Chapter 280: 280| Magic Is About Direction. Angles. And, Above All Else... Precision.

​Morning at Seruni School commenced earlier than usual. A biting chill still lingered in the air, yet the school complex was already bustling with activity.

​Scuff... scuff...

​The sound of shoe soles grinding against the stone floor echoed down the main corridor. Basic-tier students veered into the left wing, squeezing into their two newly designated classrooms—now split due to a massive surge in enrollment. Meanwhile, Advanced-tier students strolled leisurely toward the right wing.

​Among the crowd, a few fresh faces craned their necks, awkwardly clutching the straps of their bags. They were last week’s recruits, still entirely blind to the school’s layout.

​In the Advanced classroom, Raphael Sudrath sat comfortably at his desk. He was not in the front row where the overachievers gathered, nor was he in the back corner favored by the slackers. He sat dead center. He had chosen this exact spot after changing seats three times—a ridiculous experiment he called "optimizing the visual and acoustic coordinates."

​Elodie had little to say about it. The girl merely shook her head with a wry, understanding smile and pulled up a chair beside him.

​At the desk in front of them, the Frost twins were locked in a fierce debate.

​Tap. Tap. Tap.

​"This formula is significantly shorter, Lyan," Lyra insisted stubbornly, the tip of her quill tapping against the parchment. "Three calculation steps. Done."

​"Three steps, but you rely on two blind assumptions," Lyan countered flatly. His eyes didn’t even bother to glance at his sister, remaining fixed on his own notebook. "If a single assumption slips, your entire conceptual framework crumbles. My formula may require five steps, but every variable is locked down securely."

​"That is far too slow! You’d be dead on the battlefield!" Lyra grumbled.

​"Your formula is too high-risk. A pure waste of mana."

​Raphael—who usually treated the surrounding chatter as passing wind—suddenly chimed in casually. "It depends."

​The two silver-haired heads snapped around in unison. "Depends on what?" Lyra demanded.

​"The terrain." Raphael leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "If you’re surrounded in the field, a lethal strike lands before your brain can process five steps. But... if you’re behind a desk acting as a tactician, a single slipped assumption could cost an entire platoon."

​Raphael shrugged. "There is no magic formula that is always correct. There are only correct formulas... for the correct situation."

​Lyra narrowed her eyes, scanning Raphael from head to toe. "Miraculous. What you just said... almost sounded wise."

​"I learned it from the experience of being tortured by monsters."

​Lyan offered no comment. However, the corner of his lips twitched upward a fraction of a millimeter. For Lyan Frost, that was the equivalent of a roaring standing ovation.

​Elodie—who had been observing in silence—suddenly slid a sheet of scribbled paper onto Raphael’s desk. "Hey, I got a bonus homework problem from Lady Elara yesterday. Want to take a look?"

​Raphael accepted it, his eyes scanning the complex string of numbers. "You... haven’t finished this yet?"

​"No." Elodie let out a sigh, pointing to a heavily crossed-out line of equations. "I got stuck on this variable. Hit a complete brick wall."

​Raphael nodded. "Hmm. Same. I was stuck on that exact spot all night."

​The two bent their heads, staring at the same paper. No pride. No patronizing. Just two young geniuses who were equally baffled, yet equally detested the concept of giving up.

​Whirrr...

​The exceptionally smooth spin of gears shattered the classroom chatter. Elara entered. The class instantly fell silent without anyone needing to shout for order.

​Elara’s wheelchair rolled smoothly across the room—a new model modified with Arcanotech. She brought it to a halt directly in front of the blackboard. There was no stack of heavy textbooks on her lap. No curriculum notes.

​Today, her fingers merely held a piece of white chalk.

​"Multivariable equations," Elara spoke. Her voice was not loud, yet its calm resonance reached the furthest corners of the room.

​Scritch. Scratch. Scritch. Her chalk danced across the board:

​Three variables. Three equations. One solution.

​"Last week, you learned to solve for two variables. Today, we increase the portion by one." Elara rotated her wheelchair to face her students. "Who remembers the core principle?"

