The Greatest Archmage To Have Ever Lived [OP MC, LitRPG]

"Orion."

"...Yes, sir?"

"Would you like to become my apprentice?"

Orion's eyes went wide, then blank. Then wide again. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. He just stood there in the middle of the office, flour still dusted across his shirt, staring at Sael.

Sael had taken students before. Most of them had personalities remarkably similar to Orion's: brilliant, overthinking, prone to getting stuck in their own heads when presented with information that didn't fit their existing mental frameworks. He'd learned, through trial and considerable error, that beating around the bush with people like that was actively counterproductive. They'd spend the next minutes analyzing every word, reading between lines that didn't exist, constructing elaborate theories about what you really meant instead of just listening to what you'd actually said.

Better to be direct, say the thing. Let them process. Answer questions as needed.

Simple.

Orion blinked rapidly, his brain clearly trying to restart itself.

"...Huh?" said the floured boy.

Did he not notice? It seemed impossible to miss, but then again, people often didn't realize these things about themselves. Sael had gone an entire afternoon once with ink smudged across his cheek before someone mentioned it. Should he say something? Point it out? But that felt like an odd tangent to introduce right now, in the middle of this conversation. The flour wasn't going anywhere. He could mention it later, probably.

...Anyway.

Sael tilted his head slightly. "I asked if you'd like to become my apprentice. I think you'd be a good match for it."

He stopped, reconsidering.

Had he miscalculated? Perhaps the boy hadn't wanted this at all. Perhaps Sael had projected his own assumptions onto a situation that didn't warrant them. It was possible. He'd been wrong before about what people wanted, though usually he was fairly decent at reading intent when he bothered to pay attention.

But Orion had seemed genuinely passionate about magic. The conversations he'd had with the boy had made that clear. And his theoretical understanding seemed solid despite his practical limitations. That combination was rare anyway; most students either excelled at theory or practice, rarely both, and even more rarely did someone with Orion's handicap maintain enthusiasm in the face of institutional rejection.

Maybe Sael had misread the entire thing.

Maybe—

"A-are you sure, sir?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Sael said. "Why do you ask?"

Orion's hands grabbed at his shirt, twisting the fabric between his fingers. The flour smudged further into the cloth but he didn't seem to notice. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.

"I—it's just—" He stopped, swallowed. "Sir, you're—you're the father of modern magic. Your students formed the Council of Seven. They created the certification system we use today, the standardized spell matrices, the entire theoretical framework that every academy on seven out of the twelve continents teach from."

His voice picked up speed as he went, words tumbling over each other. His grip on his shirt tightened.

"Rendall Thorne wrote the Principles of Elemental Harmony that every first-year student memorizes. Mira Solenne developed the classification system for spell complexity that's still the standard three hundred years later. And Sestus—Sestus Kael's work on magical resonance is required reading for anyone studying advanced theory."

He stopped, breathing a bit too fast. The flush was creeping up his neck now.

"I can barely cast a basic illumination spell without it flickering out. I-I've never managed to hold a shield construct for longer than thirty seconds. I don't—I'm not—" He swallowed again. "I don't think I'm the caliber of student you're used to, sir. I wouldn't want to waste your time..."

The self-deprecation wasn't false modesty, that much was clear. He genuinely seemed to believe what he was saying. His knuckles had gone white where they gripped his shirt.

Sael watched him for a moment, then...

"Hmm."

Understanding, this hmm.

He'd dealt with this particular flavor of insecurity before. Smart students often had it worst, they knew enough to recognize excellence when they saw it, and enough to convince themselves they'd never achieve it.

"Rendall couldn't perform a simple levitation charm when I first met him," Sael said. "He'd freeze up every time he tried to channel magic in front of others. Something about being watched made his mind go blank and his control evaporate. I had to teach him in complete isolation for the first year because having even one other person in the room would cause him to panic and lose his grip on whatever spell he was attempting."

Orion's eyes widened slightly. His hands loosened on his shirt, just a fraction.

Sael's expression softened with the memory. Rendall had been terrified of failure. Absolutely paralyzed by it. But once he'd learned to work past that fear, once he'd realized that failure was just a lesson—something to learn from rather than something to be ashamed of—he'd become unstoppable.

"His Principles of Elemental Harmony took him nine years to develop," Sael continued, "and he nearly abandoned the project four times because he was convinced it was obvious drivel that everyone already knew. It wasn't. But he needed considerable convincing of that fact."

Orion had gone very still, listening intently now. His breathing had slowed.

