Chapter 15 : Chapter 15
Chapter 15 : Magic Tools
The afternoon lecture was held inside the Tower of Quiet Contemplation, a place focused more heavily on theoretical instruction.
The guidance course, titled “Introduction to Magic Tools and Risk Identification,” attracted quite a few third-year students interested in alchemy, enchantment, or magi-engineering.
By the time Ryan arrived at the tiered classroom, many people were already seated inside. As was his habit, he headed toward a spot near the front but slightly to the left, where the view was clear without being directly centered on the lectern.
Yet just as he was about to sit down, he clearly felt the originally lively chatter around him drop in volume. Several gazes, some open and some concealed, fell on him.
The students seated around the place he had chosen—or preparing to sit there—shifted away as though their chairs had suddenly grown hot.
By the time he sat down, a small vacuum had formed around him again, with him at its center and a radius of two or three seats. Compared with the dining hall that morning, this clearing-out happened faster, more quietly, and somehow felt even more... deliberate.
Ryan calmly placed his notes and textbook on the desk, as though he were completely unaware of the strangeness around him.
In those retreating gazes, aside from the usual wariness, there seemed to be... a bit more pointed intent.
And a suppressed urge to gossip. Whispered conversations rose from farther away. Though the voices were lowered, fragments of words like “Velt,” “maid,” “hit,” “Karl,” and “Wood” still drifted over from time to time.
So that “small conflict” at the logistics office this morning had spread even faster than he had expected. In an enclosed academy environment like this, even the slightest disturbance could quickly turn into post-meal gossip, let alone something involving “that scumbag Velt,” his “mysterious maid,” and the fact that he had publicly smacked another noble servant across the face with a notebook.
Good, Ryan thought without the slightest ripple in his heart. At least this will keep things quiet for a while. No need to deal with boring attempts at conversation or provocation.
He was more than happy to be left alone. That way, he could focus properly on the lecture.
The session began soon enough. The lecturer was an elderly professor named Fitch, with graying hair and thick glasses.
His voice was steady and clear, and his content was solid. He began with the most basic definitions and classifications of Magic Tools, then gradually moved deeper into the core principles behind different categories of such tools, their common failure modes, and the risks those failures could trigger—magical backlash, elemental disorder, physical explosions, and more. He did not merely teach theory. He also cited a number of real historical Magic Tool accidents, some shocking and famous, others obscure, leaving the students below alternately enlightened and astonished.
“...Therefore, identifying the risks of Magic Tools requires not only a solid theoretical foundation, but also a comprehensive intuition and rigorous attitude toward abnormalities in Mana flow, material stability, and structural integrity.” Professor Fitch pushed up his glasses and looked across the room. “Many tragedies occur not because the required level of technique was unattainable, but because of arrogance, negligence, or... a failure to maintain proper caution and verification regarding materials and blueprints from certain ‘gray channels’ and shortcuts of uncertain origin.”
At the words “gray channels,” Ryan’s gaze shifted slightly.
He thought of Emerald Courtyard, and the suspicious “antique restoration expenses” in Karl’s master’s accounts.
As he listened, he quickly recorded the key points in his notebook while drawing on the original owner’s foundational knowledge of Magic Tools and his own pre-transmigration reasoning. He did his best to understand and absorb the new material.
During the lecture, Ryan could feel a gaze from diagonally behind him landing on his back from time to time, making no attempt to hide its anger.
He did not need to turn around to know it was probably Hanson Wood—Karl’s master.
After all, Ryan had publicly slapped his servant in the face and then issued a veiled threat concerning the family’s finances. The fact that this young master had managed not to lose control on the spot was likely only because of academy discipline and the fact that the Velt family also held a viscountcy.
Still, the resentment in that stare was nearly tangible.
What drew Ryan’s attention even more was Andre Garcia, seated not far from Wood.
The brown-haired boy still wore that cheerful smile, as if he were listening attentively, but every time Ryan glanced over with the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of ill intent in Andre’s eyes whenever they turned his way.
Especially when Professor Fitch mentioned that “failure simulation in practical assessments is an important component,” the corner of Andre’s mouth seemed to lift ever so slightly.
What is that bastard planning now? Ryan’s guard rose several notches.
Andre was not an idiot like Wood, one who was easily overcome by emotion. The malice in Andre was usually subtler—and far more troublesome.
The hour-and-a-half lecture ended quickly. Professor Fitch left them with a final remark—“Students who are interested may consult the relevant literature in Section Three of the library after class. Next week at the same time, we will cover concrete identification methods and case analysis”—then tucked his notes under his arm and departed.
The students began packing up and leaving in twos and threes.
Ryan moved briskly, gathering his notes and rising to leave with absolutely no intention of speaking to anyone. He could feel Wood’s furious gaze following him the whole way, and Andre seemed to be saying something to Wood, but Ryan had no interest in knowing what.
Right now, what he needed was to go back and see how the literacy progress of the “little trouble” at home was coming along.
Meanwhile, in Room 207 of Silver Fir House.
Cosette was lying over the small desk in her little room, the literacy primer spread open before her. Sunlight slanted in through her tiny window, illuminating the symbols on the page that still looked like heavenly script to her, along with the simple illustrations beside them.
She was studying with great difficulty.
