Chapter 11: Knowledge

The next week, Sylas stood before his students in the large, cool classroom, where the warm sunlight from the windows lazily filtered through the room, casting long shadows across the wooden desks. The students, still a bit hesitant from their previous lessons, sat with attentive eyes, not knowing quite what to expect next. Sylas was no ordinary professor, and they quickly understood this. His lessons were rarely predictable, often philosophical, and drenched in the weight of his experiences. Today's lesson would be no different.

"Mana management," Sylas began, his voice calm but piercing in its clarity. "It's not just about knowing how to harness power; it's about understanding its consequences. Most people treat mana as a tool for immediate use, but few truly grasp the deeper implications of channeling such vast energy through a fragile mortal vessel."

He paused for a moment, letting the words hang in the air like a thick fog. The students leaned forward, sensing the weight behind his tone.

"You see, mana is like a river," Sylas continued, walking slowly in front of the chalkboard, his fingers tracing patterns in the air as he spoke. "A river of raw power, always flowing, never stopping. And yet, if you try to drink from it too greedily, or too quickly, it will drown you. If you try to wield too much at once, your mind—your very body—cannot withstand the torrent. And in the same breath, if you fail to direct it properly, it will crash against you like a violent wave. One moment of carelessness, and it's over."

His words were heavy with the kind of knowledge that only someone who had spent lifetimes thinking about consequences could possess. Sylas's mind was one of calculation, of deliberate reason. His thought process, when making any decision—whether it be something as trivial as becoming a professor or something as life-altering as wielding mana—was methodical, layered with the intricacies of possible outcomes. It was the very reason why he had agreed to teach the class.

It wasn't a decision he made on a whim. In fact, nothing in his life ever truly was. Sylas understood the consequences of his choices intimately, perhaps more than most people ever could. When Livia had offered him the position of professor, Sylas had spent hours—if not days—examining the decision from every possible angle. Should he take it? What would be the ramifications of accepting a role that would put him in direct contact with students, many of whom were his age, but far less experienced? What did this mean for his personal goals and the time he had to focus on them?

At first glance, it seemed like an unnecessary distraction, a hindrance to whatever plans he might have. Yet, Sylas was not one to act without considering the ripple effects. If he turned down the position, he would forfeit a powerful opportunity: the ability to shape the next generation. To give them knowledge, to make them stronger, and perhaps, to push them toward their own greatness. Moreover, he would be able to learn more from the students themselves—observe their thinking patterns, understand their limitations, and see how they adapted to the knowledge he imparted.

So he had weighed the decision, turning it over in his mind like a coin, watching it spin until it landed on the side of opportunity. And with that, he took the position.

"I'll teach you how to manage mana," Sylas said, snapping the students out of their reverie. "But you must first understand that the true key to managing it lies in understanding yourself. You cannot control the mana if you cannot control your own thoughts, your own desires, your own impulses."

He paused and turned to the chalkboard, writing out the fundamental principles of mana management. He drew the rune for Flow, the symbol of channeling energy, followed by the symbol for Balance, the careful equilibrium that kept the energy from overwhelming the body.

"These symbols represent the core of mana manipulation," he continued, tracing each one with his fingers as he spoke. "You must first understand how mana flows within you. Too much focus on the Flow and you become reckless, overcharging yourself. Too much on Balance, and you become stagnant, unable to move forward or develop."

Sylas's deep knowledge of mana had been shaped by countless hours spent studying old tomes, manuscripts, and texts from all the worlds he had visited. His mother had taught him the basics of healing magic, which, in turn, had opened his eyes to the broader spectrum of magical understanding. But it was his years of experience, his understanding of the forces at play within the universe, that had truly molded him into the expert he was now. He understood not only how to manipulate mana, but how to coexist with it, to become attuned to it in ways that allowed him to avoid the mistakes others made.

As he stood there, his mind flickered back to his own experiences—both as Sylas and in his previous life. The countless times he had stood at the edge of battle, weighed the odds, and calculated his next move. Every strike, every retreat, every counterattack had been made with the understanding that each action could change the course of events. Just as his decisions to teach—or not teach—had far-reaching consequences.

"In battle, your thoughts must be clear, as the clearer your mind, the clearer your mana will flow," Sylas said, his voice becoming almost a whisper, the philosophical undercurrent to his words palpable. "One misstep in thought, one moment of doubt, and it could be the difference between life and death. Not just for you, but for everyone around you. Mana is not just a tool; it is a reflection of your inner strength. If you fail to manage your mind, you will fail to manage your mana."

His eyes swept over the students, catching a few expressions of confusion, but mostly of understanding.

