I left in a hurry, not really worrying about how those two would manage. I mean, Syllia—sure, she seems responsible from her demeanor, but I haven't exactly seen her leadership in action. As for Arsen? I've got no clue about his social skills.
As I stepped out of the complex and into the street, the air was crisp, touched by a refreshing morning breeze. Nothing beats the feel of fresh air at dawn.
It was early, so the streets weren't packed—not deserted either, just that quiet hum of a city waking up. A few gentlemen and ladies strolled by, dressed in fine coats and dresses—Victorian aesthetics laced with a modern, fashionable edge. Right across from my building stood the military admissions office for the Rumulian Kingdom. A reminder of the local system of law and order—well, aside from the Inquisition, which isn't exactly local. They're more... international enforcers.
I noticed a few men loitering across the street—some in those stark black coats with subtle silver insignias, unmistakably Inquisition personnel. Same branch that paid me a visit last night. The others wore blue and gold uniforms, likely the local law enforcement of the Romulian Kingdom. Regal, proper, and probably trained to spot a fugitive by the way they butter their bread.
One of the Inquisitors turned sharply. Masks or not, I could feel it—he was looking straight at me. Spectacular. Just what I needed. Surveillance stares and subtle intimidation. I half-expected them to pull out a clipboard and start taking notes on my posture.
I didn't react. That's rule number one: don't look guilty. I just kept walking, a casual fast-walk that said totally innocent civilian with nothing to hide, even though I was very much neither.
And then it hit me—the second spell. Still untested. Definitely not classroom-appropriate. Possibly lethal. Might accidentally summon a storm, or worse, a bureaucrat.
"Please be empty," I muttered, picking up the pace toward the tutor's place. "Just this once, an empty classroom, so I can figure out the severity of this spell."
I sprinted down the street, weaving past finely dressed citizens in their polished boots and flamboyant hats. Somewhere off to the side, Ryan called out to me. I waved him off mid-run. Sorry, Ryan—unless you know how to disarm volatile incantations mid-cast, we'll catch up later.
I finally stood in front of the tutor's building, lungs burning slightly from the sprint. With about eighteen minutes to spare, I granted myself the rare luxury of a short breather—then headed in.
I wasn't unfamiliar with the place. How could I be? This was the first building I saw when I transmigrated into this world less than a day ago. It's etched into my brain like a brand, whether I like it or not.
The classroom door creaked open, and to my very real relief, it was empty. Empty. Gloriously, blessedly empty. I might've actually smiled—hard to tell. I was ecstatic in the deadpan, internal kind of way.
No witnesses meant no awkward explanations. If anything exploded, I'd just play dumb. "Oh, was that a spell? Gosh, must be the wind."
I stepped behind the teacher's desk—well, "desk" was generous. It was more like a sermon pulpit crossed with a lectern, tall and unnecessarily dramatic. Perfect for whatever unholy mess I was about to unleash.
I still had the spell memorized and understood—well, "understood" in the way someone understands how a blender works without knowing the mechanics. Still, I readied myself.
Grimoire out. Essentia channeled. Once again, it glowed.
What I didn't notice, of course, was how many more pages this spell drained compared to the last one. Minor detail. Also hadn't really tested the capacity of this grimoire yet. You know—little things. Trivial.
Then, I cast the spell.
Turbalance.
A vortex of wind spiraled violently before me, howling like it had personal grievances. A sharp gust slammed past my face, ruffling my clothes and my nerves. I was stunned. Ecstatic. Bamboozled. Possibly possessed.
Next, I fired off three wind blades—vivid, aggressive, and unnecessarily dramatic. Each one sliced forward like it was auditioning for a stage play, slamming into the student desks with a crack loud enough to make my heartbeat reconsider its job. The desks flipped over like bad poker tables.
I immediately rushed over to clean up the mess—splintered desks, scattered papers, a slight breeze still lingering in the air like the ghost of my recklessness. My heart was pounding, but not from fear. Excitement surged through me—wild, hot, and foolishly optimistic. I told myself I was ready for my first few days as a mage instructor.
No. No, I wasn't.
As I stood behind the desk—more a pulpit than a table, tall and sermon-like—I tried to compose myself. My hands still trembled slightly, the echo of Essentia rippling through my veins. The classroom, however, was quiet. Empty. For now.
Then, the door creaked open, and in stepped the first student to ever speak to me in this world.
Elizabeth Rosemarow.
She walked in with the kind of casual grace that made everything feel lighter—an elegant wave, a smile that belonged on a noblewoman's portrait.
"Good morning to you, Professor Victor. You're as early as ever," she said, gliding to her seat like she owned the room.
There it was again—her refined poise, her strangely confident aura. A real noble. Her clothes were immaculate, woven with that distinct fashion of the upper crust: a hybrid between Victorian polish and magical flair. And her manners? Sharp as her tongue, polished with a pride that didn't have to prove itself.
She gave me a sly little grin. "Will you be teaching us the spells you promised? You've been putting it off for so long. It'd give us a real head start over the institute kids, wouldn't it?"
