Star Instructor Oscar (2)
Inside the lecture hall, still stunned into silence by Sound Binding, the students' minds raced faster than a falling leaf in a gale.
A spell that cuts off all sound across the room. Don't tell me that's actually Silence?
And if it's something else entirely, that means a mere Level 2 mage created a spell that mimics it…
…He's a monster. Honestly, the idea that he just cast Silence sounds more plausible.
The sheer power on display made it impossible to believe he was a mage of lower rank than any of them. Slowly, it dawned on them anew just who this man standing at the lectern was.
Oscar Crucian.
The man once courted by every magic tower in the world, whom countless archmages had begged to take on as their disciple. A genius among geniuses, hailed as the greatest talent in history.
"…Well, then."
He glanced down at the roster and began to speak, in a smooth, pleasant voice that carried an inexplicable persuasiveness.
"I imagine some of you are disappointed that I'm your instructor."
Nod, nod. Unable to make a sound, the students bobbed their heads in agreement. They had assumed that a high-tier mage would be brought in to teach them—or at the very least, an intermediate one.
They say he's a genius, but that was all a long time ago…
Senior or not, it's a bit much having an instructor who's lower level than we are.
Oscar studied the students' awkward expressions, then said exactly what they'd been hoping to hear.
"If my lectures don't sit well with you, you're free not to attend. You're no longer academy students under a teacher's thumb."
Their faces brightened at once. Rumors aside, he seemed to have a fair amount of common sense after all.
But Oscar wasn't finished. He reached into his coat and produced an hourglass.
"In exchange, there's one condition."
He set it down on the lectern with a soft tap.
"Just as growing older doesn't make you an adult, graduating from the academy and entering a magic tower doesn't make you a mage. What I mean is—you need the skill to match."
"…?"
"Proving that skill is simple. Say, out loud, that you refuse to take my class. I'll give you ten minutes."
The moment those words ended, the hourglass flipped over. The grains inside began to fall—slowly, but at a steady, relentless pace.
"……"
"……"
A few students gaped in sheer disbelief, while others cursed at him with their eyes alone. After all, thanks to Oscar's magic, not a single one of them could make a sound.
Is this guy insane?
…This is just his way of forcing us all to take the class, isn't it.
At least dispel the spell before you start talking to us.
But in the eyes of a handful of sharp-witted mages, a different light kindled.
I see… this is a test.
He's a Level 2 mage. I have no idea what the principle behind his spell is, but…
It can't be beyond our ability to unravel.
If you don't have the skill to dispel the spell and open your own mouth, then shut up and take the class. That's what he's saying.
The mages who grasped the situation quickly set to work dissecting the structure of Sound Binding, each in their own way.
Now then, let's see what you're all made of.
Oscar leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, watching his students at his leisure.
I deliberately left gaps in the spell, but that doesn't mean it'll be easy to untangle.
Frankly speaking, it was beyond what an unremarkable Level 3 mage could dispel through luck alone. Anyone who managed to break it on his own deserved to be called more than just a prodigy.
"……"
But even as the test drew to a close, not a single student had passed.
Still—this was the White Tower. He'd expected at least three or four to manage it.
…They have a long way to go.
Just as Oscar reminded himself of the tower's sorry state and let out a wry smile—
"I-I did it!"
At last, a student had passed.
The boy held his hands up in triumph, his frame a head smaller than anyone else his age. Oscar had memorized every mage's personal file before the lecture began, and his eyes gleamed with recognition.
Demian Proud.
The only son of the Proud earldom, one of the most storied mage families.
"Congratulations."
"…Hmph. It was so easy I actually wasted time slowing down to savor it."
"Oh, impressive."
Oscar replied without an ounce of enthusiasm and gave his fingers a light snap.
Crack!
At once, like a taut cord finally cut, sound returned to the world.
"…Huh? I can hear."
"What, time's up already?"
"Ah! I was almost done!"
The instant the lecture hall burst into chatter, Oscar rose from his seat.
"Everyone, quiet."
This time he used no magic at all—yet every mouth snapped shut as if on cue. A mage who had been silently dismissed for his low rank had brought an entire lecture hall to heel in just ten minutes.
"The sole student to pass the test is Demian Proud."
"…He actually solved that thing?"
"Well, I saw it coming. That brat's insufferable, but he's not lacking in skill."
Demian absorbed his classmates' envious stares and spoke up.
"I passed the test, so that means I'm free to skip your lectures now, right?"
"Of course. Do as you please."
"……"
Yet now that permission had come so easily, he felt an inexplicable pang of disappointment.
