Mr. FluGer stood before the blackboard, his hands clasped behind his back. "Mana is the life force of all living things," he said, pacing from one end to the other. "Ants. Monsters. People. All breathe mana. All die without it."
The front-row students sat straight, hanging onto every word. But toward the back, a different scene unfolded—muffled giggles behind cupped palms, restless fingers twisting hair strands, and glassy eyes staring through windows at the training field beyond.
"Intelligence," Mr. FluGer said, pounding the lectern with his fist, "is knowing, sensing, and using mana."
He took a piece of chalk and sketched a symbol on the board. It glowed and pulsed faintly. A girl in the front row leaned forward, tracing the light with her bandaged fingers. Three rows back, a boy in ill-fitting clothes snorted, nudging his neighbor as the old chairs creaked with restless movement.
"Some creatures use mana through instinct. They…" The chalk snapped against the board's edge, sending white dust cascading. "...are like clocks wound by nature." His slim finger tapped the symbol, lighting it blue. "No thought. No choice. Only hunger and fear."
The mention of "hunger and fear" made several students sit up straight, arms crossed.
"To be is to know," he intoned, pressing his palm against the symbol. "To know is to command." Its glow died abruptly, leaving only afterimages dancing before blinking eyes. "First, feel the whisper of mana in your blood before shaping its roar."
A hand shot up in the front row.
"Yes, Juna."
"Is feeling mana the same as casting spells?" Juna leaned forward, her bandaged fingers gripping the desk edge. "Then wouldn't that mean we're ahead already?"
"When you cast magic…" Mr. FluGer pressed his palm to his vest, a soft glow pulsing beneath the fabric where his heart is located. "...you drain the mana stored here—your heart." The light intensified, making some students squint. "The gods gifted every creature this core—equal mercy for all."
"But fairness bends to blood. The noble bloodline carries deeper reserves. Peasants? They scrape by." He let his hand drop. The glow died. The room suddenly feels dim and quiet.
Grrrooowl. Someone's stomach protested.
Mr. FluGer snapped another piece of chalk. The sharp sound startled the back rows. "Peasants refill with bread and broth," he said, tossing the broken chalk to a freckled boy clutching a half-eaten roll. "But drain your last drop…" He leaned closer to the children; his shadow loomed over them. "...and Death awaits you."
A girl next to the window raised her hand high. "Yes, Lis?" Mr. FluGer said, dusting chalk from his sleeves.
"Does that mean a powerful mage never dies?"
"A mage with a vast mana pool lives longer." His nails scraped the board, etching jagged letters: MANA CORROSION. "But aged organs fail. The mana that sustains..." He tapped his chest, producing a hollow sound. "...becomes poison."
Mr. FluGer paused and studied the children's blank stares. "Can mages live forever? Two requirements."
He raised one finger. "One—a vast mana pool, pure as mountain lakes." He raised another. "Two—a body immune to corrosion."
"Theoretically..." He flicked a splinter from his desk. "...yes. Historically? Never."
He screeched the chalk across the board, drawing jagged arrows around a crumbling diagram. "The mana flowing in the air is laced with impurities. It cannot be gulped in mid-battle." His fist clenched. "Purifying it takes..."
The chalk snapped. A shard rolled to a girl wiping her desk. "...effort."
He placed a withered root on the lectern. Its earthy aroma stank, filling the whole room. "A medium is the bridge," he said, biting the root. He spat fibers into a clay jar. "Every meal you eat carries mana into the body."
The freckled boy's stomach growled again. Mr. FluGer kicked a loose floorboard near his boots. "Last week, Timmon ate thunder-boar steak. His mana flared so bright, it blinded the latrine." The class chuckled nervously.
"Or..." His voice ended the humor. "...steal purity from the air."
Dust suspended in midair as his hands glowed. "Master this 'skin-breathing' first..." The light spread to his cuffs. "...then we move on. But, first, lunch."
—
Mr. FluGer traced invisible paths in the air. "Abdomen first," he instructed. His palm hovered above his belt. Students copied the motion. Some pressed too hard, grimacing as full stomachs from lunch resisted.
"Up to the chest—feel the climb like sap in oak." His fingernail, colored by chalk resin, scratched a line up his vest. A dozen hands rose in unison.
"Shoulder to elbow's crook—" His thumb dug into a student's cubital fossa, making the boy yelp—"then spill to the palm."
The reversal drew grunts. "Backtrack without rushing," he warned as a girl's arm wobbled. "Cross the heart's bridge—" His fist thumped a chest—two rapid beats—"then down to the legs."
Boots scuffed wood as students stretched toward the floor. "Final ascent." His finger trailed from his navel to his forehead, pausing just above the brow. "Here. The forge of the mind."
His glowing finger faded, leaving dust swirling in the air. "Again!" Thirteen bodies bent forward like trees caught in the wind.
—
Alan's knee bounced under his desk. Mr. FluGer droned on—"..mana…," "...purify…," "...absorb…" Each word made him itch. Mana sparked and stirred within him, restless and untamed.
His gaze wandered across the room. He saw patched clothes and tired faces. Emma's silky hair caught the sunlight. Her mana mirrored the cool autumn breeze sneaking in through the cracked windows. Three desks over, Milla's bouncing foot thumped in time with her frantic pulse—her mana signature wild and erratic, like a quake building up force.
Then there was Nora—the noble from the capital.
Her spine held the capital's unyielding posture even when slouched on the same old wood. Alan's nails dug into his palm as he traced the coiled spring of her mana—a tension humming like a drawn bowstring. The sunlight hit her collar. A single thread of gold embroidery glinted—a relic of wealth against the frayed fabric of peasant clothes.
Alan's fingers moved unconsciously, carving a tiny groove into the scarred desk. Around him, classmates struggled. Some clutched their chest, wheezing with effort. Others trembled, arms shaking. He flicked his wrist indifferently. A blue ember flickered above his palm before he snuffed it out quickly.
Why bother flapping wings when you're already soaring?