He exhaled slowly, a long, controlled breath that frosted slightly in the warm air. He was finding it harder than usual to adjust his internal frequency, possibly because he still had the [Overcharged] status effect.

  Aggressively pulling the roaring ocean of mana inward, he wrapped it in layer after layer of mental steel.

  More… he commanded his body. His heartbeat slowed to a sluggish crawl. A little more.

  For a second, he thought it would be funny if the school found an archmage fainted in front of their building because he failed to pass the alarm system. That would be embarrassing, no humiliating enough for him to probably never leave the 11th floor again.

  Focus.

  His pale skin paled even more. The natural warmth from his body vanished, replaced by the ambient temperature of the stone beneath his feet.

  Physical pain pulsed through his body as he slowly, agonizingly compressed his mana until it was tied so tight, so impossibly small, that it became the size of a speck of dust.

  If a healer were to test his pulse right now, they would be absolutely horrified to find that a walking corpse was standing in the courtyard.

  The compressed mana in his core felt impossibly heavy, his body protesting the unnatural state of near-death, but his mind was sharp from the pain.

  Relying on momentum, Asterion carefully directed his stiff legs toward the grand stairs.

  The moment Asterion passed through the entrance, he felt the dense mana of the scanning barrier pass over his body. It felt like walking through a wall of lukewarm gelatin… without making it jiggle.

  The stone dragon's scales glowed with a faint, red light.

  He took a step forward.

  Zap.

  A tiny spark of static electricity flared against the skin of his wrist, but the giant doors remained open, and no alarms went off.

  Success.

  He could imagine what would’ve happened had his concentration slipped for even a fraction of a second: the stone dragon would have sprung to life, aggressively spewing fire, and campus security would have swarmed in.

  Having raided enough paranoid lords’ castles and plundered the hoards of actual, living dragons over the years, he recognized the setup immediately.

  He was lucky to have picked up this ridiculously high-level concealment technique. It was ironic, really; it hadn’t been a master thief or a shadow-rogue who had taught him how to flatline his life force.

  It had been a reclusive high elf—a notoriously arrogant race that usually preferred to announce their presence with blinding light.

  Asterion’s smile faded as a brief memory of his old comrade flashed through his mind.

  He shoved the memory back into the dark corner of his mind where it belonged.

  He looked around the pristine hall to distract himself. The floors were polished marble, and floating crystal chandeliers casted a welcoming light.

  Now, he just had to find a way to get to the basement and grab his relics.

  Mana was abundant inside the academy as well, as it was in any of the floors of the Abyss.

  Asterion strolled down the long, stretched-out corridor. Beyond the windows of the classrooms lining both sides of the hallway, various practical exercises were in full swing.

  Flashes of rudimentary lightning, the clamorous, overlapping voices of the professors shouting, and the faint smell of burnt… flesh?

  He only noticed the smell because feeling the mana streams in the air to pinpoint the location of his relic made all his senses sensitive.

  His gaze was drawn to a specific classroom near the end of the hall.

  It wasn’t just the smell. The heat bleeding through the open doorway was thick, but no smoke was coming out.

  Asterion nonchalantly walked inside.

  A scorched, metal-plated target dummy was positioned at the front of the room.

  Inside, amidst a taut silence, twenty students sat rigidly at their desks. He must’ve entered through the front door because a single female student was standing on the elevated dais, focusing every ounce of her nervous energy onto her outstretched fingertips.

  The girl let out a trembling breath.

  Looking at the mana cube trying to sustain its shape at her fingertips.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Asterion recognized the spell. She was trying to cast a low-tier [Fireball].

  Who used [Fireballs] these days?

  There were too many fire resistant or fire immune monsters to make use of it.

  And it had the risk of a forest fire.

  Of course, Asterion would never make such elementary mistakes, but the average mage was not Asterion.

  He scratched his chin. For some reason, the future seemed to have regressed in terms of studying and wielding magic.

  First, [Breathing] to gather mana.

  Second, [Fixing] the coordinates for the spell.

  Third, [Forming] an invisible mana cube around that coordinate.

  Fourth, [Condensing] the inside of the cube with mana.

  She was stepping through the fundamental phases methodically. Her stance was solid, her mana pathways were clear.

  If I had to nitpick, it’s a bit disappointing because it’s too textbook.

  The final stage would be [Chanting].

  It was a process of adding the commands to the cube, giving it a coding script.

  Obviously each spells requirde different codes, which was why mages had protected the knowledge with their lives.

  Her lips parted slightly. But no incantation came out.

  …Chantless casting? Asterion’s eyebrows shot up.

  Instead of reciting the incantation, she was trying to stabilize the spell formula using only her mind.

  Bold move.

  It was a nice attempt. The problem was, chantless casting required the mage to calculate the complex formula in their head. And commanding the mana to follow that formula exactly.

  Chanting a long incantation lifted those weights off.

  It was just too difficult for her current level of control for a mere 2nd circle to handle.

