Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 104: Finally improving

This time, when the students moved, there was a difference. A hesitant one, like stepping into a cold bath—but a difference nonetheless.

No more Granfire improvisations.

No more sideways glances for unsanctioned cues.

They followed the scrolls now, the official form passed down by the Academy’s founders, clumsy as it still felt in their bodies.

Nolan stepped forward, his presence cutting through their line like a blade. His eyes were sharp, precise, but he didn’t yell.

Not yet.

His gaze scanned the shifting forms like a master jeweler inspecting flawed gems. He observed everything—the trembling knees, the lifted shoulders, the overextended spins.

"You," he barked, pointing at Thomas, who had just turned too early in the pattern. "Foot late. Again. Left leg leads, not right. Are you marching for war or playing hopscotch? Be a little firmer when you move your right and make the left more stiff..."

Thomas tried again. Still wrong. Nolan didn’t say a word this time. Instead, he strode forward, planted a swift but sharp kick at Thomas’s thigh—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to force the correction.

"Feel that? That’s your axis. Balance around it. Not across it."

He turned without waiting for acknowledgment and pointed at Liam, whose arm angle was off. "Blade height. Elbow locked. You want to strike down a wyvern or fold laundry?"

Liam adjusted mid-form, swallowing nervously. "Do it this way, make it not look like you are going to slap somebody in the face... you are holding a sword, not a frying pan."

Nolan stalked past James, clicking his tongue. "Too loose. Again."

Then to Aiden: "Too tight. Again."

Then, just as Emily misstepped, he pointed without looking. "Back foot curved inward. That’s a duel breaker. Fix it."

She flushed red but nodded. He didn’t strike her—just gestured once with two fingers and whispered, "Hold your breath only at the fall of the third spin, not the second. That’s when the tempo naturally compresses... naturally compresses..."

Alina was struggling with the transition into the downward cut. Nolan walked behind her, tilted her arm gently, and murmured, "Don’t slice like you’re offering a ribbon. Strike through. Through. Like you’re ending something. Otherwise, what’s the point?"

Her expression tightened. She did it again—and this time, it was better. Sharper.

As they continued, Nolan paced around them in a slow circle, sometimes kicking one of the boys again to force a correction, or tapping the side of their legs with the flat of his wooden cane.

The girls, he never struck.

Instead, he corrected them softly, verbally, with gestures so exact and tailored, it seemed he knew their body mechanics better than they did themselves.

"Wider stance, Rhea. Not too wide—you’re not planting a tree... try to be more flexible..."

"Emily, delay that left footfall. Let the rhythm catch you, not smother you. Stop acting like a stone. You’re a knight, indeed, but make your movements a little smoother."

"Alina, beautiful parry form. You have the grace. Now add weight. Remember, you’re a blade that would spill blood, not a ribbon that bends and doesn’t hurt even a small chicken."

The drills dragged on. Over and over, Nolan made them stop, adjust, restart. Again. Again. Again. Again... And again...

"You think this is tiring?" he snapped once, mid-round, when James groaned. "Real combat doesn’t give you rehearsals. If you hesitate there, you die tired."

His voice became their rhythm. His steps set the measure. His words guided like the beats of war drums, deliberate and relentless. For over an hour, the dance continued under his sharp, tireless watch.

And yet... there was improvement.

The errors lessened.

Where before the blade dance was a stuttered mess, it now began to resemble something cohesive. .

A formation. A language.

The swings and footwork were no longer discordant.

They started to flow—not perfect, not yet, but no longer a chaos of mismatched energy that seemed to trigger the system in Nolan’s head.

Finally, he raised a hand.

"Stop."

The students halted mid-motion, chests heaving, drenched in sweat. They didn’t collapse, but it was clear they were on the brink. Shoulders sagged. Knees trembled. Several looked like they were going to fall, yet no one did.

Nolan surveyed them.

His lips pressed tight. He could still see the flaws. The off-tempo steps, the too-high shoulder, the occasional collapsing heel. They were still students. But they weren’t hopeless anymore.

"Alright," he said finally, voice calm. "Rest."

The words hit them like a spell. Alina collapsed to her knees, panting hard. James dropped into a sitting position. Thomas leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead. Aiden and Rhea just stared at the ceiling, expressions dazed with exhaustion.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but the collective sound of breath and bodies adjusting, muscles twitching in protest.

Then...

Whoosh.

A shadow slid across the room from the direction of the door—silent, fast, and unnoticed at first.

Nolan turned, his senses picking it up long before the students did. His eyes narrowed.

There, stepping through the slightly ajar training hall doors, was a man in a neatly pressed courier uniform—dark slacks, white collared shirt with an orange delivery logo stitched on the sleeve, and a light brown cap pulled low over his eyes.

He was carrying a box under one arm, sleek and taped, marked with printed Earth-language barcodes and a faint glow of enchantment magic.

The man stopped a few steps from Nolan, glanced at the scrolls on the wall, then back at the teacher.

"Delivery for... Nolan?" the man asked, holding up a little holographic device. "One express-order refreshing bottled water, registered under your account, verified Earth-side routing."

Nolan blinked.

Then a smile curved across his lips.

"So this is how it works," he muttered, approaching the courier. "I order it online... and somehow, through this cheat of mine, the system delivers. Interdimensional logistics. Not bad."

He took the package carefully. It was warm, solid, heavier than expected. Probably packed with tools, reference blades, maybe even high-speed scroll projectors—everything he remembered being invaluable for a drill instructor back on Earth.

"Thanks," Nolan said genuinely, taking the box into his arms.

The courier gave him a polite nod, then smiled back with the expression of a man who was honest, patient, and impossibly ordinary.

"I’m just the runner," the courier said, his voice strangely familiar. "You keep training ’em, alright?"

Then, with a casual wave, he turned and walked off.

Nolan stared after him. There was something... not off, but out of place. The man didn’t seem to belong here. Everything about him screamed Earth. And yet, here he was. In a different world. Delivering a box like it was Tuesday.

"So, this system of mine..." Nolan muttered. "Even if I’ve reincarnated here, I can still... pull things from Earth? That’s insane."

He chuckled softly, amused and vaguely impressed. The courier disappeared down the hallway, out of sight. Nolan shook his head and turned back to his students.

"Now, where was—"

He froze.

All of them were staring at him. No one was breathing. Not panting. Not recovering.

Frozen.

As if caught mid-spell.

Their eyes were wide—too wide. Faces pale, some trembling.

Fear.

A raw, quiet, breathless fear.

Nolan’s brow furrowed.

"...What?"