Professor Murphy had the entire class hanging on his every word. There was a natural charisma to him, an effortless command of the room strengthened by his passion and clear, concise explanations.

For Michael, it was mind-boggling. Theories he had painstakingly studied during his years at the Winterborne manor—concepts that had once seemed dense and impenetrable—were suddenly unraveling before him as if someone had opened a locked door. Murphy broke through the walls that had hindered his understanding with casual ease.

In just a single two-hour lesson, Michael felt as though he had learned more than in three years of self-study.

"Thus," Murphy began, turning back to the board, "mana circles—or magic circles, as some prefer to call them—are essentially instructions given to mana, shaping it into substance." His voice carried a rhythmic cadence that made every word stick.

He drew a simple circle upon the board with broad, deliberate strokes of chalk.

"The outer layer dictates the element," he explained, sketching runes along the perimeter, "while the inner layers define the structure of the spell itself. What action will your mana take? Will you forge it into a solid form like stone?" He tapped a section of the circle with his chalk. "Or perhaps soften the ground beneath you, making it malleable for manipulation?"

Each stroke added or removed complex runes, gradually building a layered mana circle on the blackboard. Most students didn't understand the runes' meanings—not yet—but even without comprehension, they could appreciate the sheer elegance of the construction.

"Incantations," Murphy continued, placing the chalk down and turning to face the class, "are excellent for forming the standardized mana circles you've all been taught thus far…" His tone shifted slightly, passion igniting in his words. "But they lack adaptability."

He paced across the front of the classroom, his dark robe trailing behind him as his presence filled the space. "Don't get me wrong," he added, lifting a finger, "many powerful mages rely on incantations alone, and they achieve extraordinary feats."

Then his eyes gleamed, his voice dropping lower, steady but intense. "But against someone who truly understands mana circles… someone who can weave them seamlessly…"

He stopped mid-stride, raising his left hand.

A sharp click echoed as he snapped his fingers.

Instantly, the air inside the classroom shifted. A current of mana stirred violently, gathering around his palm as glowing runes flared to life. A large, intricate mana circle unfolded above his hand, layers upon layers of patterns spiraling into existence with impossible precision.

A shrill cry pierced the room—a phoenix's call.

"They stand no chance!" Murphy declared, surging mana through the circle.

Flames erupted outward, folding into shape. From the glowing construct emerged a magnificent, fiery bird—its sharp beak glinting, its wings stretching wide as though it had crawled out from another dimension.

Gasps filled the classroom as waves of heat rolled over the students, prickling their skin.

The phoenix let out another ear-splitting screech, spreading its majestic wings before launching into flight with a single, powerful flap. Golden feathers shimmered beneath the flames licking across its body, making it seem less like a conjured spell and more like a living, breathing legend. The magical beast soared above their heads, casting fleeting shadows across the classroom.

Professor Murphy extended his arm with effortless grace, his smirk faint but confident.

The phoenix responded instantly, banking midair before gliding back toward its summoner. It landed gently upon his outstretched arm, its blazing feathers radiating soft waves of heat as it turned its regal gaze toward the awestruck first-years.

"T-that's a tier six spell!" Lilly stammered, pointing shakily at the flaming bird perched upon the professor's arm.

As if understanding her words, the phoenix raised its head high, chest swelling, seemingly pleased by the reverence directed its way.

"SO COOL!" Rudy shouted, practically leaping from his seat.

He wasn't alone—the room was buzzing with awe and excitement. For many, this was the closest they would ever come to witnessing a legendary creature. Phoenixes were the stuff of myth, whispered about in stories told by traveling mages. To see one—even conjured—was rare beyond measure.

Michael sat frozen in his seat, his breath shallow and uneven. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. Not only had Professor Murphy conjured a tier six spell, but he had done so without uttering a single incantation.

The sheer mastery required to achieve such a feat was staggering.

And Michael realized, with a chill running down his spine, that they had barely scratched the surface of what this man could do.

Though the spell was far beyond his reach or understanding, Michael instinctively recognized one thing—there was almost no wasted mana in Professor Murphy's casting. Not a single droplet of power was squandered.

Normally, even with lower-tier spells, mana loss was inevitable. It bled away for countless reasons—inefficient control, instability, flawed shaping—it couldn't be helped.

Michael knew this firsthand. When he'd performed the tier-two Ice Lance spell against Braydon and his cronies, he had felt at least a ten to fifteen percent loss during the process. From everything he'd read, the inefficiency only worsened with each tier of magic.

Or at least… that's what I thought, Michael realized, his brows furrowing slightly.

Professor Murphy's voice cut through his thoughts. "While the quality and quantity of your mana is important…" he began, his smile widening just slightly, "it is not the determining factor in a mage's strength."

His deep gaze swept across the class, lingering on students one by one. "For those of you who lack the potential to ascend beyond Azure Mage," he said calmly, "do not despair. If you truly understand the foundational principles of spellcrafting and mana theory… you will not lack strength."

The words seemed to ripple through the room like a surge of mana itself. The reverence in the students' faces deepened instantly.

"Y-YEAH!"

"The professor is amazing!"

Voices broke out in scattered excitement. The classroom no longer felt like a place of study; it had become more akin to a shrine, and Professor Murphy stood at its center as both priest and prophet.

Michael wasn't much different. He could feel himself being drawn in as well.

The world Murphy painted was one he would have devoured greedily just a few years ago—back when he was still a white-ringed mage, desperate for power and validation.

Even now, the promises of strength through knowledge tugged at something deep within him. With his unusual potential and unique soul, Michael had the chance to climb higher than most—perhaps even to reach the level of an Arcanist Mage, standing among figures like Professor Murphy and the headmaster.

If I can master the fundamentals of spellcrafting, he thought, his emerald eyes gleaming faintly, just what kind of mage could I become? Who could stand in my way when the time comes…

The fire in his heart, once steady and controlled, began to roar to life. It burned hotter, brighter—fueled by longing, by resolve, and by an undercurrent of quiet desperation. His body felt warmer, almost feverish, as anticipation tightened like a coil in his chest.

Then, as if sensing the crescendo of energy in the room, Professor Murphy lifted his hand in a casual motion.

The blazing phoenix, still perched regally upon his arm, dissolved in an instant. Flames unraveled into shimmering violet mist, dispersing like falling stardust across the classroom. Gasps escaped the students as tiny sparks of mana drifted harmlessly into the air, a final reminder of the spell's majesty.

"Unfortunately," Murphy said, his tone carrying a rare note of regret, "this is all the time we have for today's lesson."

The response was immediate—and deafening.

"Nooo! Please, Professor Murphy, teach us longer!"

"We don't need lunch! Just give us another hour!"

"Yeah! Skip the meal—we'll survive on mana!" someone shouted, earning a ripple of laughter.

Michael, too, felt a pang of disappointment, though perhaps not as intensely as his classmates. Unlike them, he understood patience. Knowledge—true power—wouldn't be gained in a single day.

The professor chuckled softly at the chorus of protests, his deep voice warm with amusement. "I'm flattered, truly. You may be able to skip your meals, my dear students…" He paused, placing a hand over his chest. "But I, unfortunately, have yet to break my fast."

The class laughed lightly, though the collective energy remained charged and restless.

"I will see you all tomorrow for our next lesson," he said, his small grin returning.

With that, Professor Murphy turned on his heel, his long robe trailing behind him as he strode toward the exit. His steps carried the same quiet authority as when he'd arrived—unshaken, confident, absolute.

And as the door closed behind him, the classroom seemed to exhale as one, the tension finally breaking. But for Michael, the ember inside him had already begun to grow into something far more dangerous.

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