Chapter 80
Written by Bayzo Albion
"Yes," my mother replied evenly, her tone unyielding. "If you want the payment. No one's forcing you—you can walk away right now."
"Hmm." The woman arched a perfectly shaped brow, a flicker of mocking amusement dancing in her eyes. "I figured there'd be a catch with such a generous offer. And here it is: a tiny, clueless pupil who can't even string together a coherent sentence."
"Yes," Mother echoed, her voice now edged with steel, cutting through the room like a blade. "But he has something others lack. Potential. I believe my child can achieve the impossible."
The teacher let out a light, almost playful chuckle, but her gaze shifted subtly—from derision to a keen appraisal. She studied me as if I were a puzzle worth solving, weighing whether my hidden depths merited her time and effort.
"We'll see," she tossed back like a gauntlet, her words laced with challenge. "Let's find out what you can teach a kid when someone's faith in him outweighs fate itself."
"My son's fate is an open book," Mother said, her words slicing the air with quiet intensity. "Many might think its pages are already filled, his path etched in stone. But remember: success is a gamble. It's not about holding the best hand—it's about daring to go all in. Your time, your strength, your belief."
She paused, locking eyes with the teacher, the silence thick with unspoken stakes.
"My son is betting on himself. And I'm betting on him. If he loses, at least it'll be an honest loss—because he played for real."
The teacher smirked, crossing her arms over her chest as she raked her gaze over me again, treating me like an inconvenient sack of potatoes blocking her path.
"And if he turns out as stubborn and overconfident as his mother? Won't that make this a complete waste of my time?"
Mother lifted her chin slightly, a dangerous glint sparking in her smile.
"Even then, it'll be better than raising a spineless puppet."
"You're sure he even has a spark of magical talent?"
"I'm sure of nothing," Mother shot back firmly. "But I see in him what you might have forgotten: hunger. A craving for knowledge. For power."
The teacher fell silent, Mother's words hooking into her like a barbed lure. She scrutinized me once more—not with contempt this time, but with a wary curiosity, as if I were an enigma that might unravel her assumptions.
"Fine," she said at last, her voice softer, almost resigned. "I'll give him a week. If he doesn't surprise me by then, I'm out. And don't beg me to come back."
The moment had arrived. Mother held my gaze for a heartbeat longer, her eyes brimming with a mix of fierce pride and quiet anxiety, before she turned and stepped out. The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that echoed in my chest, sealing me in the room with this stranger who called herself my magic teacher.
Silence descended, sharp and taut, like a bowstring drawn to its limit.
Her blue eyes bored into me with cool detachment—not as one might look at a person, but at some curious artifact misplaced on her workbench.
"Well..." she exhaled, dragging her gaze up and down my form. "It happens sometimes. A kid crawls a bit faster than average, and the doting parents declare him a prodigy. And if he babbles some nonsense? Boom—must be a mage in the making."
She muttered it under her breath, barely audible, but each syllable pricked at me like a needle.
*I understand everything,* I thought fiercely. But I couldn't voice it. I couldn't speak. So I just sat there, staring back at her as always—no nods, no gestures, just my unblinking eyes. Deep inside, something began to simmer, a slow boil of frustration and determination.
She dragged over a heavy wooden chair, sinking into it with lazy grace, and fixed me with a squint, as if debating her opening move. Her fingers drummed idly on the armrest, hesitation flickering across her features, until she finally committed.
"Alright, pay attention," she said with a weary sigh, as though already convinced this was futile.
She extended her hand, palm up. A faint haze shimmered in the air above it—translucent, like morning mist rolling off a lake. This was her mana: pure, fluid, an extension of the world's own breath.
Then came the sound—a sharp snap, a grating crunch, like ice cracking underfoot in winter's grip. The mana compressed, crystallizing before my eyes, shifting form in an instant. In her palm now rested a shard of deep blue ice, gleaming like a priceless gem, exhaling a chill that frosted the air around it.
I froze, captivated. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Impossible. In that moment, the world felt forever altered, its boundaries stretched thin.
Emboldened, I decided to try. I shut my eyes, focusing inward. A warmth stirred in my core, like a spark racing through my veins. I summoned my mana, and it responded, surging forth. But as I attempted to mold it, everything crumbled. Emptiness. Just a fleeting heat in my chest and a cold tingle on my fingertips.
