Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 101: Confirmation

They began slowly at first—tentative, uncertain.

The floor had become their stage, their battleground, and somehow their training hall all in one.

The desks pushed aside stood like silent onlookers.

With each synchronized breath, the students moved—not with brute precision this time, not with rehearsed stiffness or the half-learned motions they’d received from Granfire’s stiff textbook drills—but with something new. Something fluid. Something almost... artistic.

It was the Knight movement technique, yes. But layered, textured, evolving. They were dancing.

Not dancing in the joyful, whimsical sense. No, this was sharper. Like steel slicing through silk.

There was grace to their arcs, deadliness in their spins.

Their bodies traced violent poetry across the polished floor, a choreography born not from music but from purpose.

One student stepped forward, sweeping their leg into a pivoted stance, the heel carving a crescent on the floor as their arm extended in a feint.

The next twirled past, half crouched, mimicking the swoop of a bird of prey.

A third caught the rhythm, moving in time—not to a beat, but to breath, to instinct, to the shared tension strung invisibly between them all.

Yet beneath their movements, beneath the blossoming of this strange discipline, their eyes flickered.

To Nolan.

Again. And again.

A glance. Then averted. Another peek, cautious, waiting for that twitch in his brow, that narrowing of his gaze, that sharp breath through the nose that always preceded his lectures or his outbursts.

Some of them were unsure. Was this even working? They weren’t doing exactly what he taught, were they? They were blending. Adding. Modifying. Infusing motion with rhythm, creating something alien but familiar.

Liam hesitated mid-sweep, brow furrowed. "I don’t know if this’ll tick him off or impress him..."

James, near him, whispered without turning, "If it ticks him off, it means it’s still wrong despite teacher Granfire saying this can do, right?"

"Maybe, but we are just testing this one out to see if Teacher Nolan could see through them and make them more comfortable, just like the Mana Knight movement."

"What if you point them out?"

"We will compare the teaching of Nolan and Granfire. If Teacher Nolan’s teaching is better, then we will go follow his instructions and teach them."

Emily, moving opposite of them, gave the briefest nod. Her eyes flashed toward Nolan’s desk, her lips pressing together tightly.

Some students didn’t believe this would work. They copied the motions but lacked the spirit.

Their moves were technically correct but hollow, like actors reciting lines they didn’t understand.

Others stood to the side, arms crossed, pretending they were just watching, just "analyzing." But their eyes gave it away. They were studying, thinking, wondering. Maybe this is how we reach him. Maybe this is how we learn.

And then—it happened.

Nolan stirred.

He had been slouched in his chair again, chin tilted lazily, eyes locked on the glowing screen of his strange movie.

The familiar flicker of the holo-cast danced across his glasses. But suddenly, something clicked. His brow twitched. His lips parted.

He leaned forward.

"Huh?" he muttered.

He squinted at the class—and then recoiled. "Who the heck—?"

The students froze mid-motion.

Liam halted mid-spin, one foot raised. Emily stopped, arm extended like she was about to parry a blow that wasn’t there. They all turned—too fast, too nervous—to face him.

But none spoke.

Not a single word.

They didn’t have to. Their silence said it all: We’re doing something, Teacher. You noticed, didn’t you?

Nolan’s jaw flexed.

His eyes scanned the room slowly, moving from one face to another. He saw their halted forms, their frozen stances, the mix of apprehension and anticipation written all over their expressions.

Then he looked at their postures. Their hands. Their foot placement.

He narrowed his eyes.

And slowly, he began to speak—but not to them. Not directly.

"The second one from the left," he mumbled, "her shoulder drops two degrees too early on her fourth motion. Throws off her lower back alignment."

He shifted his gaze. freeweɓnøvel.com

"The tall boy on the right. He’s skipping the micro-pause after the feint step. That’s why his following spin looks clean but leaves his left flank exposed. He doesn’t even notice he’s opened himself."

His voice lowered, almost to a whisper, yet audible in the strange quiet that had gripped the room.

"The one at the back who thinks he’s blending the upper parry with the low step? His torso rotates too far inward. He compensates with his ankle. Tsk. That’s going to snap under pressure in real combat."

He leaned back slightly, exhaling as if disgusted by what he was seeing—but still watching. His finger tapped idly on the side of his chair as he continued muttering.

"That one’s rhythm is good... but she’s trying to use her eyes to follow the flow instead of her ears. Useless in a fog-covered battlefield. Vision won’t save you when you can’t feel your enemies’ movement."

"And him," he pointed absently toward James without looking directly at him, "he keeps flaring his elbows during transitions. It looks dramatic, but all it does is widen his guard. A real Knight would pin him to the wall before he finishes his third turn."

He squinted at another.

"That girl is turning her knees too much inward to maintain a narrow posture—might look slick, but she’s reducing the power of her lower core. That’s why her steps look fast but lack real momentum. The force just... bleeds out."

His hand waved lazily in the air as if brushing away invisible mistakes.

"And what is that boy even doing at the edge? Is that a twirl? Is he dancing? Does he think he’s auditioning for some ridiculous parade? That’s not misinterpretation—that’s fantasy. That’s—what is that?"

He sat up suddenly.

"What kind of sword dance is this?"

The students flinched. Some inhaled sharply. A few nearly stumbled.

But Nolan didn’t shout. He didn’t sneer or unleash a thunderstorm of complaints like he had before. Instead, he just stared.

Not at them, not directly.

He stared through them. As if processing.

His brows drew closer together, deep in contemplation. As though, somewhere deep inside that chaotic mind of his, he was dissecting something much larger than just technique. Something about rhythm. Precision. Emotion. Combat. Efficiency. And perhaps, just perhaps, potential.

The students didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because they weren’t sure what he’d say next—or if he’d say anything at all.

And in that stillness, that tightrope of silence where they could feel their own heartbeats pressing against their ribs, they waited. Some half expecting a dismissal. Others waiting for correction. And a few... a rare few... hoping for approval.

But Nolan said nothing more.

He leaned back into his chair, eyes narrowing slightly, and pulled the screen back in front of him with one smooth motion.

The light glowed again on his glasses. His attention seemed to shift. But the energy in the room had irrevocably changed.

The students were no longer guessing how to provoke a reaction.

They knew now.

Nolan wasn’t bothered by creativity. He wasn’t even annoyed by noise.

He was disturbed by imperfection.

And that... that was the key.

They shared glances, subtle nods. A flick of the eyebrow here. A pursing of the lips there. No words needed.

They had learned something far more important than a movement pattern.

They had learned their teacher.