Reborn as the Archmage's Rival
Chapter 32: Pressure of the Gale

Chapter 32: Pressure of the Gale

The classroom buzzed with mana and motion. Students were spread across the rune-marked floor, some paired up, others in small triangles, all cycling through the elemental defensive drills as instructed.

Darius stayed toward the edge of the formation, watching as groups worked through water shielding, earth bracing, fire deflection. Few managed clean executions, and even the successes came with flinches and flares of unstable energy. No one expected perfection. Just effort.

Professor Ignatius moved among them like a storm contained—sharp eyes tracking every twitch, every stance misalignment, every moment a student’s magic faltered. He didn’t scold. He adjusted. A quick tap to the shoulder, a nod toward their feet, a single muttered correction—"Sink lower into the stance," or "You’re holding the weave too tight." When he spoke, students listened. Even the most prideful ones straightened their posture without complaint.

Darius cycled through the fire and water drills first, not eager to draw attention. His water dispersal spell was weak but functional. His earth form, wobbly at best. The fire shielding flared too high, too fast. Still, he was doing it. Not failing. Not flailing.

He was beginning to think maybe he could get through the session quietly when Ignatius’s voice rose above the spellwork hum.

"Wycliffe. With me."

Darius froze, feeling eyes flick toward him. Some students turned outright. He stepped forward slowly, catching the professor’s calm expression—no anger, no amusement. Just focus.

Ignatius motioned toward the sparring dummy at the front corner of the room. "Wind defense."

Darius blinked. "Sir?"

"Demonstrate it. Wind-based defense. You’ve cycled through the rest." A pause. "I’ll show you."

Ignatius stepped ahead, placing himself in front of the target dummy. He raised a hand, fingers splayed slightly, and murmured under his breath—not a full chant, but a focused guide for his mana. A current shimmered into view around his arm, pale and translucent, swirling like fine mist before condensing into a tight loop.

He extended the hand outward.

A pulse of wind burst from the shimmer, sharp but measured. The dummy rocked slightly, hit with enough force to make it sway but not topple. Controlled. Surgical. Defensive, not destructive.

Ignatius lowered his arm and turned to Darius.

"Your turn, Wycliffe. Recall the stance."

Darius stepped forward, eyes flicking to the diagram on the blackboard. One foot forward, hands relaxed but firm, core centered. He took a breath. Slowed. Felt the mana in his chest and limbs, like warmth under skin.

Flow. Don’t force.

He reached inward, letting the air draw from around him. The threads ignited instantly, his internal mana rushing to meet the call. His vision pulsed, briefly adjusting to the sudden density of power he summoned.

Too fast.

The gust came before he fully braced.

A ring of pressure exploded outward, louder and sharper than he’d intended. The dummy didn’t sway—it launched. Smashed into the wall behind it with a heavy thunk before bouncing once and falling still.

Silence hit the room.

Students who had paused to watch stared now, wide-eyed. One or two stepped back. Whispers sparked.

"...that was wind?"

"Did he just—?"

"Too much power..."

Darius’s hands trembled slightly as he lowered them, heart pounding.

Ignatius’s eyes didn’t widen. They narrowed.

He stepped forward and examined the fallen dummy for a beat before turning back to Darius. He walked around him once, quiet, then stopped at his side.

"Impressive power," he said at last, "but raw. If you’d been any closer, the recoil would have knocked you on your back."

Darius managed a small nod. His breath still came faster than normal.

Ignatius’s tone softened, only slightly. "Wind defense isn’t just about force. It’s redirection. Precision. Your instinct is good—but you’ll need more than instinct in real combat. Control it next time."

"Yes, sir."

The professor gave him one last look, then raised his voice to the class. "Reset the practice circle. Wycliffe, rotate out. Next pair."

Darius stepped back, slowly exhaling as a pair of other students moved forward. He felt their glances but ignored them. He didn’t want praise. He didn’t want fear.

He wanted understanding.

And more than that, he wanted to prove that what just happened hadn’t been a fluke.

By the time the practice drills ended, most students were either drenched in sweat or barely standing upright. The hour passed quickly, filled with elemental flares and shifting barriers, some impressive, others laughable.

"Good work today," Ignatius announced as the final pairs returned to their seats. "Progress takes time, and failure means you’re trying. We’ll pick up next session with personalized adjustments based on what I saw today."

He clapped once, and the remaining diagrams on the board faded.