"I remember the day he finally finished it," Sael said, warmth in his voice. "He brought me the manuscript, all three hundred pages of it, and set it on my desk like he was presenting evidence of his own inadequacy. Told me he'd wasted nine years of his life writing down things that any competent mage would find self-evident."

Sael shook his head slightly, smiling.

"I made him sit there while I read the first fifty pages. Then I told him it was the most comprehensive analysis of elemental interaction I'd ever seen, and that he was an idiot for thinking otherwise. He cried. Right there in my office."

Orion's mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.

"Mira had the opposite problem," Sael continued. "She could cast perfectly well, but she had no patience for theory. Thought it was a waste of time, that practical application was all that mattered. I assigned her to categorize a single week's worth of spell variations as punishment for skipping lectures, and she was so offended by how inefficient and chaotic the existing documentation was that she spent the next three years developing an entirely new system out of pure spite. The Circle system we now use."

Another smile touched his face at the memory. Mira had been brilliant and stubborn in equal measure. He'd enjoyed that about her.

"And Sestus failed his entrance exam to this academy. Twice, actually."

Orion blinked. "What?"

"Twice," Sael repeated. "His magical resonance work—the thing he's famous for now—came about because he was trying to figure out why his spells kept interfering with themselves. He had a peculiar quirk in how his magic flowed, and rather than fight it, he eventually learned to treat it as something to be studied and turned his weakness into a research subject.

Orion was staring now, his earlier anxiety temporarily forgotten in the face of this information.

Sael's gaze stayed steady on him.

"Some of them were genuinely talented, yes. Jorin had an intuitive grasp of spell matrices that I've never seen matched. He could look at a complex weaving and understand its function within seconds. A true genius in that regard."

Orion nodded slowly, absorbing this.

"But genius only gives you a head start," Sael said. "You reach certain milestones faster than others. Sometimes you reach the top of a mountain before anyone else. But sometimes—often, actually—you miss details that someone who took more time to climb might notice. You skip steps. You don't build the same foundation."

He gestured slightly with one hand.

"Jorin developed some of the most elegant spell frameworks I've ever seen. Beautiful work, truly. But he struggled with teaching them to others because the intuitive leaps he made were so natural to him that he couldn't break them down into steps. He'd skip ahead in his explanations, assume people understood things they didn't, get frustrated when they couldn't keep up."

Sael's expression shifted, becoming more thoughtful.

"Lysa, on the other hand, was not naturally talented. Not at all."

Orion's eyebrows rose.

"She struggled with everything," Sael continued. "Every single concept took her twice as long to grasp as it took the others. Her spell control was shaky. Her theoretical understanding was fragmented. She'd sit in my office after every lesson, asking me to explain things three or four different ways until something finally clicked."

He smiled fondly.

"But she never gave up. Never. And because she had to work so hard for every piece of knowledge, because she had to approach every problem from multiple angles until she found one that made sense, she developed an extraordinarily comprehensive understanding of magic. She could explain complex concepts to anyone, at any level, because she'd had to learn them the hard way herself. She knew every possible point of confusion because she'd been confused by all of them."

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Orion was completely still now, hanging on every word.

"Lysa went on to write the Foundations of Magical Theory," Sael said. "It's still the standard introductory text, isn't it?"

"Yes," Orion said quietly. "Every academy uses it. It's considered the most accessible explanation of magical fundamentals ever written."

"Because she wasn't a genius," Sael said. "Because she had to struggle. That struggle gave her something Jorin never had—the ability to meet people where they were and guide them forward step by step."

He paused, letting that sink in. The silence that followed was thoughtful rather than awkward.

Sael looked at Orion directly, trying to ignore the flour.

"Do you know what all of these people had in common?"

Orion shook his head.

"Their greatest tool wasn't talent, Orion. It was passion. They cared deeply about magic, deeply enough to work through the fear and the failure and the frustration."

He paused, considering.

"The point is, what you see when you look at their accomplishments is the end result of years of work. Years of sweat and blood and stubborn refusal to quit. The books don't tell you about the failures. The histories don't mention the hundreds of failed attempts that came before each success. People only see the achievement and assume it came easily to these brilliant minds."

He looked at Orion steadily, there was obviously still flour on him, how distracting.

"It didn't."

Orion was quiet for a long moment, processing this.

"That is all I require from an apprentice, Orion. Passion for the subject and willingness to work. The rest—the skill, the understanding, the achievement—that comes with time and effort."

Another pause.

"Do you have that? Passion for magic?"

Orion didn't hesitate this time.

"Yes," he said. His voice was quiet but certain. "Yes, I do."

"Then the rest is just work," Sael said. "And work is something anyone can do if they care enough."