Flinging Rocks at Bureaucrats in a Magical Academy

“This,” Lorvan said as he adjusted his stance. His coat fluttered in the breeze, lined with glowing wards that darkened at the seams, “is Synaptic Threading, Rank I. Mastering this is the first step towards casting under pressure.”

He raised his right arm in a wide arc that narrowed as it looped until his fingers hovered just above his shoulder line. No spell ignited, but Fabrisse felt a ripple of tension that passed his skin.

Most of the time, that was all you got: a sensation. The tension just now felt nothing more than a fleeting shift in temperature and pressure. The aether didn’t make itself obvious unless you coaxed it. Unless your form, breath, and intent lined up just right. When it did, and only then, the threads became visible, like wisps of motion just beyond the skin of the world, followed by sparks of color that either curl like smoke or fall like chalk if you had imbued the spell with emotion.

Fabrisse stood a few paces away, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly unsure where to put his hands.

“You should stop before you actually cast something. Stop at almost-casting. That’s the point.” Lorvan dropped his arm and turned to face Fabrisse. “Spellcraft isn’t just about knowing words or channeling energy. Your body betrays you before your mind does. Every misfire, every early release, every time your focus lapses in a duel—it starts here.”

Every month, Fabrisse could schedule up to five tutoring sessions with his mentor, with a minimum requirement of two, or he’d risk disciplinary action from the Department of Disciplinary Action.

This month was the first time he’d voluntarily requested a session in half a year.

And standing alone with Lorvan in a wind-bitten courtyard before the sun had fully risen, he was starting to regret it. The cold scraped against his skin with a precision that made it hard to focus. The seams of his coat felt too tight; the wind got in anyway.

“Your turn,” Lorvan said. Fabrisse gulped.

His palms were clammy. His focus was jittery. He hadn’t even drawn a spellform yet.

[Basic Synaptic Thread Recognition: +7% Progress]

[Reward: SYN +3 ~ +7]

Lorvan watched him for a moment, then gave a faint sigh. “Well? Come on. Show me you’re really serious.”

Fabrisse nodded and stepped forward, planting his feet the way he'd been taught: shoulders squared, wrist raised at an exact angle.

Lorvan gave a slight tilt of the head. “Good.”

Fabrisse tried not to smile. He exhaled slowly, raised his right arm, and began the first arc.

He didn’t even make it halfway before Lorvan said, “Stop.”

Fabrisse stopped the moment his elbows bent at the most awkward angle.

“I didn’t flinch,” Fabrisse muttered.

“You did. Here.” Lorvan tapped the air just beside his shoulder. “You overcorrected the angle before your wrist could complete the path. Your motion stuttered. That means your focus stuttered.”

Fabrisse lowered his hand. “I thought I was supposed to sync it to the emotion.”

“We’re not practicing with emotions,” Lorvan said. “Right now, you just need to form a clean arc without letting your body fall out of alignment.”

Fabrisse lifted his arm again, slower this time. His shoulder was already aching. His wrist trembled just before he even reached midpoint.

His body wanted to give out.

And he understood, in that moment, exactly why his SYN rating had never risen past a six.

He had an innate inability to maintain composure under even the suggestion of scrutiny. His bones remembered failure before his thoughts had the chance to recover.

He tried again. Do it more slowly. No need to put too much stress on yourself.

He became . . . too slow. His elbow dipped before his shoulder adjusted, and the arc collapsed in on itself.

“Reset,” Lorvan said, already turning his back. “Do it again.”

Fabrisse reset.

Another attempt. Another misalignment. His wrist gave too early. His stance slipped.

“Again.”

His shoulder burned now. His arm shook, barely able to hold itself in the raised position, let alone complete a full arc. He kept trying to adjust. Every arc had at least four things wrong. Every correction added new variables. His brain started to lag behind his body from trying to control too much at once.

Another failed motion.

This time, Lorvan didn’t say anything.

Fabrisse inhaled through clenched teeth and lifted his arm again. The same mistake. His body betrayed him before his thoughts could catch.

And still, no correction came.

He paused, panting.

Lorvan had stopped watching.

The realization hit like a gut punch. His mentor stood a few paces off now, arms crossed, gaze turned somewhere past the courtyard edge. Strangely, it hurt more when he looked away. Fabrisse had been monitoring himself through his mentor’s gaze. Now he had no mirror, only the raw, unfiltered discomfort of failure.

Fabrisse lowered his hand, fighting the wave of shame crawling up his spine. “You’ve already given up on this session.”

“No,” Lorvan said, voice cold. “You did.”

“Huh?”

Lorvan finally looked at him. “You told me at the start, ‘Mentor. No matter what, don’t let me take the easy way out.’ Did you mean that, or were you posturing to feel brave for five minutes?”

Fabrisse flinched harder at those words than any failed motion.

“Then get up.” Lorvan’s voice sharpened. “Raise your arm. Thread again. Fail again if you have to, but move.”

Fabrisse swallowed the breath that wanted to turn into an excuse. His legs trembled. They were about to give in now.

He got down to one knee and lifted his arm.

And tried again.

[Basic Synaptic Thread Recognition: +8% Progress]

[Basic Synaptic Thread Recognition: +15% Progress]

Two hours later, Fabrisse was sprawled on the ground, limbs splayed and breath coming in erratic bursts. The stone tiles of the courtyard pressed cold into his back. He couldn’t move his fingers anymore, and the only signals the muscles in his dominant arm gave now were dull aches.

For a total gain of 11%.

At this rate, it would take seven more sessions just to finish the basics of Synaptic Threading, and that was if he didn’t plateau again.

He didn’t have seven sessions.

