Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 108: Not Impossible

Nolan blinked. "Huh?"

"Granfire. He says you’re arrogant too. That you look down on others. That you act like you’re better than everyone else and don’t even try to hide it."

There was a ripple of unease in the group. They weren’t accusing—they were simply relaying what they’d heard.

Nolan blinked again, then threw his head back and laughed. It wasn’t a cheerful laugh—it was half-sigh, half-groan, the sound of someone too tired to be angry.

"Of course he does," Nolan muttered. "Because I am better than him."

The students didn’t know how to respond.

"Don’t get me wrong," Nolan said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe I am arrogant. Maybe I say what I think out loud instead of behind people’s backs. But at least I don’t pretend to be humble while stabbing everyone else in the gut."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Forget it. You’ll see soon enough when he starts training you. You’ll see the difference. The act won’t last long."

He leaned forward again and cracked his knuckles.

"But if you do end up liking his methods better, go ahead. Just don’t drink his water. Mine tastes better."

The students laughed awkwardly.

Nolan smiled faintly, then turned back to his screen and hit play, letting the zombie movie resume in a flicker of blood and growls.

Let Granfire do what he wants, Nolan thought. At the end of the day, I’ve got something he doesn’t.

An Internet Cheat.

And a class of students who drank his bottled water and still hadn’t figured out why their sword swings were suddenly smoother than silk.

...

After all that, Nolan slouched deeper into his worn-out chair, legs crossed lazily over one another, the glow of the projection orb flickering against his face as the moaning undead shuffled across the screen.

He had tuned out the world, allowing the relentless groans, dramatic chase scenes, and screeching violin scores of the movie to wash over him like white noise. But his ears remained sharp—always tuned to the classroom’s subtle symphony of movement, effort... and mistakes.

DING!

Without even glancing away from the screen, Nolan pointed a finger to his left. "James, your left shoulder’s collapsing inward again. That’s why your blade keeps veering off. Fix your stance."

The students froze mid-movement.

Another DING!

His finger shot to the right. "Sophia, that’s not the fourth form. That’s the sixth. You skipped. Again. Your flow’s disrupted."

Sophia froze, eyes wide. "Wha—but how did—"

"Eyes forward. Keep going," Nolan muttered, still not looking.

DING!

"Rhea! That grunt you just made? That wasn’t a combat breath. That was frustration. Breath-work controls tempo—lose that, and you’re toast in a duel."

The students were sweating, not just from physical exertion, but from the creeping realization that this slouching, movie-watching instructor had the uncanny ability to detect everything they did wrong down to the millisecond—without even looking at them.

Another error sound.

"Thomas. You’re rushing. Again. It’s called a ’dance’ for a reason, not a sprint. Do it properly or you’ll dislocate your shoulder next time you hit a resistance barrier."

A pause.

"Emily, fix your left heel angle. Liam, stop twirling your blade. Alina, if you tense your jaw any tighter, it’ll lock."

Every error tone was a gunshot in the room, followed by a robotic finger from Nolan pointing like a divine executioner from the back of the class, accompanied by a short remark: curt, precise, cutting.

They tried to ignore it at first—tried to believe that maybe he was just guessing. But the longer the training went, the clearer it became.

He wasn’t guessing.

He was seeing everything.

And he was always right.

The sounds of error chimes kept ringing, each followed by Nolan’s dry interjections between casual sips of his bottle and the distant gurgle of zombie intestines on-screen. The strange juxtaposition made it all the more surreal.

Then, just as another sword clanged down too early with a painful metallic shriek...

DING!

Nolan casually waved his hand through the interface and muted the orb. He stood up with a loud yawn and stretched, bones cracking like firecrackers.

"Class dismissed," he said.

The students collapsed like marionettes with their strings severed. Bodies hit the ground, swords clattered, and breaths heaved like dying animals. Sweat pooled on the polished floor, turning their dance into a battlefield.

"W-Wait..." Liam wheezed, pushing himself upright. "Sir, the water... Can we have more bottled water?"

The others perked up, hopeful, aching, eyes glimmering with exhaustion and thirst.

Nolan turned toward them slowly, half-lidded eyes narrowing. "No way."

They froze.

"What do you mean ’no way’?"

