Chapter 40: The Departnt Head Invites You for Tea
The latter half of Practice Experience Week passed in a blur of rapid activity that even Ryan himself did not fully notice.
In the class Foundations of Advanced Magical Theory and Frontier Hypotheses, Professor Ferguson presented a complex problem involving redundant magic circle structures and required the students to complete an analytical report on the spot. Ryan produced a logically clear verification plan.
After submitting his work, the professor graded it imdiately and expressed great appreciation for Ryan’s solution. Not only did he discuss it in detail in front of the class, he also kept Ryan behind afterward and handed him several pages of his personal notes.
anwhile, in the workshop for Basic Maintenance of Magic Tools, Ryan found himself facing a malfunctioning Micro Breeze Generator that felt almost like a review exercise.
All those nights in the dormitory spent dismantling and reassembling scavenged spare parts had now turned into steady technique and sharp judgnt.
He swiftly identified the root of the problem and completed the repair. He even casually sketched a minor structural optimization suggestion in the report.
Master Bernard—the craftsman famous for his silence and strict standards—unexpectedly gave him several extra looks. In the end, he handed Ryan a small wooden token that allowed him to use the basic workshop resources at cost price.
Two practical sessions. Two entirely different fields.
Yet in both, Ryan had delivered responses far beyond the level expected of ordinary students, earning the unmistakable approval of two notoriously demanding instructors.
When the class bell rang and Ryan stepped outside the Craftsman’s Lane workshop into the bright sunlight, he held the small wooden token in his pocket, still faintly warm with the grain of the wood.
Suddenly, sothing felt wrong.
He was attracting too much attention.
That had not been his intention. He had ant to remain low-profile.
But at so point—perhaps from the mont he decided to seriously study Magic Tools, or perhaps from the mont he began devouring magical textbooks after transmigrating, trying to close the gap in his knowledge—he had beco too absorbed.
He had grown accustod to using the logical thinking from his previous life to dissect the problems of this world. When that mindset encountered Professor Ferguson’s wildly imaginative questions or Master Bernard’s practical workshop environnt, the results naturally flowed out of him as what others perceived as “talent.”
This had not been part of his plan.
He already had enough trouble.
The looming shadow of his family.
Andre’s hostility.
The unknown risks brought by the Elven relic.
And the little Sacred Beast chick perched on his head that, aside from eating and sleeping, had not yet proven particularly useful.
He did not need outstanding academic performance adding another conspicuous label to himself, attracting even more attention from various factions.
Reputation, attention, opportunities…
And the inevitable trouble that followed them would only continue to snowball.
Just then, an officer from the Student Council of the Beginner Division walked straight through the dispersing crowd with a perfectly composed expression and stopped in front of Ryan. He handed over an official letter sealed with a formal insignia.
“Student Ryan Velt. The head of the Beginner Division’s Magic Practice Departnt, Edgar Morris, requests that you visit his office before three o’clock this afternoon.”
Of course.
Ryan accepted the thin yet weighty letter. His fingertips felt the stiffness of the paper and the slight raised texture of the seal.
The calm observation period had ended.
His overly striking performance had ultimately pushed him into the sight of certain figures within the academy’s administration sooner than expected.
Whether this summons would bring fortune or trouble, opportunity or new complications, he could not yet know.
But whatever was ant to co would arrive sooner or later.
Ryan suppressed the many thoughts that flashed through his mind. His expression returned to its usual calm as he gave the officer a slight nod.
“I understand.”
Practice Experience Week had finally been muddled through.
Ryan stood in the corridor of the top floor of the Beginner Division’s magic building, holding the summons stamped with the departnt head’s seal—its formal wording intimidatingly official.
He felt sowhat like an elentary school student about to be dragged into the principal’s office for a scolding.
Though technically, he would be promoted to the Interdiate Division this year.
The wooden plaque reading “Office of Departnt Head Edgar Morris” hung on the innermost dark door. Sunlight streaming through the nearby window illuminated the plaque brightly.
It was said that the old man had once been responsible for tuning the imperial palace’s grand defensive magic array for His Majesty the Emperor. After retirent, he ca to the academy to manage students—officially described as “continuing to contribute his experience.”
Who knew if he had simply grown tired of political intrigue in the palace and co to the academy looking for simpler entertainnt.
Ryan took a deep breath and knocked.
“Co in.”
The voice ca through the door. It was not loud, but it sounded as clear as if it were spoken right beside his ear.
Ryan pushed the door open.
The office was simpler than he had imagined. A large wall of bookshelves, a broad desk, and several chairs.
The only eye-catching object was a pale golden emblem hanging on the wall behind the desk. Its intricate patterns were almost dizzying to look at. It was probably the proof of that title—“Chief Court Mage of the Purple Thorn.”
Sunlight from the high window struck the emblem at an angle, making it gleam dazzlingly.
Departnt Head Morris sat within that patch of light and shadow.
Just like during the opening ceremony speech, his gray-white hair was neatly combed. His face was sowhat thin, with deep nasolabial lines. His pale gray eyes appeared calm when he looked at people, yet Ryan always felt as though that gaze could determine what kind of bread filling he had eaten for breakfast.
“Student Velt, sit.”
The departnt head gestured toward the chair opposite the desk and took a sip from his teacup.
Ryan sat as instructed, instinctively straightening his back.
The atmosphere made his scalp tingle more than Professor Ferguson’s theory lectures.
Morris did not speak imdiately. He flipped through several docunts spread across the desk, tapping the pages lightly with his fingers.
“In the past week, five courses. Five instructors praised you to .”
He raised his eyes.
“Especially Barton and Bernard. One complains that most students only know how to charge forward blindly, while the other says most people’s hands are clumsier than their feet. It is not easy to make both of them nod in approval.”
Ryan replied stiffly, “The instructors taught well.”
“‘Taught well’?”
The corner of the departnt head’s mouth seed to move slightly, as if he wanted to smile but decided it was unnecessary.
“Barton says you ‘fight with your brain.’ Bernard says you have ‘steady hands and sharp eyes.’ Ferguson is even more exaggerated—he claims you have an ‘instinctive talent for dismantling magical models.’”
He pushed the docunts aside.
“Those evaluations do not sound like soone who rely ‘studies well.’”
Ryan did not respond.
The old man spoke slowly, but every sentence struck precisely at the point.
“Ryan Velt.”
The departnt head leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk with his fingers interlocked.
“I reviewed your records from the past two years. Exceptional talent. Excellent grades. Fighting ability… also impressive. You have been sparring with the Astrea girl for nearly two years now, and you have won more than you lost.”
He paused, as if recalling sothing.
“Her father even sent a letter saying that young people having a bit of fire is normal. As long as nothing underhanded happens and the line is not crossed, we can let them settle it themselves. So the academy never intervened.”
Ryan muttered inwardly: No wonder all that trouble before never got him expelled. The Duke had been backing it up.
“As for the rumors that you bully classmates or provoke trouble with your sharp tongue…”
The departnt head’s tone remained unchanged.
“In the Discipline Committee’s official records, there is not a single case of actual injury attributed to you. All the penalties are things like conduct deductions or formal warnings.”
He continued calmly.
“In fact, several instructors privately told that after you provoked certain lazy students, those students suddenly began studying diligently.”
“They called it…”
The departnt head paused slightly.
“‘The Velt thod of Motivation.’”
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