I made up magic and taught a world-destroying witch?

In the mouth of the archivist, this sentence became Professor Grantham's preparation to release a new magical training report during the demonstration class.

Half an hour later, the assistant in charge of copying the list of demonstration classes heard this and imagined that Professor Grantham might be going to propose a set of magical evaluation standards.

By the time the news reached the faculty canteen, it had become that Professor Grantham was going to bring a completely new magic education system that would change the landscape of the continent and overthrow the old magic system!

However, the situation was not so pleasant on the training field in the practical training area.

Brewster stood at the edge of the training field, where several of his students were practicing basic fireball spells in the center of the field.

At that moment, a fireball flew out and hit the target, splashing out a burst of fire.

Brewster frowned and said with displeasure:

"Too slow! How can we get good grades in the demonstration class like this? Let's try again!"

The student who had been scolded took a deep breath, raised his hand again, and hurriedly gathered his magic power once more.

Just then, Brewster's teaching assistant came running over and hurriedly whispered in his ear:

"Professor, there's been a big commotion coming from the administration office."

"What?"

"Professor Grantham has submitted a report on the demonstration lesson."

  

Brewster scoffed lightly:

"Is this really something you need to tell me all this time?"

The teaching assistant hesitated for a moment, but finally said:

"It's said to be no ordinary report."

Brewster finally turned his head away.

Seeing that Brewster had finally turned his head, the teaching assistant quickly reported:

"I heard that report was filled with theories I'd never heard of before. The administration said Professor Grantham plans to demonstrate a new set of magical standards!"

After listening, Brewster gave a cold smile and said:

"That's well said."

The teaching assistant looked at him cautiously:

"Professor, you mean...?"

"Only a fool would be fooled by such wordplay."

Brewster saw right through it.

This is what theorists excel at: even when there are no tangible results, they can use a bunch of fancy words to package them as process achievements.

Even when it's clearly not feasible, they can still shamelessly claim that the direction is still in the observation window.

Brewster found these theorists the most disgusting!

In their training area, failure is failure!

"He's just making excuses for his incompetence in advance," Brewster mocked.

"I think so too!" The teaching assistant immediately nodded frantically in agreement.

"What do you think?" Brewster glanced at him. "Are you even using a brain?"

The teaching assistant immediately shut up.

Brewster, too lazy to continue scolding him, turned to look at the center of the training field.

Another fireball flew out.

Brewster paused for a moment, then suddenly asked, "Has the schedule for next week's demonstration lesson been confirmed?"

"Confirmed!" the teaching assistant replied quickly.

"Each professor has fifteen minutes of dedicated time. First, the professor will explain the academic objectives, then the students will give a live magic demonstration, and finally there will be a five-minute joint Q&A session."

"Live magic demonstration..." Brewster repeated.

"Professor," the teaching assistant said.

"At that time, Professor Grantham's students probably won't be able to cast spells, after all, those two... well, they don't have much talent for magic."

Brewster did not respond to the assistant coach's words.

He looked down on Joseph, but he wasn't stupid.

Joseph Grantham was, after all, the youngest archmage in the Empire, and his academic record was indeed impressive. Anders Moran's status as a student was also genuine.

If this person is just stubborn, then of course it's easy to deal with.

During the demonstration class, let those two problem students cast spells on the spot, and then let him demonstrate the legendary new magic himself. If he can't cast it, it will be a joke.

However, if Joseph had prepared in advance and intended to cover up all the failures with rhetoric such as the new system not being suitable for forced release in its early stages, it would only make them, as practical practitioners, appear short-sighted, crude, and rude.

Then, those old fogies in the theoretical research group will seize the opportunity to launch an attack, retaliating with accusations such as, "Brewster, you're using outdated standards from the old era to brutally stifle the flame of the Imperial Arcane Revival!"

Brewster squinted.

He wasn't afraid of Joseph's students failing; what he feared was Joseph turning failure into a part of himself to disgust him.

The teaching assistant asked in a low voice, "Professor, now?"

"Go and check whether Grantham has actually attended any practical training classes recently."

The teaching assistant was taken aback.

"And another thing," Brewster continued, "when was the last time he publicly cast a spell?"

In the center of the training field, the third fireball finally flew out, this time hitting the bullseye, and the firelight illuminated Brewster's gloomy face.

"Again," he said calmly.

"No one is allowed to slack off before the demonstration lesson."

Over the next few days, Joseph lived the closest he had ever come to his ideal life since his transmigration.

I slept in until I naturally woke up in the morning, went to the faculty cafeteria at noon to order random things I'd never tried before, and in the afternoon I nestled in the dragon-skin sofa, casually flipped through a couple of pages of an ancient book, wrote a few lines of demonstration lesson instructions that no one could understand, and seriously considered how to use the funds in a reasonable, legal, and befitting-the-status-great-magician way to exchange them for a manor with a vineyard in the south before the project ended.

In the evening, I leisurely go to the cafeteria for a free lavish dinner, then come back to wash up and go to bed.

If it weren't for the demonstration class still being on the schedule, these past few days would have been the ultimate form of Joseph's dream of becoming a great magician!

