Internet Mage Professor

The classroom lay silent as the lone student slipped through the door, thumb still drumming lightly at the purple glow of the mana crystal hidden in his pocket.

Behind him, the bullies remained frozen—shoulders tense, breaths shallow, eyes locked on the empty doorway.

For what felt like minutes, nothing stirred. It was as if the entire world had paused, waiting for the echoes of defeat or the reclaiming roar of triumph. Instead, only the distant chime of the bell drifted through the stale air.

Then, as the first footstep faded, one voice cracked:

"Dude… what the hell…?"

Ramos, the leader, stared at the doorframe until his jaw crooked. "He just… dodged everything. Every single strike."

Across from him, Kellan's mouth dropped, eyes wide. "Are you sure? I mean… damn. He moved… like water."

Daryn leaned forward so quickly the desk groaned. "Bro, were you holding back?"

Ramos shook his head in slow disbelief. "No. I didn't hold back. I mean I did, but… I didn't?"

Vira tapped her fingers against the desk, voice trembling. "It was so—so fast. Unreal."

Silence swallowed them again. The words hovered in the midday sun that leaked between the dusty windows, the stale aftershocks of that impossible moment settling into their bones.

Then Ramos stood abruptly, voice low. "Fetch him again." His gaze, bladeless and hungry, zeroed in on their empty chairs.

Kellan jumped up, fists clenching. "You wanna run another round now? 'Cause I—"

Vira grabbed his wrist, cut him short. "Hold up… did we just… lose behavior control? I mean, how do you say 'round two' when you didn't hit him once?"

Daryn ran a trembling hand through his hair. "This isn't normal. That… kid—he's changed."

Ramos slumped inside his seat again, and for once, the ring-leader's composure cracked. He ran a finger down the desk, leaving a deep groove in the paint. "We don't… he don't."

A long, distant groan came from deep within the building. They looked up as if summoned, but no answer came. They stared at each other—awed, rattled.

Vira muttered, "Holy shit."

Kellan rubbed his jaw. "He dodged the leader's punch. Who fucking does that?"

Silence.

Then Daryn laughed—but not joyfully. More of a shocked yelp, head tipped back like he couldn't quite process having his world upended. "He… he dodged me. Like I never—like I never aimed."

Ramos ran his hand across his hairline. His voice was quiet, deadly even: "He wasn't even looking at my fist."

Kellan sagged. "It wasn't fast. It was like… he was anticipating. Like… like he knew exactly where my punch would go."

Ramos rose again, voice firm this time. "Fuck! Yeah! I told you to fetch him, do it now! Get him. Again. I want to know if it wasn't luck."

Even as the words left his mouth, they all wobbled on their feet. No one moved for several heartbeats—locked in the gravity of this new reality.

Then as one, they swung into motion—rising with shaking limbs, each one swallowing whatever pride they had left and setting their faces into masks of expectation and dread.

---

Outside, the student walked with a different kind of hush in his step. The corridor stretched before him like a runway—every window reflecting his slow, newfound confidence.

He hummed a light tune, something half-remembered, half-made up. His free hand brushed his pocket, where the mana crystal against flesh was suddenly warm.

"I actually did it," he thought. "I actually did it."

He passed a mirror and caught his reflection—eyes bright, posture honest, bruises yellowing but his expression… calm. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like a wisp on the wind. He felt… real.

As he walked, his mind drifted backward—through every moment that had led him here.

1. First memory of the Church courtyard, age six, where a playground bully shoved him into a fountain—and he couldn't swim, but the weight of his cloak nearly drowned him with embarrassment.

2. The third-grade magic recital, when his spell backfired, turning balloons into black mud mid-air—while his classmates laughed and the teacher's face turned gray.

3. The silver slates exam in fourth year. He'd studied all night, except he'd confused runic symbols. His group got zero. They blamed him. He blamed himself.

4. Middle school hallway, handing his folded lunch to a friend—it got swapped with spoiled cheese by someone he thought was his best friend, just to watch him vomit in front of everyone.

5. The first spa test, when he rubbed cleansing potion on his palms—only for them to blister and crack, and the high-year students stood around, snickering and calling him "Hot Hands".

6. The mission three months ago, where he misread the blueprint, led them into the turrets—and watched his classmates sustain burn marks while they screamed for his head.

7. The beating two weeks ago, back in this very classroom—thud after thud, desk cracks, spells bouncing off nowhere, finally collapsing, his hands over his face, begging for it to stop.

A breath caught in his throat. He touched the back of his neck, sensing the curve of bruises and cuts there.

I survived all that. He reached inside his pocket. The small crystal rolled over his fingers, carrying the telegraph signal of Nolan's lesson—price tag and all.

Suddenly, he heard the faint tink… tink… of coin against coin in his pocket. He froze, heart fluttering.

