Thousand Tongue Mage

As expected, the giant butterfly didn't just keel over and 'die'. It kept charging with its armoured legs, cracking floor tiles and knocking tables over as it did. For such a large monster, it was rather slow and clumsy, and that meant the thirty metre gap between them wasn't crossed as fast as Zora had worried it'd be.

But my 'die' spell didn't work, he thought, pulling his wand away as he backtracked, leading the giant butterfly out of the cafeteria with hurried steps. What did that old man say about my biomagic?

'I must speak the word, and I must believe, with all my heart, that I can manifest it into reality'?

As the butterfly picked up speed, he turned around to start running, racing back along the bridge. He tried glancing over his shoulder to see if Emilia noticed—now was her time to bang on the dorm gate—but his eyesight wasn't all that good, and he couldn't afford to run into debris while looking back.

He gritted his teeth and tried to focus; he'd just have to believe in her.

Think.

What does it really mean that 'I' have to believe, with all my heart, that I can manifest my spell into reality?

Can I really turn 'any' word I say into a spell?

Whirling around quickly with his wand pressed to his lips, he whispered several more words and tried to bring them into existence: 'forget', 'reverse time', 'undo', and 'stop' were all failures. The butterfly paused every time he whipped his wand at it, but very quickly, it realised he was just making silly gestures with no bite behind his bark. It started crawling even faster, making his lips thin into a line.

I can't cast a spell I don't believe I can actually cast, he thought, eyes darting around the hallway of the language arts building as he upped his pace, sprinting full speed ahead. So since the bug is super big and menacing, I don't believe I can actually tell it to 'die'?

My targeting is off, then.

Instead of telling it to 'die', what if I…

He whirled again. The butterfly was struggling to squirm through the narrow entryway into the language arts building, its wings tearing across the low ceiling, so he took the opportunity and spoke 'cut' at its wings.

Nothing happened. His wand was pointing at the butterfly, and his voice did come out, but not as a spell.

Hm.

So, before the butterfly could squeeze through the rest of its body through the entryway, he pulled his wand back onto his lips.

"Strike."

A sound wave darted from his lips to his wand. The moment he saw it swirling around the tip, his eyes widened, and he whipped his wand to flick the spell forward. His accuracy was true—he'd had lots of practice throwing chalk at sleepy students after lunch hour—and his physical sound wave 'struck' the butterfly in the head, making it flinch and recoil in pain.

It did no damage, of course, but the spell did cast.

Interesting.

'Strike' works because I can easily believe myself being able to punch it, but 'cut' doesn't work because… well, because I don't have something sharp on me.

But even if I had something like a kitchen knife on me, I probably wouldn't be able to believe in myself actually cutting through its thick chitin armour. I mean, its chitin is thick. No way a little kitchen knife is getting through that.

… At the same time, though, I dismissed the idea of being able to cut it even before I even tried it out. I've already subconsciously rejected the idea of being able to kill the giant bug with a single cut.

Is this what the old man meant by 'belief'?

As he stood still and mused, the butterfly whipped its antennae forward like spears, forcing him to jump to the side and dodge. A very close call. He stumbled a few steps, breaths picking up, and then sprinted down the hallway to put more distance between them—the butterfly smashed through the bridge and rammed into the wall he'd just been standing in front of.

My 'strike' dealt no damage because, subconsciously, I can't imagine myself actually hurting it with my punches, he thought, scowling as he stared down the butterfly twenty metres away, watching it struggle to free itself from the wall, but what if I were to 'strike' something else instead?

Peering into the empty classroom on his right, he spotted a porcelain vase and immediately cast "strike" on it, shattering it from afar.

So if I truly believe I can strike something and destroy it, the spell will do more damage, he thought. But that also means all 'real' magic spells are completely out of the picture for the time being: no summoning thunderbolts or teleporting around or raising the dead from their graves. The only spells I can cast right now are ranged extensions of my current physical ability, so if I want to kill it with 'strike', I need to increase my physical strength and make my subconscious believe I can actually kill it in a single 'strike'.

That fitness teacher could probably imagine himself crushing the butterfly's skull with one hand, but I'm just a humble stickman. I don't have that much strength.

And he coughed the moment he came to that tentative conclusion, his throat dry and scratchy beyond belief. He'd cast only a few spells in the past ten minutes, but it felt like he'd just run a marathon in a desert. In stark contrast, the lumbering giant butterfly had boundless energy. It managed to rip its head out of the wall and reorient itself, screeching at him as it resumed its fervent charge once again.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he backed up even further, running all the way to the rubble-filled staircase leading down to the lower floors.

… What a cruel and unforgiving ability, he grumbled. I can't cast 'real' magic spells because, subconsciously, I don't believe I can make them come true, but the only reason why I can't make them come true is because I don't think I can cast 'real' magic spells.

Stolen novel; please report.

It's a self-perpetuating loop meant to trap me.

If a child with the Magicicada Class—with all their heart—truly believes they can physically summon lightning out of thin air, would they actually be able to summon lightning?

He half-stumbled down the stairs, half-sprinting as fast as he could to outrun the giant butterfly hot on his heels. By the time he got down to the ground floor and sprinted to the end of the hallway, the bug crashed down the stairs thirty metres away, legs carving up the walls and making the entire building tremble.

He couldn't keep running away like this. There had to be something he could do.

And there were lots of things he could do.

Well, even if I can't really cast 'real' magic spells right now…

He parted his legs. Stood firm. Sucked in a deep breath.

He didn't need his wand or what he was about to do next.

"Rise, metal pipes!" he shouted, and his physical sound waves immediately darted into mounds of sharp, broken metal pipes lining the hallway, lifting them into the air.

