I'm Dropping Out of the Academy

All the letters I get these days say the same damn thing: "Give me back my money, you fraud."

The most promising magical genius on the continent. The future sage who'll devour the Academy whole. That's me—Liberio von Solanium, or just Rii for short. Back when I reincarnated here from the 21st century, everyone was singing my praises. But three years later? I'm public enemy number one, the ultimate scam artist, buried under an avalanche of hate.

Why? Simple. No visible results in three whole years.

The noble sponsors in this romance fantasy world only care about magic that pays off now—stuff that brings instant fame and fortune. Y'know, crap they can brag about at high-society parties.

Utter garbage. Pointless parlor tricks for gossip fodder. Why the hell would I waste my time? Have they no pride as mages?

But my research? Totally different. In simple terms: Magic Efficiency Improvement Magic. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Boosts the efficiency of every existing spell. Once it's refined, it even improves itself. Infinite loop, baby. How do you even contain that kind of revolution?!

I explained it. Begged for patience. Did everything short of getting on my knees. But these romance-fantasy idiots wanted results yesterday.

Fine. I admit it—taking this long to deliver feels bad. Even long-term investors would waver. Especially old-money types like them.

Then another letter caught my eye. Crumple.

I crumpled it and chucked it in the trash. Sorry? Not even a little. Did I lie to get their cash? Threaten them with a knife? It was their choice to invest. Why blame me?

I'm done. "Nah, I'm out."

Not some rash impulse. I'm just exhausted. Reasons to quit? Piled higher than their bullshit letters.

The Academy's love games. Research funding? Who cares when the crown prince drops by every five minutes on "inspection," just to flirt with the heroine. The saintly princess who "loves magic." The sub-couple of master mage professor and her disciple! Gimme a break—it makes my skin crawl.

"I'm dropping out of the Academy."

I'd already submitted my key paper with the core ideas. Whatever. Someone might appreciate it eventually.

Scribble. Scribble. I started filling out the dropout form.

Tried to keep it quiet, but one person was bound to notice.

"Master."

My personal maid—who'd served me faithfully—faced me with a stone-cold glare. Immaculate maid uniform. Northern blood made her skin pale, her eyes icy blue. After hearing me out, they turned glacial.

"What did you just say?"

"I'm done. Dropping out."

Miroa Avis didn't mince words. "Then I'll draw my sword."

Classic northern humor. I'd spent years with her at the Academy—knew she dropped these extreme "jokes" sometimes. Her deadpan face made it hard to tell at first. People mistook it for real threats more than you'd think.

But this time felt different. "Miroa? You're kidding, right?"

"I've never swung a blade in jest."

She was gripping her sword hilt, ready to physically stop me. Turns out, maids in this world aren't just servants. Personal aides ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠double as bodyguards—you can't pick 'em off the street.

She's no pushover. But still. "Threatening your employer with a weapon? That's straight-up disloyalty."

"What if I punch you with the hand that holds the sword?"

"I'd look better than I do now."

Only after deciding to bail did I notice how wrecked I was. Mirror check: My once-sparkling green eyes were dull fish-stares from the deep sea. Shiny black hair? Now frizzy straw. Skin? Same. Family trait premature grays had exploded into a white bridge across my scalp.

"Research is done. Not bailing with their money unaccounted for."

"Then stay and rest. There's leave of absence."

She's right, technically. The Academy has systems—modest stipends for breaks after tough research. Common to take leave and heal in the capital.

But not me. Research is complete. Core ideas in the paper; follow it, and you can implement the magic.

Problem? No one gets it. Not the Academy. Not the entire magic society.

"No one's gonna appreciate it anyway. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Staying just means more grief."

"It could still happen."

"If they got it, they'd have by now. I tutored magic to cover funding."

Silence.

"You know this isn't me whining to slack off."

"I know you've suffered, Master. But..."

Seeing my resolve, Miroa relented. "Can't you just... not go?"

"No."

"Your research might get reevaluated later."

"No need to stick around the Academy getting chewed out daily."

Hard limit reached. No swaying me. I sidestepped her, grabbed my huge travel bag from the corner. Scattered clothes everywhere—packed 'em roughly.

Books? Can't take 'em all; selected a few. Research notes? Rage bubbled up. Fingertip mana spark—simple incineration spell. Technically document shredding magic, invented to torch treason evidence. Gone in seconds.

"Master?!"

Whoosh. Ink vanished into ash piles on blank sheets. Miroa looked lost, like a tribeswoman stripped of her homeland.

"Oh no... how could you."

Northern warrior vibes from the empire's early conquests? Her eyes shook.

"I know how much those hurt you over the years. But this—this is too much, even for you!"

"Just worthless trial-and-error. Finished product’s all in the paper."

I wouldn't burn the real work. Just pissed at wasted time.

Slipped signed dropout form in envelope, melted wax, stamped it.

"I'll submit this. Pack the bags, Miroa."

"No. Absolutely not."

Now she showed her true colors—neither stoic mask nor brute force.

"Your magic isn't wrong!"

Tears welling, she blocked me desperately. "If it's right, why ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠run?! Don't go! You can't lose!"

"Hey, move."

"No! I won't! I'll stand here till they recognize you!"

Damn, why's she so strong? Family blood, duh.

"I told everyone—you're a total magic genius! Central Tower'll recruit you soon! Even if they don't see it, I believe in you. So don't run—prove 'em wrong!"

What does that have to do with me? Her blind faith's on her.

Started at the dorm door, then grabbing ankles, sniffling. "Master, pleeease."

Whining machine! "Let go..."

Sick of it all! Hate the Academy!

"Believing in trash like me—what's the point?"

"Yes! I'll believe anyway! What're you gonna do about it?!"

Turned into a full wrestle. Rolling on the floor—noise be damned—but why'm I always pinned? So. Strong.

"Huff. Pant."

"Hah. Hah..."

Ten minutes of tussle. Then—tap. Tap. Something hard and sharp on glass.

Neighbor complaining about noise? Bursting in to catch us rolling? Classic misunderstanding cliché—man and woman tumbling, sparks fly.

Fantasy world? Clichés thrive here. Peak trope.

"Huh?"

"Sniff. Wh-what?"

Awkward freeze. We both stopped, staring at the sound.

No person. Good.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Bird. At the curtainless dorm window.

Messenger pigeon spirit.

"Hold up—move."

Rustle. Shoved Miroa aside, grabbed letter, slit envelope carefully, unfolded.

Musty old paper scent.

From my late Grandfather? Why now? Alive? Fake funeral? Nah, cathedral mourners were wrecked.

Questions aside—

Burned-out protag. Grandpa's letter arrives. Inherits rundown rural farm.

That legendary healing game.

Farming sim bliss. Time melted away. Shiver at past-life memory.

This "plain" fantasy world...?

"Master? Your face?"

"Nothing. Hang on."

Rustle. Envelope inside: seal stamp, one gold coin. Magical authentication—proves land ownership.

"Miroa."

"Yes, Master."

"Remember our old promise?"

She nodded hesitantly.

"Got somewhere urgent. We're leaving now."

And so, I hopped into a carriage bound for the countryside.

Days of bumpy travel. Imperial capital's drabness vanished. Fresh air, lush green roads.

Thud! Destination nearing. Peaceful village ahead.

Pure, crisp air filling my lungs—

"......"

First Status Window in 20 years here.

"Hah."

I let out a hollow laugh.