"You all paid twenty Mana Crystals each. And you drank your bottles already. These—" he gestured to the unopened ones stacked beside his desk like a glistening pyramid of salvation "—are mine."

A collective groan of despair filled the room.

Rhea raised her hand like a weary student at the brink of death. "But... Sir, you said... those bottles cost fifteen Mana Crystals each to make..."

The students’ faces shifted as the math hit them. All of them remembered clearly—Nolan’s exaggerated explanation, the absurd list of ingredients, the insistence that he was basically gifting them rare arcane elixirs in a bottle.

Their eyes widened in horror.

They realized.

They had been scammed.

Fifteen per bottle. They only paid twenty. That meant—they barely paid for one. The nerve. The gall.

"I see you’re all figuring it out," Nolan said smugly, sitting back down and twisting the cap off another water bottle for a dramatic sip. "Yes. That’s right. You all drank high-grade performance-enhancing bottled water made from materials even I had to sweat to acquire... and all for the low, low cost of twenty Mana Crystals. Incredible, right?"

There was a silence. Heavy. Embarrassed.

Alina whispered, "It was good, though..."

"Too good," Sophia muttered.

"Unfairly good," James added, face flushed from realization.

Nolan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glittering with amusement. "Are you thinking you still lost? That you didn’t get your money’s worth?"

The students glanced at each other hesitantly.

"Huh?" he repeated, sharper. "Are you thinking that just because you’re exhausted and empty-handed, that it wasn’t worth it?"

A pause.

"I’ll tell you this." Nolan stood back up. His tone changed—less sarcastic, more serious now. "Because of those bottles... because of the training that followed... you will pass your Academy Class tiers."

Liam looked up, blinking. "Huh?"

"You will all get into Class A. Or maybe even the higher tier. The elusive one. Class S-Prime."

Silence.

Then:

"That’s... not possible," Emily whispered.

"No way," Rhea said.

"Seriously?" Alina gaped. "Class S-Prime? That’s where they put the monsters... and there’s never been one decades and even S Class here in Silver Blade Academy, there’s only one in decade..."

"That’s impossible!" Sophia blurted out. "Teacher, you’re joking, right?"

"No one gets to S-Prime from basic dance training and water," James argued, panting. "They say even some advanced-track students don’t get in!"

More students joined in the chaos.

Liam stood up, arms flailing, "I heard S-Prime students are so powerful they’re given preliminary leadership ranks! That they can skip even Tier-Three Academy exams!"

"And they get sponsored by major houses!" Rhea added.

"Some even become provisional Knights of the Crown!" Thomas cried.

"They say S-Prime students each have something unreal about them," Emily said breathlessly. "A bloodline, a legacy, an ancient spirit inside them—how could we even come close to that?"

"They’re not just good," Alina said, shaking her head. "They’re chosen."

Nolan crossed his arms. "Chosen, huh?"

He looked at them, their youthful faces twisted in disbelief, panic, and awe.

They were so sure of the rules of the world they were living in. So convinced that certain paths were forever out of reach.

"No," he said, slowly, "it’s not impossible."

He stepped forward, each step deliberate. "I’ve seen worse than you reach higher. I’ve seen cowards become warriors. Idiots become geniuses. It’s not about talent—it’s about access. The right knowledge. The right timing. The right push."

He raised the half-empty water bottle in his hand.

"That bottled water? It wasn’t just hydration. It was insight. It was clarity. It cracked the shell around your subconscious."

His voice dropped lower.

"You didn’t notice it, but some of you had your first glimpse of Enlightenment today."

The students were silent again.

"I’m not joking," Nolan said firmly. "And if you keep training the way I tell you to—keep drinking what I give you—keep trusting this odd, lazy, movie-watching, unshaven ’teacher’—you will reach heights you never imagined."

He stopped in the center of the room.

"Now."

His voice thundered.

"Listen up!"

But the students were still muttering, murmuring in disbelief, their voices a tangled web of doubts and speculation.

Nolan’s eyes narrowed.

"LISTEN UP!"

The room fell silent. Cold. Electric.

He stared at each of them.

"Starting tomorrow, everything changes. No more coasting. No more doubts. If you want to reach Class S-Prime... then stop thinking like peasants."

His voice burned.

"Start acting like monsters."