Academy’s Undercover Professor

About three days ago, on the first day of orientation—

When Ludger boldly kept the details of his class a secret, his attitude did not go over well with the student body.

Many students, especially nobles, felt a strong sense of resentment toward the fact that a newly appointed instructor—one from a fallen noble family, no less—would conduct himself like that at Seorn Academy.

—How dare a mere fallen noble act so arrogantly?

And yet, ironically, the students who had actually witnessed Ludger’s orientation firsthand didn’t say much.

Aside from a few prideful nobles who fumed as if personally insulted, nearly forty out of the fifty students present were more impressed than offended by Ludger’s composure.

He was, after all, someone chosen to be an instructor at Seorn Academy. Surely, there had to be something reliable behind that choice.

Still, because not much was known about Ludger’s background, students were cautious. If they chose the wrong class on the first day of the semester, they’d suffer through it for months—that much was obvious.

If only a little more information about Ludger were available, they might be willing to take a chance on his class. But as things stood, no one was ready to volunteer as a test subject.

And then, on the morning of the second day, something appeared on the student-only magitech community platform—an integrated magical forum called <Akashic Record>.

Title: Anyone hear about the new professor Ludger Cherish?

It was the kind of intentionally vague, clickbait title designed to draw attention.

Naturally, the students couldn’t resist clicking it—and the post, as if waiting to be read, revealed its full contents in a long scroll.

In summary, it was a post lavishly praising Ludger Cherish.

Youngest-ever 4th-Circle mage. Former military officer. Contributed to cryptid hunts. Published academic papers as a freelance mage acknowledged by the Mage Towers.

It detailed Ludger’s supposed past accomplishments.

The students didn’t know it was a desperate backdoor effort by the secret society to hype up a First Order member.

Still, to the unaware student body, it was enough to make them wonder: Could it really be true?

The most devoted contributor was none other than the Third Order member who had first approached Ludger.

—I can’t let First Order-nim’s class fail! I need to get as many students in there as possible!

They spent the entire day writing post after post, detailing just how amazing, charismatic, and talented Ludger was.

And thanks to two days of relentless effort and over-the-top praise, the number of students interested in Ludger’s class gradually increased—even more so than the few who were put off by it.

The fact that even first-years could enroll in his class, combined with the curiosity of fresh new students, fueled the surge.

By the end of the registration period, the number of students enrolled in Ludger’s class had skyrocketed—reaching the maximum of 80.

And so came the long-awaited day of the first lecture.

Every student sat in their seat, hearts racing, waiting for Ludger to arrive.

Half were driven by pure curiosity.

The other half, by a sense of challenge—wanting to test how good he really was.

At exactly 9:00 a.m.—the official start time—the classroom door opened, and Ludger entered.

* * *

What the hell is this?

The lecture hall was filled to capacity—there wasn’t a single empty seat.

I had thought, at most, maybe thirty students would show up... but the room had hit maximum occupancy.

Eighty students.

Facing this sea of students, I felt a headache coming on.

Why?

Three days ago, I made it clear during orientation—my class was basically a landmine.

Wouldn’t anyone with half a brain think taking this class was a bad idea?

And those name tags in blue on their uniforms...

First-years.

More than sixty percent of the students packed into this lecture hall were first-years.

“Why are the first-years here?”

They were taking a class with second-years. Shouldn’t that make them uncomfortable? You’d think they’d avoid it.

I had never expected first-years to make up the majority.

At this point, it almost felt like someone was deliberately trying to mess with me. Like some malicious rumor had been spread somewhere, without my knowledge.

“Maybe I underestimated the students too much.”

Seorn Academy is a place where only the most fiercely selected applicants make it in after ruthless competition.

They’re not just average students. They’re the best from across the entire continent, not just the Empire.

Assuming they’re just ordinary was a mistake on my part.

I accepted that.

Instead of making them cautious, my behavior had stoked their pride like fuel to a fire.

Just look at those eyes.