Quiet, respectable, and meals are provided free of charge.

No annoying students knocked on the door, no disgusting colleagues made sarcastic remarks, and no one forced him to conjure a fireball on the spot to prove himself.

This is life!

And during those few days when Joseph was utterly and devoutly wasting his time,

Grace and Mia, however, were not idle for a single second.

Every morning, Grace would sit at her desk in her dorm room on time. The curtains were half-open, and sunlight fell on the pages of her book. Her notebook was open on her right, the ink bottle was in a fixed position, the quill pen tip was pointing outward, and there was even a small silver ruler next to her to help her draw diagrams of the changing boundaries of spell positions.

On the first day, she failed before the fourth edge closed. On the second day, she again followed Joseph's advice to proceed slowly, first observing the temperature change of the first edge, and then observing the angle between the second edge and the first edge.

She discovered that when her breathing slowed down, the first edge became clearer; when she started thinking about whether she was close to success, that edge immediately blurred.

So she wrote in her notebook: "Emotional predictions can interfere with the stability of spell slot boundaries." After writing this sentence, Grace paused, then added a small asterisk next to it.

All the education she received from childhood told her that she had to succeed.

She is the third princess of the Aslant Empire. She cannot lose her composure, cannot fail, and cannot let others see that she is also insecure.

But when it came to magic, she failed far too many times.

Grace thought of Mia. Miss Taylor, though rude, possessed an almost animalistic intuition.

If she completes the spellcasting skill ahead of others because of the metaphor of the furnace, wouldn't I, who have read all of the professor's papers, fall behind?

Grace closed her eyes again, and as time passed, the fourth side of her mind slowly closed.

Grace opened her eyes, her fingers trembling slightly.

She succeeded! She finally succeeded!

She almost immediately wanted to stand up, go to the experimental tower, and tell the man about it.

But as soon as she touched the laptop, she stopped. Her husband had told her not to run to him every time she felt a urge.

Grace lowered her head, sat back down in her chair, and waited for a long time, but the square was still there.

Although she would sway whenever she got even slightly excited, it still existed in her consciousness.

Grace then picked up the quill and wrote in her notebook:

Professor Grantham's slow pace allows students to shift their focus from proving themselves to observing the structure itself.

She paused for a moment as she wrote this.

Then she added:

Professor Grantham had already foreseen that what truly stopped me was not magic, but my obsession with success.

After finishing writing, Grace stared at the line of text for a long time without looking away.

On the other hand, Mia's practice was not so elegant.

Her dorm room was much messier than Grace's.

Several unfolded clothes were piled up beside the bed, half a piece of hard bread that she hadn't finished eating yesterday was on the table, and there was a piece of iron ore that she had picked up from somewhere on the windowsill.

Mia sat cross-legged on the bed, her hands resting on her knees, muttering to herself:

"Warm up the furnace, warm up the furnace, no hammering, no hammering, at most take a look, don't touch it."

Then she discovered that not hammering was much harder than hammering; the mere thought of that crooked, thick frame made her feel uncomfortable all over. If her father saw such a mold in the blacksmith's shop, he would definitely slap her on the back of the head and make her go back and redo it.

But Mr. Ke said we can't rush it.

Mia gritted her teeth, staring at the ugly, thick frame, her fingers digging into her knees.

She thought of Grace.

That third princess sat so upright, her handwriting was so beautiful, and she could even write a first draft of her questions. If she had told the master first that she had succeeded, he would definitely have nodded and said, "As expected of Grace."

No. She wanted the Third Princess to know that the Master valued more than just pretty handwriting and perfect posture; she was determined to be the first to learn the Master's new magic!

She closed her eyes again, and the ugly, thick frame in her mind resurfaced.

Mia was itching to fix it, but she managed to suppress the urge to knock it down. When she stopped rushing to fix it, the frame actually stopped leaking as much.

Mia suddenly felt a little happy.

So what if it's ugly? Ugly things can still be used. She's not Grace, who has to make the squares look as neat as silver forks on a royal dining table.

The magic, like a small stream of molten iron, slowly adhered to the edge of the frame, circled around inside that ugly box, and finally came to a quiet stop.

She opened her eyes and jumped off the bed, almost hitting the bedpost.

"It's done!" she shouted, then immediately covered her mouth.

No, the master said I mustn't run to him every time I feel something.

It needs to be calmed down.

Mia paced back and forth in the room several times, finally unable to contain herself any longer. She grabbed her notebook and scrawled on the first page: "No bombs today."

She looked at the four characters and was very satisfied.

While it can't compare to Grace's rambling observations, the meaning is similar.

Anyway, the gentleman will definitely understand it.

In the afternoon, the two met at the entrance of the experimental tower, but neither of them spoke first.

Joseph slowly walked downstairs.

He was in a good mood today. He slept in until he naturally woke up in the morning and had roasted ribs with dragon's breath peppers for lunch. The only problem was that he hadn't decided what to have for dinner yet.

Joseph walked into the drawing room while pondering this serious question.