…If that was just the opening act, does the actual lecture cover something even more advanced?
Where else could a beginner mage even glimpse a spell of that caliber? More than anything, the process of solving it had been genuinely exhilarating. It hadn't been a rote, templated problem—he'd been forced to throw every scrap of knowledge he possessed at it. Thanks to that, for the first time in ages, he'd lost himself completely in magic, worrying about nothing else.
But he'd already made a loud show of refusing the lectures, and taking it back now felt awkward.
Watching him squirm, Oscar let out a quiet chuckle.
Maybe it's because he's still a brat of ten-odd years—every thought is written right across his face.
For Oscar, who had handled every variety of human being across two lifetimes, dealing with this kind of kid was simplicity itself.
"Well, you were the only one who passed, so I owe you a reward. I'll teach you one spell. Come up to the lectern."
"…A spell?"
At those words, even the great Demian himself had no choice but to prick up his ears. Small wonder—he'd personally experienced a spell rivaled only by Silence mere minutes ago.
Ahem. This is my rightful prize. I earned it.
Pretending it was a great bother, Demian descended the steps and trudged up to the lectern, then asked brusquely,
"What is it? This spell you're supposedly going to teach me."
"Demian Proud. What's your favorite basic spell?"
"Wind Cutter."
The answer came without a single second of hesitation.
"Show me."
"…What a chore."
Demian clicked his tongue softly, and in the blink of an eye a blade of wind took shape above his palm. It bore the form of a dagger—its most basic shape—with a dazzling, razor-sharp appearance.
The students who saw it began to murmur.
"That doesn't look anything like my Wind Cutter."
"Everything about it is clean—from casting speed down to structure."
"Wind Cutter is his signature technique, after all."
"That edge looks sharp enough to slice through just about anything."
When Demian drew back his hand, the Wind Cutter began to orbit around him like a satellite.
"There. Satisfied?"
"Hmm."
Oscar studied the Wind Cutter for a moment, then nodded.
"Good. The spell I'll be teaching you today is Wind Cutter."
"…Forgive me, but are your eyes just decoration? Do you not see this thing floating right next to me?"
"I'm afraid that, by my standards, that isn't a Wind Cutter. Charitably speaking, it's only half of one."
Half of one? Demian's eyebrows twitched at the audacity of it.
"…You've said that much, so now I'm curious. Just what, exactly, is wrong with my Wind Cutter?"
There was a stormy menace to him, as if he might challenge Oscar to a duel on the spot if the answer fell short.
"Curious? Then I'll tell you. Listen carefully—your Wind Cutter has exactly two flaws."
Oscar suddenly thrust out his hand and seized the Wind Cutter in his bare grip.
"Wh-what are you doing—?!"
Where on earth was there a lunatic who grabbed a Wind Cutter bare-handed? In Demian's mind's eye, an image flashed of Oscar's blood dripping down his fingers—
"The first is that it isn't actually made of wind."
Fwoosh!
The Wind Cutter, which had been radiating a savage edge the entire time, scattered into nothing as if it had all been a lie.
"……"
"……"
Everyone stared at the lectern, forgetting even to breathe. A beat of silence passed.
"…Huh?"
A limp, airless sound leaked out of Demian's mouth, like air hissing from a punctured balloon.
The Wind Cutter was his signature technique. Watching it collapse so feebly—snuffed out by a bare hand, of all things—simply defied comprehension.
And he hadn't even channeling mana into his hand. I saw it myself, right in front of me.
Of that much, he was certain. Then how in the world—?
Just as that unanswered question circled his mind, Oscar asked:
"Demian. What is wind?"
"…What?"
"Exactly what I said. What do you think wind is?"
Face to face with Oscar's eyes, Demian flinched without meaning to. Those were still, quiet eyes that cowed a person at a single glance—and within them he sensed something almost sage-like, the kind of presence that brought his own grandfather to mind.
"W-wind is… moving air."
"Good. Wind is moving air."
Water is water even when it sits still, and fire is fire no matter how quickly it flickers. Wind, on the other hand, only becomes "wind" so long as the air moves and flows without rest.
Oscar's gaze grew calm.
"Which is why what you created isn't a Wind Cutter. If we're being precise, it's closer to an Air Cutter."
"…Ah!"
Something clicked, and Demian let out a gasp of realization.
"Remember this: the White Tower, above all, is a place that governs wind. That means our magic must flow without cease. If it doesn't, it will inevitably be broken apart as easily as that."
Just as still water rots, magic built from stagnant air loses its form all too easily.
Demian, visibly shaken, asked:
"…And the second flaw?"
