Internet Mage Professor

The student sat there, trembling beneath the weight of silence, the aftertaste of Nolan's presence still lingering in the classroom like smoke from a snuffed-out torch.

His hands remained clenched tightly over his knees, his knuckles white from pressure, sweat soaking through the fabric of his uniform.

Nolan's command echoed in his mind—fifty mana crystals. Fifty. He didn't even have ten. His lips trembled as he muttered in disbelief.

"Why… why does it always end like this?"

His voice, barely louder than a whisper, disappeared into the quiet void of the classroom.

The sound of birds outside felt like mockery.

He glanced down at his bruised knuckles, his torn sleeve, the faint crimson smear that stained his collarbone.

Memories swelled—of getting shoved in the corridor, his food stolen, his bag kicked into the stream near the back garden.

Of failing the test, the one test everyone relied on him to pass, because he had shared the wrong spell formula the night before in their group study.

His eyes watered, and his voice cracked.

"I only tried to help…"

And now they hated him. Again.

"…Why do I always get blamed?"

He stood up, staggered, then sank back into his chair as if gravity suddenly multiplied around his body. His shoulders sagged, his gaze unfocused.

"I didn't mean to ruin the spell. I didn't know it was incomplete… How was I supposed to know? I just shared what I had. They didn't tell me the professor changed the formula the next day."

He laughed hollowly, the sound bouncing off the stone walls.

"But of course, I'm the idiot. The weak one. The burden."

His legs bounced anxiously. He clutched the edge of the table, and muttered names—Ramos, Daryn, Kellan, Vira, Jules… the ones who used to sit beside him, now refusing to look at him. The ones who said, "You ruined everything."

His chest tightened, his vision swimming in mist.

"Why does everyone just leave?"

Then, like a droplet in a still pond, a voice trickled into his mind.

"Well, well. Aren't you pitiful."

He froze.

The air shifted. Not physically—but in sensation. His breath hitched. Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head.

There was no one there.

But the voice—deep, thick with derision—came again.

"All this whining… and for what? You're nothing more than a discarded worm crawling in the shadow of those you call friends."

His fingers gripped the desk so tightly, his nails nearly cracked.

"Who—Who's there?" he croaked.

No reply.

Only silence.

His heartbeat thundered, sweat dripped down his temple. He looked at the corners of the room, beneath desks, toward the ceiling.

Nothing.

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. "I'm… I'm just imagining things…"

A laugh, smooth and unkind, echoed in his skull.

"Oh no. You're not."

His entire spine tensed. It wasn't like an internal voice. It wasn't his thoughts. This voice was real. It had weight. Presence. It slithered across his consciousness like oil down glass.

"Congratulations," the voice hummed. "You've finally noticed me."

"Who are you?" he whispered.

The air suddenly felt cold, dense. A draft he couldn't see prickled the hairs on his arms.

"I go by many names," the voice said calmly. "But for your feeble mind, you may call me… the Magic Emperor."

He stiffened. "Magic Emperor?"

"Yes." The voice smirked in his skull. "A title that once shook the seven realms and made kings bow. And now, I'm inside you."

"No." He shook his head, frantically now. "No, you're just some parasite. A curse. Get out—!"

"Do you think they'll stop?" the voice interjected, sharper now. "Those classmates of yours. Do you think they'll one day forgive you? Accept you? Protect you?"

The student fell silent. His mouth hung open. A sound wanted to come out—but nothing formed.

"No," the voice answered for him. "They will beat you again. Mock you again. Discard you again. Again, and again. Until there is nothing left of you but a husk… and still, they'll find a reason to hate what's left."

"…Stop…" he whispered.

"Why?" the voice asked gently. "Because I'm right?"

The student clenched his eyes shut. "I… I don't want this…"

"But you need this," the voice said, more persuasive now, like a hand on his shoulder. "I saw what that teacher did. Mocked you. Demanded payment. Treated you like a beggar. But me? I offer power. For free."

"…Power?" he repeated.

"Yes," the Magic Emperor whispered, seductive. "The kind of power that will make them bow. The kind of power that will make Nolan himself kneel. Imagine—no one ever hurting you again. You, the hunted, becoming the hunter."

