Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 67: Student Acts

As the flickering screen continued to bathe Nolan’s face in its pale glow, the cries of panic behind him finally broke through the thick wall of nostalgia and tension he’d wrapped himself in. He blinked. Then turned.

Some of the students just died.

"No! No! Damn it—move! It’s—argh! My body cannot escape! Wahhh!"

Some were tired of playing and were just cheering for their classmates.

"Calien, you can do it! Shoot the tank! Shoot the tank!"

Some are still playing.

"I did! It doesn’t work!"

Of course, individually...

"We’re gonna get wiped again—"

Nolan slowly swiveled in his chair, peering over his shoulder at the frantic chaos unfolding among his students. Their bodies were stiff with stress, their fingers white-knuckled around their interface controls, eyes wide and bloodshot.

With a smug grin tugging at the corner of his lips, Nolan cleared his throat.

"So..." he began, his voice cutting into the frenzy like a scalpel. "Giving up now?"

The students froze. All at once, they turned their heads toward him. There was a beat of awkward silence. None of them spoke. Then, like a wave rolling across the classroom, their expressions shifted—from desperation to realization, then to something dangerous.

They had been caught.

But not in the way they feared.

Because Nolan... hadn’t noticed.

He thought they were still fighting the bloater. Not watching the movie behind his back.

The four exchanged looks—silent, unspoken glances that said everything. A shared understanding clicked. And then, Ruvin stood up suddenly, fists clenched.

"Give up?" he bellowed, loud and theatrical, catching even Nolan off guard. "Teacher, with all due respect... we made a promise. To ourselves! To each other! That we would defeat that thing no matter how many times it crushed our avatars, blew up our explosives, and stomped us like insects!"

Selin stood next, fiery determination burning in her eyes. "It’s not just a monster. It’s a symbol. A test of our will, our teamwork—our very essence as aspiring Arcane Warriors!"

Erik leapt up, slamming his palms on his desk. "We will not back down, sir! We will not kneel to some grotesque overgrown mushroom zombie!"

"And we don’t need your help!" Calien shouted, a little too loud and slightly cracking. "We’re not quitting! Not now! Not on the last day!"

Nolan blinked at them. He tilted his head, one brow raised.

The dramatic energy practically crackled through the room. For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming.

Were they always this over-the-top?

Their declaration felt more like a war speech than student banter.

Still, their ridiculous performance gave him pause.

"Alright..." he said slowly. "But if you ever do feel like giving up, just ask me. I could clear that thing with my eyes closed."

The students, mid-pose, paused and shot him sharp glares.

"No need! You just want more money, you greedy sad middle aged man!" Selin said.

"Absolutely no need!" Ruvin echoed.

"This is our burden!" Erik declared.

"We swore!" Calien said dramatically, pointing to the sky—or at least the ceiling. "We swore on the name of the Fourth Training Room!"

Nolan stared for a second more, slightly concerned they’d lost it. Then, with a shrug, he turned back toward his desk, tapped the full screen mode on his system panel, and settled in again.

"Alright. Just don’t cry to me when your mental cores burn out."

The students sat back down.

They didn’t touch their controls.

Instead, they leaned forward with eyes fixed on Nolan’s screen, doing their best not to move too much, not to make a sound. Their avatars remained idle in the game interface, long forgotten. The bloater on the fourth floor could wait.

Because this was getting good.

On-screen, the husband from the film—now clothed and no longer trembling—had joined up with a small group of survivors.

A few looked like military. Some wore worn police jackets.

One or two had sloppily patched medical uniforms.

They had holed themselves up in a half-abandoned shopping mall, barricading entrances, fortifying windows with broken furniture and steel rails. Despite the crude setup, it had an eerie semblance of safety.

A medic—gloved hands shaking—adjusted a drip on a strapped-down infected. Around them, the soldiers watched with tense, unreadable expressions.

"We’ve been studying it for days," the lead medic said. "Blood samples, exposure tests. It’s a neurological pathogen—unlike anything we’ve seen."

"And?" asked the sergeant.

"We synthesized something. A molecular disruptor that can target the infected tissue. We call it a counter-serum."

"You think it’ll work?"

The medic hesitated. "We hope."

"Hope doesn’t keep people alive," another soldier muttered.

The tension in the scene thickened. The group had very little time, fewer resources, and even less faith. But still, they injected the infected subject on the table.

They waited.

Thirty seconds.

Nothing.

Sixty.

Nothing.

At ninety seconds, the infected began to spasm.

Its mouth stretched open in a silent scream.

And then... it died.

But not from the serum.

It had rejected it—its blood blackened, its veins ruptured.

"Damn it," one of the medics whispered. "It doesn’t work. It’s too late once the infection reaches the brainstem."

One of the soldiers slammed a fist against the wall. "Then what now?! You told us this was our shot!"

Nolan leaned forward, chin resting on his hand.

Behind him, the students watched with wide eyes, their game momentarily forgotten. In that dim classroom, the only sound was the faint hum of the system projectors and the dialogue echoing off the walls.

Selin whispered, "Why does this feel too real?"

Calien nodded, fidgeting. "I feel like I know these characters already."

"They’re not even superpowered," Erik muttered. "But it’s still scary as hell."

Ruvin’s voice was quieter than the others. "Because they’re human."

Nolan didn’t even hear them. He was too locked in.

Every few minutes, he glanced toward the students, expecting groans or complaints or even signs of surrender from their battle. But each time, he found them—silent. Focused.

He tilted his head. "...You guys still fighting that bloater?"

No answer.

He narrowed his eyes. "Hey. Don’t tell me you’re slacking again—"

Still nothing.

"Hmm..."

He turned his attention back to the screen.

On-screen, the medic took a long breath. The survivors argued behind him, panic rising. Most wanted to flee. .

Others wanted to keep testing. But then, the older female doctor in the back—grey-haired, worn from exhaustion—stepped forward and laid something down on the table.

It gleamed.

A long, black-bladed weapon, sleek, with glowing etchings along its side.

"I designed this last night," she said. "A prototype. Based on the autopsy data and our scans. It doesn’t inject the serum—it delivers the pathogen disruptor directly via trauma. Blades can bypass necrotized muscle and strike the infected core with enough precision. No immune system to fight back."

One of the soldiers leaned forward.

"What do you call it?"

She looked up.

"The Pathogen Knife."

Nolan raised an eyebrow.

Behind him, four students slowly leaned forward in perfect unison.

Then Nolan, without turning around, asked again.

"...You guys aren’t even fighting the bloater anymore, are you?"

Silence.

Then Selin cleared her throat. "We’ll fight it later. We are tired..."

Ruvin nodded. "Definitely. After this."

Erik muttered, "We’re just... taking notes."

"Doing analysis in our brains," Calien added, with a serious nod.

Nolan sighed, leaning back in his chair.

But the corner of his mouth curved into a small, amused smile.

"...Fine," he said. "But if I hear you snore, I’m kicking you back into the simulation."

He paused.

Then clicked ’Next Scene.’