The stunned silence that followed Nikolai’s unorthodox opening question stretched across the massive amphitheater like a taut violin string. Hundreds of the realm's most promising young minds—prodigies who had spent their entire lives memorizing thick tomes of arcane theory and practicing elemental manipulation until their fingers bled—stared blankly at the podium. In the front row, Elianora Vane’s pen remained frozen a fraction of an inch above her pristine parchment. Her amethyst eyes blinked once, twice, trying to reconcile the legendary reputation of Nikolai Reindhart—the infamous, indolent scumbag of the upper districts—with the calm, magnetic presence standing before them. Nikolai internally cursed himself, his mind racing to recover his lazy persona. Way to go, genius, he muttered in his own head. You were supposed to sound incompetent so they would report you to the Dean. Instead, you dropped a rhetorical question that sounded profound. Curse these overpowered traits. He cleared his throat, lazily shifting his weight from one foot to the other, attempting to adopt an expression of supreme boredom. "What I mean to say," Nikolai drawled, waving a dismissive hand in the air, "is that most textbooks you are forced to read are written by pompous old men who have never spent a day outside a library. They fill your heads with complex jargon, endless calculations, and seventy-step incantations for spells that can be cast with a simple flick of the wrist. It is tedious, exhausting, and entirely inefficient." A murmur rippled through the tiered seating. Several aristocratic students in the upper rows scoffed softly, exchanging arrogant grins. "Efficiency?" a sharp, clear voice echoed from the third row. A young noble scion with neatly gelled blond hair and robes embroidered with gold thread stood up, crossing his arms with a theatrical sneer. His name, as recalled from the class roster, was Lord Julian of House Vane—no relation to Elianora, though his family had spent generations looking down on commoners and underperforming nobles alike. "With all due respect, Professor Reindhart," Julian said, his voice dripping with condescension disguised as polite inquiry, "the Grand Academy is the pinnacle of magical education on this continent. We are taught the sacred, traditional formulas handed down by the ancient sages. Are you suggesting that centuries of academic rigor and complex magical theory are simply... a waste of time?" Nikolai sighed deeply. It was a long, soulful exhalation of pure spiritual exhaustion. He looked at Julian the way a weary traveler looks at a particularly stubborn pebble stuck in their boot. Oh, great, Nikolai thought. The ambitious overachiever type. The kind of kid who reminds the teacher about homework on a Friday afternoon. "Lord Julian, was it?" Nikolai replied, his voice smooth, unbothered, and completely devoid of intimidation. "Let me ask you a question. When you cast your primary fire spark spell during last semester's practical evaluation, how many syllables did your incantation require?" Julian puffed out his chest, proud of his academic record. "Fourteen syllables, Professor! And my flame reached a temperature high enough to scorch a standard iron target within three seconds!" "Fourteen syllables," Nikolai repeated, shaking his head slowly with an expression of profound pity. "Fourteen separate breaths. Fourteen distinct focal shifts of your concentration. By the time you finish reciting a fourteen-syllable poem to light a campfire, a goblin in the forest has already eaten your lunch, stolen your boots, and set up camp in your ancestral estate." A few muffled snickers broke out among the students in the back rows. Julian’s face flushed bright red, his pride stinging under the public mockery. "That is the foundational structure taught by the Archmages!" Julian protested, his voice cracking slightly with indignation. "If you think you can do better without the traditional formulas, then show us! Cast a spell right now, Professor! Let us see the legendary magical prowess of the Reindhart family!" The entire amphitheater went dead silent. Every single pair of eyes locked onto Nikolai. The tension in the room grew thick enough to slice with a butter knife. Behind the scenes, Nikolai’s soul was throwing a massive celebration. Yes! he cheered internally. Push me into a corner! Demand proof of my incompetence! This is my golden ticket! I'll fumble a simple spark, look embarrassed, and send them all home early. It's foolproof! Nikolai raised his right hand lazily, channeling a fraction of his dormant, overflowing mana, fully intending to produce nothing more than a pathetic, sputtering puff of gray smoke that would justify his immediate demotion. He flicked his wrist. In that fraction of a second, the passive, overwhelming weight of the 'Universal Teacher of Magic' trait surged through his nervous system like a bolt of pure, unadulterated lightning. His mind didn't just calculate a spell; it dismantled the entire concept of fire magic down to its rawest, most fundamental essence, stripping away every unnecessary rule, formula, and redundant syllable ever conceived by mortal mages. A blinding flash of pure, iridescent white light erupted from Nikolai’s fingertips. It wasn't a standard, roaring ball of red or orange flame. It was a silent, perfectly contained sphere of pure thermal energy no larger than a dewdrop, hovering effortlessly above his palm. The air surrounding the amphitheater didn't scorch or roar; instead, it shimmered with a serene, absolute perfection. Without a single word, without a single syllable of incantation, the tiny sphere drifted lazily across the room, passed right through Julian’s iron target without leaving a scratch, and gently touched a small wooden training dummy stationed at the far back wall. The moment it made contact, the training dummy didn't burn or explode—it simply dissolved into a cloud of fine, glittering golden dust, vanishing entirely from existence as if it had never been there at all. The amphitheater remained dead silent for five full seconds. Julian dropped back into his seat, his mouth hanging open so wide his jaw practically unhinged. The entire room stared at the empty space where the dummy had stood, their brains struggling to process what they had just witnessed. No incantation. No hand gestures. No visible buildup of mana. Just a casual wave of the hand, and a solid object was unmade at a fundamental level. Nikolai stared at his own palm, his expression blank, his soul screaming in absolute horror. Wait, Nikolai panicked inwardly. That wasn't supposed to happen! I tried to fail! Why did it look so cool?! Now they're going to think I'm a supreme tactical genius! My peaceful retirement is ruined! Slowly, Nikolai lowered his hand, pasting the most indifferent, bored expression he could possibly muster onto his face. He looked out across the paralyzed sea of students, letting out a heavy, disappointed sigh. "You see?" Nikolai drawled lazily, breaking the heavy silence. "That is why memorizing fourteen-syllable poems is a complete waste of your morning. Now, open your textbooks to page one, read the introduction in absolute silence, and do not disturb me until the bell rings. I am going to take a brief nap." He turned around, walked slowly back to the towering podium, pulled his heavy fur cloak over his shoulders, and slumped down behind the wooden lectern entirely out of sight. In the front row, Elianora Vane slowly lowered her gaze back to her parchment. Her amethyst eyes were wide with a fierce, burning light of absolute awe and determination. She gripped her pen tightly, her heart pounding against her ribs. To her, Professor Reindhart wasn't lazy—he was an unfathomable master hiding his boundless wisdom behind a facade of nonchalance, trying to teach them that true mastery required looking beyond the rigid rules of the world. As the students hurriedly cracked open their heavy tomes, desperate to decipher the profound lesson they thought they had just witnessed, Nikolai lay hidden behind the podium, staring up at the ceiling and silently weeping for his lost, peaceful life.

Chapter 8: The Weight of a Single Spark