The student opened his eyes, dark with confusion. "But… but that's not who I am…"

The voice laughed again, darker this time. "It's who you could be. All it takes… is one word."

"…What word?"

"Say yes."

The student's lips trembled. His hand hovered near his heart, now thumping with a strange pressure. A heat, low and twisted, pulsed beneath his ribcage.

"I…" he whispered.

"Say it," the voice commanded.

"I said—!" The student slammed both fists into the desk. "Enough!"

The desk cracked beneath the force, splinters flying.

Silence fell again.

But this time, it was a different silence.

His breath came ragged. He stared down at his fists, red and trembling, and at the fracture that ran along the wood.

He had never hit that hard before.

A long, quiet exhale escaped him.

"You… you're real," he whispered, his voice raw.

"Oh, I'm very real," the Magic Emperor purred. "And I'll be waiting, little spark. You'll return to me. You always do."

The presence withdrew.

Not gone. But no longer pressing.

And for the first time in hours, the student was alone again. Or… as alone as he could feel now that he knew what lurked inside.

He didn't know how long he sat there. Minutes, maybe hours. Time seemed to slow, twisted by the pressure in his chest.

He clenched his fists tighter.

And slowly… he whispered to himself, "Not yet."

Then stood.

And began to walk.

The student wavered near the door, his heart still pounding from the echo of that unseen voice within. He barely stepped forward when the classroom entrance swung open again—brutal laughter rolling in like an avalanche. The bullies had returned.

"Hey!" yelled Ramos, the ring-leader, shoulder-high and broad-chested, his voice dripping with malice. "Where you going, coward? Lost your spine in here?"

The others followed: Daryn with sneer, Kellan cracking his knuckles, Vira and Jules behind them, eyes flicking with predatory delight. They stepped in unison, cutting across the doorway until the student's escape route was sealed.

"Punching bag time," Ramos grinned, voice smooth and confident. "We've been craving a target."

The student's breath caught: this was happening again. A step back, he looked at the bullies, face chalk-white. They closed the distance, mocking, circling—wolves around frozen prey.

Ramos loomed closest. "What, you gonna run away like last time?"

The student swallowed. Each step backward scraped his soul. "Please… I… I've done nothing…"

Daryn sneered. "Sure? Ruined our mission. Blew our grades. Now you want peace? Too late, buddy."

The student's back pressed harder against the cool stone door. His pulse surged. But he remembered Nolan's words—evade, survive, outsmart them.

Then Ramos abruptly stepped aside, passing through the student's path without a word. "Get the fuck out of my way," he snarled, as if the kid was nothing on his path.

The student froze, then carefully edged around Ramos, against his better judgment, echoing Nolan's evasion strategy in his mind: give space, avoid collision, serve no confrontation. He let Ramos slide past him—a humiliating but clever choice. Ramos didn't even glance back.

But the others closed in behind, whispering and jittering with excitement. Daryn shrugged and pointed at the student's back. "Hey, boss—can we beat him up?"

Ramos slowed and turned. His jaw tensed. "Do whatever you like, but don't disturb me. I'm on break."

He crossed the room to his seat, flopped down, dropped his backpack, then closed his eyes, leaning back like nothing had happened. Frustrated exits held in his silence.

Ramos's tone turned bitter as he remembered their failed training session with the higher-grade students. "I hate them!" he snarled to Kellan. "Those uppity fourth-years… they stomped us in hand-to-hand. Called us garbage repeaters. You know what they said?"

Kellan shrugged and slammed a fist against his palm. "That we can't fight, we're worthless, worthless brewers! You remember how it felt? They laughed while beating us. I saw—our faces. Red. Bruised. Humiliated."

Ramos leaned in, face low. "So now we need a punching bag. Because if we don't—someone gets hurt." He looked back at the student, who stood trembling, face crumpled, eyes brimming with fear.

Vira and Jules grabbed the kid's arms, holding him in place against his will. He struggled, voice breaking: "Please—don't hit me! I can learn! I'm trying!"

Ramos turned, flexing both fists. "Alright." He paused, then snapped his fingers. "But let's make this entertaining."

He stood and posed theatrically. "You, gee-boy. Let's make a deal: For each dodge you manage—one successful evasion—you get one mana crystal, okay?"