One finger unconsciously curled a strand of brown hair that had fallen loose. Her brows were tightly knit, and her little mouth moved soundlessly as she tried to connect the twisted symbol next to “apple” with its pronunciation and form.
For her, it was already hard enough to remember which symbol made which sound. Having to remember the way they combined into complete written forms was torment on top of torment.
“Apple... apple...” she repeated softly, awkwardly tracing shapes on the tabletop with her finger. Drawing a circle to represent an apple was easy enough. But writing out those letters...
After studying for about half an hour, her head felt as though it had been stuffed with paste. She had only barely managed to memorize the shapes and approximate pronunciations of the first three words. Ryan had asked for ten. It seemed the afternoon’s task would be a brutal one.
She sighed, rubbed her sore eyes, and decided to complete another task first—cleaning the room. That felt much easier.
She picked up a cloth and carefully wiped down the desk, bookshelf, and windowsill in the main room again. They had already been cleaned in the morning, but keeping things tidy was a maid’s duty. Then she returned to her own little room, made the bed neatly, and swept the floor clean.
Her movements were still unpracticed, but compared with yesterday, they had become somewhat more skillful.
Once she finished, she guessed that dinnertime was approaching. She remembered Ryan saying in the morning that “we’ll go collect the uniform in the afternoon,” but after what had happened that morning...
Cosette hesitated for a moment, then decided to go to the dining hall first and bring back dinner for her master. That was her duty as a maid. She could not run from it just because she was afraid.
She changed into her freshly washed maid dress, stood in front of the blurry little mirror behind the door, and did her best to straighten her hair and collar. Then she took a deep breath, picked up the special lunch box Ryan had left for her, and walked out.
On the way to the dining hall, her heart beat rather quickly. She kept her head lowered and avoided the crowds as much as possible. Yet the trouble she had expected never came.
Now and then, passing students or attendants glanced at her, but most of those looks were only curious or probing, and quickly moved away.
When she lined up to collect food, the person in front of her even seemed to recognize her and stepped aside a little.
“Look, that’s her, right? Velt’s maid...”
“Keep your voice down! I heard Karl tried to bully her this morning, and Velt smacked him in the face with a book!”
“Seriously? Velt would stand up for a maid?”
“Who knows. Anyway, Karl’s scared stiff now, and Young Master Wood had a terrible expression all day...”
“Tsk. Staying far away is the safest choice. Who knows what that lunatic Velt would do if he snapped?”
The scattered bits of conversation drifting into Cosette’s ears left her both uneasy and vaguely aware of something.
It seemed that because of what her master had done that morning, these people did not dare to provoke her easily anymore.
That realization loosened her tightly strung nerves just a little, and the meal collection process went unexpectedly smoothly. The dining hall uncle even gave her an extra half-scoop of mashed potatoes because she looked so young.
She carefully carried the filled lunch box back to Room 207 and set it on the empty corner of the desk in the main room. Then she checked the cleanliness of the room once more, and only after confirming everything was in order did she sit back down at her little desk, spread out the literacy primer again, and continue her battle against those stubborn symbols.
When Ryan pushed open the dormitory door, this was the sight that greeted him:
The room was bright and spotless, with the faint scent of food hanging in the air. A covered lunch box sat on his desk. And his little maid was frowning over her primer, using a charcoal pencil to draw crooked shapes on scrap paper, her face full of intensely focused frustration, her lips silently muttering something under her breath.
Hearing the door open, Cosette jerked her head up. When she saw it was Ryan, she immediately stood. On her face was a mixture of the small pride of having completed a task and the nervousness of awaiting inspection.
“Master, you’re back. I already brought back the meal. I-I’m studying my letters...”
Ryan’s gaze swept over the spotless room and the lunch box on the desk. He nodded, but said nothing.
He walked to the desk, set down his own things, and first opened the lunch box to inspect it. The food was still warm, and the portion looked normal.
“Mm.” He responded again, which counted as approval. Then he walked to Cosette’s little desk and looked down at her open primer and the scrap paper covered in a chaotic mess of writing.
“How far have you gotten?”
“T-The fourth one...” Cosette’s voice dropped. She was obviously very dissatisfied with her own progress, and her face reddened a little again.
Ryan looked at her crooked handwriting and at the few letters repeated countless times on the paper yet still barely recognizable. He did not criticize her. He merely said, “Read the first three once, then write them once for me.”
Cosette hurriedly picked up the charcoal pencil, drew in a deep breath, and tried to steady her trembling hand. On a clean sheet of paper, stroke by stroke, she slowly and earnestly wrote out the shapes of the three words she had barely managed to memorize. They were still crooked, but at least it was possible to tell what they were.
Then, in a voice as soft as a mosquito’s hum, she haltingly read out the pronunciations of the three words.
Ryan watched and listened quietly. When she finished, he reached out and tapped one mistaken stroke with his fingertip.
“This part is reversed. Rewrite it ten times.”
“Yes, Master!” Cosette nodded at once. Without a single complaint, she immediately picked up the pencil and began repeating that correct stroke again and again.
Ryan turned and returned to his own desk, where he began to eat. The room was left with only the faint clink of tableware, the rustle of charcoal across paper, and the occasional little gasp of frustration from the girl whenever she remembered something incorrectly.