Thursday morning, 6:45 AM.
Zhang Wen stood by the shore of the Black Lake, staring at the 1.5-mile shoreline before him, and began to question his life choices.
When was the last time he had gone for a run?
It was back in Fuyuki City while being hunted by Lancer.
That hadn’t been exercise; it had been a desperate flight for his life.
“Are you ready?” Artoria stood beside him, having already finished her warm-up stretches.
The morning’s chill had no effect on her; her blonde ponytail swayed gently behind her head, and she looked excessively energetic.
“Can I apply for a postponement?”
“No.”
“Half the distance?”
“No.”
“Walking it?”
“No.”
Resigned to his fate, Zhang Wen started to run.
The first five hundred meters weren’t bad.
Although his physical stamina couldn’t compare to Artoria’s, the Magic Circuits from the Type-Moon world had enhanced his bodily functions, making him slightly fitter than the average person.
By eight hundred meters, he started wheezing.
By a thousand meters, his legs began to ache.
By twelve hundred meters, he finally understood Ron’s sentiment about “just burying me right here.”
Artoria jogged beside him at a steady pace, her breathing as calm as if she were taking a stroll.
She even had enough breath to talk to him as they ran.
“Your stride frequency is too low.
Speed up.”
“I…
can’t…”
“Your arm swing is insufficient.
Elbows back.”
“Are you…
enjoying this…
on purpose?”
Artoria didn’t answer.
But Zhang Wen could have sworn the corner of her mouth twitched.
He practically dragged his legs through the final three hundred meters.
After crossing the finish line—which was actually just a line he had drawn on the ground himself—he rested his hands on his knees and bent over, gasping for air for a full two minutes.
“Time: fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.” Artoria checked the timer on her wrist—a magical chronometer bracelet she had bought in Diagon Alley.
“What’s the verdict?”
“Two minutes slower than Neville.”
Zhang Wen fell silent.
He was a grown man, a Master who had survived a Holy Grail War, and he couldn’t outrun a twelve-year-old boy who hadn’t done a lick of exercise until a month ago.
“Neville is improving very quickly,” Artoria added.
Her tone sounded like comfort, but it felt more like rubbing salt in the wound.
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“We continue tomorrow.”
“You said every other day.”
“Today is Thursday.
The next session is Saturday.
Every other day.”
Her logic was mathematically sound.
Zhang Wen dragged his aching legs back toward the castle.
At the main entrance, he ran into Neville, who was early to rise.
Neville had just finished the extra training Artoria had assigned him and was heading back to wash up.
“Professor Zhang, were you running too?”
“Under duress.”
Neville’s lip quivered.
He was trying very hard to stifle a laugh.
“Mr.
Longbottom, I won’t be angry if you laugh.”
Neville finally couldn’t hold it in and let out a shy but genuine smile.
This was likely the first time Zhang Wen had seen Neville laugh so naturally.
It was worth it.
Even if the price was total muscle soreness.
The first class of the morning was fourth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins.
Zhang Wen’s legs were still shaking slightly when he walked into the classroom.
He did his best to control his gait, trying not to look too pathetic.
The fourth-year students were more mature than the second-years, but the atmosphere in the classroom was also more complex.
The rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin was far more pronounced in the upper years; they sat on opposite sides of the room, with the empty space in the middle looking like a Great Divide.
“Today’s topic—the basic principles of Counter-Spells.” Zhang Wen wrote the title on the blackboard.
He found that his new wand wasn’t just good for casting; even writing on the blackboard was smoother than before.
Compatibility really was everything.
“A Counter-Spell is different from a Shield Charm.
A Shield Charm uses a barrier to block an attack, while a Counter-Spell uses a new incantation to neutralize or reverse magic that has already taken effect.”
He gave several examples—the counter to Petrifaction, methods to counter the Disarming Charm, and ways to lift common jinxes.
“The most important point is: the casting speed of a Counter-Spell must be faster than the speed at which the curse takes effect.
If your opponent’s Full Body-Bind has already fully set in, it’s too late to cast a counter.
Therefore—”
“Therefore, reaction speed is key,” a Gryffindor girl named Angelina Johnson chimed in.
“Exactly.
Five points,” Zhang Wen nodded.
“This is also why I emphasize physical training in the lower years—physical reaction speed directly influences your spell-casting reaction speed.”
Someone on the Slytherin side whispered something.