"You use more mana than necessary when forming the spell. In the process, you're burning through mana you don't need to spend."
The moment Oscar put his finger precisely on a weakness Demian had only ever vaguely sensed on his own, the boy was struck with genuine admiration.
"How—how could you possibly figure that out just from watching a spell once?"
"Let's say I have good instincts."
When a mage reaches a certain height, watching an opponent cast is enough to reveal a great deal. Their temperament, their habits—and beyond that… even a hint of their past.
"The Proud family has produced high-tier mages for generations, so you must have grown up watching your grandfather's and father's Wind Cutters from an early age. You probably worked doggedly at imitating their versions before you ever formally began your training. But Wind Cutter is among the hardest of the basic spells, so it wouldn't have gone smoothly—and so, instead, you brute-forced the shape into existence by pouring in more mana than it required. That habit has simply carried over, untouched, to this day."
The flashy appearance of Demian's Wind Cutter, no doubt, had been a mask for the shortcomings he'd always quietly felt in himself.
"……"
Struck squarely to the core, Demian could only force out an awkward laugh. He'd never imagined that watching a single spell once could expose so much.
There's no arguing with any of this.
Just as the man had said, what Demian had wielded all this time wasn't truly a Wind Cutter. It was merely a repetition of a mistake made in childhood.
This is what the difference in talent looks like… no, wait. Leaning on that excuse to dodge my own fault would be its own kind of pathetic, wouldn't it?
The man before him was an elite who had published paper after paper on basic magic—a foremost authority in the field. It was Demian himself who had looked down on him, colored glasses firmly in place, on the strength of a level number alone.
Just as a fresh wave of embarrassment washed over him and Demian hung his head—
"That said, correct those two flaws, and a truly perfect Wind Cutter will be born."
Oscar wore a look of genuine regret.
"It's a personal shame that a student of your caliber won't be attending my lectures."
"……"
A prideful creature like Demian could never be won over with a few honeyed words alone.
No—first you make your superiority unmistakably clear, then you go for the need to be recognized.
Right on cue, Demian pricked up his ears and slowly lifted his head.
"…Well. I suppose I have no choice. If you think that highly of me, I'll try attending a few more lectures."
Oscar watched him slink back to his seat and smiled to himself, silently.
From that point on, it went without saying that the students' focus sharpened to a remarkable degree.
It was around two weeks after Oscar's lectures began that a strange rumor started to make the rounds of the White Tower.
"Did you hear? Oscar Crucian. Turns out the guy's completely off his rocker."
"What's with the dramatics now? Wasn't that common knowledge already?"
The mage chatting with his friend in a corner of the second-floor cafeteria shook his head vigorously.
"No, not his personality—his lecture, Reinterpretation of Basic Magic."
"Ah, the one he held a while back? Yeah, that was more than a Level 2 mage could pull off, I guess."
"The opposite, you fool. You seriously missed all of it?"
Mindful of the eyes around them, the friend lowered his voice and whispered carefully.
"He's a total star instructor, apparently."
"…What's a star instructor?"
"A pinpoint tutor, they say—takes one look at a mage's every flaw and hands you the fix on the spot. Word is he even gives personalized advice on mana control and circuit placement."
"Oh, come off it. Listen to yourself."
Sure, Oscar Crucian had once been called a genius—but now he was barely a Level 2 mage. How could someone who wasn't even a high-tier mage fix every flaw another mage had?
Seeing the deep distrust etched on his friend's face, the mage spoke up, exasperated.
"I'm telling you, it's true. You know Demian Proud, right?"
"That obnoxious brat from the earldom? What about him?"
"Oscar pointed out every one of the kid's problems and shortcomings—in front of the entire class."
"…Knowing that brat's temperament, senior or not, he must have thrown a fit."
"Amazingly, he turned into a docile little lamb and went back to his seat. Been attending every single lecture since, too."
"What? That's not possible."
If a lecture could leave that foul-tempered brat without so much as a peep, then the content had to be genuinely, seriously good.
"But even so, wouldn't it only hold up for beginner mages?"
"Can't say for sure. Word is some Level 4 and 5 mages are planning to sit in on the next lecture. No harm in checking it out, just in case."
At that, the doubtful mage swallowed hard.
"If that's really true… then I guess we ought to go see for ourselves too."
"That's what I've been saying. Thursday, six in the morning, in front of Lecture Hall 4."
"Hold on. Class doesn't start until nine?"
"Are you an idiot? You have to get there early and queue up. Show up late and they won't even let you in the door."
Word of Oscar's lectures was spreading through the White Tower at a blistering pace.