The following day, as I entered the classroom, the atmosphere changed a bit. Small victories like Mira’s thread of light had sparked something in them.

“Good morning,” I said, my tone brisk as always. “I trust you’ve all been practicing?”

Sheepish glances and awkward silence answered me, but I noticed a few students eager to show what they’d accomplished.

“Excellent,” I continued. “Because today, we’re raising the bar. If yesterday was about stability, today is about transformation. You’re going to take those spheres you barely managed to form and shape them into something meaningful.”

Jace leaned back in his chair, his trademark smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Meaningful, huh? Like, I don’t know, a dragon? Maybe a miniature fortress?”

The class chuckled, but I didn’t miss the faint spark of interest behind his humor.

“Ambitious,” I replied dryly. “But no. Let’s aim for something within your grasp—simple geometric shapes, like cubes or pyramids. Start small, and we’ll work our way up. If you can’t handle a cube, you definitely can’t handle a dragon.”

That earned a round of groans, though a few chuckles slipped through. I strode to the front of the room, summoning a sphere of mana in my palm.

“Watch closely,” I instructed, manipulating the sphere into a cube with a subtle twist of my fingers. "Mana shaping starts with focus. Close your eyes. Feel the flow of mana within you—steady, calm, like a river. Rushing will only get you another explosion.”

They got to work, their efforts ranging from commendable to outright disastrous.

It didn’t take long for Aaron and Elaine to attract attention—not for their success, but for their constant bickering.

“Elaine, seriously?” Aaron muttered from across the room, his fire sphere wobbling precariously. “Your cube looks more like a... potato.”

Elaine shot him a glare, her wind construct vibrating unevenly in her hands. “At least my potato isn’t about to blow up and take out half the room!”

“Maybe if you weren’t such a perfectionist, you’d actually finish something,” Aaron snapped back.

“Maybe if you didn’t treat every spell like a race, yours wouldn’t look like it could blow up anytime!” Elaine countered.

I sighed and strode over to them, eyeing their work. Aaron’s fire construct was jagged and unstable, pulsing like a heart under stress. Elaine’s wind cube was smooth but trembling, as though it couldn’t decide whether to stay together or unravel.

“Enough,” I said sharply. “Aaron, stop flooding your spell with energy—it’s like overfilling a glass. And Elaine, relax. Perfection isn’t your goal; control is.”

They both mumbled acknowledgments, shooting each other final glares before refocusing on their spells.

“Now,” I added, “you’re working individually. That means the only person to blame for your mistakes is yourself. Get it together.”

To their credit, they got back to work without another word, though I caught Aaron muttering under his breath. His fire sphere gradually compressed into a crude cube, the edges flickering but holding their shape.

Elaine, meanwhile, adjusted her breathing, steadying her mana flow. Her wind cube solidified, its edges sharper and its vibration reduced to a faint hum.

“Better,” I said as I walked past them. “Keep at it.”

Across the room, Mira was quietly excelling. Her light thread had transformed into a delicate spiral, shimmering softly in her hands. It wasn’t what I’d asked for, but the control she exhibited was undeniable.

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“Impressive,” I said, inspecting her construct. “But now, let’s see if you can maintain it under stress—”

Before I could finish, a loud crash echoed next to Aaron. His fire cube had exploded, sending a fiery burst skyward. Elaine, startled, lost control of her own spell, and the resulting wind current fanned the flames toward the ceiling.

“Everyone down!” I barked, raising a barrier to contain the chaotic mana. The fiery windstorm dissipated harmlessly, leaving a faint scorch mark on the enchanted ceiling.

Aaron and Elaine stared at the damage, mortified.

“We’re sorry, Professor!” Aaron blurted.

“I didn’t mean—” Elaine began, but I held up a hand.

“Apologies are nice,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “But they won’t fix shoddy spellwork. Aaron, you’re still flooding your spells. And Elaine, you need to be prepared for unexpected changes, especially in combat.”

They both nodded, their expressions serious now.

