Academy's Pervert in the D Class-Chapter 69: Carrots

Lor approached slowly.

"Uh... carrots?" His voice was casual, testing.

Without a word, Ameth turned, picked up a bundle of fresh orange roots, and dropped them into a bag.

She handed it to him, her fingers avoiding his, her face blank, icy eyes unreadable.

"Thanks," Lor said, holding her gaze for a moment, searching for a spark.

Nothing.

He walked away, their silence heavy.

Maybe we really don’t know each other at all, he thought.

But Ameth? A carrot seller?

It clicked—her desperate plea for ten silver coins from Silvia during the tournament, the urgency, the public display.

Not arrogance.

Need.

She’s poor.

Point noted, he told himself, slipping the carrots into his bag, mentally bookmarking the exchange.

Back home, the kitchen was thick with the scent of simmering spices.

Mira stood at the counter, elbow-deep in dinner prep, her sleeves rolled up and brow glistening.

She arched an eyebrow as Lor set the groceries down.

"Got everything?"

"Even the carrots," he said, grinning as he tossed her the bundle.

She gave them a quick inspection and nodded. "Change?"

Lor hesitated. "I, uh... grabbed a skewer. Got hungry."

Mira didn’t miss a beat.

"Fine. Long as you’re not trying to live off fried grease."

She turned back to her chopping. "Now go upstairs and study something. You haven’t touched a book since morning."

"Yes, ma’am," he said with a chuckle, already heading for the stairs.

In his room, he shut the door, lit a candle, and dropped his spellbooks onto the desk with a thud.

He cracked open a tome on Elemental Convergence and began to read.

But the words blurred.

His mind drifted—to Ameth’s gleaming braid, the melon seller’s pillowy chest, the skewer wife’s teasing cleavage, and the strange stillness of Ameth, poised behind that cart like a statue carved with intent.

_______

The sun dipped low behind the treetops, setting the sky aflame in streaks of gold and violet.

Lor sat at his desk, elbows braced on the worn wood, one hand supporting his cheek as his hazel eyes scanned the open tome before him, candlelight flickering across the pages.

The book was thick—an advanced compendium of elemental manipulation, meant for professors, not a Class D student like him.

Yet, Lor understood it, his mind weaving through the dense text intuitively, a spark of his hidden potential glowing beneath his loser facade.

He flipped past annotated diagrams of leyline currents and mana-pressure theory, stopping at "Atmospheric Elemental Catalysis."

The Chapter detailed manipulating moisture, temperature gradients, and wind compression to simulate a rain front—science, not just magic.

Lor’s eyes glinted, his pulse quickening, not with arousal but with the thrill of mastery.

He absorbed the patterns, cross-referencing them with a technique from another tome: anchoring a mana field like scaffolding to bend temperature.

Within twenty minutes, he’d mapped it out in his head, his fingers twitching with anticipation.

He closed the tome quietly, stood, and pushed open his window, the evening wind brushing his face, cool and calm, carrying the faint scent of pine and summer dust.

Lor climbed out, stepping onto the shingled rooftop with practiced ease, his loose shirt fluttering against his chest.

The horizon burned orange on one side, fading into night’s deep blue on the other, the air alive with the hum of twilight.

His fingers flexed, his body thrumming with quiet confidence, memories of Silvia’s breasts,

Ameth’s curves, and Olivia’s moans lingering but pushed aside for this moment of power.

He lifted both hands, mana swirling around his fingertips—light blue, sharp, like tension caught in a thread.

Step one: humidity.

He pushed mana upward, thin and wide, diffusing like mist across the sky, ambient moisture clinging to it, the air growing heavy.

Step two: heat variance.

He warmed the upper atmosphere while chilling the air around him, a sheen of cold hugging the rooftop as warm currents rose high above, his breath visible in the cool pocket.

Step three: pressure anchor.

With a sharp exhale, Lor compressed mana into an invisible disc, locking it above the cloud-line, a lid trapping the pressure, forcing moisture to swirl upward.

Wind gathered, subtle, leaves rustling below.

Lor closed his eyes, his mana pulsing once, a quiet command to the sky.

The clouds responded, darkening, creeping gray blending into the orange sky.

The air thickened, pressure coiling.

A few leaves skittered across the roof.

Lor tilted his head upward, his heart pounding, not with lust but with the thrill of bending nature to his will.

Tap.

A single drop hit the rooftop.

Tap. Tap.

Another. Then another.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

Drizzle fell, soft and steady, kissing the shingles, the evening sun scattering golden sparks through the curtain of droplets.

Lor exhaled, a grin creeping across his face, his hazel eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Success," he whispered, arms slowly lowering as the gentle rain washed over the rooftops, soaking his shirt, cool against his skin.

He stood tall, the wind tugging at his damp hair, his body thrumming with pride, a quiet fire burning in his chest.

The rain was his, crafted not by spell but by understanding, a testament to the power he hid beneath his Class D mask.

Lor stood, soaked in pride, and a little water.

They have no idea, he thought. Class D’s loser? Creating artificial rain with university-tier theory books?

The drizzle deepened.

The rooftops gleamed.

And Lor just stood there, smiling.

Then, from below, a familiar voice pierced the air.

"Lor! Dinner’s ready!" Mira called from the kitchen window.

"And it’s raining, so don’t leave your window open again—I’m not drying your books a second time!"

Lor smirked.

"Got it!" he shouted back, his voice swallowed by the soft hiss of rain.

With a quick breath, he turned and climbed back down the roof, slipping in through his window with practiced ease.

His shirt clung to his shoulders, damp and cool.

He raised his hand, focused, and whispered a simple drying incantation.

Warm air rippled across his body, evaporating the water in seconds.

His hair tousled into shape from the brief gust, and his clothes returned to their crisp, dry state. ƒгeewebnovёl_com

Moments later, he padded downstairs to the dining room, where the table was already set.

Elen—his father—was seated at the head of the table, arms crossed, staring out the window at the rain with a small, thoughtful frown.

His graying hair was tied back, his robe still carrying the faint scent of forge ash and mana grease.

"Rain?" Elen muttered, glancing toward Lor as he entered. "Didn’t see that in the morning forecast."

Lor just offered a neutral shrug. "Weather’s weird sometimes."

Mira appeared from the kitchen, apron on, carrying a pot of steaming stew. "Let’s eat while it’s hot."

Lor sat down between them, inhaling the scent of seasoned meat, root vegetables, and fresh herbs.

A quiet clink of bowls.

The rain whispered gently against the windows.

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