The bullies roared with laughter and pumping fists. Daryn cheered. "What a joke. He thinks we'll let him eat some rainbow candy for free?"

Ramos shrugged. "Who cares? I'm bored. You dodge his hits and we might send you to the supply room to buy a few."

Kellan snorted. "Yeah right—bullshit candy trick."

But Ramos grinned, stepping forward. "You want a challenge? Bring it."

The student looked at them—their fists flexing, knuckles white. His chest tightened, but there it was: the opportunity Nolan had spoken of. He stood there trembling, but not running.

In the silent chasm of tension, he thought back to Nolan's words: "Evade. Survive. Strike only when you choose." His fear still surged, but a single tiny spark—a tiny sense of determination—flared inside him.

He cleared his throat. His voice came out soft, cracking—but steady enough.

"I… I'll try."

The bullies fell silent, lips curling. But Ramos's grin turned genuine, admiration slipping into his eyes. "I respect that," he said, quietly loud. "You've got the balls."

Kellan snickered. "Let's do this. I land, you lose?"

Ramos shook his head. "Nah—I'll trade off. Just five punches—no armor, no mercy." He glanced at his classmates. "Are you ready?"

The student swallowed. He didn't flinch.

The bullies formed a semi-circle around him, fists raised, eyes glinting with anticipation. The room seemed to narrow—the air came thick with challenge. A silence stretched—longer than he expected.

Then Ramos lunged first—a quick jab to his ribcage.

The student hesitated—then twisted his shoulders and stepped aside. He ducked inward, chest dropping, eyes focused on Ramos's torso, not his fist. Nolan's lesson played in his head: watch the hips. Breathe out before contact.

The fist swooped through empty air. He felt a wind burn past his arm.

"Fuck—" Ramos snarled, eyes wide.

He backed off. A murmur rippled through the group.

Daryn stepped forward—shorter, stockier—threw a front kick toward his thigh.

The student felt the kick coming—Ramos's foot inched forward, Daryn's hips pivoted. He high-stepped—a backward shift, a nimble pivot off his ball foot. The kick landed on air, rattling the stone floor inches from his side.

He felt his heart race—but he didn't fear. He inhaled quickly, regaining posture.

The bullies looked at each other, stunned.

Ramos nodded. "Next."

Kellan, known for his bulky reach, threw a swinging right cross. The student pivoted right again, his shoulder brushing away a ghost punch that slammed into the wall with a boom.

The boy staggered on his feet—but steadied. He breathed.

Three down. Two to go.

Member by member, they came. Fast, slow, feints, real strikes.

But each time the student dodged—just enough. He twisted, pivoted, let their own momentum crash them out of range. He moved without panic. He breathed. The group's energy turned from smug to uncertain.

Finally, after five strikes, Kellan swung a haymaker with full force. The room held its breath—metallic clatter of fist amid dull ache in bone. The student dropped his weight, pivoted again, dashed forward, ducked under the arm, and touched Kellan's shoulder.

The group recoiled.

Ramos put a calm hand on Kellan's arm. "Alright."

He turned to the student.

The air was still. Even the head bully drew breath slower. All eyes pinned on the trembling boy—no longer a coward. Not yet a champion, but no longer prey.

Eyes flicked between his bruised uniform and the quiet defiance in his stance.

Ramos nodded.

The student, chest heaving, looked at the floor. He closed his eyes—exhausted, exhilarated. He didn't get to the door yet, but he stood his ground.

Ramos stepped forward, offered a small, respectful nod.

"You win," he said quietly. It broke the tension—another step changed the battlefield.

The others stepped back. Silence fell again, but this time with awe.

The student swallowed, finally letting his body relax.

Ramos pointed at him. "You're… not worthless. Not weak. You just needed the chance."

The student blinked. He opened his mouth to speak—but all he could manage was a breathless whisper:

"Thank… thank you."

Ramos gave a tight nod. The student's shoulders rolled back.

The bell rang—end of lunch.

The student blinked, glancing at Ramos, then at the others. They didn't laugh. They didn't jeer. They watched.

He pushed the door open, stepping into sunlight.

Behind him, silence began to thaw.

He stepped out—walking quietly toward Nolan, toward the rest of the world—ready to come back stronger.