Alone, at the top of the Illusion Tree - Chapter 29 - Walk to Class

Eon froze.

He had not heard footsteps.

Had not sensed presence.

Yet Gwendyr was already standing behind him, one hand resting lightly against the back of his chair while the other held several completed pages from his journal.

She was reading.

Silently.

Eon’s body stiffened instantly.

How long has she been here?

Gwendyr turned another page calmly, her sharp eyes scanning each line with terrifying focus. Unlike Luna’s expressive reactions or Boros’ straightforward demeanor, the Headmaster’s face revealed almost nothing. Only concentration.

The library around them continued quietly. Students moved between shelves. Librarians sorted books. Somewhere in the distance, someone sneezed.

Meanwhile, Eon felt like his soul was leaving his body.

“You…” he started weakly.

Gwendyr lifted a finger.

Not now.

So Eon shut up immediately.

Another page turned.

Then another.

Minutes passed.

Painful minutes.

Finally, Gwendyr closed the journal halfway.

“…Interesting.”

That was all she said at first.

Interesting?

Eon had just written enough heresy to get executed in several magical nations.

Gwendyr rested the journal against the table and looked down at him.

“Where did you learn this?”

The question came calmly.

Too calmly.

Eon’s mind raced.

He could not exactly say: Another world. Another game. Another age that should not exist anymore.

“…Personal experience,” he answered carefully.

Not entirely a lie.

Gwendyr’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Then, unexpectedly, she pulled a chair beside him and sat down.

“You claim chants are unnecessary.”

“Yes.”

“You claim modern magic is incomplete.”

“Yes.”

“You claim understanding surpasses structure.”

“…Yes.”

Silence.

Then Gwendyr pointed at one particular sentence.

“The strongest magic was never spoken aloud.”

Her gaze shifted toward him.

“Do you know how dangerous that sentence is?”

Eon nodded slowly.

“I think so.”

“No,” she replied quietly. “You do not.”

The air around her changed slightly.

Mana.

Dense. Controlled. Ancient.

For the first time since meeting her, Eon felt pressure.

Not hostility.

Weight.

Like standing before a mountain that had learned how to speak.

“Modern magical institutions rely on structure because structure creates safety,” Gwendyr said. “Without structure, magic becomes personal. Unpredictable. Difficult to regulate.”

Her fingers tapped the journal lightly.

“Do you know what happens when inexperienced minds attempt chantless casting?”

“…Mana collapse?”

“Best case.”

Eon stayed silent.

Gwendyr leaned back slightly.

“Worst cases include soul damage. Nervous system destruction. Identity fragmentation.”

That made him pause.

Identity fragmentation.

AO never explained the failures.

Only the successes.

“Most people,” Gwendyr continued, “cannot handle direct manifestation. The mind requires intermediary frameworks. Chants. Circles. Catalysts. They are limitations, yes. But they are also protections.”

Eon looked down at the pages.

“…But it’s still possible.”

Gwendyr studied him carefully.

Then slowly nodded.

“Yes.”

That single word carried strange weight.

Not denial.

Recognition.

She stood up and walked toward one of the nearby shelves before pulling out an old book bound in faded blue leather.

The title was barely readable.

Foundations of Pre Collapse Arcana.

She placed it in front of him.

“Read chapter seven.”

Eon opened it immediately.

The pages were damaged from age, but one line remained clear.

“The old magi believed true casting began only after the abandonment of speech.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Gwendyr crossed her arms.

“The knowledge was not completely lost.”

“…Then why does nobody teach it?”

“Because most who attempted it died.”

She glanced once more at the journal.

Then something surprising happened.

Gwendyr smiled.

Very faintly.

“You write like someone arguing with dead people.”

Eon blinked.

“…I believe they're still alive.”

That earned a soft laugh from her.

A real one.

Small, brief, but genuine.

Then her expression settled again.

“Continue writing.”

She placed the journal back in front of him.

“the Academy has enough students who memorize knowledge.”

Her eyes shifted toward the endless shelves surrounding them.

“Very few attempt to understand it.”

I finally attended a proper class.

Magic Theory.

The classroom resembled an amphitheater, layered seats surrounding a circular platform at the center. Complex magic circles glowed faintly across the walls, illuminating shelves of catalysts and suspended diagrams of mana pathways. Students from every race filled the room. Humans. Elves. Beastkin. Demons. Vampires.

The moment I entered, attention shifted toward me.

Word had already spread.

The classless student personally brought in by Headmaster Gwendyr.

Professor Celestine noticed immediately.

An elderly woman with silver hair, sharp violet eyes, and the kind of posture only possessed by people who spent decades dismantling arguments for a living.

“You,” she said the moment attendance ended.

I already knew this would happen.

“The special commission student.”

I nodded politely.

“I heard that you possess unusual opinions regarding magic.”

That was one way to put it.

“I have theories.”

A few students chuckled quietly.

Celestine ignored them.

“Then answer honestly.”

Her staff tapped the floor once.

“What is casting?”