The eyes of wild hyenas, ready to tear me apart the moment I made even the smallest mistake.

And this was only the first class. The pressure was overwhelming.

If things continued like this, I’d be devoured by these students before I could even begin the lecture.

“If it’s come to this, then I have no choice but to go all-in and teach with everything I’ve got.”

I examined the faces of the students gathered in the room.

Each one had hair colors as vibrant and unique as their personalities. That must be normal in this world.

Among them, a few stood out even more.

Most notably, a girl with animal ears on top of her head—clearly not human.

A beastkin. A race known to inhabit the desert regions of the southern continent.

In a world with witches and magic, beastkin weren’t exactly shocking... but they were still a minority race.

Especially here at Seorn Academy.

Beastkin were once colonized and treated as slaves, just fifty years ago. Even now, the remnants of discrimination and oppression lingered.

And it was happening here too.

I could feel the subtle, sideways glances from other students aimed at the beastkin girl.

She must’ve just been admitted this year. Life was going to be rough for her.

“Not that I’m in any position to worry about others right now.”

For now, I needed to get on with the lesson.

“I’m Ludger Cherish, and I’ll be teaching the general curriculum of the Manifestation Department.”

“The general curriculum? You mean all four specializations?”

Someone raised a hand and asked. A male student with an annoyingly smug expression.

I immediately fired a warning at him.

“You only ask questions when I permit it.”

“...Understood.”

“This is the first time, so I’ll let it slide. But if anyone interrupts the flow of my class again without permission, I’ll issue demerit points. That goes double for anyone who openly challenges a teacher’s authority.”

At the mention of demerits, a few students gasped, saying they hadn’t heard of such a thing.

“But likewise, those who perform well will receive merit points. Students with high merit scores will be granted various privileges, so I suggest you work hard.”

Now, upperclassmen like third-years—closer to graduation—might take demerits more seriously. But first and second-years, still in the middle of their academic journey, generally don’t care much.

Still, whether the teacher says it out loud or not makes a significant difference.

“To answer the question from earlier—yes. I’ll be covering all four major specializations of the Manifestation track: <Projection>, <Elemental Affinity>, <Telekinesis>, and <Reinforcement>.”

Most of the students reacted with disbelief.

Even if I was teaching Manifestation, each of those disciplines was a specialized field in its own right.

<Projection>, <Elemental Affinity>, <Telekinesis>, <Reinforcement>—these four are what’s commonly referred to as the “Four Specializations of Manifestation.”

Usually, covering just two of them would be more than enough.

But I had just declared I’d be teaching all four.

To the students, it must have sounded like I was bluffing. Like I was full of myself, spouting an unbelievable lie.

But this was no lie. Not at all.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

I may not have mastered any single specialization to the highest degree, but with the years I’ve lived, I can at least claim a broad spectrum of knowledge.

This content is taken from fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm.

So then—

“I’ll begin the lesson.”

This is the moment to show what I’ve prepared for.

* * *

“Hey, Sheryl. Don’t you think this teacher is really something else?”

At the voice calling her name, Sheryl suppressed the surge of anxiety and turned her head toward the friend sitting beside her.

A girl with long, dark blue hair flowing past her waist and skin so pale it looked almost transparent.

She was so stunning that she resembled a carefully crafted doll, sculpted by a master artisan. Even the male students sitting nearby kept sneaking glances at her.

“Flora... Don’t tell me you’re going to—”

“‘Going to’ what? That’s a bit rude, isn’t it? What have I ever done?”

Flora’s playful, sly reply left Sheryl unable to continue her sentence.

Flora Lumos.

Daughter of the Duke of the Lumos family, one of the most prestigious noble houses in the Exilion Empire.

Just by sitting still, she was a living painting—beautiful, captivating, and exceptionally talented in both martial and magical disciplines. Within Seorn’s second-year class, she was known far and wide as a “prodigy.”

At Seorn Academy, even students hailed as geniuses elsewhere often found themselves relegated to mediocrity.

