Chapter 5: The Accumulation of Swiftness

Around noon, a soft knock sounded at the door.

Adèle entered with a wooden tray bearing two simple lunches.

She had expected to find Lia standing in a corner as punishment, or perhaps polishing instruments, but the sight before her brought her to a halt.

In the center of the room, Klein and Lia sat facing each other across a low table.

The latest edition of Magical Theory lay open on it, Klein’s finger pointing to a specific passage.

“So, following this contradictory line of reasoning, the only possibility is that the theory is fundamentally flawed.” Lia’s voice was quiet, yet exceptionally clear. “This ‘yearning to return to the earth’ simply doesn’t exist.”

The tray in Adèle’s hands trembled.

An apprentice was telling an Archmage, to his face, that a theory held as gospel was wrong.

‘Is she trying to get herself killed?’

But Klein did not grow angry.

He looked at Lia. “Then why do objects fall? There must be a reason.”

“The reason isn’t important.” Lia shook her head.

“The ancient tome’s perspective is that one must first understand how things fall before considering why they fall. If you can’t even describe the phenomenon itself, delving into the underlying cause is like building a house on sand.”

Adèle gently placed the lunch on another empty table, her movements as stiff as a puppet’s.

She felt she didn’t belong here; an invisible aura had formed around the two of them, one that no outsider could breach.

“Master, your lunch,” she said in a low voice.

“Just leave it there,” Klein replied without turning his head, his full attention fixed on Lia. “Continue. How does one describe how things fall?”

Lia frowned, her young face etched with a distress that seemed out of place.

‘Damn it, how am I supposed to explain uniformly accelerated linear motion?’

“The book… the book uses an analogy. It says that when an object falls, its speed isn’t constant, but rather ‘grows’ steadily.” She chose her words with care.

“Like… like the growth of a mage’s spiritual power during meditation. After each fixed interval of time, a steady amount is added. Its ‘swiftness’ of descent accumulates in the same way.”

Klein’s quill hovered in mid-air for a moment before he rapidly jotted down the words “accumulation of swiftness” on a sheet of parchment.

“When does this ‘accumulation’ begin?” he immediately posed a sharp question. “Does it gain its first ‘accumulated’ swiftness the very instant it loses support?”

Lia’s mind raced.

‘Son of a b*tch, he’s asking about the relationship between instantaneous velocity and acceleration.’

“No,” she answered at once. “The ancient tome says that at the moment it loses support, its swiftness is ‘none.’ But from that very instant, the process of ‘accumulation’ begins, never ceasing until it strikes the ground.”

Seeing a thoughtful expression on Klein’s face, she quickly added a model he could understand.

“It’s like an empty bucket. We turn on a tap and fill it with a steady stream of water. The moment the tap is opened, there’s no water in the bucket, but the water has already begun to flow in. Its ‘swiftness’ is the water in the bucket, and the process of ‘accumulation’ is the steady flow of the stream.”

Klein set down his quill.

He watched Lia in silence for a long time.

Standing to the side, Adèle didn’t dare to breathe.

She looked at the new junior apprentice, who had been here for only a day, and a single thought dominated her mind: This is a monster. A monster in the guise of a little girl.

“Adèle.”

“Yes, Master!” Adèle flinched.

“You may leave.”

“Yes.”

Adèle practically fled the room.

Lunch was hastily eaten, and the discussion continued from afternoon until evening.

The topic shifted from how things fall to what hinders their fall.

“So, the air isn’t ‘holding’ it up, but rather ‘hindering’ it.” Lia rubbed her aching temples, feeling her brain cells burn. “The ancient tome records that this hindrance is related to the object’s ‘swiftness.’ The faster it moves, the greater the hindrance.”

“Why?” Klein pressed.

“The book doesn’t say why, it only describes the phenomenon,” Lia began to fudge. “It has a diagram—something falling through thick syrup. The faster it falls, the stickier the syrup feels, clinging to it more tightly.”

She had done her best.

Trying to explain the relationship between air resistance and velocity to someone with no concept of fluid dynamics was sheer torture.

She felt as if she had spent the entire day wracking her brain to translate a university physics textbook into the Classic of Mountains and Seas.

But this look of hers—the furrowed brow, the desperate struggle to find the right words—appeared as something else entirely in Klein’s eyes.

Klein keenly observed that every time Lia quoted her “ancient tome,” she fell into a peculiar struggle.

Her brow would knit tightly, and she would mutter to herself as if battling an unseen foe, only to finally, with great difficulty, produce a few strange yet brilliant analogies.

This display was, for some reason… quite interesting.

The corner of Klein’s mouth curved into an almost imperceptible arc.

He rather liked this feeling.

Just then, Adèle returned, this time with dinner.

Seeing the two of them still deep in discussion, her expression remained placid. She numbly set down the tray and numbly retreated.

In her eyes, the fourth floor had transformed into some kind of insane, incomprehensible divine realm.

“Your ‘adhesion of the air’ is very interesting.” Klein’s voice pulled Lia from her thoughts. “For now, get some rest. I need to organize my thoughts, and we will continue our discussion tomorrow.”

“Of course, Master,” Lia said, breathing a sigh of relief.

‘I finally managed to bluff my way through.’

“As for your basic magic training…” Klein changed the subject, dangling it before her.

Lia’s heart leaped into her throat.

Klein looked at her and announced in his usual flat tone, “…is postponed for the time being.”

Lia’s smile froze on her face.

“What?”

“An understanding of the world’s fundamental laws is more important than the crude manipulation of magic,” Klein offered an irrefutable reason.

Beneath the table, Lia’s fists clenched.

‘Son of a b*tch!’

‘If I can’t learn magic, how will I ever graduate? How will I get my family’s fortune back?’

She wanted to protest, but looking at Klein’s expressionless face, the words caught in her throat. He had given such a high-minded reason; if she objected, it would be tantamount to admitting she had no desire to pursue truth and only wanted to learn some superficial spells.

“I… understand, Master,” Lia forced out through gritted teeth.

“Good.”

Klein stood up and turned toward his desk, seemingly oblivious to Lia’s little face, which was puffed up with anger.

“Eat your dinner first. Come back tomorrow morning after you’ve woken up.”