Internet Mage Professor

Nolan re-entered the classroom with all the ease of someone drifting into familiar chaos. The door slammed behind him, bouncing a shudder across the dusty floor. He strode forward, backpack slung over one shoulder, his gaze sweeping the circle of faces—Delo at the center, breathing steady but alert, the bullies arrayed around him like sentries, excitement and wariness mixed on their expressions.

Nolan said nothing; instead, he simply sank into his desk chair, legs uncrossed, eyes fixed on the room.

He didn't leave. He didn't issue a reprimand. He just sat. Silent. Waiting.

The bullies, caught off guard, watched him. What does he want? whispers passed through the space between them. There was no tension—just a knowing suspension. They had already stolen his respect by defending Delo. Now they were curious: what would he do?

Minutes passed as the classroom held its breath. Wordless glances were exchanged. Delo glanced at Nolan, then back at Ramos, uncertain.

Finally, Ramos broke the silence. He crossed the circle, crouched low by Delo's knee. "Alright," he said softly, "since you're in, you gotta know what we're about."

Nolan stayed quiet. He scanned the room but didn't close his notebooks or shift.

Ramos cleared his throat. "This isn't just bullying. This is… brotherhood."

Kellan leaned forward. "We got rules."

Dardo nodded. "Loyalty. Honor. We help each other survive here."

Ramos continued. "We protect our own. Lunchroom fights—clean up. Missed homework—cover. Seniors ganging up on us—we don't run anymore. We stick together."

Vira smiled quietly. "It's not bad. It's us versus the world."

Delo watched them anxiously, corner of his mouth lifting in a faint, hopeful smile. Nolan's gaze flicked across his face and settled briefly on Ramos' shoulders.

Ramos rose slightly, sweeping his gaze across the circle of students. "Now listen. This place, Silver Blade Academy, has cliques—polarizing, hierarchical. You gotta know who to approach, who to avoid, what to pick off, who to challenge."

Delo nodded, wanting to understand.

"First," Ramos said, voice somber, "are the Fourth-Year Envoy Knights." He pronounced each word like a warning. "If you go near them, they're polite. But cross them? They'll crush you under the weight of their influence. We don't mess with them. Not ever."

The others murmured in agreement. They'd seen a daring drunk junior sassed one and get escorted off campus for a week.

"The second group," Ramos continued, "is the third-year magic acolytes. Arrogant as hell, but their heads are high. You can talk to them—if you get shown respect. Maybe trade. But cross them in public—I've seen spells dangled in front of them at point-blank range. They'll cancel you."

Kellan nodded. "One misstep, you're hexed till next solstice."

"And then," Ramos said more brightly, "there's us. The Repeaters. Not highborn. Not polished. But we survive."

Delo's eyes shone. Ramos spoke plainly: "We survive and we defend each other. We hold ground in the lower rings."

Daryn punched his palm. "And we pick off the first-years who call us degens."

Vira added, "But there are gangs we can shake hands with." She clasped hands with Jules as if to demonstrate solidarity. "The art kids. They don't care about power here. They draw. We can trade for supplies, info."

Jules smiled. "I painted a map of all food drop zones for them."

Ramos nodded. "Food's more important than rank."

Delo smiled wider, confidence blossoming.

Ramos stepped forward, voice deep as a drum: "So here's the categories: Untouchables—fourth-year knights and head faculty. Reachable—third-year acolytes, the art kids, organized scholars. Us—the Repeaters. Below us—freshmen, the reckless. And then the shadows—gangs we avoid."

He leaned forward, voice eerily lowered. "There's the Night Serpents, a pagan underground in the dorms. They control illicit potions, illegal rune-grades—whispered curses. Do not piss them off. Bad things happen."

Kellan shuddered. "Saw a guy wake up half-made. Never spoke again."

Daryn nodded. "Yeah—bad shit."

Ramos clenched his fists. "Then there's the Grey Syndicate. They run unregistered deals with outsiders—slavers, mercenaries. We stay away."

Vira squeezed her fingers sharply. "Bad. Very bad."

Ramos exhaled, letting the weight settle. "But there are good groups."

Delo's eyes were bright, hope humming through his veins.

"There's the Rune Scholars. They decode ancient text. They trade with us—less for coin, more for skill exchange. Good blood."

Jules added, "They helped me with the lang-hex. I gave them cleaning wicks."

Ramos nodded. "And there's the Blade Dancers, a semi-official dueling team. They're rough, but they respect skill. That's where you go if you improve."

Delo's breath caught. The promise in speech was electric. Nolan still stared from the desk—quiet, approving.

"And the final rule," Ramos said, locking eyes with Delo: "You never bite the hand that feeds you. We lift each other. Can't let us down."

The circle sealed. Bonds sealed. Unity formed.

Ramos raised a fist.

"One for all."

The rest pumped fists into the air, a tight orbit around the newest member.

Then Ramos shook his head.

"But past is past," he said.

At that moment, the door slammed open behind them again—WHAM—and the classroom shuttered. The air snapped taut with suspense.

They froze.

Nolan, still seated, turned his head slowly. His eyes reflected gravity and anticipation.

The bullies, not so silent now—they braced, fists dropping, backs tightening.

Delo's face drained, but he held firm.

Ramos stepped slightly forward, chest puffed.

The door edged open.

A new day began as they stared at the threshold, poised for whatever—or whoever—would cross it.