“Good. Tomorrow, we’ll work on spell recovery and countering instability. Until then, I want both of you practicing with simpler constructs. No more explosions.”

The class chuckled nervously, the tension easing. Even Aaron managed a sheepish grin.

Nearby, Mira worked quietly, her spiral now turning into a solid and compact sphere. It wasn’t a cube, but it was progress—and progress was what I cared about.

Hours passed, with groans, muttered curses, and the occasional burst of mana that I had to dispel before it caused chaos. By the end of the session, most students had managed to form rudimentary shapes, and while they were far from perfect, they were steps in the right direction.

“Good,” I said, surveying their work. “You’ve survived another lesson without destroying the classroom. Barely.”

That earned a round of tired laughter. Even Jace looked less smug and more determined, as he examined his imperfect but stable pyramid.

“Tomorrow,” I continued, “we’ll tackle mana layering. If shaping is the skeleton, layering is the muscle. Rest up. You’ll need it.”

...

The following lessons continued in much the same manner—chaos, hard work, and small victories. By the end of the first week, the Problematic Class was no longer the disjointed group of misfits they had been. They were still rough, still prone to mistakes, but the spark of cohesion had begun to take root.

Jace, the ringleader, was proving to be a double-edged sword. His charisma kept the class motivated, but his tendency to push boundaries was a constant test of my patience. During a lesson on mana layering, he attempted to combine two incompatible layers, resulting in a small implosion that left the front row coughing up soot.

“Congratulations, Jace,” I said, rubbing my temples. “You’ve invented explosive self-cleaning mana. Now, do it properly before you take someone’s eyebrows off.”

To my surprise, Jace didn’t offer a snarky comeback. Instead, he knuckled down and got it right on his third attempt. That was the thing about Jace—when he cared, he worked harder than anyone else. My job was to make him care consistently.

Aaron was another story. His fire magic had raw power, but his control remained shaky. During a sparring exercise, he accidentally launched a flame arc that charred a nearby student’s robe. To his credit, he apologized profusely, but I pulled him aside after class.

“Aaron,” I said, fixing him with a firm stare. “You’re holding back.”

His eyes widened. “Holding back? Sir, I almost burned a classmate to a crisp!”

“Exactly,” I said. “You’re afraid of your own power, and it’s making you sloppy. Fire responds to your confidence in your magic, and in yourself.”

He didn’t respond right away, but the wheels were clearly turning. By the next lesson, his flames were smaller, steadier, and far less hazardous. Progress.

Elaine, on the other hand, continued to focus on precision, but her perfectionism became her greatest hurdle. During an exercise on shaping mana under pressure, she spent so much time fine-tuning her cube that she barely finished before the timer went off.

“It’s perfect,” she insisted, presenting her construct.

I gave it a cursory glance. The cube was flawless—sharp-edged and stable. “It’s excellent,” I admitted, “but you’re missing the point of the exercise. In real situations, you won’t always have time to craft something flawless. Efficiency can trump perfection.”

Elaine frowned, visibly bristling at the idea of compromising quality.

“Focus on maintaining stability and usability,” I added. “We’ll work on refining speed later.”

Mira, on the other hand, continued to blossom. The timid girl who had been too scared to hold her mana steady was now creating delicate constructs with surprising finesse. During a lesson on mana stabilization under stress, she was the first to complete the exercise—a feat that didn’t go unnoticed by her classmates.

“Impressive, Mira,” I said as I inspected her work. “

Over the next few sessions, I threw everything I had at them—rigorous drills, practical exercises, and more than a few surprise challenges. It wasn’t easy. They complained, they stumbled, and they failed repeatedly. But slowly, they began to improve.

Jace, to my surprise, emerged as a natural leader. Once he stopped trying to show off, he started helping the others with their techniques. Elaine and Aaron stopped bickering as often as before and started to improve on their weaknesses. But the one who made the most progress was Mira. Her constructs became even more precise and complex than most of the third year students.