  When she tried to keep the condensed mana inside the cube, the whole thing began to vibrate violently. And instead of projecting forward, the edges of the mana cube began to war and waver.

  “…Ah!”

  The mana cube lost its shape and scattered in all directions with a bang.

  The backlash of heated mana whipped backward, sweeping directly past her hand. She clutched her burning fingertips and let out a short scream.

  “…Lenia, what is the meaning of this?”

  A barbed voice cut through Lenia’s pained gasps.

  The professor, a tall, gaunt man with a patchy gray beard, stepped out from behind the podium that was next to the dais.

  His face barely contiained indignation.

  “I-I’m sorry, sir,” Lenia stammered, her voice shaking as she cradled her singed hand. “I think I just lost my focus a bit at the end. If you give me one more chance—”

  “That was your third attempt. And no, it’s not that you lost focus. You didn’t have any to begin with.”

  He walked toward her, the sharp clack-clack of his staff echoing in the classroom.

  Lenia shrank back a little.

  “You tried to skip the 5th phase, “Chanting.”

  The professor looked down his nose at her.

  “Chantless casting? Do you think you’re better than an archmage? How dare a mere student try to arbitrarily edit the sacred eight-step procedure established by the Hero himself?”

  Lenia bit her lip, then slightly bowed her head.

  Leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossesd, Asterion blinked.

  Eight steps?

  His eyebrows twitched.

  “B-But Professor…” Lenia whispered, her voice cracking. “The Hero’s early annotations say that four steps are enough…”

  “How dare you talk back? Are you the professor, and am I the student?”

  “N-No, sir.”

  “Lenia. You have no talent for magic, and your attitude is rotten to the core. I am very disappointed in you. Early annotations? There is no proof that the Hero himself wrote that. It is merely a theory. Or, in my eyes, wishful thinking.”

  The professor stood up straight, adjusting his spectacles.

  “At this rate, that arrogant attitude is going to ruin your future. The uniform of Aeterna Academy is too good for a student who thinks she is better than the Hero’s teachings.”

  The professor drove the wedge in deep, shooting a cold glare from behind his glasses.

  “Pack your bags immediately.”

  “Sir?”

  “I will submit your notice of withdrawal to the Dean's office by the end of today.”

  “What? Wait, no, sir—”

  “Did I sound like I was making a joke?”

  “P-Please. Professor, you can’t...!”

  As the shock fully registered, stream of transparent tears spilled over her lashes and fell silently onto the top of her leather boot.

  At that moment, the professor's gaze suddenly snapped away from the crying girl and locked directly onto the door—right onto Asterion.

  “You, there! Why have you been loitering around watching someone else's class?”

  Asterion clicked his tongue.

  Oops.

  He got too immersed in the class. The [Camouflage] spell was a 4th-circle magic. Seeing as the professor had noticed Asterion, the man had to be skilled at the 5th circle or higher.

  He’s a pompous jerk, but he’s not entirely incompetent.

  He could just drop a higher-tier [Stealth] spell or run away right now. But that would mean the campus guards would flock over, and it'd become annoying if his identity was exposed here.

  They were practically worshipping him now!

  Hopefully mages nowadays aren’t as bad as that cult.

  Asterion grimaced at the thought.

  The professor pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and scowled.

  “…Are you a student? There's only one person absent from this class today, so you must be Ivan. Ivan! You have the nerve to stand there blankly daydreaming when you’re already twenty minutes late?"

  Huh? It took Asterion a second to realize the man had mistaken him for a truant student.

  It seemed he had mistaken him for a student.

  He did not want to attend a university lecture again.

  When he was just about to check how to temporarily erase the professor and the students’ memories without permanent brain damage, his eyes met the teary eyes of Lenia.

  She immediately looked away and tried to wipe her face with the sleeve of her robe.

  Rats.

  Asterion scratched his nose and sighed.

  …Well, maybe it's better to just play along for a bit.

  He didn’t like tampering with people’s minds anyway. The lecture couldn’t last long. An hour at most.

  Asterion rubbed the back of his neck, adopted a sheepish expression, and slowly stepped in front of the professor. Dozens of eyes from the back were locked onto him.

  At least none of the students yelled “That’s not Ivan, sir!”

  After the professor’s words, to make Asterion blend naturally in the environment, his [Camouflage] must’ve cast an illusion over their eyes so he looked like “Ivan.”

  “I apologize for being late, professor,” Asterion said, his tone perfectly even.

  He immediately tried to head toward an empty desk in the very back row, but the professor’s arm shot out.

  Asterion stopped. He slowly turned his head.

  What more does he want?

  “You will also be punished for your blatant disrespect of my time,” the professor said. “Go up the dias and show this failure of a girl what the textbook, eight-step [Fireball] looks like.”

  The professor crossed his arms.

  “If you get even a single step wrong, or if you mess up the formula—”

  The professor pushed his glasses up again, the glass catching the classroom lights.

  “—you will also sign your notice of withdrawal with Lenia here. This academy isn't leisurely enough to harbor a student whose skills are as terrible as their punctuality.”