Internet Mage Professor
Chapter 151: Bullied student

Chapter 151: Bullied student

Nolan waited, eyes trained on the still classroom, expecting a scream or at least some bickering—anything that would hint at the source of that sudden, thunderous bang. But no such reaction came.

The students didn’t run, didn’t look his way, didn’t even acknowledge that something had been slammed hard enough to rattle the floorboards.

Instead, they leaned forward en masse, crowding around something near the middle of the room.

He watched a second longer, then narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Alright..." he muttered, then leaned back in his chair. "You wanna ignore me? I’ll ignore you harder."

He picked up his mana phone again and opened Street Rumble Ultra 7, the hum of pixelated loading music calming him like a lullaby laced with caffeine and combat.

Login successful.

His fighter, Mad Lightning, was waiting. Nolan hadn’t even equipped new skins or updated his gear. Didn’t need to. His hands were still warm from the earlier match streak, and he was ready to continue his climb.

Match found: Mad Lightning vs Cyber Oni-13.

The enemy was a neon samurai with laser horns and a blade that fractured the screen with every slash.

Nolan flexed his fingers. "You look tough! Let me see!"

The game began.

Cyber Oni lunged across the screen in a horizontal blaze of color, but Nolan ducked, countered with a chain-kick that bounced the samurai into the air, and then followed it with an aerial combo. Tap, swipe, tap-tap-hold, dodge-roll—his hands moved like they were writing a language only he understood.

The first round ended in 45 seconds.

KO.

Nolan didn’t even blink.

Round two was tougher. Cyber Oni adapted. Parried. Reflected. Dealt chip damage with his laser-crescent slash. Nolan’s fighter was bleeding virtual energy by the time he managed to land a backhanded lightning fist.

"Alright," Nolan muttered, tilting the screen slightly. "No more Mr. Nice Monk."

He activated Mad Lightning’s special passive: Chainstrike—every hit after a dodge dealt triple damage.

Perfect dodge. Elbow. Sweep. Knee. Shoulder throw.

Cyber Oni didn’t even get to scream before he exploded into pixels.

Victory.

Nolan yawned, cracked his knuckles, and queued another match.

Mad Lightning vs Gorlog: Flesh Titan, a grotesque meat-mountain stitched together from different warriors, fists the size of tree trunks, and a roar that blurred the screen UI.

"Oh, you’re ugly," Nolan said. "Let’s dance."

Gorlog slammed his fists together and launched into a bull rush. Nolan backstepped, rolled, and uppercutted the monster mid-charge. The clash shook the screen.

Combo.

Counter.

Burst.

Dodge again.

The battle was violent. Brutal. Both health bars were dropping fast.

Nolan gritted his teeth as Gorlog caught him with a raw slam. Mad Lightning was pinned.

"Too slow," Nolan muttered, tapping frantically.

He activated emergency mana reserve. Mad Lightning’s eyes blazed white. The monk exploded upward in a pillar of divine force, breaking the pin and launching Gorlog into the arena wall.

"Now..." Nolan said, smirking.

He dashed forward.

Heavy strike.

Heavy strike.

Heavy—fake out.

Parry.

Finisher unlocked.

He activated it with a four-finger tap.

Heaven’s Knuckle Barrage.

Thirty-six precise strikes in a spiraling aerial combo. Gorlog shattered in the last punch, disintegrating mid-scream.

Tier 11 unlocked: Heavenstorm Disciple.

Nolan exhaled. "Damn, I’m good."

He leaned back in his chair. Looked up—no one was paying him any attention. The crowd of students had only grown, like bees around an invisible hive. He caught glimpses of heads moving, someone whispering, maybe even chanting—but it was muffled under the thick haze of adolescent noise and mana static.

"...weird kids," Nolan muttered, and looked back at his screen.

Next match.

Mad Lightning vs Void Reaper Cersei.

A high-tier PvP opponent. Real-time player. Someone good, judging by the platinum frame and ornate avatar border.

"Let’s see if you can actually fight."

The match began.

Cersei came in hot. Dual scythes, teleporting shadows, poison dots—everything.

Nolan barely survived the first minute.

But then something shifted. He learned her rhythm. Studied her gaps. He baited a dodge, spun into an uppercut, then dragged her into a vortex field he’d created with a feint aura grab.

"Got you now."

She tried to vanish, but Nolan followed.

Down-swipe.

Dash-lunge.

Elbow-kick combo.

She was at 9% HP.

He jumped, hovered mid-air.

Charged a full-powered Heaven Palm.

Released.

The screen exploded with radiant force.

KO.

Victory.

Opponent disconnected.

Nolan laughed. "Salt rage quitter."

He checked his match history. Twelve wins. Zero losses for the day.

"Flawless."

Still, the students hadn’t moved. Whatever had drawn their attention was clearly more interesting than a flaming monk demolishing interdimensional bosses.

Nolan queued one more.

This time, Mad Lightning faced a mirror match.

Mad Lightning vs Mad Lightning.

"Oh?"

He raised an eyebrow. It had been weeks since he’d fought himself. And this wasn’t just a random clone—the opponent was someone using the exact same gear, same frame, same aura.

"This is personal," Nolan whispered.

The match started. It was brutal.

Frame-perfect counters. Identical combos. Dodges, parries, trades—it felt like a dance choreographed by gods. Every strike was answered. Every move punished. Every inch hard-won.

Nolan broke a sweat.

It came down to the last pixel of health.

His opponent activated Thunder Fang Combo.

Nolan dodged just in time, used the recovery frame, and jabbed with a Wind Spear Flicker.

Direct hit.

KO.

Victory.

Tier 12 achieved: Stormshade Acolyte.

