CHAPTER 223: MANA CONTROL TRAINING (2)

The idea of placing mana-engineered bombs inside those delicate glass cases refused to leave Ashok’s mind, clinging to it like a stubborn shadow.

But of course, that was only Ashok’s twisted sense of humor at play. The truth was, Mana Engineering itself was still a very young art—barely sixty or seventy years old.

Compared to it, the great crafts of Alchemy and Blacksmithing were ancient pillars of civilization, stretching back to the time of the Ancients.

Those two had millennia of tradition, heritage, and proof of usefulness backing them up. Mana Engineering, in contrast, was nothing more than a newcomer—a concept birthed not by dwarven instinct or inherited craft, but by sheer human curiosity and stubbornness.

And because of that, it still struggled to find its place in the world.

People found it hard to accept a new practice when society was already built on the foundation of alchemy’s potions and blacksmithing’s weapons.

Every kingdom relied on them, every army was equipped with them, every marketplace sold them.

By comparison, Mana Engineering was still fumbling, its creations viewed as odd novelties or luxuries.

Most of its devices were tools for daily use—regulators, lamps, filters—small conveniences that made life easier, yes, but hardly anything that could reshape the battlefield or the world at large.

Ashok, however, thought differently. For him, all those "useful" inventions were nothing but fancy toys. While the world dreamed of making more household tools to aid humanity, his ambitions burned in a far more destructive direction.

Tomorrow’s Mana Engineering class would begin, and with it came the chance to step closer to his destructive goals. More importantly, he would also meet the prodigy of the third year with the Creation Trait.

The thought of testing himself against such a figure made Ashok’s lips curl with anticipation as he finally stepped into his next class—Mana Control Training.

Small.

That was the only word Ashok could come up with as he stepped inside the classroom. The space itself was unimpressive, almost disappointingly so.

Four plain white walls, smooth and spotless, surrounded him. The only thing breaking the dull uniformity were the mana stones embedded neatly in each corner. They glimmered with a faint blue light which also served as the form of illumination.

Despite the lack of windows or any real openings, there wasn’t the slightest trace of stuffiness, no heavy air pressing down on the lungs. It was a perfect, sterile little box of mana—and to Ashok it even felt more like home because this kind of room perfectly resembled the bedroom in his previous life.

The moment he entered, he noticed the stares. Four pairs of eyes locked onto him at once. Two of them, he recognized immediately: Althea and Isolde, who sat upright like perfect students.

As for the other two Ashok didn’t give a shit—extras from the Wyrd Class.

Ashok was the last to enter, slipping in at exactly 10:58 A.M., just two minutes before the allotted time. Technically, he wasn’t late at all, yet the attention he drew wasn’t about his timing.

The reason for the stares was obvious: what he was wearing.

Unlike the other four, who all sat dressed neatly in their Academy uniforms, Ashok stood out in his tracksuit. Faint droplets of sweat clung to his brow, sliding down slowly across his cheek before trailing along his neck.

It was a small, ordinary detail, but in the perfectly ordered stillness of the room, it made him look out of place—like someone who had just walked out of a battlefield into a room of scholars.

Even the four inside the classroom paused for a moment, their expressions tightening in confusion.

This was supposed to be a course tailored exclusively for mages—quiet study. No one expected a student to show up at the last moment drenched in sweat, looking as if he had just spent an hour laboring under the sun.

And their confusion was not misplaced. Every mage in the Academy followed a similar pattern of life: endless books to magical practice.

The most exhausting work they ever faced was the weight of carrying a pile of books, and with storage rings even that inconvenience had vanished.

To see a so-called mage walk into a lecture hall with dust clinging to his tracksuit and sweat streaming down his neck—it felt wrong, unnatural, like a farmer crashing into a royal banquet.

Isolde in particular could not hide her shock.

Her brows furrowed as a thought formed almost instantly in her mind ’Don’t tell me this guy really picked nothing but physical courses aside from this one?’

The idea was absurd, almost laughable, yet she couldn’t dismiss it.

After all, she had never once seen Adlet among the magical courses she herself attended. Her speculation fit too neatly.

