Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 100: Student’s discovery

Everyone froze.

The students turned. Their faces were tired. Red-eyed. Breathless.

But determined.

Nolan stood slowly, straightening his coat as he stepped forward. His eyes scanned the class, his gaze far more focused than before.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, gesturing vaguely at the empty air. "You call that ’Knight Movement’? You think that’s how you’re supposed to conserve energy through five rotations?"

The students blinked.

One raised a hand hesitantly. "It’s the way Professor Granfire—"

"I don’t give a damn what Granfire told you!" Nolan snapped, and then immediately softened his tone. Not kind—but surgical. "He teaches theory. You want to move like a Knight? Then start listening."

He strode into the open space. "First off—every one of you, your center of gravity is too high. Your weight distribution is laughable. If someone so much as sneezed in your direction, half of you would land flat on your backs."

He pointed to Emily. "You. Your left foot is turned fifteen degrees outward during your lunge. That’s strain on your ligaments. You’ll tear something within a month of dungeon runs."

He pivoted to James. "And you—stop tensing your shoulders before you pivot. That micro-flinch gives away your next move. You want to get ambushed? Because that’s how you get ambushed."

His voice grew sharper.

"Sophia—your mana flow is uneven. Left palm emits more than right. Which means your shield spell is lopsided. One good impact, and you’re wide open."

"Liam. You’re overcorrecting with your knees. You think it helps stabilize, but it’s killing your agility. Five seconds slower per reaction chain. That’s death in a real battle."

He was pacing now. Momentum building. Eyes sharp, mind dissecting.

"Emily, again—you’re rotating your upper body first before your lower. That breaks form, introduces lag. Your flow gets interrupted every single time you try to start a combo."

"James—your movements are pretty but too clean. Real combat isn’t synchronized dancing. Start adding variance to your sequences."

"Liam—again, fix your damn ankles. You’re going to blow them out in six weeks if you don’t start anchoring with your heels instead of your toes."

"Everyone—every one of you—you’re moving like you’re trying to impress an exam board. You think Knight Movement is about looking sharp? No. It’s about surviving when the floor’s collapsing, your mana’s running low, and some 12-meter Void Beast is coming straight at you."

He stopped, finally.

Took a breath.

Then added, more quietly, "And your emotions are leaking into your forms. That’s the worst of it. You’re moving like you’re trying to prove something. That’s not how Knights move. That’s how fools die."

The room was silent again, but this time with a weight that felt... real.

Nolan folded his arms.

"Now."

His eyes scanned each of them—one by one.

"Try it again."

The students exchanged uneasy glances, their gazes darting between each other like a silent conversation spoken only through furrowed brows and flickering eye movements.

It was bizarre.

A moment ago, this Nolan character had sat at his desk, dismissive, detached, practically daring them to flounder without his guidance.

Now?

He had risen like a sudden storm, dissected their flaws with brutal precision, and then—just like that—retreated again into silence, returning to his holographic display like nothing had happened.

Did that count as teaching?

Was that what they had been begging for all along?

None of them knew what to say. But something had changed. They felt it.

Emily was the first to step forward.

She didn’t say a word.

She just dropped into her Knight movement stance—legs shoulder-width apart, arms relaxed but poised—and began flowing through the same sequence Nolan had critiqued moments earlier.

Her first motion was a lunge. Left foot forward. Shoulder square. But this time... her balance held. It held perfectly.

Her eyes widened. Mouth parted, silent. She transitioned into the second movement—blade draw and horizontal sweep—and there was no tension in her shoulder.

No jerky pauses. No weight imbalance.

It was smooth, frighteningly so.

Her brows rose in a flick of disbelief, and her lips curled into a breathless smile as if to say—what the hell just happened?

James followed next, fists tightening as he recalled Nolan’s comment about "pretty but predictable."

He pushed forward into the set. His steps were tighter now, a split-second more erratic in timing, but the unpredictability didn’t ruin the flow—it enhanced it.

Even his elbow pivots, once so telegraphed, were sharper now, guarded.

A smirk curled his face, teeth slightly clenched, forehead glistening from the effort but also from excitement. His eyes found Emily’s, and there it was—mutual astonishment passed between them like a current.

Then came Liam. His movement had always been aggressive, overextended, but now, after adjusting his heel anchoring, he found himself moving less and gaining more.

He wasn’t gasping after two rotations.

His face tightened with the strain of unlearning muscle memory, and his jaw clenched tightly, but his eyes lit up with that same dawning realization:

This... works.

One by one, the students joined in, and it was as though the entire classroom shifted tempo.

There was no more mindless repetition, no mimicking what Granfire had shown on diagrams.

No, this was raw, instinctual learning.

