Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 71: Weakness of the Bloater

Nolan took another slow sip from his chipped metal mug, steam curling lazily into the air as the movie played on the massive projection screen before him.

His legs were kicked up on the desk now, one arm draped casually behind his head, the other holding the mug with the kind of practiced laziness that screamed detached superiority.

He watched as the character on-screen—the father—stared down the monstrous Bloater with nothing but a flickering knife in his trembling grip. He didn’t even try to run. He stood his ground.

Nolan scoffed. "What a stupid father," he muttered, shaking his head with a dry chuckle. "You still got a little baby girl waiting back at that mall, and now you wanna act fearless? Fucking stupid."

He burst into a short, humorless laugh that echoed across the quiet classroom.

But then—

"SIR!!"

The shout pierced through the air like a dagger.

Nolan turned, slowly lowering his mug.

It was Kera.

She stood there with her fists clenched, jaw tight, and eyes brimming with something molten. Her entire face was flushed red, not from embarrassment—but rage.

Nolan blinked, tilting his head just slightly. "Huh? Angry?" he muttered.

Kera didn’t say a word. She stormed back to her seat, slammed her headset down, and resumed playing.

Nolan stared at her for a beat longer, his grin faltering into a thin, unreadable line. But he shrugged. "Whatever."

Back to the movie.

On screen, the Bloater was not done.

It roared—a sound that didn’t just vibrate through the survivors’ bones, but through the very air of the classroom.

Its grotesque body began to glow faintly red, like something internal was heating up. The cysts that lined its arms and back swelled, pulsing grotesquely. Then—

Splurt!

A pus-filled projectile launched from one of the cysts and slammed into one of the survivors, knocking him down instantly.

"No! No no no no—!"

Selin’s voice cracked.

"That’s the guy with the harmonica!" Erik whispered, horrified. "He plays it every night to calm the kids in the mall..."

"He was just trying to protect the guy with the broken leg," Kera said under her breath, her voice hoarse. "He wasn’t even supposed to come on the run."

"That’s two down..." Calien’s lips trembled.

They watched in stricken silence as the camera lingered on the man’s lifeless body.

"His girlfriend’s been saving him food. Every day," Selin added, her voice shaking. "She gives him part of her ration. That’s like... two hundred calories gone every day just to make sure he stays strong."

"He promised her he’d be back," Ruvin muttered. "He told her, ’I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone.’"

"I hate this," Erik whispered. "I hate this feeling..."

Tears welled in more than one pair of eyes. It wasn’t just a movie anymore. These were people they knew. Or at least it felt like it.

Back at the front of the room, Nolan squinted at the screen, then cocked a brow. He tapped a few buttons on his desk. The full-screen video minimized into a split view.

The moment it did, Nolan’s gaze sharpened.

There, in a series of miniature feeds below the video—his watchroom feeds—were his students.

Not playing.

Watching.

Their faces reflected the movie’s glow. Eyes wide. Mouths open. Whispering to each other like they were spectators at a funeral.

Nolan narrowed his eyes.

He usually didn’t allow this. His "internet cheat" ability—his connection to knowledge, data, and content from unknown worlds—was his alone. He hated sharing it. Especially with kids. Especially with anyone.

Why should they benefit off his secret pipeline?

But then he sighed.

"It’s the last day they’ll see me anyway," he muttered, his voice quiet. "Why be greedy?"

He tapped the screen again, returning the movie to full view.

Back in the film, the Bloater lunged forward. The last of the group scrambled behind crates, trying to regroup. Gunfire crackled, but it was empty resistance now.

And then—

A flicker of motion.

The husband.

He darted forward, ducking under the monster’s sweeping arm—and slammed something heavy into its shoulder joint.

The Bloater reeled.

The class gasped in unison.

"What was that?!"

"Wait—wait—did it flinch?!"

"No way... it felt that?!"

"Did he hit a nerve? A seam?"

The husband stumbled back in surprise, his breath ragged, his knife slick with gore.

He stared at the creature.

Mumbled something.

"What is this...?"

The camera stayed on him.

His lips kept moving.

"It’s... reacting... different... That wasn’t a normal hit."

He glanced around.

His comrades were still swinging wildly, trying to cut through dense, tumor-ridden flesh—but it wasn’t working.

Still, the husband kept watching.

And then—another hit.

One of the other men slashed under the Bloater’s arm as it reached down—and again, the monster twitched.

The husband narrowed his eyes.

His lips moved faster now.

"That’s... something. Something’s there... the way it moves... it twists, right before attacking..."

He dodged again, barely missing a swipe from the beast’s bloated limb.

Another dodge.

Another opening.

And the camera zoomed in on the stretched, seam-like tissue beneath its arms.

"I think..."

He turned to his comrades.

"Listen to me!" he shouted.

The others looked back, desperate and bloody.

"I think its weak points are the joints!" he yelled. "Under the arms—lower back—where it twists the most!"

"What?" one man panted.

The husband nodded fiercely. "Think about it! It’s full of tumors, right? All over—but tumors can tear if strained! It’s protecting those parts—we make it move, make it twist!"

"So what, bait it?" another cried.

"Yes! Dodge wide swings, bait it into twisting—force it to strain those swollen seams!"

One of the others shook his head. "That sounds like a damn theory. We don’t even know if that’ll work."

"We don’t have a choice!" the husband shouted. "We’re cornered—we can’t run! We try it or we die here!"

The others exchanged glances.

There was no escape route.

Only dead ends behind them.

A huff.

