Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 47
🕑 Added 2025-07-02 09:06:51 +0000 UTCYou could always find Cuman Gollivur in the Kinesthetic Ring.
It was his natural habitat—half athletic arena, half performance stage. At any given hour, he was sparring someone dumber than him or bullying someone quieter than him, grinning like the idea of humility was a stupified Stupenstone.
Right now, he was juggling spellflairs.
Three glowing spheres of compressed aether floated between his hands in a smooth loop. It didn’t look impressive unless you knew how hard it was to hold a flare that long without scorching your fingertips or throwing off the balance of the ring. Miro wasn’t around.
Fabrisse watched from behind a low hedge. “He juggles now?”
Tommaso crouched beside him, chewing the stem of a conjured mint leaf. “He juggles pride. One of these days, someone’s going to drop it for him.”
“Someone like you?”
Tommaso patted his shoulder. “Like you, dude. It’s your show. I brought the mitts. You bring the motivation.”
Fabrisse stared at the glyph in his peripheral vision.
[Quest: Rock and Retaliation — Objective: Launch projectile at target’s face with emotional intent]
[Remaining Time: 26 hours, 17 minutes]
[Bonus Objective: Humiliate him publicly]
[Bonus Reward: FP +2]
He slipped on the Thaumaturge’s Throwmitts of Misguided Bravado. The moment the laces cinched, his spine straightened an extra inch and his emotional judgment dropped by five.
Tommaso grinned. “You ready for Operation Skull Tap?”
“That’s not the name.”
“It is now.”
“Do you get to name operations?”
“No.”
“I see why.”
Cuman had gathered a small crowd. Nothing serious—just a few of his usual followers, Rhel among them, watching as he lectured a first-year about ‘a proper shoulder rotation in kinetic projection.’ The poor student looked like he was fighting the urge to cry or punch something.
Fabrisse reached into his satchel and picked his smoothest Stupenstone. This one had a good echo—resolve layered over minor annoyance. Exactly the kind of vibe Cuman deserved.
“Alright,” Tommaso whispered, “Follow the plan I’ve carefully crafted.”
The plan was ridiculous, and he had laid it out in steps.
Step 1: Fabrisse would enter the Kinesthetic Ring from the southwest quadrant, walking at exactly 65% confidence speed (just enough to look intentional but not enough to raise Cuman’s suspicions).
Step 2: Tommaso would ‘accidentally’ knock over a stack of sparring dummies using a delayed combustion spell timed to explode 1.3 seconds after Fabrisse crosses into Cuman’s peripheral vision. This would create the illusion of a spontaneous training mishap and distracts the crowd.
Step 3: While all eyes are glued to the chaos, Fabrisse would perform a three-step momentum roll to build kinetic flow, then flings the emotionally-primed Stupenstone directly at Cuman’s face using ‘The Curveball of Righteous Spite.’ (The Stupenstone Fling, in Fabrisse’s case).
Step 4: Upon impact, Tommaso would cast a minor glamor to display the words ‘Critical Hit: Ego Fractured’ midair, followed by an enchanted slow clap and maybe a firework shaped like a middle finger.
Step 5: Escape via dramatic retreat, ideally into sunset lighting, while maintaining eye contact with anyone who looks too impressed.
When Fabrisse did not agree to this plan, Tommaso had asked if he had a better one. He didn’t. But maybe Liene had a better plan. Maybe he should’ve stuck with Liene for this revenge arc.
The Thaumaturge’s Throwmitts of Misguided Bravado felt like they were vibrating with a nervous energy as Fabrisse put them on. He glanced at the remaining time: 26 hours, 17 minutes. Plenty of time to back out, plenty of time to . . . not.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Step one.”
He stepped out from behind the hedge and started walking across the perimeter of the Kinesthetic Ring.
Sixty-five percent confidence speed was a lie. It felt like tiptoeing through a performance critique, but he held steady. Left, right, left. Shoulders back. Chin level. No shaking.
