff."

Anabeth nodded once and said, "Well. Hardly just a theory man anymore, is he?"

Hold on. What's the bonus condition again?

Fabrisse's fists clenched at his sides, not from tension, but to stop himself from bolting straight toward Liene like a madman. His legs twitched with the urge. His chest buzzed like a spell just barely contained. He grinned despite himself and quickly looked down at his boots, stepping on one foot with the other. Calm down, Kestovar. Just breathe.

Liene hadn't moved. She stood at the edge of the line with her arms crossed tight, her expression locked somewhere between pride and panic. Her mouth tugged upward, barely, before she cleared her throat and looked away.

Wait. Does that mean . . . I've unlocked Joy? Can I consistently cast joy now?

The silence lingered a moment longer before—

"Wait, what's the prize?" Anabeth asked, already strolling toward Ilya with her usual poise.

Ilya reached into the crook of her arm and pulled out a third baguette.

Anabeth blinked. "That one's bitten."

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "Do you want it?"

Anabeth stared at the bread, then at Ilya, then back at the bread. ". . . No thanks."

Celine burst out laughing from the sidelines. "Best second-place drama ever. We all know this one's going in the records."

Fabrisse took half a step toward the edge of the field—just enough to signal polite retreat—but Celine was already on him.

"Whoa whoa whoa, where do you think you're going?" she said, cutting him off with a gleam in her eyes.

Ploosh and Anabeth flanked the sides like they'd rehearsed it.

"Second-place reward," Anabeth said, "is a free lunch on us. That's the rule."

"You made that rule up just now," he replied, bewildered.

"Yup," said Celine. "It's binding."

"I—I have to log my cast notes—"

"Your logs can wait," said Ploosh. "This is way more important."

Rinna had already wandered off, muttering something about needing to make her ten-minute appearance in Theory & Application before anyone took attendance. But the rest of the girls were grinning like they were hunters and he was a deer caught in a trap.

He turned to Liene, the only person who might save him. She stood a little outside the circle, hands awkwardly behind her back, clearly trying to act like she wasn't part of this.

She met his eyes and mouthed silently: I'll get us out of here. Don't worry.

And that's when it hit him.

They weren't even that into Arc Pebbles. It would've been obvious by now, because they weren't offered a free skill and two Mastery Points.

He had been the only one taking this seriously.

They were just here to watch him get roped into shenanigans.

Fabrisse closed his eyes and sighed. ". . . Fine," he said.

"Great choice!" Celine called, grabbing him by the elbow. And so, second-place baguette-less but surrounded, Fabrisse was led off the field—not as a loser, and not quite a winner either.

Just a guy with a very good curve, and some very strange friends.