Internet Mage Professor
Chapter 152: Scamming again

Chapter 152: Scamming again

Nolan didn’t waste time. The moment the kid agreed to be taught, his demeanor shifted—casual sarcasm melting into something sharper. He cracked his knuckles and motioned the student to stand on the open floor where the desks had been pushed aside. The air inside the classroom suddenly felt heavier, as though the room itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what kind of teacher this man really was.

"First," Nolan said, rolling up the sleeves of his coat, "you learn to evade."

He stepped toward the boy with deliberate steps, measuring, watching his posture, how he kept leaning on one leg, how he looked down, how his hands were barely raised.

"No stance. No balance. No rhythm. You’re asking to get flattened," Nolan muttered, then took a deep breath.

He stepped in fast, raised a fist, and threw a punch—but stopped an inch before contact.

"Wrong!" he barked.

The student had flinched. Not dodged. Just stiffened in place, squeezed his eyes shut and waited for impact.

"Open your damn eyes!" Nolan said, voice sharp. "If you’re gonna freeze, might as well sit down and let ’em rearrange your face. You freeze, you lose. Simple."

"I—I thought you were really gonna hit me—"

"That’s the point, genius," Nolan interrupted. "I am gonna hit you. One of these times. But if you do it right, I won’t need to."

He stepped back and gestured again. "Reset."

The student gulped and returned to a wobbly stance. His legs were too stiff. His back, too straight. No flexibility, no readiness.

"Stop standing like you’re about to recite poetry. Loosen your knees. Flex your spine, stay on the balls of your feet. You’re not a wall. You’re a wave. You dodge by flowing, not by praying."

He punched again. Stopped again—just before hitting.

"Wrong!"

Another punch. Again, a flinch.

"Still wrong!"

This continued, over and over, until the boy started reacting less like a frightened deer and more like someone trying to predict Nolan’s rhythm. The shift was subtle—but Nolan noticed.

"Better," he muttered, throwing another punch. This time, the student sidestepped awkwardly, almost tripping on his own foot, but at least he moved.

"Better. Still pathetic, but better. Let’s sharpen that."

He circled him.

"You don’t need to block. You don’t need to strike back. You don’t even need to think. Your body knows how to move. But you keep thinking about not getting hit. That’s what’s making you stiff."

He leaned in and jabbed again, a quick flick. The student ducked.

"Wrong direction!" Nolan yelled. "Always dodge sideways unless you know the punch is a vertical drop. Going low opens you up to a knee!"

He paused, then rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Listen to me, kid. I’m only teaching you evasion. Why? ’Cause it keeps you from getting hurt. You don’t gotta fight back—not yet. If you learn how to not get hit, they’ll get tired. They’ll mess up. And then... then you strike."

He lowered his voice.

"And trust me, that one strike is all it takes."

The student was breathing hard now, sweat already soaking through his uniform even though they’d barely begun. But his eyes had changed. Less fear. More focus. A quiet tension in the way he held himself.

"Again," Nolan said.

They moved together in rhythm now, Nolan throwing controlled jabs and swings, always stopping just shy of hitting. Each time, he corrected something.

"Your back foot’s dragging. Fix it."

"Don’t lean. Pivot."

"You’re looking at my shoulders—look at my hips. That’s where punches start."

Time blurred.

The classroom echoed with the thuds of footsteps and sharp exhales. Nolan’s voice filled the room like a drill sergeant with too much caffeine and too much sarcasm.

"You think I enjoy this? I don’t! I could be playing Street Rumble right now. Could’ve ranked up to Diamond by now. But here I am, babysitting a weepy mess of bruises and doubt."

He lunged again. The boy dodged—cleanly this time.

Nolan stopped. Narrowed his eyes.

"...Huh."

The student stood straight, blinking, unsure if he did something wrong or not.

Nolan just nodded slowly.

"That... that was decent."

Then he spun around and started pacing, still speaking.

"Evading means you’re not putting bruises on them, sure. But you’re not putting bruises on yourself either. Think about it—who gets in trouble in a fight? The one who wins. Everyone expects the winner to explain himself. The loser gets pity, attention, backup."

He turned to the student again.

"You dodge. You weave. You survive. And when they’re tired enough, then you end it."

The student stared at him, breathing heavy, face still flushed with leftover tears—but now there was something new. Hope.

"Why..." the student asked hesitantly, "why are you helping me?"

Nolan looked at him, expression unreadable.

"...Because someone helped me," he said flatly. "Now shut up and get ready."

He raised a fist again.

"You dodge three more in a row, we take a break. Fail once, and we go back to ten. Ready?"

The student nodded.

Then they began again.

The kid sat down on the floor, his chest heaving with each breath, cheeks red from exhaustion, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His uniform clung to him like a soaked rag, and his limbs trembled—not from fear anymore, but from the sheer intensity of Nolan’s training.

