Some days later, Sherry appeared in my office, her expression unusually troubled. I raised an eyebrow, setting aside the enchantment I was fine-tuning.

“What’s up, Sherry? You look like you’ve been wrestling with a particularly nasty mana knot.”

She sighed, pulling out the chair across from me and sitting down heavily. “It’s about the first-year Problematic Class.”

I leaned back, folding my arms. “Ah, my favorite little disasters. What have they done now? Summoned another imp? Accidentally set the library on fire? Convinced the campus griffins to steal lunches again?”

She didn’t laugh. That alone told me how serious this was.

“Dad, they’re... failing,” she said bluntly. “Not just academically, but as a group. Their grades are abysmal, their teamwork is nonexistent, and their attitudes are worse than ever. The other instructors are ready to throw in the towel.”

“Typical,” I muttered, though I felt a twinge of sympathy. The faculty didn’t exactly sign up to deal with unruly kids who thought rules were suggestions.

Sherry looked me dead in the eyes. “I want you to teach them.”

I blinked. “Sherry, I already handled one session with them. If you’re asking me to take over permanently—”

“I am,” she said, cutting me off. “They need more than a lecture or a scolding. They need someone who knows how to push them without breaking them. Someone who can get through to even the most stubborn of students. You’re the only one who can do that.”

I stared at her, searching for any hint that this was some elaborate prank. But her expression remained serious.

“Sherry, they’re not just a ‘problematic class.’ They’re chaos incarnate. Do you know how much mana suppression I had to use to keep them from blowing up the training room last time?”

“I know,” she admitted, rubbing her temples. “But that’s exactly why I’m asking you. They’ve already started listening to you. Jace—the ringleader—has shown noticeable improvement since your session. If anyone can whip them into shape, it’s you.”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Sherry, I retired from teaching for a reason. I don’t have the patience to deal with a group of overconfident, underprepared novices.”

“You have the patience when it counts,” she countered. “And let’s not forget, you used to enjoy teaching. You were the one who always said that seeing a student’s potential unfold was the greatest reward.”

I grimaced. She wasn’t wrong. But there was a difference between teaching a bright, eager pupil and managing an entire class of walking disasters.

“Fine,” I said at last, exhaling heavily. “I’ll take them on. But only until the end of the semester. After that, they’re someone else’s problem.”

Sherry smiled, relief washing over her face. “Thank you, Dad. You won’t regret this.”

“I already regret this,” I muttered. “But you owe me a week’s worth of pastries from that café in town. And don’t skimp on the chocolate ones.”

...

The next day, I walked into the Problematic Class’s classroom. The students looked up as I entered.

“Good morning,” I said, my tone brisk. “As you’ve likely guessed, I’m your new instructor for the foreseeable future. If you’re wondering why, it’s because the other teachers have given up on you.”

A few of them bristled at that, while others exchanged sheepish glances.

“I don’t give up,” I continued, pacing the room. “But let me make one thing clear: I will not tolerate laziness, recklessness, or any of the nonsense you’ve been pulling until now. You are here to learn, and learn you will—whether you like it or not.”

Jace, sitting in the back row, raised his hand with exaggerated slowness. “Does that mean we’re getting the ‘Archmage Special’ every day now?”

The class snickered, but I silenced them with a glare. “Yes, Jace. And by the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish you’d never stepped into this academy. Now, open your books to page fifty. We’re starting with advanced mana regulation.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

One of the students groaned. “Advanced? We can barely manage basic spells without—”

“Without blowing something up?” I interrupted. “Yes, I’ve noticed. That’s why we’re starting here. By the end of this week, you’ll not only control your mana, but you’ll be able to cast without embarrassing yourselves. Now, less whining, more learning.”

The students groaned collectively. I ignored them, striding to the front of the room and summoning an orb of mana into my palm.

“Today’s lesson is about mana shaping and control.”

“Mana shaping,” I began, “is the foundation of all spellcasting. It’s not enough to have power; you need precision. Imagine mana as clay. If you can’t mold it properly, you’re going to end up with a lopsided mess—or worse, a catastrophic explosion.”

I flicked my fingers, and the orb reshaped into a perfect cube, then into a series of intricate geometric patterns before finally dissolving into mist. A few students watched with wide eyes; others looked skeptical.

Aaron one of the fire duelists, leaned back in his chair with a smirk.

“Big deal,” he said, crossing his arms. “We’ve all seen flashy tricks before.”

“Have you?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Then let’s see you do it.”

Aaron blinked, clearly not expecting to be called out so directly. “Uh, sure. Easy.”