I answered without hesitation.

“Casting is the act of translating thought into phenomena through mana.”

The room quieted slightly.

“And chanting?”

“A focusing aid.”

Murmurs spread immediately.

“Magic circles?”

“Stabilization frameworks.”

“Power words?”

“Compression shortcuts for visualization.”

Now everyone was paying attention.

None of those answers matched academy fundamentals.

Celestine folded her arms.

“You speak as though these are secondary tools rather than foundational principles.”

“Because I believe they are.”

That caused an even louder reaction.

Someone muttered, “Arrogant.”

Another whispered, “He’s classless.”

Celestine watched me carefully.

Then asked the real question.

“What do you believe is the true foundation of magic?”

I answered honestly.

“Understanding.”

Silence followed.

Heavy silence.

Not because they agreed.

Because they didn’t know how to respond.

Celestine stared at me for several long seconds before finally speaking again.

“Very well.”

That tone worried me more than anger would have.

The practical portion of class began shortly after.

At the center platform stood a massive wall of Mythril embedded into reinforced stone. One of the hardest magical metals known within Specia. Students stepped forward one at a time, launching spells into the surface while instructors observed output, mana control, and casting efficiency.

Flames exploded.

Ice shattered.

Lightning cracked.

Every spell left marks of varying quality.

Then eventually— “Eon.”

I walked toward the platform under dozens of stares.

Curiosity.

Mockery.

Expectation.

Celestine looked at me evenly.

“Your turn.”

“I’ll need a mana crystal.”

That earned immediate laughter from several students.

Of course.

I was classless.

No mana pool.

No spell access.

No magical class structure.

An assistant instructor eventually handed me a small translucent crystal containing compressed mana.

I held it carefully.

Immediately, I could feel the mana inside.

Contained.

Structured.

Artificially stabilized.

The classroom waited.

I looked toward the Mythril wall.

Then closed my eyes briefly.

Not fire.

Not wind.

Not lightning.

A weapon.

I visualized it perfectly.

Cold steel.

Heavy frame.

Cylinder rotation.

The trigger mechanism.

The ignition.

The violent pressure inside the chamber.

The bullet tearing free.

Spin stabilization.

Velocity.

Penetration.

A .50 caliber round.

Every mechanical process layered precisely inside my mind.

Mana responded instantly.

No chant.

No circle.

No visible formula.

Only understanding.

The mana crystal dimmed rapidly in my hand.

1.2 seconds.

That was how long it took for the spell structure to fully stabilize inside my thoughts.

Then the projectile fired.

The impact came 0.04 seconds later.

1.24 seconds total.

A deafening explosion ripped through the classroom.

The projectile crossed the distance almost invisibly before slamming into the Mythril wall hard enough to shake the reinforced platform itself. Stone fragments burst outward from the impact site as a violent shockwave echoed through the chamber.

Several students flinched instinctively.

One ducked.

Smoke curled faintly from the crater now embedded deep into the Mythril slab.

Too deep.

Far deeper than the previous spells.

Silence swallowed the room whole.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Because everyone present understood exactly what they had just witnessed.

Chantless casting.

Then finally, from somewhere near the back “…A magic missile?”

“A magic bullet,” I corrected quietly.

The silence that followed somehow became even heavier.

Students stared at the crater embedded into the Myhril wall, then back at me, then toward the still-smoking mana crystal in my hand.

One point two seconds.

Chantless.

No circle formation.

No elemental alignment phrase.

No catalyst staff.

Just manifestation.

The classroom erupted.

“How?!”

“That wasn’t even elemental magic!”

“No chant?!”

“What school was that?!”

“Was it compressed wind?!”

“A projectile spell?”

“Impossible!”

Even some instructors were speaking now.

The room lost all sense of order almost instantly.

Professor Celestine raised her staff sharply against the ground.

The sound cracked through the noise like thunder.

Silence returned immediately.

Mostly.

A few students were still whispering aggressively to each other.

Celestine looked directly at me.

“Explain.”

Simple word.

Terrifying pressure behind it.

I looked toward the crater in the Myhril wall.

Then answered honestly.

“It’s not really a spell.”

That made things worse.

Several students looked physically offended.

Celestine narrowed her eyes.

“Clarify.”

“It’s a constructed phenomenon,” I explained slowly. “The mana itself doesn’t become an element. It imitates force.”

Still confused faces.

So I continued.

“I visualized a mechanical process instead of a magical one.”

Now they looked even more confused.

“A projectile accelerated through explosive pressure,” I continued. “Rotation for stability. Condensed force focused into penetration.”

One student blinked repeatedly.

“…What?”

Fair reaction.

Another raised their hand hesitantly.

“You’re saying… you imagined a weapon?”

“Yes.”

“And the mana copied it?”

“Yes.”

The room descended into stunned silence again.

Because that idea directly contradicted modern magical education.

Magic was supposed to follow established structures.

Elements.

Attributes.

Recognized phenomena.

Not… whatever this was.

