Internet Mage Professor

Suddenly, the screen didn’t vanish.

Nolan blinked. The small, floating interface just hovered in front of him like a stubborn ghost. For a moment, nothing happened. Just silence. Static stillness. Only a timer blinking in a cold, digital font:

17:11

17:10

17:09

17:08

And so on...

"...Huh?"

Nolan squinted. "Where the hell is the search bar?"

No buttons. No interface icons. No floating keyboard. Not even a damn blinking cursor. Just the timer counting down and a translucent border that softly pulsed like a heartbeat.

"Alright, stop," Nolan said, waving his hand.

The timer froze. 16:57.

Instantly, the interface collapsed with a soft hiss, like air slipping from a tire. He checked his status window.

Mana Crystals: 1014

His eyes twitched.

"Are you fucking serious? Ten crystals—for that?"

He paced in a tight circle. "I thought this was going to be like holding a phone, y’know? Open up Google, browse a bit, maybe play a YouTube tutorial on advanced cultivation or something..."

His hand hovered at his side, like he was expecting to feel the weight of a familiar object. "But instead, I get a floating box with no input and a countdown? What the hell kind of cursed Wi-Fi is this?"

He gritted his teeth, then muttered to himself, "Alright, alright... think. Let’s figure this out."

He stood still for a long moment, arms folded, the wind tugging at his long coat. A sliver of sunlight shifted through the clouds above Silver Blade City as Nolan entered full deduction mode.

His first theory: it was voice command.

"Okay," he whispered to himself. "Maybe it’s like those AI assistants. I’m supposed to talk to it? ’Search how to fake a demon army.’ That’s what I said earlier, and the timer started."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, yeah, maybe it’s listening."

Then Nolan frowned. "But nothing showed up. No search results. No loading. No feedback. If it’s voice-activated, it’s gotta give something, right?"

He rubbed his chin, eyes darting. "No voice confirmation, no results, no indication it heard me. If it was working like Alexa or something, it should’ve at least told me ’Sorry, I didn’t understand that,’ or whatever."

He exhaled sharply and waved the theory off. "Nah. There’s no voice."

His second theory: Maybe it was mental command input.

"Alright, maybe it’s all in my head," he murmured. "Maybe I have to think the search instead of saying it. Like, send the signal mentally. No speaking required." freeωebnovēl.c૦m

He tapped his temple. "Makes sense. Streamlines the whole process. In a magical interface kind of way."

He closed his eyes and concentrated hard. ’Search: how to fake a demon army with zero soldiers and zero money’

He opened his eyes. Nothing.

He repeated the process, adding more focus, picturing the search field, the words typing out inside it.

Nothing.

"...Still nothing," he muttered.

"Okay, okay. Maybe it’s not that either. If it was mental, then there should’ve been a sensation of input. A psychic trigger or interface ripple or something. But this thing’s just draining crystals with zero feedback."

He scowled. "Not mental input."

Nolan’s final theory: Environmental context trigger.

"What if..." he started slowly, "the screen doesn’t work unless I’m somewhere specific?"

He paced again. "Like a zone with ambient Wi-Fi signals? Or maybe the cheat only activates in certain conditions—like a library or battlefield, or when I’m under stress. Could be context-sensitive."

He considered it, then sighed, long and deep. "But if that’s the case, why would the timer count down even when I’m just standing still in the courtyard? It’s not like I’m in the middle of a warzone."

He groaned. "Ugh. That’s too complicated. I’ve never heard of an internet connection that needs a quest trigger. This isn’t some sort of Zelda puzzle. It’s just supposed to be the goddamn internet."

He paused. "Unless... unless it is a Zelda puzzle..."

But no. That was dumb. Even for him.

He slumped slightly, disheartened. "So I have a feature that sucks ten mana crystals every few seconds and gives me zero useful output. Great. Love that for me."

Frustrated and out of ideas, Nolan eventually decided he needed to move. Maybe fresh air would help him think. Or at least stop him from punching a wall.

He left the Academy without another word, his coat swaying behind him like a quiet banner of irritation.

Not long after, Lirazel followed, stalking him like a shadow. Of course, she wouldn’t let him walk in peace.

"Nolan," she said, catching up with him, "we must begin copulating soon."

"No, we really mustn’t," Nolan muttered without looking back.

"But the time is running short," she said, sidling closer to him. "The den is ready. I prepared the warmth chambers. The ovipositors are aligned with your mana flow. The air is thick with fertile mist—"

"Lirazel, stop," Nolan interrupted, dragging a hand across his face. "Please."

"The spawn won’t make themselves! Our army needs to grow! You don’t even need to do anything hard—I’ll handle the biology!"

He shot her a look. "The biology?"

"I’ll position the eggs, you just need to pump me full of—"

"Stop."

She frowned. "You are neglecting your duty as my consort. Do you not care for the fate of our bloodline?"

"I’m not a dragon, Lirazel."

"Please Nolan, help me."

"Ha! Maybe if I was involved in too much wine and too little logic."

She pouted. "You’re wasting precious days. Every cycle we miss is a lost generation of spawn! Tiny, clawed warriors! Imagine them marching through fire for you!"

"I’d rather imagine myself enjoying a quiet sandwich," he said dryly.

"You are infuriating."

"You said that already."

She stomped beside him, ranting about biology, fertility windows, and war schedules, but Nolan tuned her out. His focus shifted to his surroundings.

The streets of Silver Blade City stretched around him, familiar yet ever-bustling.

He roamed. Aimlessly, but with purpose.

The way people walked when they needed to get their thoughts in order. Stalls were being packed down. Street performers entertained bored apprentices.

A couple of novice adventurers bickered about map directions.

Someone flew overhead on a low-tier wind board, wobbling dangerously.

The city thrived, oblivious to his existential and digital crisis.

Nolan turned a corner, passed a pair of elven scholars arguing over alchemy ratios, and ended up at a familiar cluster of market stalls. He stopped. His stomach growled.

"Fine," he muttered. "Can’t figure out the cheat, might as well eat."

He bought roasted meat skewers, a sack of crispy root vegetables, and a bottle of tangy plum drink.

He even grabbed ingredients he recognized—rice, some eggs, and a few spices that tasted close enough to garlic.

He wasn’t much of a cook, but he knew enough to make something edible. Something normal. Earth food. Comfort food.

As he handed over his coins, the stallkeeper nodded in thanks, already wrapping his purchases.

That’s when he heard it.

A voice, loud and practiced, cutting through the hum of the marketplace like a blade.

"Artifacts! Rare finds! Mystical tools from dungeons far and deep!"

Nolan turned, drawn by instinct.

A short, wiry man in a patchwork cloak stood atop a wooden crate, arms flung wide as if revealing the very sky.

"Come, all of you! Enchanted items! Dungeon rewards! Ancient crafts no longer made by mortal hands!"

Around him were tables cluttered with glittering objects—some genuine, some probably fake.

A pair of floating stones buzzed in unison.

A ring glowed with a soft green hue.

A silver monocle was gently levitating above a silk cloth.

Nolan chewed a piece of roasted meat, watching from the edge of the crowd.

Something about the setup tickled the back of his mind. Something... oddly familiar.