"This is why," Sylas continued, his voice becoming more intense, "you must learn to think before you act. To understand the consequences of each choice you make. Whether it's choosing to become a professor, like me, or wielding a spell in battle—everything has its price. And you must always be ready to pay it."

The class sat in silence, absorbing his words. Sylas knew the students weren't used to this level of reflection. They were accustomed to being taught skills and techniques, but the depth of thought he required was something they had yet to fully grasp. But that, too, was part of his plan. To stretch their thinking, to push them past their current limits, until they could comprehend the full weight of their actions and decisions.

He turned back to the chalkboard and wrote a final line: True mastery begins with self-mastery.

Sylas knew it wasn't just about the magic. It was about the person wielding it. The strength of their mind, their character, their ability to understand the consequences of their actions. Only then could they truly harness the full potential of mana. Only then could they wield it with the precision and control of a master.

Sylas's intellect was a sharp, multifaceted tool, honed through lifetimes of experience and deeply ingrained in the way he approached everything, from the most trivial tasks to the most complex strategies. His mind worked in a way that allowed him to process, analyze, and respond with exceptional speed and accuracy, particularly when it came to absorbing and processing information.

His ability to handle multiple streams of information at once—whether it was calculations, strategic planning, or verbal exchanges—was something that set him apart. Conversations and lectures were like a chessboard for him, where every word, every pause, and every slight gesture could carry meaning. He didn't just listen; he absorbed, categorized, and calculated the potential outcomes. When a student asked a question, Sylas didn't respond with a mere answer; he processed the nuances of the inquiry, the underlying assumptions, and the potential consequences of his response. He always understood the layers of context surrounding every interaction, considering everything from the person's demeanor to the broader implications of the topic at hand.

This way of thinking extended beyond his verbal responses. Sylas could read an entire room, assessing everyone's level of understanding, where each person's strengths and weaknesses lay, and how they might react to various stimuli. He spoke with clarity, but his words were always deliberate, crafted to not just convey knowledge but to shape it. The way he formulated his teachings and responded to questions was calculated, as if he were guiding his students along a path where every word was meant to leave an impression, to plant a seed of understanding that would grow and expand beyond the immediate moment.

His memory, too, was something that operated like an intricate web, storing vast amounts of information with precise details. A book he had read years ago could be recalled with perfect clarity, down to the smallest fact or piece of data. Not just the facts themselves, but their connections—the subtle threads that tied them to other concepts, strategies, or ideas. It wasn't just recall; it was the ability to weave the past into the present, to make those connections come alive in any given moment. His mind was a library, but one where every piece of knowledge was constantly cross-referenced with others, creating a tapestry of interconnected thoughts. When faced with a challenge, Sylas could almost instantly sift through this vast mental repository to find the optimal solution, drawing on everything from the most basic facts to the deepest philosophies, combining them into a cohesive strategy.

In combat and tactical situations, his ability to calculate risks and determine the best course of action was nearly unparalleled. Sylas was acutely aware of every potential consequence, not just of his own actions, but of those around him. His former life had taught him the brutal reality of war—the sharp sting of failure and the cold weight of victory. He understood the cost of every decision, and as such, he rarely acted impulsively. Every move he made in the heat of battle had already been anticipated, calculated, and stored in the vast library of his experience. The concept of risk was never a gamble for Sylas; it was a science. Every scenario, every potential threat, was considered with the precision of a master strategist. His tactical mind didn't just focus on the immediate, obvious move; it zoomed out, understanding how each action fit into the broader picture, how one small shift could cause a ripple effect that could lead to victory or catastrophe.

This deep understanding of strategy and risk wasn't limited to the battlefield. Sylas had learned, over time, that the same principles applied in almost every aspect of life. When he considered whether or not to take the role of a professor, he wasn't merely thinking about his immediate goals. He was calculating the long-term effects of the decision. He analyzed the power dynamics, the potential alliances, the costs of his time, and how this decision could influence his ability to manipulate events in his favor down the line. Every choice was a tactical move in the grander war of life, and Sylas approached it with the same rigor and precision he would a military campaign.

He understood that the success of any plan relied on the ability to anticipate both the obvious and the obscure—how an enemy might react, how an ally might betray, how time itself could change the course of events. Every piece of information, whether it came from a student's nervous glance or a whispered conversation, was integrated into his calculations. This wasn't just intelligence; it was wisdom, born from countless experiences, refined over years of living in the throes of power, conflict, and survival.

When teaching, he wasn't just passing on knowledge; he was subtly shaping the students into tools for future battles, preparing them for the complexities of the world outside the classroom. His ability to assess their potential, to see where they could grow and where they were weak, wasn't just a skill; it was an extension of his tactical mind. He didn't just want to teach them how to fight; he wanted to teach them how to think. And with his intellectual prowess, he knew that the real battle lay not in physical confrontation, but in the mental chess game that defined every encounter.