Zhang Wen didn’t catch it, but it was likely something along the lines of “what’s the use of running?”
He ignored it.
The difficulty of teaching fourth-years was significantly higher than teaching second-years.
These students already had three years of foundation and some understanding of spell theory and practice.
Zhang Wen couldn’t start from zero with the Disarming Charm like he did with the second-years; he needed to provide content with real depth.
Fortunately, he had two advantages.
First, although the magical theory of the Type-Moon world differed from the Harry Potter world, there was a wealth of knowledge to draw from in the field of “Anti-Magic.” For thousands of years, magi in the Type-Moon world had studied how to dismantle each other’s magecraft, accumulating rich theories.
Second, he had his new wand.
He wouldn’t go around blowing things up during demonstrations anymore.
“Now, I will demonstrate a practical application of a Counter-Spell.” Zhang Wen raised his wand.
“Assistant Pendragon, please cast a Leg-Locker Curse on me.”
Artoria stepped out from the corner.
The atmosphere in the classroom immediately grew tense.
The fourth-years had seen her performance at the Welcoming Feast and knew this blonde woman was no ordinary person.
“How is she going to cast a Leg-Locker Curse without a wand?” a Slytherin boy whispered to his neighbor.
Artoria didn’t use a wand.
She pulled a short stick from her waist—no one knew where she’d gotten it, likely the handle of an old broom—and hurled it at Zhang Wen.
It was fast.
Zhang Wen raised his wand.
“Protego!”
A pale blue shield expanded before him, and the stick bounced off the surface.
But then Artoria was already in front of him.
She was incredibly fast—moving from the side of the classroom to the center of the podium in less than a second.
Her right hand formed a fist, aiming straight for Zhang Wen’s shoulder.
Zhang Wen lunged to the side.
With a flick of his new wand, he turned.
“Expelliarmus!”
A red light shot out at close range.
Artoria tilted her head to dodge it, but Zhang Wen’s target hadn’t been her in the first place—the red light hit the blackboard behind her, and the chalk writing shattered into dust.
Artoria pulled back her fist, took a step back, and stood still.
The entire process had taken less than five seconds.
The classroom was dead silent.
“That is a counter-attack in actual combat.” Zhang Wen turned to the class, casually wiping away a non-existent bead of sweat—in reality, his palms were soaked with tension, but he absolutely couldn’t let the students see that.
“An opponent won’t just attack you in one way.
Physical attacks, magical attacks, melee, ranged—you need to judge the threat type in an instant and react.”
“Professor Zhang,” Angelina raised her hand, “was that…
was that rehearsed with Assistant Pendragon?”
“No,” Zhang Wen said.
Angelina’s expression became very subtle.
Beside her, Fred Weasley—yes, the twins were also in the fourth year—let out a low whistle.
“Professor, you two looked really cool fighting,” George added.
Zhang Wen didn’t take the bait.
He glanced at Artoria.
Her expression was perfectly calm, as if nothing had happened.
But Zhang Wen noticed an extremely tiny curve at the corner of her mouth.
She had been serious just now.
If that punch had landed, his shoulder would have been out of commission for at least three days.
“Assistant Pendragon,” Zhang Wen lowered his voice, “could we perhaps discuss things before the next demonstration?”
“There is no discussion in actual combat.” Artoria returned to her corner.
“Your reaction speed was 0.3 seconds faster than last week.
Keep it up.”
Zhang Wen took a deep breath.
This woman was using classroom demonstrations to test his combat proficiency.
And he had almost been leveled by a single punch in front of the entire class.
How humiliating.
He definitely needed to train more.
During lunch, Zhang Wen realized he had become the talk of the student body.
It wasn’t because of his teaching content, but because of his “demonstration” with Artoria.
News traveled through Hogwarts faster than the speed of light.
By lunchtime, the entire school knew that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and his assistant had “had a fight” in class.
Various versions circulated among the four houses.
The Gryffindor version: “Professor Zhang blocked Assistant Pendragon’s attack with a shield, and then they fought to a draw!”
The Slytherin version: “That Pendragon woman almost flattened Zhang Wen with one punch; he only survived because he ducked fast enough.”
The Ravenclaw version: “It was a meticulously designed pedagogical demonstration showcasing the complementary relationship between physical offense and magical defense.”
The Hufflepuff version: “Did they have a falling out?”
Zhang Wen sat at the staff table, trying his best to ignore the secret glances the students were casting his way.