I can believe myself picking up these things, at least, he thought, a bead of sweat rolling down his brows.

Then, as the giant butterfly started to charge through the final hallway, he took an anxious step back and shouted again.

"Fly forward, pipes!"

Not all of the broken metal pipes were pointing their sharp ends towards the butterfly, but enough of them were. His spell sent them flying forward at the speed of thrown chalks, and one, two, three, four of them stabbed into the butterfly's neck, making it screech in pain as they punctured its chitin. Sickly yellow blood spurted from its wounds, slowing it down as it slammed into the walls, trying to dislodge the pipes in its body. His eyes widened—bloody wounds like that would kill any normal man, but the butterfly was giant. It needed a bigger push.

It needed more.

Come on, Zora!

Be creative!

Even if you can't imagine making fireballs with your bare hands, what can you do to slow it down?

What other spells can you cast?

The answer was 'everything else'.

"Carpets up! Lamps down! All glass shards, rise and zip at the butterfly!" he roared, taking another step back as his physical sound waves bounced every which way. The carpets ripped up to slow the charging butterfly, the extinguished lamps on the walls snapped off their hooks and fell on its head, and hundreds upon hundreds of broken glass shards immediately zipped at its armour. It wasn't enough. It hadn't stopped yet. "Bulletin board, fly at its head! Scissors, pencils, rulers, fly out of your classrooms and stab into its eyes! I want tables! Chairs! Everything that can dislodge, dislodge and slow it down!"

If four pipes stabbed into its neck couldn't break it, then everything else did. The bulletin boards on the walls flew in and smashed into its head. Three dozen or so pointy-ended stationary responded to his call, shooting out classrooms on both sides and piercing into the butterfly's legs. Half a second later, entire chairs and tables were flung through the windows on both sides again, crashing into the butterfly's body from every conceivable angle.

As he continued stepping back, he eyed a leaking oil pipe over the charging butterfly's head. He immediately shouted "rip down the oil pipe" and doused black oil all over it, slowing it down even further. But it hadn't stopped yet. Not yet. It tried crawling faster, squeezing its giant body through the narrow hallway, so he whirled around in a panic until he spotted what he wanted: a small, unused gas lantern hanging on the wall behind him, meant only to be used in case the gas lamps hooked up to the academy's pipes were all out of use.

He tore the gas lantern down with a "to me, lamp", then cast "fly forward at the butterfly and light up" at the same time.

The small lever on the side of the lantern pulled itself mid-flight, and the moment it smashed into the giant butterfly's head, the gas lantern lit up—and ignited the black oil across its head, making it screech in pain.

Eventually, nobody could tell that it was a butterfly from the front. It slowed to a near-complete halt ten strides in front of him, two dozen or so pieces of sharp debris lodged all across its body like the spines of a porcupine. Its head was still burning. Choking the hallway with its putrid scent of charring flesh and chitin. With its dying throes, it tried to stab at him with its antennae, and he hissed and jerked himself even further back, slamming in the wall behind him.

It should be weak enough now, right?

Now's the time!

As the giant butterfly tried to stumble the last ten metres forward, he pressed the tip of his wand to his lips, spoke "strike", and then whipped the spell forward faster and harder than if he'd just shouted the spell at it. His physical sound wave punched into its head, making it squeal. But it hadn't stopped yet. Grimacing, he cast a dozen more "strikes" and whipped all of them at its head in quick succession, over and over and over again until it collapsed a mere five metres in front of him, too weak to even lift its antennae.

Narrowing his eyes, he watched as the flames consumed the monster's head. The sharp debris stabbed into the rest of its body bled it dry. He didn't cast any more spells. He simply watched as its legs went limp, its antennae wilted, and its short wings fell flat over its body. It wasn't quite dead yet, no—its giant black orbs for eyes were still trained on him, and it was still desperately trying to suck in breaths of air despite its head being literally on fire—but at the same time, it could do nothing as he approached it slowly

And frankly, he was a bit surprised when its seemingly pointless screeches and inhales turned into comprehensible words.

"Mama," it cried in a crackling, raspy voice, as though trying to plead for mercy. "Ma… ma. Hurt. Hot. Where… you?"

He listened.

He said nothing in return.

Then he stepped past its burning head and squeezed through the cramped hallway as it cried for its 'mama' with its final breaths.

His hands were shaking slightly, his forehead glistening with sweat—he'd known the bugs of the Swarm could communicate with each other via pheromones and physical gestures as they rampaged across the continent, but the fact that his ability to speak and understand all tongues on the continent extended to even the bugs of the Swarm was a surprise, even to him.

There was a tongue he hadn't known how to speak, after all.

… Great Makers. This magic is insanely powerful, and its potential applications are just about endless, huh? He winced, rubbing his throat as he tried not to think about how dry his throat was. Then he glanced back at the giant butterfly, eyeing its two stick-like hind legs. But before I go back to the dorm, though, I should take some 'points' with me… even if they'll weigh me down a little.

Quickly, he cast "twist and tear" on the butterfly's giant hind legs to rip them from its body. He couldn't imagine himself casting that spell while it was alive and kicking, but dead? It was just like twisting and tearing a chicken leg. And he'd done that many, many times as a student in this very academy.

Just as he picked up the two giant hind legs, though, the wall behind him exploded with a chorus of horrid screeches, and he whirled around to see a horde of giant bugs tearing into the hallway.

Most likely, they'd heard the butterfly's dying throes and came to investigate, and bugs only knew one method of investigation—by running their razor-sharp legs and antennae over said object, that was.

Well.

Even ants know when to leave the anthill, huh?

Hauling the two butterfly legs under one arm, he took off on a mad sprint back towards the stairs at the other end of the hallway, and the horde of bugs screeched to life behind him.