For Sylas, every day was another game of strategy. Every interaction, every lesson, every challenge was another opportunity to test his limits, to stretch his understanding, and to refine the fine-tuned calculations of his mind. The battlefield had expanded beyond the confines of war and into the classroom, where the stakes were just as high, and the consequences just as real.

The quiet observation of people, their habits, and their mannerisms was something Sylas had always excelled at, though he rarely considered it a skill. For him, it was second nature—a subtle game of assembling pieces of information into a cohesive whole. Even in a setting like the academy, where he was surrounded by teenagers buzzing with energy and chaotic emotions, he found patterns in their behaviors. He had no need for gossip or elaborate conversations; people revealed more about themselves in silence than they did through their words.

It was early morning, and I stood near the edge of the training grounds, hands clasped behind my back, watching the students gather in small groups. They were unaware of my presence—or perhaps they simply didn't care—but their chatter carried in the crisp air, and I listened. Not for entertainment, nor out of curiosity, but because information was a weapon, and I intended to arm myself thoroughly.

Take Theo, for instance, a tall, broad-shouldered boy who always arrived early but lingered just outside the main crowd. He had an air of confidence that didn't match the way he avoided eye contact or the way his fingers fidgeted with the strap of his training bag. I'd noticed him exchanging hushed words with Lila, a small, fiery girl from Class 2-B, after practice last week. She wasn't here today. A minor observation, but one that could prove useful later.

I approached Theo casually, my footsteps quiet against the gravel path. He glanced up, startled at first, but quickly recovered, standing a little straighter.

"Good morning," I said, my tone polite but measured, as it always was.

"Good morning, Professor Corvus," he replied, his voice steady but tinged with uncertainty.

"You seem distracted," I remarked, tilting my head slightly as I studied his face. "Something on your mind?"

Theo hesitated, his eyes darting briefly to the ground. "No, sir. Just… preparing for the day."

"Preparation often begins in the mind," I said, my gaze sharp. "But you already know that, don't you?"

He looked at me then, startled by the implication, but I offered nothing further. Instead, I shifted the topic, speaking about the upcoming tournament in broad, neutral terms. Theo responded politely, though I could tell his thoughts were elsewhere. By the end of the brief exchange, I knew enough: his nerves weren't about training—they were about something, or someone, else entirely.

Interactions like these were common, though rarely as direct. With other students, I let the conversations come to me. Callan, for example, had a tendency to talk too much, though he never realized how much he revealed. In his enthusiasm to impress me—or perhaps to vent his frustrations—he often mentioned names, rivalries, and rumors. I rarely needed to ask questions; a well-timed nod or a simple "go on" was enough to keep him talking.

Then there was Nia, a quiet, studious girl who always sat at the back of the classroom. She barely spoke unless prompted, but I noticed how her eyes darted to the blackboard before anyone else during lessons, how her notes were meticulous, and how she lingered after class as if waiting for an opportunity to speak. It took several days of subtle encouragement—an occasional comment on her insightful answers, a nod of acknowledgment during discussions—before she finally approached me. When she did, it was with a shy but determined question about advanced mana theory. That brief exchange told me more about her than hours of conversation could have.

Despite my reserved nature, the students seemed to find me approachable, though I couldn't say why. Perhaps it was the way I listened without interruption, or the way I responded with concise, thoughtful answers rather than platitudes. Whatever the reason, they spoke to me, and I learned. About the school, about their struggles, about their fears and ambitions.

I had no illusions about the value of these interactions. Social connections, even at their most trivial, could provide insight into the larger dynamics of the academy. The tensions between classes, the hidden alliances, the unspoken rivalries—all of it was laid bare through the fragments of conversation I collected.

And yet, I remained distant. Polite, yes, but never warm. I rarely smiled, not because I lacked the capacity, but because I saw no need for it. A smile could be misinterpreted, its meaning twisted. Better to remain neutral, unassailable, like a polished mirror reflecting only what others wanted to see.

The students might have seen me as an enigma—a man of few words who nonetheless seemed to know more about them than he should. But that was the point. To observe without being observed. To gather knowledge without revealing too much of myself.

At the end of the day, as I walked back to my dorm, I considered the sum of what I'd learned. A dozen minor details, each seemingly insignificant on its own. But together, they painted a picture of the academy's intricate social web. And I, as always, stood on the outside, watching, analyzing, preparing.

I walked into the lecture hall with my usual cup of coffee in hand, the steam curling upward in delicate spirals. The room was already filling with the chatter of students, a low hum that echoed faintly off the stone walls. My coat shifted slightly as I moved, the leather loafers I now wore clicking softly against the polished floor. It was a far cry from the combat boots I once wore in the trenches of my old world, but I supposed even I had to adjust to the customs of this life.

