Ludger woke up to silence and the faint ache of overused mana channels, the kind that sat under the skin like a bruise you couldn’t press out. For a moment he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting his mind crawl through the day’s to-do list.
Teacher Lv 100 (+6 INT, +6 DEX / level)
Skills: [Dissection of Knowledge Lv.100]
[Student Insight Lv.100]
[Guiding Words Lv.100]
[Teacher Focus Lv 100]
[Student Understanding Lv 53]
[Practical Demonstration Lv 31]
[Teacher’s Support Lv 41]
[Shared Knowledge Lv 50]
[Foundational Growth Lv.20]
Knowledge Calibration Lv.11]
[Corrective Pressure Lv.21]
[Lesson Structuring Lv.20]
[Error Tagging Lv.31]
[Retention Drill Lv.31]
[Curriculum Pathing Lv. 10]
Lets the user lay out a progression route for a learner or group (Foundations → Drills → Applied Use). When active, it highlights which prerequisite is missing and prevents “skipping ahead” from sticking.
[Adaptive Lesson Loop Lv. 20]
As the user teaches, the skill passively detects when a concept isn’t landing and automatically “loops” the instruction, switching examples, changing explanation angle, adding a micro-drill, without the user needing to stop and think.
[Group Synchronization Lv. 10]
It harmonizes pace and reduces chaos. The fast learners don’t get bored as easily, and the slow learners don’t get left behind as brutally. Also reduces cross-talk mistakes (people teaching each other the wrong thing).
[Comprehension Anchor Lv. 10]
The user can “anchor” one key rule/idea per lesson into a student’s memory by tying it to a physical cue (gesture, rhythm, phrase, letter-shape pattern). Not permanent, but it dramatically improves recall over the next few days, exactly what he was worried about with retention drift.
[Misconception Extraction Lv. 10]
When a student repeatedly makes the same wrong move/logic step, this skill helps identify the hidden wrong assumption causing it. Once flagged, corrections become far more effective.
[Practice Momentum Lv. 10]
Boosts how much learners gain from repetition after they’ve started improving, basically reduces diminishing returns on drills for a short time window. It rewards consistency and makes “daily practice” feel like it actually compounds.
[Teacher’s Advent Lv 01] - Increases the effectiveness of all teaching skills according to the level of the skill and doubles the rewards per level up of the class
Ludger blinked once. A hundred.
It hit harder than it should’ve. Not because numbers mattered by themselves—numbers were just numbers—but because he could feel the difference. The class sat in him heavier now, like a tool that had finally been forged properly instead of hammered together in an emergency.
A huge step. And still… only halfway.
Mastery wasn’t “high level.” Mastery was when the class stopped being a thing you used and started being a thing you were . Ludger could sense that line still ahead of him, distant and sharp, like a cliff edge in fog. He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Halfway. Good.
He already knew what came next.
If teaching a few thousand had pushed his Teacher skills into a sprint, then scaling it, turning instruction into infrastructure, would push it into something else entirely. He swung out of bed, dressed, and headed for the guild.
The Lionsguard compound was already awake. The yard smelled like sweat, damp earth, and stew. Somewhere in the distance, metal rang against metal, morning drills. He cut through it all and went straight to the loading area.
Yvar was there, of course. Standing with a clipboard like it was a weapon. Talking to a pair of merchants and a nervous-looking wagon driver. Crates were being offloaded with care, the kind of care people used when they weren’t sure if the contents would explode or bankrupt them.
Yvar noticed him and lifted a hand in greeting, expression caught between pride and exhaustion.
“This is it,” Yvar said, voice dry. “The ink and paper you asked for.”
Ludger’s eyes swept the crates. They were heavy. Too heavy for “a little writing.”
Good.
He nodded once. “Did you bought the businesses producing them?”
Yvar hesitated just long enough to make his answer obvious, then nodded.
“Yes,” he said, and sighed like a man watching a sensible life choice die in real time. “Two paper-makers. One ink house. A bookbinder. And a man who claims he can train apprentices to copy without ruining their hands.”
Perfect. Ludger nodded again, already mentally sorting them into roles. Yvar watched him for a few seconds, then rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I understand education,” Yvar said, voice quieter. “I’m a teacher and an archivist, Ludger. I know what it’s worth. I know what it can do.”
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He lowered his hand, looking at the crates as if they might answer for Ludger.
“But I still have no idea why you’re willing to invest this much into Northerner education.”
There was no accusation in it. Just honest confusion. The kind of confusion that came from seeing a boy with too much responsibility choose to spend coin on ink instead of weapons. Ludger met his gaze, expression flat.
“Because it’s cheaper than replacing bodies,” he said simply.
Yvar’s mouth opened, then shut. Ludger stepped closer, resting a hand on one of the crates. The wood was rough under his palm. Real. Practical.
“And because it scales,” Ludger added. “Steel doesn’t learn. People do.”
Yvar stared for a long moment, then let out another slow sigh, half resignation, half reluctant admiration.
Ludger didn’t explain right away.
He just watched the watched the cargo, watched a Northerner warrior eye the crates like they were suspiciously fragile prey. Then he looked back at Yvar.
“They can write now,” Ludger said. “Not well. Not fast. But enough.”
Yvar’s brows knit. “Enough for what?”
Ludger tapped the side of a crate with two knuckles.
“For history,” he said, like it should’ve been obvious.
Yvar stilled. Ludger’s voice stayed even, but there was something harder under it, something that came from seeing other worlds and understanding how quickly a people could get erased without anyone noticing.