​Several hands shot into the air. Elara gestured toward Junior Varn.

​"Elimination, My Lady. Or substitution," Junior answered crisply.

​"Correct. But remember, elimination and substitution are merely carpenter’s tools." Elara turned back to the board. Scritch. Scratch. "What is far more critical is this: you must be sensitive to which variable possesses the most lethal influence."

​Elara began writing a long case study.

​A Wolf-Tusk tank convoy transports supplies from Iron Hearth to Torshavn. Distance: 120 kilometers. Base mana consumption: 3 liters per kilometer on flat terrain. Load increases consumption by 15% on ascents, and decreases it by 10% on descents. If 40% of the journey consists of ascents, 30% descents, and the remainder is flat terrain... what is the total mana capacity the logistics team must prepare?

​"Ten minutes. Work individually," Elara instructed. "Afterward, compare with your seatmate. I will not be providing the answer key. You will feed the solution to me."

​The room immediately buzzed with activity. Scratch, scratch. Quills moved frantically. Sheets of parchment were turned in haste.

​Raphael stared intently at the board. His mind immediately constructed an algorithm—not using rigid formulas first, but pure logic.

​40% ascent, 30% descent, 30% flat. Ascent consumption means 3.45 liters per kilometer. Descent is 2.7. Flat is 3. His hand began scribbling in a steady, constant rhythm.

​Beside him, Elodie’s pen stopped mid-stroke. Her brow furrowed deeply. "Hey, Raphael. Look at this. For the ascent... 15% of 3 liters is 0.45, right?"

​"Yes."

​"So 3 plus 0.45 equals 3.45?"

​"Yes."

​"Then why is the final result on my parchment wildly different from your rough calculation?"

​Raphael glanced at Elodie’s parchment. "Ah. You multiplied first and then added the distance variables. You should aggregate the distances first, then multiply them by their respective consumption rates."

​Elodie squinted at her scribbles, and her eyes suddenly widened. "Oh! Heavens, how foolish of me."

​"There you go. You’ve caught the pattern."

​The two bent over their respective papers once more. In these rows of desks, there was no competition over who was the smartest. There was only the pure satisfaction of dissecting a riddle.

​Ding! Dong!

​The midday bell chimed. The cafeteria was immediately stormed like a battlefield.

​The cafeteria building had been expanded to twice its original blueprint. Long oak tables stood in pristine rows. The air was warm, painted with the savory aroma of thick potato soup and the sweetness of toasted rye bread wafting from the kitchens.

​Through one of the large windows, the view of the half-finished dormitory construction was displayed—towering timber scaffolding, accompanied by the shouts of construction workers bustling about.

​Raphael sat casually at a central table. Around him sat his regular circle: Elodie, Kell, Barret, Junior Varn. And... one unexpected guest.

​A scrawny young boy from the Basic class. His round spectacles sat crooked on his sharp nose. His name was Tom.

​"I heard you transferred from East-Port, right?" Kell asked casually, tearing his bread with a crisp crunch. "Your father is a fisherman?"

​"Y-yes," Tom stammered, nodding jerkily in his nervousness. "I... I only migrated here a week ago. Still in the Basic class."

​"Relax, kid. I was a Basic student once too," Barret chimed in. The jagged scar across his cheek pulled taut as he chewed roughly on his smoked meat. "For the first three weeks here, I wanted to vomit blood every time I looked at the numbers on the board. Now... well, I still get nauseous occasionally. Just slightly less."

​Kell roared with laughter at the blunt honesty. Tom finally managed a small smile, though his shoulders remained stiff.

​Junior Varn—the noble youth who had once made a habit of sneering at commoners like Tom—merely stared at the boy with a calm gaze. "Are you fluent in reading yet?"

​"O-only a little. I... I practice combining words every night in the dormitory."

​"Good," Junior nodded curtly. "If you are serious about sharpening your mind, you have a chance to advance to the Advanced tier next year."