A nod.

"Fine," one said. "Let’s try your plan."

And they turned to face the creature.

Knives drawn.

Hands shaking.

Hearts hammering.

But they were ready.

They had nothing left to lose.

Also no other choice.

With the bloater standing between them and any possibility of escape, every member of the group was left clinging to the only thing they had left—hope. And that hope now rested on the frantic, shaky voice of the husband who had found something—anything—that worked.

"Move wide!" he shouted. "Make it swing! Make it twist! Then stab—don’t hit the tumors directly—go for the seams when they stretch!"

The others looked at each other, uncertain.

"It sounds crazy," one whispered.

"Crazy’s better than dead," another muttered back.

"We’re out of bullets. We’re out of time. Let’s do this."

The first to try was the man with a jagged scar across his brow. He dashed to the side, waving his arms. "Hey! Ugly!" he screamed.

The Bloater roared and turned, swinging its massive, grotesque arm with more force than needed.

The scarred man barely rolled under it—then from behind, another survivor leapt forward and drove his knife just beneath the armpit where the swollen cysts strained apart.

Shrrrrk!

A scream—not from the humans this time, but from the beast. A real scream.

It hurt.

"It’s working!!" someone yelled, their voice breaking with disbelief.

"NO WAY!" another voice cried, followed by frantic footsteps and a blade slicing through another seam on the lower back.

Schrrraaackkk!

Another pained screech from the creature. Thick blood—if it could be called that—splattered the ground like glue.

The group erupted into a storm of movement.

They were no longer prey. They were dancing. Swarming.

"Right there! Below the shoulder!"

"Wait for it to twist!"

"Don’t get greedy—strike and move!"

"IT’S WORKING!! IT’S REALLY WORKING!!"

Their voices grew louder, echoing through the ruined alley like some kind of battle hymn.

Fear gave way to triumph, hesitation to coordination.

They were no longer just swinging blindly—they were fighting smart.

The Bloater tried to retaliate, but every movement strained its own body.

The tumors on its back bulged and split in small fissures. Its left arm faltered.

It staggered from the repeated stabs behind the knees, each one precisely timed when the joints opened wide from dodging an attack.

Hack.

Stab.

Duck.

Twist.

Strike.

Repeat.

One by one, the survivors worked in perfect, improvised unison, grunting, yelling, gasping—but not retreating. Not now.

"YES!"

"KEEP GOING!"

"DON’T STOP!"

"GET THAT BACK KNEE!"

"TWIST YOUR BODY, YOU UGLY THING!"

"WE’RE DOING IT!"

"WE’RE REALLY DOING IT!!"

Back in Nolan’s watchroom, the students watched with wide eyes and slack jaws.

Their hearts pounded like they were the ones in the fight. Their fingers clenched into their palms as they leaned forward unconsciously, eyes glued to every lurch, every slash, every moment the creature reeled.

They were speechless.

But it was happening.

The Bloater—thd creature that thet can’t beat in solo in the realm training—was being taken down by a ragtag group of men with knives and nothing to lose.

And it wasn’t even a magic spell or a legendary sword. It was strategy. Observation. Timing. Teamwork.

They weren’t special. They weren’t blessed. They just... figured it out.

And finally—finally—with a final lurch, the Bloater groaned in a guttural, defeated gurgle, and collapsed forward like a toppled monument, its mass slamming against the dirt with a wet crunch.

Silence.

Then gasps. Then shouts.

"OH MY GOD!!"

"WE DID IT!!"

"WE’RE ALIVE!!"

"WE SURVIVED THAT THING!!"

"YEEEESSS!!!"

"YOOO!!"

"HAHAHAHA!!!"

Laughs, wild and shaken, filled the movie scene. Some of the men collapsed to their knees, sobbing. Others just screamed incoherently, the adrenaline catching up to their battered bodies.

And yet—

The husband did not join them.

He stood in front of the dead body of one of his comrades. The one who had protected the guy with the broken leg. The one with the harmonica.

He slowly knelt down and didn’t speak.

He placed a hand gently on the man’s chest. Reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notebook. A folded photograph. A handkerchief with embroidered initials.

He stared at them. Then slipped them carefully into his own pouch.

He moved to the next body.

Another man. A father of three, according to the dialogue earlier. His wallet was removed gently. A drawing, crumpled and sweaty, slid out of it—three stick figures labeled "Dad," "Me," and "Dog."

The husband hesitated, then took that too.

His eyes were distant. He didn’t say a word. His fingers curled tightly around the mementos. Not in triumph. But in duty.

Because someone would have to bring these back.

Someone would have to say they fought until the end. That they mattered.

That they didn’t die for nothing.

Back in the classroom, the students were silent.

One of them whispered, "So that’s it... That’s how you beat it..."

They looked at each other in disbelief.

"Just... twist and strain..."

"All this time, we thought it was invincible."

"No one ever told us that."

"Nolan said it had no weaknesses..."

"But he didn’t say we couldn’t find one."

The room felt heavy now. Not with fear. But something different. A deeper understanding. A quiet respect.

They had just watched not heroes, but people, outsmart something that no magic or skill had ever helped them overcome. And it worked.

And they weren’t sure what to feel about that.

Suddenly, the screen turned black.

Nolan, still sipping from his mug—didn’t know where he got that, leaned forward and closed the video window with a single finger tap.

"Ah," he exhaled. "Alright, guys..."

He stood up and stretched lazily, then turned to them, one eyebrow raised.

"Let me check what you can do now."