"I will come to the Abyss to visit you," Tars said.

  "How dull."

  The succubus scholar traced circles on the desk with her finger; it seemed her good mood from successfully blackmaling him for the potion had been tainted by his lack of imagination.

  Tars, meanwhile, was mentally calculating how much more time he needed based on his current progress in mastering the Fireball spell.

  Regarding the dead apprentice's derivation notes for Fireball: while they were helpful for cross-referencing and accelerating his mastery, Tars noticed a peculiar phenomenon. Even though he was primarily studying the standard, fundamental version from his book, the little components that constructed the spell model seemed like living things. Once he observed them in the notes, they latched onto his mind. His basic Fireball was being subtly influenced by these "mutations," though fortunately, the impact seemed benign.

  "You could adapt to life in the Abyss, enjoy a vaster world. Perhaps you'll even meet more succubi," Tars offered. "Though, they might not be as learned as you."

  "Dull," she repeated. The succubus scholar seemed far less enamored with her long-lost ancestral home than her earlier words had suggested.

  Seeing Tars sitting there in a daze, no longer paying her any mind, she actually stood up, walked to the far end of the room, and began to lecture. For the first time in the centuries since she had arrived at the castle, she was truly teaching a class. To her, being able to hear and write was not the same as knowing the Abyssal tongue. She began to detail its grammar, its various taboos, and the specific courtly culture of the nobles from her planar world—useless trivia, perhaps, but necessary for avoiding social gaffes and perceived insults in conversation.

  He listened intermittently, cooperatively turning his body to face the lecturing succubus. As Tars unraveled a difficult node in his spellcasting, he would listen for a while and sigh inwardly. The disappearance of a world didn't just mean the death of the creatures running upon it; it also meant the death of its culture and all its strange, unique nuances.

  Treating it as entertainment to pass the time, he absorbed the odd bits of knowledge before submerging himself once more in his magical studies.

  When he opened his eyes again, the succubus was still talking, seemingly addicted to the sound of her own voice. She was now explaining how the sages of the planar world had researched the origins of the Abyssal tongue, speculating that it came from the very first dissonant crash during the birth of the Abyss.

  Lesson time ended, but it wasn't until Butler Ezel knocked on the door that she stopped. Even as the classroom door closed behind him, leaving only a sliver of a gap, Tars could still hear the sound of her pacing and the faint echo of her eloquent speech.

  Back in his room, he meditated to recover and resumed his studies. He had used a strip of cloth to bind the tooth tightly to his wrist, keeping it against his skin so the Young Master wouldn't startle him during an unexpected appearance.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Before leaving the classroom, he had already signaled the time for action to the succubus. Though she had been lecturing without pause, he knew she had heard his message.

  Now, his priority was to ensure he mastered Fireball before the appointed hour. Thinking of the truant Young Master, he decided he would try to convince the butler to let him skip lessons tomorrow to gain more time; he could never focus properly with someone else in the room.

  Dinner was served in his room as usual.

  "Yo, so this is how a wizard trains?" The handsome youth emerged from the tooth and landed beside him.

  "That way of speaking is hardly becoming of a noble. Perhaps you really should attend those Abyssal lessons," Tars remarked, recalling the succubus's lecture on noble etiquette.

  "I know the rules, obviously. I've spoken perfectly and respectfully to those around me since childhood—the perfect aristocrat. I'm just showing a more relaxed side to you, a guest from another land," the youth said with a smile.

  "Do you think I'll make it to the Library smoothly?" Tars sat on the floor, juggling spell calculations with small talk.

  "I've already given that teacher a little help—some minor guidance. She still hasn't seen me, of course," the youth said, looking quite proud of himself. "So she will assist you and provide some minor aid."

  The youth spoke of these things as if they were a grand game, even fantasizing about the sight of his own corpse being incinerated at the inner gate.

  "In my homeland, there is a rule: never pry into the name of a visitor from another world. So, I haven't asked yours. Please do not take it as arrogance or rudeness," the youth added.

  In truth, Tars only hoped to break the butler's suppression of his spatial door. He wasn't pinning all his hopes of survival on the Young Master's or the succubus's plans. He didn't need to leave through the front door; after all, the castle had been sealed when he arrived, and he had gotten in just fine. He only needed to handle the old butler.

  "Can you teach me some tricks for skipping class?" Tars asked.

  "Easy!" The youth was an expert in this field. "If it's just for a time or two, just exploit Old Ezel's concern for you. It works every time, and he won't report it to my father."

  Tars nodded as the youth spoke. He watched the boy pace through the dust without leaving a footprint. The two of them were discussing things that would likely lead to another wave of destruction for this place, yet they were both cheerful, talking and laughing.

  Tars closed his eyes to continue his spell derivations, unaware of when the youth finally departed.

  It was another night of forgetting food and sleep. When the knock at the door finally came, his prepared excuses weren't even needed.

  "Young Master, your Abyssal teacher is feeling a bit unwell today. I'm afraid lessons must be suspended for the day," the butler announced, delivering news that would normally devastate a good student.

  "I understand," Tars nodded. He was only a hair's breadth away from fully mastering Fireball.

  He watched the butler's retreating back and didn't rush to close the door. He looked around, soaking in this bizarrely real experience, and decided to do his best to bring it to a final full stop. If the Young Master's confident cremation plan failed, he would resort to the Demon Dice.

  The half-man back home probably thought he was dead by now, likely wishing he'd given him more powerful treasures. But looking back, from the Mage Armor disguise to the material components, the linguistic comprehension, the potent healing potions, and the safe haven of the Bedroom Space—the half-man had actually planned quite comprehensively for a safe errand. He had provided enough to deal with any average demon. He simply hadn't anticipated this particular nightmare.

  Before dinner time arrived, Tars finally mastered Fireball.

  He leaned against the wall for a short nap. When he woke up, he waited and waited, but the sound of the butler's knock never came. He couldn't have been wrong about the time; Tars was extremely confident in his stomach-clock.