He needed 25,000 Kohns to cover next semester’s tuition, and an apprentice’s monthly pay was only 6,000, before deductions. He had just five months left to make it work, including winter break.

The evaluation exam was in a month. He would pass the written components. But passing with theory alone wouldn’t cut it.

The top-tier paid apprenticeships didn’t want textbook scores. They wanted the kind of casting performance that made evaluators underline your name twice.

Maybe I should just drop out, he thought to himself as he stared up at the blue sky.

[WARNING: Focus dropped below 10%.]

Focus (FP): 1/31

[RECOMMENDATION: Take a rest immediately. You will be physically unable to cast a spell if your FP reaches 0.]

This notification had shown up a couple of times now, and he had all but ignored it. Now, it had come along with a Recommendation section attached to it, and that wasn’t a good sign. Fabrisse hadn’t had the time to look into the mechanics behind Focus yet, but he was rather sure what it supposed to mean.

A shadow crossed over him, then Lorvan’s head entered his vision.

“You once said the practical portion of Synaptic Threading was impossible for you before. What changed?” He said.

“The glyph,” he muttered, then gasped for air before continuing, “If I can complete the full threading sequence, it’s projected to give me upwards of seven points in Synaptic Control.”

“How much is that?”

“For reference, right now I have like three.”

Even if it takes more than a month, he thought, forcing his eyes to stay open, the reward is more than worth it.

Lorvan sat down beside him, folding one knee and letting his long coat drape over the cold stone. “Seven points is a good reward then,” he said.

Fabrisse let his head roll to the side, just enough to catch the edges of Lorvan’s profile.

Lorvan went on, “But why now? Why start improving your spellcasting this late in the game, even if the reward’s tempting?” He glanced down at him, one brow lifted. “I don’t know Konan Kahn that well, but I’m sure she’d take in another apprentice if you showed heart and submitted clean theoreticals.”

Fabrisse let the sting of those words fold into his lungs. Then, he whispered, “Min Hajin.”

“Min?”

Fabrisse shut his eyes, still sprawled. “He’s not going to teach me Aetheric Grain Analysis unless I pass Synaptic Resonance I. It’s his condition.”

Lorvan gave a faint sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You’re starting to regret not taking Practical more seriously, huh?”

Fabrisse didn’t answer. The answer sat heavy in his throat, and he couldn’t turn it into words.

Yes.

Yes, he was.

Fabrisse closed his eyes again, willing the world to stop spinning around his bones.

Then, hoarsely, “Mentor. Please.”

Lorvan gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing.

“I know you don’t approve of boosters,” Fabrisse continued. “But just for training. Just enough to push past the limit. I’ve seen the listings—glyphplates tuned to Synaptic acceleration, even resonance stabilizers. I can rent one for two days. If I could just hold the form long enough to stop plateauing—”

“They don’t allow aid in Practical,” Lorvan said. “You know that.”

“I wouldn’t use it for the test, I swear. Just for prep, so my body can feel what alignment’s supposed to be like.”

Lorvan’s silence was louder than before. When he finally spoke, his voice was tired and firm. “And what happens when your body learns to cheat? When it stops learning to hold tension and starts leaning on the device instead?”

“Take a short rest,” Finally, Lorvan said as he glanced at the time glyph woven into the band of his sleeve, a small rotation of geometric runes. Fabrisse followed the motion with bleary eyes.

I know he has another student after this, Fabrisse thought as his heart sank. Whoever that student was, they were probably more of a joy to teach.

The silence stretched, longer than the usual kind that Lorvan used to let a lesson sink in. It twisted just past the line of discomfort into the edge of dread.

Fabrisse pushed himself upright, wincing as his arm screamed against the motion. “If you have to go, Mentor, I understand. I can—”

“Do you have another hour to spare?”

He stopped pushing. “Pardon?”

Lorvan finally looked at him. A few strands of his hair had come loose, weighted down by sweat and the wind. They clung to his temple, one lock half-veiling his left eye.

“This is for both you and me,” Lorvan said quietly. “If you keep failing basic Synaptic Control, what does it say about me?”

There was nothing he could say to Lorvan. The man had never, never talked about anything other than studies.

Fabrisse’s throat closed around the instinctive denial. “No . . . No. You’re great.” He wasn’t. He really wasn’t strict enough where he needed to be. He always acted rigid during training, but the moment Fabrisse missed a practical class, Lorvan was the first to come up with justifications on his behalf. That had been perfect before, when Fabrisse needed an excuse to shield himself from responsibility. Telling yourself you sucked at spellcasting and never facing any repercussion for your subsequent behaviors was a top-tier combination for delinquency.

But now?

Fabrisse needed growth.

Lorvan kept his hand extended, steady and expectant. His tone gentled, but not soft. “Only in deep discomfort can you bloom. If you won’t give up, I won’t give up.”

[WARNING: Focus dropped below 25%.]

Focus (FP): 6/31

[RECOMMENDATION: Continue your rest until you have reached a certain level of focus and fitness.]

Only in deep discomfort can you bloom. He normally hated sentences like that. They sounded deep but didn’t tell you how to change. However, it seemed as though Lorvan was offering him a concrete pathway.

Fabrisse hesitated only a second more—then took it.

Lorvan’s grip was strong, unshaking, and the pull to his feet was smooth.

Standing upright made the world tilt. The courtyard tiles suddenly felt sharper underfoot. He noticed the distant clang of a gate, the overbright shimmer of light on Lorvan’s coat glyphs—things he’d tuned out until now. The signal noise of being back in his body.

“One more try,” Lorvan said. “Let’s get that first arc right.”