"Don't force the mana," she snapped, cutting through my concentration. "That's not how it works."
I opened my eyes. She was on her feet now, her expression transformed—serious, almost guarded.
"Mana is a mirror," she explained slowly, each word deliberate, meant to etch itself into my soul. "It doesn't obey commands. It reflects. It mimics. It echoes. You can't bully it into shape. You have to become the mirror yourself. Envision what you want to create, and let the mana replicate it. Without coercion. Without fear. With absolute trust."
I stayed silent, but inside, a tremor of excitement built. I yearned to try again—this time, differently.
*Water is hydrogen and oxygen...* I pondered. *If I create two different gases and combine them, could that form water? Or at least trick the mana into mimicking it? It sounds brilliant—like a kid mixing every color in the palette, expecting a rainbow instead of mud.*
I closed my eyes once more, visualizing air not as a vague whole, but as two distinct elements. One light and arid, nearly invisible. The other dense and cool, like the humid exhale before a storm. I split my mana into twin streams, infusing each with a unique essence... then urged them to merge.
Nothing.
The mana remained inert. No hydrogen, no oxygen. Not even a bubble. It simply dispersed, vanishing like an unspoken sigh.
I exhaled heavily, defeat settling in.
*Why is this so hard? My logic seems sound... Or is magic like women—defying reason at every turn?*
The teacher had watched my struggles in silence. Now she sighed deeply, pulling a scrap of parchment and a glowing blue quill from her pocket—like a child's nightlight brought to life.
"Alright," she grumbled. "Since you're supposedly a genius, let's break it down genius-style. On paper."
She scribbled swiftly, the symbols igniting not with ink but with ethereal light. The result was a bizarre equation:
Ma(g) + T↓ + Ps↑ + Im(w) → H₂O
"See here," she said, tapping the quill. "Ma(g)—gaseous mana. Let it flow; don't crush it.
T↓—cool it down. But not by barking orders; *become* the cold. Imagine you're an iceberg, not some hot-headed dreamer.
Ps↑—density. Pack it tight, but gently. Like stuffing a fluffy blanket into a tiny bag—tricky, but doable.
Im(w)—your imagination. Water isn't a formula. It's weight in your hands. Slipperiness. Splashes. Chill. Picture holding a glass and spilling it down your pants."
A faint smile tugged at her lips.
"All together, and boom—H₂O. But not mundane water. Living, magical essence."
I stared at the formula, grasping only this: magic demanded I envision myself as everything from a freezer to a spilled drink.
She fell quiet, her gaze softening for the first time, as if acknowledging that my stubbornness might hide something more.
"Magic isn't about willpower or decrees," she added. "It's translating your inner sensations into reality's tongue. You don't tell mana what to do. You *feel* what you want to manifest—and let mana echo it."
I didn't reply. Instead, I drew a deep breath and shut my eyes again. The formula lingered in my mind, her words echoing. But something new ignited within—not mere proof-seeking, but true comprehension.
This time, I abandoned symbols and structures. I didn't build or force. I simply... imagined.
Cold.
It started at my fingertips, creeping up my arms, seeping under my skin. Like a dawn heavy with rain. Like damp stone beneath bare feet. Like frosty breath in a shadowed cave. I recalled the time Mother dropped a bowl of water, how it spilled across the floor, the wet chill brushing my toes like a ghostly touch—startling, invigorating.
Coolness. Heaviness. Flow.
I didn't command the mana. I didn't bend or cage it. I let it *be* water, because I had become water myself. I released control. I just... felt.
My palm grew damp. Then cool. Then weighted.
I opened my eyes.
Nestled in my hand was a living droplet of water. No illusion, no vapor—it was tangible, sparkling under the light, mirroring the world in its tiny curve.
The teacher didn't register it at first. She blinked, then her eyes dropped to my hand, and she went still.
"...You did it," she whispered, devoid of sarcasm or ire. Just a hushed, almost wary awe. "Without the formula. Without scaffolding. You just... *felt* it?"
She stared at me for what felt like ages, as if I were something perilous, before leaning back in her chair. She sighed, then murmured softly:
"Looks like you're not a complete fool after all."
For her, it might have been the pinnacle of kindness. For me, it was my first genuine praise—and it tasted like victory.