Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 103: Let’s go tradition

The silence after Nolan’s question stretched a little too long, the air thick with tension, as if even the room itself waited with bated breath.

Finally, Alina shifted and answered, softly but clearly, "Granfire hasn’t actually taught us yet, sir."

Nolan blinked. "What?"

"He just gave us a movement skill," James chimed in, gesturing vaguely toward the floor where they’d been dancing before. "He said it was something he devised specifically for the Academy Counselors’ evaluations. He told us to keep practicing it, and once we’re done, we can move on to the body dance and then finally the blade portion."

For a moment, Nolan looked genuinely confused, as though trying to process if he heard them right. Then his eyes narrowed, suspicion brewing behind the glint of his glasses. "Wait a second. Are you all telling me that the movement I corrected earlier... that was something he taught you?"

The students nodded.

Liam added, "It’s the form he told us to memorize. He even said it was an improved version, adapted to modern styles."

Nolan’s arms dropped to his sides as he let out a slow, incredulous sigh. "And the original? Is there any record of it?"

Without hesitation, a few of the students reached into their uniform pockets and pulled out aged scrolls bound in black cord. Alina had hers rolled carefully in a velvet wrap. James and Liam had theirs folded and stuffed into their inner coats. They passed the bundle to Nolan with a reverence that came from generations of tradition.

Nolan unrolled the first scroll, his brow furrowed in concentration. His eyes scanned the inked lines with the practiced speed of a veteran, but his expression quickly soured. His brows arched, nose wrinkled slightly, and he gave a soft scoff.

"Hmm. This step is five beats too slow. The lower foot is supposed to pivot—not slide. If someone did this in an actual duel, they’d get stabbed before even completing the second rotation."

He flicked to the next scroll.

"This hand posture... completely ignores the central gravity line. What genius thought putting this in here was a good idea? It contradicts the entire principle of Silver Blade stance three."

He examined more. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

"The shoulder arc? Overextended. The spin? Under-committed. The diagram looks elegant, but it’s functionally flawed. This is a ceremonial rewrite—looks good for noble eyes, not for battle-hardened blades."

Nolan muttered each criticism with increasing disbelief, his fingers dancing across the parchment as if unraveling a mystery. Then, suddenly, he paused. His eyes flicked upward as he recalled the exact way the students had been moving earlier.

"Wait a minute... Granfire fixed some of this."

The students looked up in surprise.

"He altered these—these flaws. I recognize it now. The angles he taught you, the pacing, the core shifts—they weren’t in these scrolls. He must’ve reconstructed the dance after identifying the broken mechanics. In a way... he did a good job."

There was a long pause.

"But," Nolan added, "he didn’t need to do that. This isn’t some vanity art you’re allowed to remix for aesthetics. The Silver Blade City Dance isn’t a style. It’s history. Tradition. Bloodline. It was made that way for a reason."

Still clutching the scrolls, Nolan looked up and narrowed his eyes. "Alright. I want you all to forget about Granfire’s version."

The room dropped into stunned silence.

Emily gasped. "Forget it? But—teacher—"

"No," Alina blurted, her voice rising in panic. "We already spent so much time learning it—!"

James echoed, "We finally got used to his form. We’ve been training with it for weeks—"

"I didn’t say it because I hated him," Nolan snapped, voice louder now. "I said it because it’s flawed in context."

"But it’s easier to perform," Liam argued. "It makes sense. It flows better than the original."

"Oh? Easier?" Nolan chuckled bitterly. "Is that your standard now? Convenience? ’It’s easier, so it must be better?’ You want to dance like Knights, or stroll around like performers in a city fair?"

The students flinched, some lowering their heads, others clenching their fists.

Nolan exhaled sharply, and finally, he admitted, "Listen. I’m not saying Granfire did a bad job. He clearly has an eye for movement and combat. But what he taught you—whether better or worse—is not the version recognized by the Academy Council. And if he’s ever criticized for teaching something so different from the official curriculum... guess who also fails? You."

He jabbed a thumb at them.

"Every single one of you."

The truth struck like a bell. The students looked at one another, their earlier resistance now mixed with hesitant understanding.

"So," Nolan continued, calmer now but still firm, "from now on, I’ll be teaching you the original version. The version that will pass scrutiny. The version that won’t get you all booted out of your trial assessments just because some examiner decided your spin was too ’innovative.’"

He set the scrolls aside, folding his arms. "I don’t want to hear any more whining. No more objections. You’ll learn this version from me, and you’ll do it correctly. I’ll make sure of it—not because I’m a nice guy, but because I’ll be damned if anyone says Nolan was a useless teacher who let his students fail while he watched bloody dramas on his desk."

The students exchanged long, uncertain glances. Alina’s gaze met Emily’s. James looked to Liam. Their brows furrowed, mouths tense. In those seconds, entire silent conversations passed between them—worries, regrets, the weight of hours they’d invested into a different method, and the sudden awareness that Nolan had a point.

They weren’t just students trying to pass a dance.

They were would-be knights trying to survive a system that didn’t care for their excuses.

And finally, as if responding to a shared breath, they began to nod.

One by one.

Liam.

Emily.

James.

Alina.

Then the others followed.

Nolan waited until the last nod, then finally tilted his head, eyes glinting with a mix of smugness and grim satisfaction.

"Alright then," he said, stepping forward and clapping his hands once. "Let’s begin."

"Now," Nolan said, stepping back and folding his arms, "perform the original. The one from the scroll. All of it."