​Tom’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. "Next year?!"

​"Faster, if you’re diligent. Everything depends on you."

​Elodie smiled. She slid the remainder of her rye bread onto Tom’s plate. "Eat up, Tom. You’re so thin. In this school, you will need a massive intake of glucose to think."

​Tom accepted it with both hands, trembling with gratitude. "T-thank you."

​Raphael hadn’t spoken this entire time. But... with a face as flat as stone, he pushed half of his potato soup bowl toward Tom. It wasn’t an exaggerated gesture, just a slight nudge.

​Yet, that small movement was enough to make Junior Varn halt his chewing. Junior arched an eyebrow.

​"What?" Raphael asked, annoyed by the stare.

​"Oh, nothing." Junior looked down, returning to cutting his meat. "Just... didn’t expect you to have a philanthropic streak. Uncharacteristic."

​Meanwhile, in the staff room...

​Thud!

​Sera dropped her forehead onto the desk, groaning silently. Before her, a stack of student exam papers towered like a Jenga column primed to collapse at any second. Her face was the very definition of chronic exhaustion.

​"I need a new assistant... seriously..." Sera groaned from behind her arms.

​"Sera, you have groaned that exact sentence three times today," Lidia noted dryly, pouring chamomile tea into her cup. Ssshh. "Three times yesterday. And four times the day before."

​"Because the reality of the situation is exactly that, Lidia!"

​Torin—who had been lying sideways on a battered sofa with his eyes closed—suddenly chimed in. "Did you know? The students in my class just built a prototype mini steam engine."

​Sera looked up, her dark-circled eyes narrowing in suspicion. "And? Did it work?"

​"It exploded."

​"Good grief... who are they learning to build bombs from?!"

​"Hey, don’t look at me!" Torin quickly opened one eye. "I merely taught them basic thermodynamic theory. They were the ones itching to experiment in the warehouse." Torin rubbed his chin, smirking proudly. "But honestly, I’m proud. The first explosion is the welcoming bell to technological success!"

​"The first explosion can also be a death knell if you don’t monitor their mana intake, idiot," Lidia cut in, her tone as cold as ice.

​Click. The door burst open.

​Garon entered, his breathing ragged. His military boots were caked in wet mud. His uniform clung to his frame from excessive sweat.

​"The Advanced kids... they’re asking for an increased load in physical training," Garon reported, panting.

​Lidia nearly spat her tea. "What? Insane! You just made them run five laps around the complex with weighted gear. That wasn’t torturous enough?!"

​"Hey, I didn’t force them! They were the ones asking for their menu to be increased," Garon countered, grabbing Torin’s empty teacup and pouring some for himself. The burly, bear-like man chugged it down in one massive pull. Gulp, gulp, gulp. "They shouted, ’Sergeant, we aren’t tired yet!’. Mental, the lot of them."

​"They must have left their brains in the dormitory."

​"Natural," Garon smirked, wiping sweat from his temple. "They are the seed of Northreach. Northerners refuse to go home until they drop."

​In the quiet corner of the room, Elara, who had been busy reading expense reports, finally lowered her parchment. "If they have spare energy, let them. Give them harsher material."

​Garon patted his chest firmly. "Understood, Principal."

​Elara refocused on her reports. Outside the glass window, the distant, rhythmic pounding of hammers and the screech of saws cutting timber could be heard. The construction of this school was not entirely complete. In fact, it would likely never be finished as time marched on.

​But to Elara... seeing all this bustling chaos, it wasn’t a problem at all.

​That afternoon, the Applied Magic Class was packed. The air felt warm with enthusiasm.

​Raveena stood tall before the podium. The blackboard behind her was densely covered in complex formulas—Snell’s Law, calculations of angles of incidence, angles of reflection, down to the refractive index coefficient of air. A few students stared at the scribbles with eyes glittering with a hunger for knowledge. Meanwhile, the other half stared with dilated pupils and half-open mouths—their brains already smoking.