That smile. Odd, knowing—like she was already reading my grimoire behind my back. I had to admit, she was dazzling in that "definitely out of your league" kind of way. Back home, girls like her didn't talk to people like me unless they were giving change or directions.
The next to arrive was someone entirely different.
A shorter girl, brown-haired, reserved. You could tell just by looking: she didn't speak unless spoken to, didn't walk unless she was sure of the ground.
Noelle.
"How was last night, Noelle?" Elezebith asked brightly, clearly noticing her entrance. "Lilith said you felt sick, but you seem just fine this morning."
Oh, right. The energetic one strikes again. The same girl who welcomed me here the moment I transmigrated—too trusting for her own good.
Noelle smiled weakly, her eyes darting anywhere but forward.
"Umm… thank you, Elezebith, for your concern. I was… just feeling a small headache. Nothing much," she said, her voice as soft as a breath in the wind. She tiptoed to her seat—the one right behind Elezebith—as if hoping the floor wouldn't creak under her.
I watched her settle in, and for a moment… I realized something strange. This wasn't just a class. These were real people. They had lives, worries, friendships—questions I hadn't answered. And I, a fake teacher with a dangerous spellbook and zero credentials, was supposed to guide them.
God help them.
Just as I finished quietly observing the two girls settle in, Elezebith gave me that sidelong smirk again—the kind that meant trouble was about to walk in, whether I liked it or not.
"Oh? Love really is just around the corner, isn't it?" she muttered teasingly, eyes fixed on the classroom door like a clairvoyant with a flair for drama.
And then, right on cue, in came the start of the day: shiny red hair, dazzling and blinding under the morning light like he'd just stepped out of a noble family portrait. The boy strode in with far too much confidence for someone his age—his posture stiff, chin raised, and shoes clicking dramatically against the floor.
"I pray your day is good, Professor Victor." he said, bowing his head slightly toward the girls with the gravitas of a knight in a bedtime fairytale. The voice was polished, firm—and somehow still cringe. Like a child playing dress-up in a lord's tone.
Before I could respond, Elizabeth snorted, unbothered and unimpressed.
"Wow. Did someone grow up overnight? What's with the gallant tone, Mister Future Viscount?" she quipped, leaning back in her seat with a grin that could slice through satin.
He clenched his jaw, lips twitching with barely-contained irritation. The kind of annoyed where you rehearse arguments in your head for hours afterward.
"None of your business, Elizabeth," he snapped. "I will have you know it is our duty to act noble wherever we are. I hope you understand that."
The way he said it—puffed-up, righteous, and one syllable away from exploding in aristocratic rage—was… something else. A kid fueled entirely by pride and pent-up superiority complexes. Fantastic.
Elizabeth just giggled as he sulked his way to the seat beside her, like she'd just tossed a pebble into a pond and was watching the ripples with amusement.
But then something surprising happened.
Noelle—quiet, polite, practically wallpaper up until now—actually turned to Zeke and spoke. Softly, but clearly. She even smiled. And the boy? He lit up like a lantern. For the first time—aside from when I met him right after transmigrating—I saw him smile. Not that fake nobleman's smirk, but a real, genuine grin.
Paradise, huh?
I watched him bask in it like a desert wanderer finally finding water. For a split second, I actually hoped that his personality matched that smile. Maybe under all that forced propriety, there was a decent kid just trying too hard to live up to his title.
But of course, I also hoped he wouldn't spontaneously combust from sheer smugness before the lesson began.
Right after Zeke made his grand entrance, the rest of the students trickled in—nine of them in total.
From what I remembered (and I was still piecing things together), I was scheduled to tutor them from 7:30 in the morning until 11:30 noon, with a thirty-minute break at 10:00. Three subjects in total. Since these kids were fifth-years at this tutoring center—which, to my surprise, was officially recognized by the kingdom as a proper preparatory academy—they were eligible to take the entrance exam for the Royal Institution. And me? I'd been assigned here as their academy-certified instructor, apparently because of Victor. Or rather, my current identity as Victor. The memories were still syncing, like a bad cloud backup.
Our first subject of the day: Essentia Theory.
Sounds harmless enough, right? Just a bit of magical theory?
Wrong.
Essentia Theory is infamous in magical academia—not just for being dense, but for being deceptively named. It's not just theory; it's a deep dive into magical philosophy, the metaphysical structure of Essentia, energy flow, and the underlying components that define all magical phenomena. It's the academic equivalent of throwing first-years into a bottomless pit of formulas, paradoxes, and abstract nonsense and hoping they sprout wings before impact.
Naturally, it was the first class of the day. 75 minutes of it.
As the last desk scraped into place and the final whispers died like embers in ash, I exhaled.
Showtime.
I straightened my back and stepped forward, donning the persona I'd buried in another world. Steven Clark—former Earthling, Nobel laureate, scientific messiah. Creator of limitless nuclear fusion, savior of economies, breaker of energy ceilings. Now reborn as Victor Eisenberg, glorified babysitter with a grimoire and a teaching post in a kingdom that probably still believes leeches cure fevers.