While she and the other mage students had already finished two calm lectures from the start of the morning. So, for someone to walk in like this... the conclusion was unavoidable.

Althea, on the other hand, barely reacted outwardly. Her eyes rested on Ashok but not with the sharpness of judgment or curiosity.

She seemed lost in some thought of her own, her gaze unfocused. If anyone looked closely, they would see she was already far away in her mind, chasing a line of reasoning that had nothing to do with the sweat-stained figure in front of her.

Ashok made his way toward the far end of the room, his footsteps slow but steady until he reached the final cushion placed neatly on the floor.

Unlike other classrooms filled with polished desks and benches, this one had almost nothing that could be called furniture.

The only chair present was the one at the front, clearly reserved for the teacher. Every student was expected to sit cross-legged on the round cushions laid out in an orderly fashion.

Ashok didn’t complain. In fact, he understood perfectly well why the arrangement was like this. Without wasting a word, Ashok lowered himself onto his cushion and folded his legs beneath him.

His thoughts, however, betrayed no excitement. For him, this class was little more than a quiet resting spot hidden inside the Academy’s schedule.

The teacher of Mana Control Training, unlike the beasts he had met earlier in the day, was supposed to be fairly ordinary—someone who provided nothing more than scattered guidance, a nudge here and there for students struggling with sensitivity or refinement.

Mana control, after all, was not something anyone could force upon you; it had to be carved from within, a skill one gained from experience, time, and endless practice.

A teacher could point to the door, but walking through it was a solitary path.

That was why Ashok had chosen this course so casually. If the Academy was a den run by sadists, then he would simply match their cruelty with his own cleverness.

A class like this gave him the perfect balance—rest for his body, yet training for his mind, a twofold gain hidden behind a simple schedule.

Best of all, this was the easiest course to pass. No grueling tests, no physical punishments, no life-or-death challenges disguised as lessons.

The passing conditions was simple: If you showed up and breathed properly, you had practically succeeded.

Ashok almost felt a flicker of pride at his own use of knowledge, the quiet satisfaction of someone who had seen a loophole and taken it without hesitation. Yet before he could settle fully into that smugness, the doors behind him creaked open.

An aged voice, dry but steady, filled the room and silenced every lingering thought.

"I trust that everyone has entered the classroom. From this moment on, the gate is sealed. It will not open again until the session ends. No latecomers will be admitted—remember that well. That is the very first rule of my class, so carve it into your minds."

The tone carried no trace of warmth, yet neither was it harsh.

It was simple, direct, and absolute, the kind of rule spoken by someone who expected it to be obeyed without exception.

The instant that aged voice rang across the room, Ashok felt as though his chest had been struck.

His mind screamed in protest, a rapid chant of "No! No! No!" pounding louder than the echo of the words themselves. His neck moved stiffly, almost as if it resisted his will, yet he forced himself to turn and look toward the front.

There, with deliberate calmness, the teacher made his way to the lone chair and lowered himself down as if the place had always belonged to him.

The sight nearly made Ashok grit his teeth.

’What in the hells is this old crook doing here?’ Ashok thought, disbelief flashing across his poker face. Of all the teachers the Academy could have chosen for this course, he had expected the usual name, the one fixed in the game’s storyline.

But this—THIS was something completely different.

Ashok could still somewhat understand a butterfly effect of a Teacher change was not surprising what was surprising was the time. It was too soon.

It wasn’t the predicted instructor at all.

Instead, seated before them was none other than The Gossiping Grandpa himself.

The one Ashok least wanted to see in such a place.

Frederick.

Ashok could feel his shoulders stiffen as if the air around him had turned heavier. A whole new problem had just walked in, and it wore the face of someone he had thought he could avoid.

’Just why would the Academy suddenly allot a Head Teacher to newcomers’ thought Ashok since Frederick was also someone who nine out of ten times only supervised as his role of Head of Maintenance Department and didn’t even teach in the Academy.

’Just what sort of liking has this old man taken to me’ thought Ashok as he already knew he was the one responsible for Frederick’s choice of becoming the Teacher of this class.