He did give me this, the voice in his mind said, and he remembered Nolan leaning back, smiling sharp, typing "Fifty mana crystals when you're back, kid."

He whispered under his breath, a tremulous half-laugh: "Fifty... were real."

He paused again, walking less briskly. He closed his eyes. How many did he give me? Forty? Thirty? Twenty?

He held his palm tightly around the crystal, counting in his head: "One… two… three…"

Passengers on the corridor drifted by—some schoolmates, some teachers. He smiled slightly. No one recognized him. No one ridiculed him.

He whispered the count again: "Twenty-five… twenty-six… twenty-seven…"

He adjusted his stride.

As he reached the end of the hallway, the bell rang sharply—lunch hour ended.

He took a deep breath, palms flat on the pocket again. "He's waiting," he thought. "I'll get it. I'll pay."

His heart steadied.

He touched his bruised ear where a clock once slammed him. He can wait another day.

But the crystal… oh, that crystal was burning with possibility.

The student's steps slowed as he realized his pocket felt lighter—definitely not fifty crystals. Damn. He turned, brows furrowing, and there across the hallway stood Ramos and the others. But this time… they were standing differently. An unexpected tension flickered in their eyes. Ramos stepped forward, arms open in a wide, oddly polite gesture: "Hey man, come back here for a sec."

The student hesitated, every instinct screaming to run again. But something whispered at him—if you evade them again, you can earn more crystals. And right now, that spark of possibility made him curve his shoulders and turn back.

As he walked toward them, the bullies closed ranks, whispering under breaths, sizing him up. Ramos looked at him with curious eyes. "Yo, serious question," he began—his tone softer now, almost cautious. "Where the hell did you learn that evasive shit? Were you… in any training?"

The student shook his head. "Uhh, I… I just got sick of getting beat up." He breathed fast. "So I practiced… dodging, just avoiding. Never got taught it. Just got tired."

They stared. Voiceless.

Daryn's voice cracked. "You… learned because we bullied you?"

A chorus of shocked murmurs cut through the hallway. "He… used us as practice?" "He… no way?" They rubbed at their jaws and muttered to each other, bewildered:

> "That's insane."

"I thought it was random luck."

"He's turning our shit into his confidence."

Even Kellan, arms folded, tilted his head like he was seeing a ghost. Ramos raised a hand, silencing the whispers.

Without another word, they led him back into the classroom. The door closed behind them with a heavy click. Inside, the air was electric.

Ramos walked straight toward him, clearing space around them. He regarded the student more respectfully than ever before. "When I threw that first punch…" he paused and looked past the kid's shoulder, as if replaying the moment, "it went right through where you were."

The student's throat tightened. He forced steady breaths to respond. "Your foot… it started off-center, and you leaned left—so I stepped inside the angle and pivoted off your hips. Kept my eyes on yours, not your fist."

Their jaws dropped.

Ramos tapped a finger on the desk. "And when Daryn kicked—"

"I shifted my weight off my left foot, rotated my shoulders. You knocked air."

Kellan gulped. Vira and Jules exchanged stunned glances.

Silence swallowed them again—until Ramos shook his head once, clearing the fog of incomprehension. "Alright," he said quietly. "One more round."

He opened his fist and slurred: "Same deal. You dodge every strike? I pay you again. One crystal per dodge."

The others perked up, leaning forward, eyes blazing.

But then it shifted again—Daryn spoke up, voice shaking with excitement. "Wait—bet on it. We all chip in crystals. Whoever's wrong pays more."

Laughter rolled through the room, tension melting into bravado.

Kellan grinned. "I bet Ramos hits him. Fifty to one."

Vira shook her head, tentative: "I bet the kid's too fast. I'll put thirty on him."

Jules chimed in: "Fifteen from me on the kid. I say he'll dodge three, then fold."

Ramos raised his voice. "I'll bet too." His voice cut through it all, loud as thunder. "I'll bet ten on myself that I clip him this time."

Instant shock locked eyes around the room.

Daryn gaped. "You—on you?"

Ramos nodded, expression fierce. "I'm not afraid."

The student froze. The punters turned to him.

"Kid…" Daryn started, hesitant. "Wanna place yours?"

He swallowed dry in his throat. Everyone stared. Sweat chased down his spine.

Half the group leaned in, voices low but insistent.

"Come on—bet on yourself, man."

"You got this. Use Nolan's move."

"We're all riding your odds now."

Their heavy encouragement pressed on him. Their belief, once mocking, was now rooting for him. His palm grew hot. He remembered Nolan's words: Fifty crystals. That was the fee. The bet. The price to change.

Suddenly, his breath steadied. His trembling eased.

He raised his head, voice steady, loud:

"I bet on myself."

A hush fell—then Ramos cracked a slow, genuine smile.

"Good," he said. "Let's begin!"