He raised his hand, conjuring a fireball that flickered uncertainly. He concentrated, his brow furrowing, but the ball wobbled and began to destabilize.

“Stop!” I commanded sharply, stepping forward and dispersing the mana before it could detonate. “What did I just say about precision? If you’d let that go for another second, we’d be peeling singed students off the ceiling.”

The class erupted into uneasy laughter, but Aaron’s face reddened. “It’s harder than it looks,” he muttered.

“Of course it is,” I said, my tone firm but not unkind. “Magic is hard. That’s why you’re here. To learn how to do it right, not to half-bake your way through it and hope for the best.”

I turned to the rest of the class. “Let’s break this down. Mana shaping starts with focus. Close your eyes. Feel the flow of mana within you—steady, calm, like a river. If you approach it with impatience or doubt, it’ll lash out like a storm.”

The students hesitated but complied. I walked among the rows, watching as they struggled to summon even the simplest forms. A few managed spheres of light that crumbled quickly; others conjured flickering, unstable shapes. A small explosion took place in the corner. I quickly dispeled the energy before it could do real damage.

To my surprise the source of the explosion was none other than the timid-looking girl I noticed on our first lesson. So that’s why she ended up in this class, huh.

The girl stuttered with an ashamed expression on her face. “Sorry, I… I keep messing up…”

“What’s your name, little one?”

“I… my name is Mira, sir.”

I crouched slightly to meet Mira’s gaze. Her hands were trembling, and a faint trace of mana still crackled at her fingertips.

“Well, Mira, let me tell you something,” I said, my tone softening. “Messing up is part of the process. The only way to learn control is through practice—and sometimes, through failure. But here’s the thing: failure doesn’t define you. How you respond to it does.”

She looked at me with wide eyes, clearly taken aback by the lack of reprimand.

“Now,” I continued, straightening up. “Show me what you were trying to do.”

Mira hesitated, glancing at her classmates, who were either watching curiously or pretending not to listen.

“Don’t worry about them,” I said, motioning to the class. “This is about you and your mana. Take a deep breath. Try again.”

She nodded slowly, closing her eyes and extending her hands. A flicker of light began to form between her palms, wavering like a candle in the wind. Her brow furrowed with concentration, but the shape began to destabilize again.

“Stop,” I said gently, raising a hand to intervene before another explosion occurred. The light faded harmlessly, and Mira looked ready to shrink into herself.

“Alright,” I said, standing beside her. “Let’s try something different. You’re focusing too much on controlling the shape itself. Start smaller. Instead of forcing the mana, let it flow naturally. Imagine a thread of light—thin, steady, unbroken.”

She blinked, looking at me uncertainly, but then closed her eyes again. This time, her hands moved more delicately, and a faint thread of light appeared. It wobbled slightly but held its form.

“There it is,” I said, nodding in approval. “Good. Now hold that. Don’t rush it—let it stabilize on its own.”

The thread steadied, and Mira opened her eyes to see her success. A small, hesitant smile crept onto her face.

“I did it?” she asked softly, as if afraid to believe it.

“You did,” I confirmed. “Now keep practicing that. Once you can hold it steady for a full minute, we’ll move on to shaping it.”

The class had grown quiet, their earlier groans replaced with interest. Even Aaron, the fire duelist, looked mildly impressed.

“Alright, everyone,” I said, addressing the room again. “Let Mira’s success be an example. Small steps lead to big strides. You’re not going to master mana shaping in a single lesson, but each time you practice, you get closer.”

Returning to the front of the room, I clapped my hands. “Now, back to work. I want to see stable shapes from all of you by the end of this session. And remember: focus, patience, and control.”

The room filled with mana as the students resumed their attempts. Mira’s success seemed to spark a bit more determination in the others, and for the first time since taking over this class, I felt a glimmer of hope.

By the end of the lesson, most of them had managed to hold a stable sphere, though the effort had left them visibly drained.

“Good,” I said, nodding approvingly. “This is just the start. Tomorrow, we’ll move on to shaping those spheres into more complex forms. And remember: practice tonight. If you can’t hold a sphere for a minute by morning, you’ll be doing remedial drills until your arms fall off.”

The class groaned again, but I caught determination on the face of some of them. Even Jace looked less smug and more thoughtful as he gathered his things.

As they left, I couldn’t help but feel satisfied. They were rough, undisciplined, and frustrating as hell—but they weren’t hopeless. Not yet. And if I had to drag their potential out of them one lesson at a time, I would.