He passed a pair of third-years sparring with blunt-end rods. One of them looked up and did a double take—probably recognizing the kid who once missed his own foot with a pebble. Fabrisse ignored it.
He was almost at the southwest quadrant.
“Wait for it . . .” Tommaso whispered, crouched like a saboteur behind the dummies.
Cuman’s laughter carried across the field. “No, no, no—like this, see? You can’t throw it like a dying rabbit and expect arc correction to save your honor. Try again.”
The crowd snorted.
Fabrisse winced.
“NOW!” Tommaso hissed.
Fabrisse rushed in.
And—
Nothing exploded.
No combustion, no toppled dummies, no puff of misdirection. Just Tommaso waving frantically from behind the stack, mouthing, wait, wait, fuse delay.
Fabrisse froze.
Cuman turned.
“Uh,” Fabrisse said.
“Oh look,” Cuman said, cracking his knuckles and not breaking his juggle. “It’s the lawn ornament with eyebrows. Are you finally learning kinetic projection or are you just lost?”
Fabrisse’s brain screamed ROLL NOW. So he did.
He dropped low, launched into a momentum roll—
—and immediately got stuck on the edge of a chalk line.
“Augh—!” His foot snagged, and he did a sort of sideways-flop-scramble that did not look very heroic. He emerged from the roll covered in chalk dust, with half a grass blade stuck to his face.
FP: 15/30
Spellcasting efficiency and stats drop by 30%.
Oh no. I even have fewer chances to land the rock on his head now.
“Wha—?” Cuman blinked, momentarily confused.
Tommaso finally yelled, “Distractioooon!” and flung a flame dart into the dummy pile.
With a boom, a stack of dummies went flying.
The top half of a training torso spun into the air and landed with a hollow thunk on the opposite end of the Kinesthetic Ring. A piece of foam padding hit the first-year in the face. Everyone ducked.
NO! You don’t blow up the dummies! You’re supposed to blow up NOTHING!
He should’ve stuck with Liene. They were definitely going to be disciplined.
Cuman, to his credit, barely flinched. The moment the blast drew everyone's gaze, his grin dropped. His eyes narrowed with sudden, predatory focus.
He had felt the flare of the spell before it launched. And now, with Fabrisse standing in front of him in orange mitts and a panic-glazed expression, the entire thing clicked together.
“You little runt,” he said. “You came here to throw something at me.”
Fabrisse tried to stammer something—an apology, a distraction, a pun—but it came out as a wheeze.
He flared his hands wide, conjuring a kinetic grip spell—one of those that caught airborne projectile energy and returned it with interest. The flairs he’d been juggling condensed into a sharp triangle of green-tinted wind-blades hovering behind him.
“Oh no,” Tommaso muttered. “He’s entering his showboat stance.”
Fabrisse raised his stone too late. His throwing arm hadn’t even reached full arc when Cuman barked, “Let’s see how you like throwing!”
A burst of air slammed toward Fabrisse, an aetheric shove, knocking his stance off balance. The Stupenstone dropped from his hand.
[Damage Taken: Disorientated]
Then Cuman snapped his fingers.
The spellflairs behind Fabrisse exploded outward like thrown daggers, not aimed to hit, but to corral. Flare-blades arced to herd him into the center of the ring.
Cuman stepped forward, one foot at a time, in a mock slow-walk.
“FABRIIIIISSE!” he shouted. “GO SNOWGLOBE!”
Fabrisse blinked. “What does that mean?!”
Tommaso conjured a mini snowstorm. In July. Directly in the Kinesthetic Ring.
He can cast snow-based spells now?!
A spiral of frost swept in like a conjured blizzard, summoned by an aggressive three-part channel: wind, mist, and showmanship.
Cuman reeled back in surprise as a puff of snow burst in his face. “What—?!”
“MOVE!” Tommaso barked.