Students began filing out in clusters, murmuring about lunch or the exam schedule or who flubbed the worst stance. A few glanced back at Darius, but most were already moving on.

He waited.

"Wycliffe," Ignatius said quietly, once the last student had slipped out. "Come."

Darius approached slowly, stopping just a step short of the professor’s desk.

Ignatius remained seated, posture relaxed, but his gaze was unwavering.

"What did you learn from today’s class?" he asked, tone light.

Darius thought a moment. "That elemental defense is more than just shielding. It’s knowing your element’s nature. Using that to absorb, redirect, or nullify attacks."

Ignatius tilted his head. "And what part stood out to you most?"

"...Elemental Body," Darius said honestly. "The idea of not just using your element, but being it."

The professor leaned forward slightly.

"A week ago," he began, "you could barely cast a fireball without burning your own sleeve off. Two days ago, I saw you take a grasp at mana control—but your spellcasting was still clumsy. Today?"

He paused. His voice lowered.

"Today, you stood in front of this class and executed an intermediate-level flow technique while channeling wind with enough force to knock down a reinforced dummy. That’s not evolution. That’s a leap."

Darius said nothing.

"I didn’t miss it," Ignatius continued. "I sensed the threading in your mana. Not an amateur technique and it was no accident. But your control—your restraint—it’s not keeping up."

He stood, crossing the space between them slowly.

"I don’t sense dark magic in you. No taint. No external force. But something’s shifting, fast. And I need to know—how are you changing this quickly?"

Darius’s throat felt tight. "I’ve been... focusing. Hard. Every moment outside of class. Studying. Practicing. Trying to make up for lost time."

Ignatius watched him for a long beat, then slowly nodded.

"If this is your effort, then it’s commendable. But power without mastery is like holding lightning in paper hands. You’ll tear apart before you strike."

He turned away slightly, resting a hand on the desk.

"I meant what I said to you in the training room. I want you to reach the top. But not like this. You need control."

Darius nodded. "I want that too."

"Good," the professor said. "Then we start now."

He glanced toward the hallway beyond the door. "Do you have any other classes today?"

"No."

"Come with me. We’ll work until you can stop blowing holes in my walls."

Darius followed without hesitation.

And for the first time, it wasn’t fear pushing him forward.

It was purpose.

Darius followed Ignatius out of the empty classroom, his boots echoing on the hallway’s polished stone. The corridor stretched ahead, silent and empty as late morning light filtered through high windows. Ignatius walked with calm purpose—no haste, no hesitation—even though they were heading somewhere Darius didn’t recognize.

"Where are we going exactly?" Darius asked, breathing steady but his heart thumping.

Ignatius glanced back, his mismatched eyes reflective. "Somewhere you’ll understand today’s lesson better."

They passed a row of closed doors, then turned down a quieter hallway that Darius had never noticed before. No schedule listed this wing, and the portraits lining the walls were older—some with cracked frames, others showing mages long gone. Darius tried to remember the layout of the first-year building, but he’d gone a dozen times since arriving... and never down this corridor.

"It’s not the library?" he said through a small smile, though he was beginning to feel a quiet thrill.

Ignatius stopped in front of a set of thick, wooden doors—polished, but unremarkable. He rested a hand on the frame.

"Just through here." He stepped aside to let Darius lead, then closed his eyes and began the chant under his breath. The words had a rhythm, measured and winding, like soft wind through treetops.

Darius felt the corridor shift. He blinked and the wooden walls rippled. When he dared to open his eyes, stone tiles were gone, replaced by a wide, open sky. Below him, cloud-waves stretched in every direction, luminescent and shifting like living silk. Above, the sun glowed through thinner haze, making the whole scene feel radiant.

It was familiar—he’d been here once. That other class, the teleportation teacher’s floating crystal platform. But this felt different: softer, quieter, with a gentle wind stirring the edges of the cloud-ring where they stood.

Ignatius’s voice continued, and when it stopped, the ground beneath them solidified again—soft and cloud-like, but visible, with fine swirling patterns etched in a pale shimmering glow.

Darius swallowed, unable to look away. This wasn’t where Ignatius usually taught, was it?

No. This space was clearly special.

Ignatius picked a spot a few feet away and turned to face him.

"This is ours for now," he said. "I didn’t want distractions. No other students. Just us—and the sky."

Darius exhaled sharply, disbelief and awe warred inside him. It felt... real. Tangible. Like the floating island where the teleport class had been held—except now, it belonged to him and Ignatius. It hummed with potential.