Life's funny like that.
I adjusted my cuffs—well, metaphorically. The robes here didn't exactly scream "genius," but I wore them like a lab coat anyway. Because if I didn't, I might scream. Or worse, actually teach them something.
I locked eyes with the class, channeling that old lecture hall energy, the kind that shut up grad students and made politicians blink. Behind my composed facade, I was still reeling from last night. The magical theories I crammed like a student before finals. The spell I may or may not have accidentally created out of spite and caffeine-induced brilliance. You know which one. The one that nearly turned the classroom into a wind-powered warzone.
But hey—progress.
I wasn't here to impress these kids. I was here to survive, adapt, and maybe, just maybe, climb my way back to power. One fake lesson at a time.
So I inhaled deeply, smirked inwardly, and prepared to spew well-polished nonsense with the confidence of a man who used to lecture world leaders on quantum fields over breakfast.
Because if I was going to teach magical theory to teenagers, I'd do it like I taught physics at Harvard:With the authority of a man who rewrote the laws of energy and the patience of a man who's already planning his escape.
I stood at the front of the class, coat buttoned tight, gloves off. My eyes scanned the room — sharp, still. I didn't speak at first. I just reached up and chalked one word onto the slate behind me:
"Essentia."
Then I turned, and let the silence break.
"Essentia is not an element.It is not fire. Not water. Not stone or wind.It is not blood.It is not faith."
"It is older than all of those.It has no color, no weight, no taste.And yet... it moves mountains."
No one interrupted.
"You can't touch it. You can't bottle it. You can't kill it.And no scholar — not even the arrogant ones — knows where it came from.But it listens. It moves. And it answers."
I turned back to the board and drew a vertical line under the word. Five short words branched outward like roots:
Essentia
— Will — Life — Flow — Shape — Link
"Five parts. That's what we know.Five pieces of a puzzle we're still trying to solve."
I tapped each word with the chalk, letting my voice stay steady.
"Will."
"This is why magic responds.Not because you wave your hand. Not because you shout a word.But because, in that moment, you mean it.You intend it. That's Will."
"Life."
"Essentia doesn't come from the world. It comes from you.From the breath in your lungs.From the beat of your heart.From the life you still have left to give."
"Flow."
"Will creates the spark.Life feeds it.But Flow is what carries it. The current. The path.Misunderstand Flow, and your magic will stutter, backfire, or worse — get lost."
"Shape."
"This is structure. The bones of the spell.The logic. The circle. The words.Shape is what makes your flame a dagger, not a wildfire."
"Link."
"And finally — the connection.To the ground beneath you.To the wind around you.To the soul of the one you cast upon.Link is what makes the magic stick."
I stepped back and let the weight of it settle.
"What I just gave you is a summary. A weak one, honestly.Each of these? There are entire volumes written just on one.I've seen scholars argue over Flow for thirty years and still not agree on what it means."( Not me but jacob, needed to sound smart)
"Some break it into sub-essences. Others say Link doesn't exist at all.There are even factions — yes, factions — who've devoted their lives to proving the other four are just shadows of Will."
I paused, then added:
"This has led to three major Schools of Thought in Essentia Theory.You'll learn their names. You'll hate two of them. You'll swear one of them makes sense — until it doesn't."
I let that hang in the air for a moment.
"But for now... this is where we begin."
I motioned with my hand.
"Open your theory books, not your grimoires.You can't wield what you don't understand."
Did I really just say that?
I handed them a bite-sized snack of Essentia theory, and they probably think they've eaten a five-course meal. What a joke. What I just gave them is barely a speck on the surface, a blink in the universe. And they're sitting there, all wide-eyed and nodding like they get it.
And me? Oh, I remember. Yesterday, I skimmed that theory book by Jacob—just a quick glance, enough to remind myself I'm not completely an idiot. But what do I do? I spill out the most watered-down version ever. Genius.
Suddenly, my mind went somewhere else. A flash, a vision, like a jolt through my skull. Figures in robes, their faces blurry—no, too blurry to focus. But... one of them... was arguing with someone. It felt real. Like I should know them. It was... Victory? No, it couldn't be... What was that? I shook my head. No time for that now.
I'm back in the classroom. Right. Focus.
"Essentia... that's the basics. Learn it." Well, I hope they do, anyway.
Oh, wait... my book! I left it on the desk, like a complete genius.
For a moment, I just stood there—suddenly, the weight of my utter stupidity hit me. How did I forget the book? How?! It was supposed to be the one thing I didn't forget in this entire whirlwind of chaos!
I slapped my forehead dramatically, the sound loud enough to echo in the classroom. "Well, isn't this just the height of brilliance? How could I—"
I caught myself mid-complain, realizing I was probably looking insane to my students. Trying to recover, I leaned forward, fixing them with my most charming, completely-not-desperate smile.
"Can anyone—anyone—be kind enough to lend me... the book? I seem to have... lost it."
I gestured vaguely, hoping that at least one of them had the good sense to help me out. I mean, what's a teacher to do when they forget their only prop in the most perfectly timed moment of idiocy?