The next morning came far too quickly. I groaned as the sunlight poured through the magically enchanted windows of the guest room, dispersing the comfortable darkness. Apparently, Sherry hadn’t adjusted the room’s settings to accommodate guests who preferred a slow, natural wake-up—likely on purpose.

Dragging myself out of bed, I quickly freshened up. My reflection in the enchanted mirror scowled back at me. Despite Sherry’s insistence that sixty wasn’t “old,” I felt every year of it today. There were faint crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes, and streaks of silver in my hair that had once been jet black. I ran my fingers through the disheveled mess and muttered a quick grooming spell. Instantly, my hair smoothed itself into its usual neat style. Magic had its perks.

Dressed in my old teaching robes—ones Sherry had thoughtfully (or perhaps deviously) placed in the wardrobe—I made my way to the main hall. The robes felt oddly comforting, like an old friend wrapping around me. But the patch on the left breast, embroidered with the academy’s insignia, felt heavy. It was a reminder of the responsibility I’d willingly left behind years ago.

The hallways were bustling with students, all chattering excitedly about the tournament and, no doubt, speculating about their new teacher. I caught a few whispers as I passed by.

“Is that the new professor?”

“He looks... old.”

“Idiot, that’s THE Archmage! He’s a legend!”

“Didn’t he retire ages ago? Why’s he back now?”

“Maybe he’s bored.”

I smirked but didn’t bother correcting them. Let them think what they wanted. I had bigger concerns, like the lecture I was expected to give to the first-years.

When I entered the lecture hall, the chatter died down almost immediately. Hundreds of young faces stared at me—some curious, some nervous, and a few downright skeptical.

I walked up to the podium, letting the silence stretch a little longer than necessary. It was an old trick I’d learned during my teaching days: silence was often more commanding than any flashy spell. Finally, I spoke.

“Good morning, class,” I began, watching a few students lean forward expectantly. “My name is... irrelevant. ‘Professor,’ ‘Sir,’ even ‘Old Man’ will do.”

The ripple of laughter broke the ice, easing the tension. Good. Fear was a poor foundation for learning.

“But in all seriousness,” I continued, “you’re here for one reason: to learn magic. And I’m here to make sure you survive long enough to do it.”

A few students exchanged nervous glances, but most were focused on me now. Perfect.

“Magic is power,” I said, my voice echoing through the hall. “What you’ll learn in my class is: control. Without it, you’re just a danger to yourselves and everyone around you.”

I paused, letting the words sink in. Then, I conjured a blazing orb of fire in one hand and a swirling vortex of water in the other. Double casting should get their attention.

Without letting them catch their breath, I transformed the orbs of fire and water into a fire and a water dragon, making the flashy magical-born creature travel across the lecture hall above the student’s heads.

The room was silent again, but this time it was the good kind of silence—the kind where you could feel the wheels turning in their heads and the amazement showing on their faces.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I suppressed a smile. They were hooked.

“Any questions?” I asked.

Hands shot up across the room, and I could already tell this was going to be interesting.

“You,” I said, pointing to a boy with messy brown hair and a slightly nervous expression.

“Um... can you teach us how to do that?” he asked, gesturing at where the mana dragons had been.

I chuckled. “Eventually. But you’ll need to learn the basics first.”

The boy nodded, though he looked slightly disappointed.

Another hand waved eagerly from the back. I pointed to a girl with fiery red hair and a bright expression.

“How long did it take you to master that level of control?” she asked, her voice full of curiosity.

“Years,” I replied honestly. “Mastery doesn’t happen overnight. I started with the same exercises you’ll begin today. The key is consistent practice—and a lot of trial and error.”

“Did you ever... mess up?” a voice piped up from the side, where a timid-looking student was half-hiding behind her desk.

I gave her a small smile. “More times than I can count. I once tried to summon a light orb and accidentally set my professor’s robes on fire. Mistakes are part of learning. What matters is how you recover from them.”

That earned a few chuckles, and the tension in the room eased further.

I clapped my hands together. "All right, let's get begin the actual lesson. Everyone, stand up," I commanded.

Chairs scraped the floor as the students rose. I used a telekinesis spell to rearrange the desks and chairs along the walls, leaving an open space in the middle of the room.

“For our first exercise, you’ll create a mana orb like this one.” I summoned a glowing sphere of energy in my palm. “Your goal: hold it steady for thirty seconds. Focus too hard, it will destabilize. Lose focus, it will explode.”

Sounds of excitement and nervous chatter filled the room. A few students looked eager to show off; others looked like they wanted to vanish into thin air.

"Now, form a line. I'll observe and give feedback."

As the students lined up, I spotted a few confident ones. I smirked inwardly.

The first student stepped forward. A tall boy with a cocky grin. "Easy," he said, holding out his hand.

"Show me," I replied simply.

He closed his eyes, and after a few seconds a faint ball of red light formed above his palm, but it flickered and exploded.

"Too much pressure," I said. "Next."

One by one, the students attempted the exercise. Most struggled, their orbs either exploding or destabilizing within seconds. Only a few managed to hold their orbs steady for twenty seconds before losing control. Good. Some of them seems to already have a basic understanding of mana control.

I clapped my hands again, drawing their attention back.

“Seems like none of you managed to accomplish my task.” I paused, letting their disappointment settle in for a moment.

“And that, is perfectly fine. If you already knew how to do this, you wouldn’t need to be here. The purpose of this exercise wasn’t to succeed. It was to show you where you stand.”

The tension in the room eased slightly.

I conjured an orb of mana and addressed the class. “Does someone know how to shape mana into a ball without making it explode or flicker?”

The students glanced at one another, hesitant. It was clear that none wanted to risk being wrong in front of the others. Finally, the fiery-haired girl from earlier raised her hand again.

“It’s about balance, isn’t it?” she ventured. “You have to make sure you’re feeding just the right amount of mana into the shape—not too much, not too little.”

“Exactly,” I said with a nod, pleased by her intuition. “Mana shaping is a delicate art. You need both focus and balance. The trick is to maintain a steady flow. Too rigid, and it resists you. Too lax, and it escapes.”

The improvement was immediate. The students mana orbs grew more stable. By the end of the session, about half the class had successfully created a stable orb, and the rest had made significant progress.

I clapped my hands once more. “That’s enough for today. Well done, all of you. Remember, mastery isn’t achieved overnight. Keep practicing what you have learned today for our next lesson. We will continue from there.”

The students dispersed, chattering excitedly about their progress. As the last of them left, I lingered at the podium for a moment, watching them go, and let out a long sigh.

It had gone well—better than expected, really—but the sheer enthusiasm of these kids was exhausting. I wasn’t sure how I’d managed this for decades before retiring.