​"Attention, everyone," Raveena clapped her hands once. Smack! "Today, we will study something radical. A magical concept that you likely won’t master anytime soon. But... I want you to know that this theory is real and applicable."

​Raveena’s sharp gaze swept across her students.

​"Thus far, the doctrine taught to you has been: if a lethal magic strike approaches, your options are only two. Erect a defensive shield, or leap to evade. That fact is true. But, there is a third option." Raveena paused, letting their curiosity rise. "Return it to the sender."

​The students exchanged glances. Whispers began to buzz.

​"Imagine a mirror. Light strikes it, and the mirror reflects it back. The question is: why can’t magic be treated the same way?"

​"Obviously because magic possesses mass and isn’t a common light wave, Professor," Lyra answered from her mid-row desk, pushing up her glasses.

​"Correct. But do not forget, magic possesses a directional vector. An attack angle. And an acceleration of velocity." Raveena raised an index finger. "All those elements... have calculation formulas. And anything in this world that can be calculated... can undoubtedly be deflected."

​Raveena pointed straight at Lyra. "Lyra Frost. Strike me with your fireball spell. Now."

​Lyra gasped at her desk. "Huh? Professor... are you serious? I might singe your robes!"

​"Very serious. Do it without hesitation."

​The classroom turned as tense as a stretched wire. The students held their breath.

​Lyra swallowed hard, then raised her right hand. Whoosh! An orange-red fireball about the size of an adult’s fist materialized in her palm. Radiating heat immediately traveled to the surrounding desks. Without another word, Lyra launched it toward the podium.

​Raveena didn’t dodge an inch. She didn’t cast a protective wall.

​Her hand merely performed a sweeping gesture in the air—not chanting a spell, but executing a remarkably precise, incredibly smooth maneuver, as if she were shifting the coordinates of the air itself.

​Instantly, the mana in front of Raveena vibrated. The surrounding air blurred due to the light refraction effect—like a heat mirage on a baking asphalt road. The refractive index of the air in front of Raveena had just been altered by force.

​The fireball did not crash into Raveena’s body. But it also didn’t detonate harmlessly against a barrier.

​The scorching magic actually bent!

​Swoosh! Its trajectory curved into a smooth parabola, whistling past Raveena’s flank, and slammed squarely into a straw target dummy in the corner of the room.

​BOOM! Fire consumed the straw instantly. It was not a wild explosion that wrecked the room, but a blast concentrated with absolute precision on a single target point.

​The classroom erupted. Every student was stunned. A few of them reflexively stood up from their chairs in sheer awe.

​"I call this art... the Vector Mana Reflector," Raveena spoke calmly, brushing straw dust from her robes. "Its core principle: manipulating the refractive index of mana in the air. The incoming enemy magic is not met with brute force; instead, its path is deflected. We send the lethality back in the direction we desire."

​Lyan—who had been silently analyzing—finally spoke up, his voice vibrating with enthusiasm. "Wait a moment... that means, we could reflect a weapon of mass destruction back into our enemy’s own face?!"

​"Theoretically, yes. Entirely possible," Raveena nodded. "But this technique demands instantaneous mental computation. If your deviation angle calculation misses by even a single degree... the attack will instead bounce back and obliterate your own face."

​Raveena offered a knowing smile to her still-gaping pupils. "This is no cheap magic you can memorize overnight. Or even in a full month. Most of you might never be capable of executing it in your entire lives."

​Raveena leaned forward over the teacher’s desk. "But at least... today you wake from your old dogmas. You know that high-tier magic combat... is not merely a matter of who possesses the greatest explosive power. Magic is about direction. Angles. And, above all else... precision."

​In her seat, Elodie’s eyes widened as she stared at the palm of her hand resting on her thigh.

​Unbeknownst to her, a thin green vine began to creep out from between her fingers. Creak, creak. Moving, bending slowly in the air, mirroring the flow of her thoughts. The growth of the vine was not because she intended to use a spell.

​But because on this afternoon, her body had just understood a tiny fragment of the fundamental laws of magic.