The students looked at one another, unsure.

A few blinked rapidly. Alina bit her bottom lip.

James shifted on his feet, arms stiff at his sides.

Liam furrowed his brow, looking at the floor as though the answers were etched in the stone tiles.

They hesitated, not because they didn’t know the movements, but because of how unfamiliar it suddenly felt.

After all the time spent adapting to Granfire’s version, the original felt stilted, foreign, rigid. But slowly—one after another—they began.

It started with a staggered rhythm. The first few steps were out of sync, their timing off. Feet shuffled instead of pivoted, shoulders tilted too much or too little.

Alina’s wrists trembled as she tried to recreate the arm flow she’d barely practiced.

James forgot which foot to lead with halfway through.

Emily hesitated on a spin and nearly collided with Liam, who jolted and muttered an apology under his breath.

The group’s once fluid coordination was gone, replaced by abrupt, mechanical gestures—no grace, no precision, just a fumbling effort to recall movements not properly etched into muscle memory.

Their expressions betrayed them—eyebrows arched high with strain, eyes darting to others for clues, mouths slightly open as if trying to silently whisper the next step.

Every line of their faces broadcast anxiety and uncertainty.

Each student wore a different shade of frustration.

There was no longer the proud discipline of knights-in-training, only the sheepish, self-conscious performance of apprentices on their first day.

As the motion continued, the awkwardness magnified. Their arms jerked in stiff arcs instead of flowing with intention.

Their footwork had no center, no drive—it faltered like dancers guessing steps at a noble gala they hadn’t rehearsed for.

A sharp turn sent Liam’s balance lurching forward, and he recovered with a quick shuffle that broke the rhythm again.

Alina’s breathing turned shallow and fast, her face pink with embarrassment.

James clenched his fists out of sync with the required form, too used to Granfire’s open-palm technique.

They looked like marionettes tugged by unsure strings.

Their movements lacked soul, cohesion, any sense of actual battle readiness. Where Granfire’s version had rhythm—perhaps even elegance—this had only disjointed compliance.

It was clear none of them had trained with the original form seriously.

Perhaps they had dismissed it early on, seeing it as inferior or simply too difficult to adapt to. Or maybe they had placed too much trust in Granfire’s teaching to consider anything else.

And through it all, Nolan watched.

First, silently.

Then coldly.

Then with eyes that narrowed further and further, not in confusion, but in grim acceptance.

He said nothing as they finished—just watched with arms crossed and lips pressed into a razor-thin line.

The performance finally came to its awkward end, with the group halting at different times, some not even finishing the final stance properly.

A beat of silence followed. No one dared speak. Breathing was the only sound, harsh and short.

Finally, Nolan exhaled.

"Well."

One word. Heavy as steel.

"That was painful," he said flatly. "Not just to watch, but to feel. Do you know what it’s like, standing here, watching that mess unfold, and trying not to collapse from secondhand embarrassment?"

The students shifted uncomfortably. None of them met his gaze.

"Alright," Nolan continued, pacing slowly before them like a general before a defeated battalion. "Let’s start with Alina. Your upper body was completely disconnected from your lower half. You can’t dance like your arms are praying and your legs are fighting."

She opened her mouth to apologize, but Nolan held up a hand.

"James. Your center of gravity kept shifting with every step. This isn’t a tavern jig. If someone so much as breathed in your direction during combat, you’d fall over like a drunken rooster."

James winced.

"Emily. Too slow. You were thinking too much. Sword dance doesn’t wait for your brain to catch up. Your first two turns were cautious. The third? You hesitated entirely. If this were on the battlefield, you’d be skewered while debating which foot to use."

Emily looked like she wanted to disappear.

"Liam," Nolan turned, eyes like needles. "You were following someone else instead of following the scroll. You’re not a mimic. You’re a knight. Or at least, you’re supposed to be one."

He continued down the line.

"Aiden. Your footwork had rhythm but no power. If I stomped on the floor next to you, you’d lose your balance."

"Rhea. Good flexibility, but no control. You moved like you were underwater—graceful, but completely ineffective."

"Thomas. You were three steps behind from the start. If you can’t memorize a form, then at least fake it with some confidence. But what you gave me? That was a half-dead cat trying to pirouette."

Each correction was precise, brutal, and unmistakably true.

"And none of you," Nolan added, raising his voice, "none of you kept your bladeline in mind. What is a knight’s dance if not the language of battle? You were supposed to channel discipline and bloodlust, control and chaos, all at once. What I saw today was a parade. A sloppy, confused, amateur parade."

The words hung in the air like thunder, sharp and echoing.

Nolan paused. Let them stew. Let them squirm.

Then he sighed, shook his head once, and stepped back to the center.

"But you know what?" he said, voice softer now but still carrying the edge of command. "That’s why I’m here."

He looked at each of them, eye to eye.

"You’re not hopeless. Just misled. You were handed a blade with the hilt on backwards, and you still tried to fight. I respect that. But it’s time to stop dancing in the dark."

He straightened, then pointed to the scrolls. "This form isn’t just tradition. It’s legacy. It’s what built Silver Blade City’s name in every corner of the continent. If you can’t master it, you’ll never pass the Counselors’ test, no matter how clever your adaptations are."

A pause. Then, firmly:

"Now... perform again."

The students raised their heads slowly, tired and ashamed but alert.

Nolan took a step closer, eyes burning.

"But this time," he said, voice low and powerful, "listen to me... as I guide you all."