Seorn gathered the most exceptional talents from cities and nations across the continent, and as a result, the standard of excellence was abnormally high. Anyone who lacked exceptional ability inevitably became just another average student in comparison.

It wasn’t unusual for a student once praised as a child prodigy to end up ranking near the bottom here.

But even in such a fiercely competitive academy, Flora was universally acknowledged as a true genius.

Her magical aptitude alone spoke volumes.

With her prestigious family, unmatched beauty, and personal excellence, she was one of Seorn Academy’s brightest stars—admired and revered by all.

With just one exception.

Her personality.

Flora Lumos was infamous even among the faculty at Seorn.

Because she was a genius, she didn’t feel the need to be taught by anyone. Instead, she openly challenged the authority of her instructors—and won.

It was a regular occurrence for her to interrupt °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° a lecture to point out flawed incantations.

In fact, she once devised an even more advanced spell on the spot—right in front of the class—and utterly humiliated the instructor.

She had been building that reputation since her first year, and it hadn’t changed now that she was a second-year.

In fact, her specialty in the Manifestation Department was the direct cause of not one, but two instructors resigning last year. It was such a widely known incident that even first-years had heard about it.

And now, that same Flora had returned for another round of Manifestation classes.

This time, in the class of Ludger Cherish—a man already said to be extraordinary even at first glance.

Sheryl could only pray that, just this once, Flora wouldn’t cause trouble. But judging by the expression on Flora’s face, that prayer was clearly in vain.

Among the teachers, her infamous nickname was “the little devil of the Lumos family.” But to those who had suffered under her, even “little devil” was far too soft a term—“demon queen” would’ve been more accurate.

And now, Flora had apparently chosen her next target for the term: Ludger.

“Sheryl. Honestly, isn’t it kind of funny? He doesn’t even look like he’s out of his twenties, and yet he claims to have mastered all four major specializations of Manifestation. I mean, learning them is one thing. But teaching all of them? That’s just plain exaggeration, isn’t it?”

“Well...”

Sheryl couldn’t help but agree with that part.

Whether it was pride as a new instructor or actual capability, she couldn’t be sure—but without any proof of his skills, doubt was the natural response.

“But could he really have mastered all four specializations?”

Magic was divided into five major disciplines, and within each discipline, there were multiple specializations.

The [Materialization] branch had three specializations: <Creation>, <Transformation>, and <Alchemy>.

The [Manifestation] branch had four specializations: <Projection>, <Elemental Affinity>, <Telekinesis>, and <Reinforcement>.

The [Summoning] branch had four: <Spirit>, <Golem>, <Magical Beasts>, and <Necromancy>.

The [Curses and Boons] branch had six: <Astrology>, <Charm>, <Illusion>, <Pharmacology>, <Witchcraft>, and <Enchantments>.

And lastly, there was the fifth branch—[Unique].

The [Unique] category was a vague one, often not considered magic by common standards. It included arcane techniques passed down through bloodlines or newly developed personal systems of magic.

Naturally, [Unique] specializations were never officially taught by any instructor.

Just then, Ludger raised his hand and began tracing a spell onto the magic board.

With a surge of mana, a complex array began drawing itself on the empty surface.

It was [Raging Flame], a 3rd-Circle fire-elemental spell.

“‘Raging Flame.’ Based in Manifestation fundamentals, this spell consists of seven interlocking elements: ignition, combustion, compression, acceleration, expansion, and diffusion. These components work in harmony to form the full ritual.”

Even though it was only a 3rd-Circle spell, the precise placement of seven distinct elements was required to execute it correctly.

If given enough time, even the students watching this lecture would be capable of casting it.

“Since today is the first class, rather than jumping into the core curriculum, I’ll show you something to spark your interest—how to cast a ritual spell much faster than traditional methods allow.”

Faster spellcasting?

For the first time, genuine curiosity began to stir among the students.

“Let’s see... Yes. You can expect a casting speed at least three times faster than the standard method.”

At that statement, the students’ eyes widened in disbelief.