Nolan sat with a kind of quiet that wasn't laziness—though it easily could be mistaken as such. His back leaned half-heartedly against the old wooden chair, his boot tapping gently against the side of the desk, his eyes narrowed into thin lines. His fingers were laced together just beneath his chin, elbows resting on the armrest like a throne that didn't deserve him. And he was staring.

At Delo.

For an uncomfortable amount of time.

Delo sat frozen on the edge of his seat, shoulders hunched, eyes flicking to his new gangmates and then back to the teacher who hadn't moved an inch in minutes. Ramos and the others had noticed too. The playful atmosphere that had been building up since the betting game and the evasion match began to settle like dust.

One minute passed. Then another.

Nolan didn't blink.

Delo squirmed a little.

"Is… something on my face?" he whispered under his breath to no one in particular, just enough for the others around him to hear.

"Maybe you got snot," one of the boys beside him joked, stifling a chuckle, but even he didn't laugh all the way. The weight of Nolan's stare was too thick.

"Shut up," Ramos muttered quietly. He leaned forward, brow narrowing as he looked back at the teacher.

Still, Nolan said nothing. He just… stared.

Like he was seeing something.

No—more than that. Like he was remembering something.

And then, like a candle suddenly snuffed, Nolan blinked. Slowly. Like he finally returned from a very long thought. He leaned back deeper into the creaking chair, muttered, "Never mind," under his breath, and closed his eyes.

Silence.

The moment passed. Ramos let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Right…" Ramos coughed into his hand and stood. "Anyway! Delo!"

"Y-yeah?"

"You're one of us now, right?" Ramos raised a hand and gestured with wide, theatrical pride. "Which means you get a role. You got responsibilities. You're not just gonna hang around and sip tea while we do all the heavy lifting."

Delo nodded, still a bit stiff.

The other boys crowded in again, some sitting on desks, others leaning lazily on chairs that weren't theirs.

"You see," Ramos continued, pacing in front of them like a commander, "every one of us has a function. A role. A thing that makes us useful—not just to each other, but to survival in this hellhole they call an Academy."

"We got Rin," Ramos pointed to a skinny boy with sharp, darting eyes. "Spy. Memory like a steel trap. Can tell you what color boxers someone's wearing from a hundred feet away."

Rin nodded sagely. "Dark green."

The others laughed.

"Jano," Ramos pointed again, "is our muscle. We let him go wild when negotiations don't go our way."

Jano flexed without being asked, a big grin stretched over his face. "I like breaking doors."

"And we got Loffy. You won't remember him. That's his thing."

"Wait, who?" Delo asked genuinely.

Everyone burst out laughing.

"You see?" Ramos slapped his knee. "Perfect. Our vanishing boy."

They went down the list, introducing each with a kind of informal ceremony. Some were fast, some were loud, some were scary. One was apparently just the best at pretending to cry, and they all agreed it was vital for guilt-tripping upperclassmen into letting things slide.

"And you, Delo…" Ramos placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're now our evader."

The group exploded in cheers and teasing applause.

"Dodgy!"

"Matrix boy!"

"Ghost feet!"

"Dancer with no rhythm!"

"Man, I swear he stepped on wind to dodge me!"

Delo flushed, but he couldn't help but smile. Even if they were joking, he'd never been cheered like this. Not in all his years.

"Damn right," Ramos said with a grin. "You dodged me clean. That means you got something. From now on, if anyone needs to escape a situation, we send Delo. You hear that, gang?"

"Hear it loud and clear!"

"You're the distraction if shit hits the fan. You're our new bait!"

"W-Wait, what—!?"

Everyone laughed again, slapping him on the back, pulling him in. It wasn't cruel, not this time. It was loud, brotherly, the kind of noise that almost made Delo forget all the years of beatings and shame.

Almost.

Then Ramos lifted a finger.

"But!" he said. "Before all that—we lay it out for real. The Brotherhood Rules."

The room hushed.

Even Nolan's eyes fluttered open slightly but remained closed soon after, uninterested—or pretending to be.

"The first rule of the gang," Ramos began, voice dipping lower, "is you protect one another. I don't care if you hate the guy, you throw hands for him when shit gets dirty."

"Even Jano?" one of the boys piped.

"Especially Jano."

Jano sniffed and whispered, "I love you too, bro."

"Second rule—no snitching. We clean our own mess. No teachers, no instructors, no authority. We settle it. Win or lose."

Heads nodded. Even Delo's.

"Third rule—never touch the Forbidden Floors. You know what that means?"

The air got cold. Quiet. Still.

Delo shook his head.

"There are groups… higher, darker. Hidden in this school. Places they go that ain't marked on any map. Dungeons, old towers, buried sectors. If you find 'em, you run. Don't ask questions."

Ramos didn't have to explain more. The tone said enough.

"Fourth rule," Ramos said slower, "we got enemies. Groups you don't mess with. Some are seniors who never graduated, stuck in their pride. Some are just freaks. But if we say stay away, you stay away. Don't be brave, don't be stupid. You're one of us now. You don't die alone."

The rest of the gang murmured agreements, some of them even looking nervous as they recalled past brushes with those gangs.

"Got it," Delo said firmly, and to his surprise—he meant it.

Ramos grinned. "Then you're in."

But just as they were about to do their makeshift welcome punch—a totally not painful fist-to-shoulder jab, the door suddenly banged open again.

And all of them froze.

Even Nolan opened one eye this time.