FP: 9/30
[Thaumaturge’s Throwmitts of Misguided Bravado’s Passive Effect Activated]
Fabrisse, unsure if he was obeying magic or instinct, ducked. The leftover Stupenstone he’d dropped glowed faintly with its original ivory charge—resolve and irritation—and rolled to a stop near his foot.
I have a chance! He thought as he tripped over a training cone and caught his own foot in the hem of his robe. He was now upside down and was at an impossible angle. It’s the perfect angle!
He scooped it, channeled, and threw.
The mitts burned with kinetic heat. The glyph flared.
The Stupenstone screamed through the blizzard like a vengeful raven.
Cuman turned, just in time to catch it right between the eyebrows.
BONK.
The spellflairs winked out.
His balance failed.
Cuman hit the ground with a heavy thud. A snowflake landed gently on his left cheek.
Silence.
Then:
[Quest Completed: Rock and Retaliation]
[Reward Granted: Spectral Appraisal (Rank I)]
[Bonus Objective Achieved: Humiliate him publicly]
[Reward Granted: FP +2 | SYN +1]
[Title Unlocked: Petty Strategist (Temporary)]
Fabrisse stood there, stunned, while Tommaso slid beside him in a cloud of conjured frost.
They stared down at the unconscious future of inherited mediocrity.
Fabrisse turned to Tommaso. “I did it.”
Tommaso nodded eagerly. “He got stoned.”
They fist-bumped. The sun flared behind them for some unknown reason. They turned back. The ‘sun’ was a burning training dummy.
Tommaso opened his mouth, “Right. That one was probably a bit much.”
The scorched husk of foam and cloth tipped sideways with a theatrical fwoomp, sending a thin curl of smoke into the air.
[Sparring Completed: +42 EXP]
[Progress to Level 5: 1040/1500]
That was for sure not sparring though . . .
A dozen spectators stood frozen around the Kinesthetic Ring, wide-eyed. Most had ducked during the explosion, but now they were watching Fabrisse and Tommaso like they were either about to get arrested or knighted.
Fabrisse’s hand was still halfway through the post-fistbump pose. “So uh. Now what.”
Tommaso slapped his back and spun to face the crowd like a street performer mid-final act. “Now,” he said loudly, “we initiate Operation Cover Our Glutes.”
He cleared his throat and raised his hands. “Esteemed students of the Synod! Witnesses to this glorious educational incident! You all just saw Cuman Gollivur—unprovoked—attempt to intimidate and forcibly project kinetic spellflairs at a fellow peer.”
Someone in the crowd blinked. “Wait, weren’t you the one who—”
Tommaso cut them off with a radiant smile. “And in a heroic act of instinctual self-defense, young Fabrisse Kestovar—famed rock-flinger and part-time duck whisperer—used a basic thaumaturgic tool of resistance to subdue a belligerent upperclassman.” Tommaso was several classes above Cuman. “Which, I remind you all, is technically encouraged under Synod Clause 107.1.b, subheading ‘Situational Assertiveness in the Face of Arrogant Idiots.’”
One student shrugged. “I mean, he was being a jerk again.”
Another nodded. “Cuman’s always yelling at first-years.”
“I saw him toss a chalkboard away once just because it misspelled his name,” said a girl with a clipboard. “His name was written right.”
“Is anyone going to check if he’s breathing?” A fourth asked.
“He’s fine,” Tommaso called. “You can’t kill smugness. It just regenerates.”
Fabrisse muttered, “This is insane.”
Tommaso leaned toward him. “Yeah. But also, nobody here really likes him. Even Rhel’s halfway out the exit pretending he didn’t witness anything.”
Sure enough, Rhel was power-walking away with his head down, whistling.
Tommaso turned back to the group, pointing a very finger-waggy finger. “If anyone official asks, you saw Cuman cast the first spell. Fabrisse responded. And the dummy pile spontaneously combusted due to poor maintenance protocols, as noted in Facilities Report 217-C. Understood?”
The students exchanged glances.
Then they nodded, almost in unison.