“The Northerners pass everything down by mouth,” Ludger continued. “Songs. Boasts. Warnings. Names. That works until it doesn’t.”
Until the wrong winter. Until a plague. Until a war that takes the elders first. He glanced toward the training yard where a few Northerner kids were still lingering, charcoal-stained fingers holding slates like treasure.
“They can write their own stories now,” Ludger said. “Family lines. Who died where. Who saved who. What they believe. Their legends. Their myths.”
Yvar’s expression softened as understanding clicked into place. He nodded slowly.
“Records make a people harder to break,” Yvar murmured.
Ludger didn’t deny it.
“Harder to rewrite,” he corrected. “If someone tries.”
That earned him another quiet nod. Yvar was an archivist. He understood what paper did to power. It made it stick. It made lies harder. It made the past… portable .
Yvar glanced back at the crates again, then at Ludger. “So you’re buying ink and paper to give them practice material.”
“That’s part of it,” Ludger admitted.
Yvar’s eyes narrowed. “And the rest?”
Ludger’s gaze slid off, unfocused for a moment, like he was looking at something only he could see.
“No,” he said.
Yvar blinked. “No?”
“I will explain later,” Ludger corrected calmly. “Not yet.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough that the nearby workers couldn’t hear every word.
“I’m not buying ink and paper just so the Northerners can practice until their hands stop shaking,” Ludger said. “I’m buying it because I want a surplus.”
Yvar frowned. “For what?”
Ludger’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, except it carried no warmth. Just intention.
“To experiment,” he said.
Yvar stared at him for a long beat.
“You’re going to… experiment with ink.”
“And paper,” Ludger said. “Both.”
Yvar’s eyes drifted to the ink house clerk, who suddenly looked like he regretted every life decision that had brought him here.
“You have something in mind,” Yvar said slowly.
Ludger didn’t answer directly. He rarely did, when the answer would cause more questions than it solved. Instead he placed his palm on the crate again and let a thin thread of mana sink into the wood, testing the weight, the quality, the tiny imperfections in the grain.
His mind was already moving. Ink was more than pigment. Paper was more than dried pulp. They were mediums . Containers. Interfaces. Things that could hold meaning, and meaning, in a world where mana responded to intent, wasn’t harmless.
Runes were carved into metal and stone because they lasted. But ink… ink could be rewritten. Layered. Combined. Bound into books that traveled. Paper could be treated, hardened, infused, laminated with mana, turned into something between a tool and a trap.
Yvar watched him with a scholar’s wary curiosity.
“…Ludger,” he said carefully, “when you say ‘experiment,’ do you mean…”
“I mean I don’t know yet,” Ludger cut in. Honest, for once. “But I will.”
Yvar exhaled, long-suffering. “Of course you will.”
Ludger’s eyes flicked back to him, flat and pragmatic.
“The Empire uses ‘sealed labyrinths’ and secret routes,” Ludger said quietly. “They move information and resources without anyone seeing. I’m not letting them be the only ones who understand how to control what spreads.”
Yvar’s jaw tightened. He understood that too.
“What are you going to do?” Yvar asked.
Ludger finally let that almost-smile show again, faint and sharp.
“Write something,” he said.
Then he turned toward the artisans.
“And find out how much a page can really hold.”
Ludger’s understanding of teaching had stopped being “experience” and started becoming something sharper. Like a craft.
He could feel it when he spoke now, how the right phrasing made comprehension stick . How a lesson flowed better when you ordered it the right way. How the brain fought certain concepts, and how you could slip around that resistance by anchoring the idea to something physical.
It wasn’t magic. It was… structure.
And the System rewarded structure. It rewarded repeatable results. Which meant the question lodged in his mind like a splinter he couldn’t ignore:
Could he turn this into an object?
Not a manual. Not a book someone had to grind through with sore eyes and stubborn pride. Something else.
A skill tome .
A single item you touched, absorbed, and suddenly you knew .
Not the deep mastery that took years, but the foundation, enough to start. Enough to stop being helpless. Enough to be dangerous.
Ludger walked through the underground library after the cargo was stored, fingers brushing the spines of manuals and ledgers like he was taking inventory of the guild’s future. He could almost see the bottlenecks now, not as “problems,” but as points of leverage.
Scribes took time. Training took time. Competence took time. Enemies didn’t give you time.
He stopped at a work table and sat, elbows resting on stone. His eyes drifted unfocused, staring at nothing while his mind assembled pieces.
He had the knowledge now, how to structure learning, how to build it in layers, how to make retention happen instead of hoping for it. He had his runic language, refined enough to hold intent without collapsing into meaningless decoration.
And now he had the materials.
Ink. Paper. Binding supplies. Enough to ruin a merchant’s year if he burned it all for experiments… and the magic water.
He didn’t need permission. He just needed to try. He imagined it in his head, step by step. A page treated and hardened so it could take mana without tearing. Ink infused in a measured ratio, holding runic patterns without bleeding.
Touch → Mana contact → Pattern transfer.
If it failed, it would just be paper.
If it succeeded… Ludger’s eyes narrowed. If it succeeded, he’d have a weapon no bandit lord could steal with a knife in the dark. He could hand a recruit a page and turn a frightened farmer into a competent spear-holder in minutes instead of weeks.
He could distribute basics across outposts without dragging trainers back and forth like pack mules. He could give the Northerners a tool that would multiply their progress faster than any single teacher ever could.
And he could do it quietly. He couldn’t ask for more…