Nolan let out a long sigh. Put his phone down. Flexed his fingers like a pianist after a four-hour concert.

"...flawless."

And yet, the students were still huddled together, murmuring, gesturing, ignoring him completely.

"Fine," Nolan muttered, picking up his phone again. "Let’s see if I can hit Tier 13 before lunch."

He tapped.

The screen loaded.

Match found.

Nolan’s thumb hovered over the screen. His next match in Street Rumble Ultra 7 was already queued, the thrum of the waiting lobby music vibrating in his ears. He glanced toward the classroom clock. Lunch.

The bell hadn’t rung—not that it needed to. The entire class had shuffled out like a single, disjointed entity, still ignoring him as completely as they had when they walked in. Not a word. Not a nod. No acknowledgment of his presence. It was perfect. Peaceful.

He sighed with satisfaction and stood, stretching his back with a sharp crack.

And that’s when he noticed him.

One student. Still in his seat. Still facing forward.

Slouched. Silent. Alone.

Nolan narrowed his eyes. At first, he thought the kid was just sleeping. But something felt... off. The classroom had cleared out minutes ago. The light slanted from the window now, falling gently across the student’s shoulders, illuminating the bruises darkening the silver-threaded Knight’s cloth uniform.

Not armor. Just the academy’s daily wear—the long tunic, the black-and-silver-lined mantle, the belt with the etched emblem of Silver Blade Academy stitched with pride on every seam. But now, the cloth looked crumpled, abused, sweat-streaked and torn in places. Faint blotches of red hinted at dried blood beneath the bruises.

Nolan frowned.

He slipped his phone into his coat pocket and walked toward the boy.

No movement.

"Hey," Nolan said. Calm. Testing.

The student didn’t flinch.

Nolan’s boots clicked on the tile floor as he drew closer. "Hey, kid."

No reaction. Not even a twitch.

He crouched beside him, leaned slightly.

"Hey." He said it softer this time, tone lowered just enough to thread concern into it.

Still nothing. Just a quiet tremble.

Nolan looked closer.

The boy’s fists were clenched so tightly on his lap, his knuckles had turned white. His jaw was tight, teeth grinding so faintly Nolan only noticed because of the subtle vibration in his throat. He was sobbing—but not loudly. The kind of sobbing you train yourself to do in silence. The kind where you breathe shallowly through your nose, shoulders rigid to hide the quake. A habit formed from being punished if someone ever noticed.

Nolan’s eyes flicked upward.

He stood.

Then said it louder.

"Hey!"

Still, no movement.

Nolan’s mouth curled. He didn’t shout in anger—but his voice turned harsh, slicing through the air.

"You son of a bitch! What the hell are you doing just sitting there?!"

That did it.

The boy jerked, startled. He gasped, eyes wide with raw panic. He pulled back slightly, instinctively raising his hands as if expecting a strike.

Nolan sighed.

"There we go," he muttered. "You’re alive after all."

He crossed his arms and tilted his head.

"What’s wrong with you?"

The boy didn’t answer at first. But his mouth opened slightly. A whisper followed.

"If I go out... they’re gonna beat me again."

Nolan’s brow rose.

"Oh, I see. Classic."

The boy didn’t lift his eyes.

Nolan stepped closer, his voice still edged but lower now, heavy with something harder to read.

"So what? You just gonna sit here forever? Let ’em walk all over you?"

"They’re stronger than me," the boy mumbled. "All of them. Good at hand-to-hand. I’m not. I’m not good at anything."

Nolan snorted.

"Then you beat them another way."

"I can’t."

"You can. You just don’t know how yet."

"But there’s... a whole lot of them."

"Doesn’t matter."

Nolan moved back to the front of the room. He grabbed a chalk stick and began drawing on the board, the screech loud in the silence.

"They stand like this, yeah?" He drew three silhouettes.

The boy blinked.

Nolan kept going.

"They keep their arms loose. Knees slightly bent. Shoulders always shifting, like they’re about to throw at any second. But when I came in, I noticed something else."

He circled the middle figure.

"This one—he taps his left foot every few seconds. Why? Habit. That’s his lead foot. Predictable."

He drew another circle around a second figure.

"This one has his weight all on the back foot. He’s a counter. Won’t start the fight unless he’s sure he’ll finish it."

Then the third.

"And this one? He’s the loudmouth. Does all the barking. But when he laughs, he drops his chin and closes his eyes. He won’t see a hit coming if you time it right."

The student slowly sat straighter, eyes fixed.

"You’re observant," Nolan said, tapping the board. "Use it. You don’t win fights by being stronger. You win by being smarter."

"But..."

"No ’but.’" Nolan turned. "You only need to hit one. Just one. Make it count."

He mimed a jab, then twisted his wrist sharply.

"Throat. Stomach. Groin. Knee. Elbow. Pressure points. Doesn’t matter how big they are if they can’t breathe or stand."

The boy blinked again, his lips parting. "But I don’t know how."

"Then learn," Nolan said, expression unreadable. "And fast."

A long silence.

The boy looked down at his bruised hands, then up again.

"Can you teach me?"

Nolan tilted his head.

Then smiled—just a little.

"Oh, now you want to learn something?"

The boy gave a hesitant nod.

Nolan scratched his chin, mock thoughtful.

"Well, I guess I’m a teacher."

Then his eyes sharpened.

"Get up."

The student stood, still unsure.

Nolan pointed toward the open floor.

"First lesson. How to take a punch."

The boy blinked, panic flashing again. "W-what?"

Nolan rolled his neck. "Don’t worry. You won’t have to take it twice."

He clenched his fists. "But you will learn how to dodge it."

The boy tensed.

Nolan grinned. "Let’s see how smart you really are."