They were feeling their own skills for the first time.

Each movement they performed clicked deeper into place—angles aligning, mana pulses syncing, breath and body rhythmically adjusting like they were no longer just acting like knights... but becoming them.

Their facial expressions said it all.

Brows lifted as footwork slid into position more smoothly than they had ever experienced.

Mouths parted in wonder, the corners twitching with disbelief and relief. Some of them blinked rapidly, shaking their heads in almost comic shock, as if trying to confirm that yes, this was still real.

Nolan hadn’t drugged them or cursed them. Their skills were simply... working.

They didn’t even need to speak. They turned their heads to each other, locking eyes in awe, faces lined with the soft incredulity that only happens when something just makes sense.

When the last student stumbled to a stop, chest rising and falling from exertion, Nolan glanced up once. "Now..." he muttered with that casual disinterest again, "that’s more like it." He leaned back into his seat, tilted the screen toward himself, and unpaused his viewing.

"Now the flawed techniques of these damned brats won’t disturb me anymore," he grumbled under his breath, completely forgetting the mic system caught that, and several students heard it.

But they didn’t mind.

In fact, some even smiled.

That’s what got him to teach us, someone thought. Annoy him.

They gathered again, keeping a few meters between each other, and began practicing the same movements Nolan had instructed them on.

Repetition slowly turned into fluidity. And every time they did it right, they would dart their eyes toward Nolan’s desk—waiting. Hoping. Seeing if he twitched, cringed, growled.

But when he didn’t?

That was the sign.

It’s working.

Over time, it became like a game. A reverse form of validation. If he doesn’t shout, I’m doing it right.

Liam chuckled under his breath after one especially clean spin-step and strike sequence. "Hey, he didn’t flinch."

Emily grinned, breathless. "That’s the new grading system, I guess."

James nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Nolan-style ranking. S-tier: no groans."

They laughed—softly, of course. They’d learned better than to be loud.

But something else began to nag at them. The more they practiced Nolan’s technique, the better they moved.

The less fatigue they felt.

It was like every movement was crafted not for show, but for efficiency, utility, survival. And soon, someone voiced what they were all wondering.

"Guys... Nolan’s methods feel better than Granfire’s."

There was a pause. Everyone stopped. Not because they disagreed—but because they did agree, and it unsettled them.

"Yeah," another admitted. "It’s... weird. I don’t get sore when I use Nolan’s form. But with Granfire’s version, my joints always feel off. Like something’s pinching."

James frowned. "Granfire’s stances are clean, but stiff. They’re great for choreography, but I never thought about what it would feel like in real combat."

Emily hesitated. "We shouldn’t say it out loud, right? I mean... Granfire’s a real professor. He’s—"

"Is he, though?" Liam interrupted. "Granfire never corrected half the stuff Nolan did. And it’s only been one damn session."

They grew quiet.

Then, driven by pure curiosity and a sudden need for confirmation, they decided to try something dangerous: using Granfire’s instructions again.

Just once. Just to feel the difference.

Liam was the first to attempt it. He reverted to Granfire’s old movement pattern—the stance, the weight distribution, the limb placements.

And immediately—immediately—the pain flared. A pinch near the spine. A twist in the left knee. His breath came shorter, tighter. His arms struggled to maintain fluidity.

He grunted. "Nope. Nope nope nope."

James followed. "Ow. Shoulder. Ow." He winced, rotating his arm as if trying to shake something loose.

Emily bit her lip. She was already experiencing a light cramp. "What the hell? I thought I was just out of shape when it hurt before."

One by one, they all tried Granfire’s way again. The result was unanimous.

It didn’t just feel wrong—it felt damaging.

Nolan, still watching his film, didn’t look up. But his voice drifted lazily through the room. "Hey. I told you all not to be loud."

They froze.

No one had said a word louder than a whisper. But somehow, he knew.

James whispered, "I think he means the movement sounds. Even our footsteps are louder using Granfire’s stuff."

Liam muttered, "Is that even possible?"

Emily’s eyes narrowed. "...Maybe it’s because the energy output is inefficient. The force travels the wrong way."

Whatever the case, they didn’t argue.

They returned to Nolan’s methods. And almost like flipping a switch, their forms snapped back into harmony. No cramps. No limping. No awkward foot dragging.

Even their breathing matched the rhythm of the flow.

"Okay," Emily said in a low voice, glancing around. "We need to talk about something."

"Yeah," Liam replied, his face serious. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

"Agreed," James said, brushing sweat from his brow.

Then, without anyone taking the lead, they all leaned in closer to each other, voices dropped to a whisper.

Their eyes glinted with suspicion and curiosity.

And softly, one of them asked, "Should we try that?"