One of the instructors finally spoke.

“But that shouldn’t work.”

“I know.”

“…Then why did it?”

Good question.

I looked at the mana crystal in my hand.

“It probably didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to.”

That earned several horrified expressions.

One student actually covered his face.

Professor Celestine, meanwhile, was staring at me like I had personally insulted several centuries of magical theory.

“…You bypassed elemental conversion entirely,” she muttered.

“Yes.”

“You skipped vocal stabilization.”

“Yes.”

“You created kinetic force through pure conceptual reconstruction.”

“…Probably.”

“Probably?”

“I’ve never explained it before.”

That was true.

In AO, nobody explained advanced magic academically.

You survived it.

Or you didn’t.

A demon student near the front suddenly leaned forward excitedly.

“So theoretically, if someone fully understood another phenomenon…”

“They could replicate it,” I answered.

The room exploded into noise again.

Celestine slammed her staff down once more.

This time harder.

“Enough.”

Immediate silence.

Her eyes remained fixed on me.

Then slowly, carefully, she asked the most dangerous question yet.

“How many spells like this do you know?”

I thought about it honestly.

Dragon breath simulations.

Vacuum collapse.

Rail acceleration constructs.

Artificial lightning pathways.

Pressure implosion.

AO magic had become absurd near the upper levels.

“…A few,” I answered carefully.

That was somehow the wrong answer.

Because several instructors suddenly looked alarmed instead of curious.

Meanwhile, somewhere near the back of the classroom, one student whispered with absolute awe.

“He’s insane.”

The next class was History.

Compared to Magic Theory, the atmosphere was calmer. Less explosive. Less confrontational. The classroom itself resembled a lecture hall more than a magical chamber, lined with shelves containing preserved records, maps, and replicas of historical artifacts.

I took a seat near the window.

Several students kept glancing toward me.

Word traveled fast.

Especially after detonating a chunk out of a Myhril wall with chantless casting.

Fantastic.

The history professor entered shortly after. An older beastman with gray fur, broad shoulders, and round glasses resting awkwardly against his snout.

Professor Halbrecht.

Unlike Celestine, he looked tired rather than intimidating.

“Today,” he began while sorting papers, “we continue discussing the transition between the Lost Era and the Forbidden Era.”

I already knew most of this.

Not because of class.

Because I had spent weeks reading.

The rundown library in Haven Reach.

The academy archives.

Player forum collections.

Fragments of stories preserved by people obsessed enough to compile them together.

History in Illusion Tree was strange.

Not because it was incomplete.

Because it felt edited.

Halbrecht continued speaking while diagrams appeared behind him through projection magic.

“The Beginning Era marked the age of expansion. Kingdoms rose rapidly under divine guidance. Magic flourished. Civilization stabilized.”

I already knew the names before he said them.

“Vainglory. Wolfgang. Beolith.”

Again.

The same names.

The same kingdoms from AO.

My attention sharpened slightly.

“The Lost Era began after the disappearance of several foundational records,” Halbrecht continued. “Many believe this period involved widespread magical conflict and theological collapse.”

Several students took notes quickly.

Others barely listened.

I listened carefully, searching for inconsistencies.

“Then came the Forbidden Era,” Halbrecht said quietly.

That caused the room to settle slightly.

Even students stopped whispering.

“The age where certain forms of knowledge became restricted.”

Projected images changed behind him.

Broken towers.

Collapsed cities.

Burned libraries.

“Chronomancy.”

The word alone carried weight.

“Necromancy.”

Another image.

A blackened battlefield frozen in crystal.

“Hemomancy.”

My thoughts immediately returned to the cave vision.

The carvings.

The Shaman’s Dual Path.

Hermit.

Halbrecht continued calmly.

“Many scholars believe the disasters of the Forbidden Era originated from magi attempting to exceed mortal limitation.”

Not exceed.

Transcend.

That was the word AO used.

A student near the front raised a hand.

“Professor, were the ancient magi truly stronger than modern ones?”

Halbrecht paused.

Then answered carefully.

“…Officially? No.”

Several students nodded immediately.

Then he adjusted his glasses.

“Unofficially?”

The room quieted.

“We do not know.”

That honesty surprised me.

“Many records from earlier ages are fragmented or intentionally destroyed,” he continued. “Some techniques described in surviving texts would be considered impossible by modern standards.”

Like chantless casting.

Like what I did earlier.

Like Iris.

Like Hermit.

Halbrecht looked toward the projected image of an ancient circular ruin.

“The greatest danger in historical study,” he said quietly, “is assuming the past was primitive simply because it is old.”

That line stayed with me.

Because AO had taught me the opposite long ago.

Older usually meant worse.

Not morally.

Dangerously.

The lecture continued for another hour.

Most of it I already knew.

Kingdom conflicts.

Divine descent myths.

The collapse of early magical academies.

Trade routes between ancient powers.

Still, I kept listening.

Because history was not only about facts.

It was about patterns.

And Illusion Tree kept repeating patterns I recognized too well.

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