As I reached the lectern, the chatter subsided. Some of the students straightened in their seats, others stared at me with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. It wasn't lost on me that, physically, I was their equal. Perhaps even younger than some, given that a handful of students in this class had delayed their education to pursue mercenary work or apprenticeship. But they didn't know what I knew. They hadn't lived the lives I had.

"Good morning," I said, my voice calm but firm enough to cut through the lingering whispers. "Settle down. We have much to cover today, and I would prefer not to waste time repeating myself."

Theo, sitting near the front as usual, was already scribbling notes in his journal before I even began. That boy had potential, though he lacked confidence. I'd seen the way he hesitated when sparring, how his hand would falter just slightly before committing to an attack. But I also saw how he lingered after class, asking questions about mana layering or combat strategies. He wanted to improve, and that was more than I could say for most.

"Professor Corvus," Callan called out from the back, leaning lazily against his chair. "Are we going to do another one of your 'character-building' exercises today, or can we actually learn something useful?"

The rest of the class chuckled, though some exchanged wary glances, clearly remembering the last time I had them running laps until their legs felt like jelly.

I sipped my coffee, unbothered. "Character-building is useful, Callan. But since you're so eager to learn, perhaps you'd like to solve this equation for the class?"

His smirk faltered as I gestured to the blackboard, where I began writing an advanced mana distribution problem. It was deliberately complex, the kind of problem that would take even a skilled mage several minutes to untangle.

Callan stared at it, his bravado melting into quiet frustration as the seconds ticked by. I didn't bother hiding my smirk. "No takers? A shame. I suppose we'll start with the basics, then."

The class groaned, and I glanced toward Mira, who sat near the window with her arms crossed. She was sharp, easily one of the most skilled swordswomen in the class, but her impatience often got the better of her. "Mira," I said, drawing her attention. "What's the first step in layering mana without overloading your core?"

"To stabilize the base layer," she answered quickly, though her tone was clipped. "You make sure it's balanced before adding the next one."

"Correct," I said, nodding. "But only partially. If you only focus on balance without considering flow, you risk stagnation. Imagine trying to build a tower with bricks that are perfectly aligned but have no mortar. Eventually, it'll collapse under its own weight."

I watched her frown as she considered my words, her fingers tapping absently against the edge of her desk. Mira was one of those students who needed to be challenged to stay engaged. I made a mental note to pair her with someone slower in the next sparring session—someone who would force her to strategize rather than rely on instinct.

Then there was Nia, sitting quietly in the back with her notebook open, her pen poised but unmoving. She was one of the few who didn't complain about my lessons, but she rarely spoke unless directly addressed. I'd been keeping an eye on her for weeks, noting how her eyes darted to the blackboard before anyone else, how her notes were meticulous yet sparse. She was bright, perhaps brighter than most, but her reluctance to engage held her back.

"Nia," I said, and her head snapped up, startled. "What's the most efficient way to stabilize a mana layer when the core is already at 70% capacity?"

She blinked, her face flushing slightly as the rest of the class turned to look at her. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer, but then she spoke, her voice steady despite her nerves. "By redirecting the excess energy into auxiliary channels before stabilizing the main layer."

"Precisely," I said, watching as her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. "Well done."

These moments, brief as they were, told me everything I needed to know about my students. Theo's diligence, Callan's arrogance, Mira's impatience, Nia's hidden potential—they were all pieces of a larger puzzle. And though I rarely showed it, I took pride in seeing those pieces come together, even if it was slow, even if they stumbled along the way.

At the end of the lecture, as the students filed out of the room, I lingered for a moment, finishing my coffee. My goal had shifted since I first arrived at this academy. I no longer sought knowledge solely for myself; I sought to pass it on, to ensure that this generation—my generation, technically—was stronger, smarter, and more prepared for the future than the last.

As I walked toward the door, I caught Theo glancing back, a question lingering in his eyes. I nodded slightly, wordlessly encouraging him to speak. He hesitated, then hurried after me, his journal clutched tightly in his hands.

"Professor," he said quietly, "about the auxiliary channels—could they also be used to amplify flow in a combat scenario?"

I paused, considering his question. "Yes," I said finally. "But only if you're willing to risk destabilization. The greater the power, the greater the risk. It's a balance, Theo. One you'll have to master if you want to succeed."

He nodded, his expression thoughtful as he scribbled something in his journal. I watched him go, a small, fleeting sense of satisfaction settling over me. These students might not have been my choice, but they were mine nonetheless. And I would make sure they were ready for whatever came next.