Still, despite everything, his eyes looked clearer now, a glimmer of resolve settling deep behind the fatigue. He was no longer curled in on himself, waiting for the world to stomp him down. Something had shifted.

Nolan, who had been sipping from a silver water bottle while watching the kid recover, finally spoke.

"So," he said, voice casual but firm, "why the hell are you being bullied anyway?"

The student looked up at him, unsure if it was a trick question. But when he saw the honest, if impatient, curiosity in Nolan’s eyes, he exhaled shakily and looked away.

"It’s... it’s not like I wanted to be," the boy muttered. "It just... happened."

"Kid, everything ’just happens’ until someone explains it," Nolan said, crouching down. "Spit it out."

And so the student did.

His name was Garek. A first-year who had been excited to enter Silver Blade Academy with dreams like everyone else. He’d come from a minor noble house, nothing fancy, but decent enough. The day they had their first group challenge, Garek had been chosen as the team scout during a simulated battle exercise. It was his job to detect the fake enemy camps and mark the safe paths through the traps. But Garek had messed up—bad. He misread a map a teacher hadn’t even remembered assigning. One misdirection, and instead of avoiding the "enemy ambush zone," he had sent his entire team into the heart of it.

They lost. Spectacularly.

Because of that, their entire team failed the mock raid assessment. Every single one of them got their field ranks docked, and their access to certain cultivation chambers was temporarily suspended.

"They were mad," Garek said, voice trembling, "and I get it—I messed up, okay? But they kept getting angrier, even after I said sorry. They started cornering me after class. First just words. Then shoves. Then bruises. They said I ruined their chances to reach third-tier training by the end of the season."

Nolan stared at him for a while, then slowly stood up.

"That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week," he said bluntly.

Garek blinked, confused.

"You think this whole world is about one raid test? You think missing one exercise means the difference between becoming a Knight and being a nobody?" Nolan scoffed. "No, kid. What you did wasn’t wrong. It was just a mistake. A misread. It happens. What they’re doing to you now? That’s wrong."

Garek lowered his eyes again, muttering, "It still ruined everything."

"No. They’re ruining everything," Nolan snapped, pointing toward the hallway. "They’re clinging to that failure because it’s easier than facing their own incompetence. You think real Knights crumble from one failed test? Hell no. They push harder. They evolve. But weaklings? They whine. They bully. They find a scapegoat."

Nolan’s tone grew sharper, and he took a deep breath.

"And that’s why you need to learn to dodge. Not just their fists—but the bullshit they throw at you. You don’t take blame for things that aren’t your fault. You evade it. You twist out of it. You stay light on your feet and ready."

He clapped his hands, the echo ringing like a starting bell.

"Now shut up and stand up. We’ve got fifteen minutes before lunch."

Garek struggled to his feet.

"Fifteen minutes... to train?"

"No," Nolan said, cracking his neck. "Fifteen minutes to burn into your muscle memory what it means to not get hit. Let’s go, dummy."

And from that moment, Nolan shifted into high gear.

He circled Garek like a predator, throwing quick jabs from unexpected angles. Garek had to bend, shift, twist, and even stumble—but Nolan kept him moving. Each time Garek failed to move correctly, Nolan shouted over him like a drill sergeant.

"You lean too much, you fall. You fall, you get stomped. Reset!"

"Get your feet under you! You’re not a damn tree—MOVE!"

"Eyes forward! You’re not watching me—you’re reading me! The shoulders lie, the hips don’t!"

Nolan didn’t go easy on him. He ramped up the speed, forcing Garek to adjust faster and faster. There was no room to breathe, no room to think. Nolan’s words rang like whips, cracking across the exhausted boy’s mind.

"THIS is real training! Not whatever that polished junk the instructors fed you!"

"Why you panting like an old goat? You want your lunch or your dignity back?!"

"You get hit once—fine. You get hit twice—your mistake. You get hit three times—you ain’t learning a damn thing!"

And finally, after the fifteenth minute passed, Nolan stepped back. Garek collapsed on his knees, panting so hard it looked like he might cough out a lung. But his eyes... his eyes were lit now. Focused. Ready.

Nolan stretched casually, cracking his knuckles and yawning.

"Alright. Time for lunch."

He started walking to the door, but paused, looking over his shoulder with a smirk.

"Oh yeah, kid."

Garek looked up, gulping for breath.

"That’ll be fifty mana crystals."

"...Huh?"

"Fifty mana crystals. That’s my tutoring fee," Nolan said, grinning as he stretched his arms behind his head. "A lesson like that? Cheap at twice the price."

"F-FIFTY?! That’s—that’s robbery!"

"Then consider it a robbery from a professional," Nolan said with a wink. "You wanted results. I gave you results. I don’t do charity."

Garek groaned, half-laughing, half-crying. "You’re insane..."

"Yup," Nolan said proudly, stepping out the door. "And I expect you to have it once I am back."

Then he whistled casually down the hallway, hands in his pockets, leaving behind one dazed but determined student still gasping on the floor—changed.