“What incantation was that?” Professor Vane sputtered, his hands trembling as he examined the molten granite crater. “There was no chant! No somatic gesture! No catalyst!”

“Catalysts are crutches for people who don't understand enthalpy, Professor,” Derek said casually, dusting invisible soot from his cuff. “A spell is simply a directed thermodynamic reaction. Increase the particle velocity while restricting the dispersal vector, and you get laser plasma instead of a campfire.”

The noble students backed away in terror, looking at Derek as if he were a demon wearing human skin. But in the observation balcony high above, Archmagus Sterling—the supreme guardian of the imperial realm—slowly set down his tea, his eyes glittering with fierce fascination.

“Bring that boy to my tower,” Sterling commanded his shadow guards. “He hasn't just learned magic; he has found the language of the gods.”