The magical wheel spun with an ominous grinding sound that somehow managed to convey disappointment in seven different languages. As the pointer slowed, I watched with growing dread as it bypassed "Organize Professor Zephyr's Sock Drawer" and "Write a Haiku About Turnips" before landing squarely on what appeared to be the longest, most complicated task description I'd ever seen.
"The banana mathematics of educational opportunity require seventeen backwards elephants wearing professor hats," I announced to no one in particular, which in my chaotic language clearly meant "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
The task materialized as glowing text in the air: Explain the theoretical foundations of Probability Magic 401 to a panel of Level 4 students. Success criteria: Panel must demonstrate understanding through practical application. Failure penalty: Re-draw from wheel.
Standing before me were three Level 4 students who looked like they'd rather be literally anywhere else. They had that particular expression of academic suffering that came from having their linguistic capabilities scrambled, then miraculously restored, only to be told they now had to listen to a first-year explain advanced magical theory in what sounded like the fever dreams of a particularly creative parrot.
"Right then," I began, taking a deep breath and trying to channel whatever teaching instincts I might theoretically possess. "To be or not to be, that is the question, whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or by opposing, end up with seven dancing elephants in the quantum ballroom of maybe?"
"Oh this is going splendidly," My anxiety imp whispered in my ear, its voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm that could strip paint. "Because nothing says 'advanced magical theory' like mangled Shakespeare mixed with educational despair."
The students stared at me with the kind of blank incomprehension usually reserved for Professor Gravitas's pop quizzes.
"Could you... try that again?" asked the tallest one, a girl with elaborate golden braids who looked like she could probably transmute me into something unpleasant without breaking a sweat. "In actual words this time?"
I cleared my throat and made another valiant attempt, this time channeling what I hoped sounded more academic. "¡Las matemáticas cósmicas of statistical likelihood demand seventeen backwards zebras performando calculus en la biblioteca of eternal confusión!" Which, obviously, meant "Probability magic operates on the principle that reality exists in multiple simultaneous states until observation collapses them into singular outcomes."
Their expressions didn't improve.
The third student, who had been taking notes, held up her parchment. It was covered in what appeared to be doodles of stick figures and mathematical symbols.
"This is going nowhere" said Golden Braids, standing up with the decisive air of someone who'd had quite enough nonsense for one day. "We're going to have to declare this attempt unsuccessful. Better luck next time!"
The universe, having apparently been waiting for exactly those words, immediately decided to demonstrate its sense of irony.
The wheel began spinning again without my input, faster and more aggressively than before. When it finally stopped, the task that appeared made my blood run cold:
Combat Trial: Defeat the Manifestation of Academic Frustration while maintaining current linguistic limitations and physical alterations. Optional: One ally may assist if available.
"May the Force be with us, because we're gonna need a bigger boat in this valley of academic death," I muttered, which needed no translation.
That's when the Physical Alterations clause kicked in. I felt a bizarre tingling sensation as my body began to... dissipate? No, that wasn't right. I was becoming partially incorporeal, like smoke given barely enough substance to maintain human shape. I could see right through my own hand, and when I tried to touch the ground, my fingers passed halfway through it.
But it was worse than just being incorporeal. The smoke form felt unstable, like I was constantly on the verge of completely dissolving. Every breath was an effort to maintain cohesion, and I could feel my magical pathways flickering in and out of existence.
"Well, that's not ominous at all," my anxiety imp commented, though its voice was becoming increasingly translucent as well. "Nothing says 'success' like becoming a semi-corporeal probability distribution."
The Manifestation of Academic Frustration materialized with all the dramatic flair of Professor Zephyr in the entrance exam. It was a writhing mass of quills that wrote nothing but criticism, inkwells that spilled accusatory stains, torn parchment covered in red corrections, and what appeared to be the ghostly faces of every student who'd ever failed an important exam.
The creature towered above me, constantly shifting between different configurations of academic anxiety. Sometimes it looked like a giant professor made of disappointed sighs, other times like a mountain of graded papers with failing marks, and occasionally it would briefly take the shape of that moment when you realize you've been solving the wrong equation for the entire exam.
"¡El triángulo fish of immediate violence requires urgent aplicación of Tuesday's lawn mower emergency!" I called out desperately, trying to summon some kind of magical defense.
Nothing happened.
My smoke form couldn't channel magic properly. Every attempt to cast a spell resulted in the energy dissipating uselessly through my incorporeal fingers. I was essentially defenseless except for my ability to partially avoid physical attacks by becoming more smoke-like.
The Academic Frustration monster wasted no time demonstrating why it was every student's worst nightmare. It launched a barrage of flaming essay topics that passed through my smoke-form without causing physical damage, but somehow made me feel existentially criticized on a level I hadn't known was possible.
"WHERE IS YOUR THESIS STATEMENT?" it roared in a voice like every disappointed professor who'd ever lived, following up with a volley of red ink that formed into the words "NEEDS MORE EVIDENCE" in mid-air before exploding into smaller criticisms like "UNCLEAR REASONING" and "DID YOU EVEN READ THE ASSIGNMENT?"
I tried to flow around its attacks like mist avoiding obstacles, but my incorporeal state was more curse than blessing. I was constantly struggling to maintain cohesion, and the monster seemed to instinctively know how to target my weakest points.
A massive quill materialized above me, dripping with red ink that somehow felt like pure academic disappointment. As it plunged toward me, I dispersed myself just enough to avoid a direct hit, but the psychic impact of "POOR ORGANIZATION" written in burning letters across my consciousness sent me reeling.
"¡El triángulo fish of immediate violence requires urgent aplicación of the friendship protocol!" I called out desperately, looking around for Finn or Gavril while trying to sound more commanding than terrified.
Finn was nowhere to be seen. Given the chaos of the Cognition Scrambler, he could have been turned into a sentient equation for all I knew.
I spotted Gavril across the chamber, but he was... well, he was busy being three different people. Apparently, when faced with multiple spatial puzzles that required simultaneous solution while his magical knowledge was lost, he'd decided to fragment his consciousness to match. There were three Gavrils now: one hunched over theoretical diagrams, one practicing hand gestures for spatial manipulation, and one who appeared to be stuck in some kind of loop.
"EXPLAIN YOUR METHODOLOGY!" the monster shrieked, launching what appeared to be an entire library's worth of overdue notices at me. I tried to dodge, but several of them connected, and each hit felt like being personally disappointed by every teacher I'd ever had.
My chaotic language was getting worse under stress, turning a cry for help to: "IT'S A ME MARIO!"
The creature seemed to feed on my linguistic breakdown, growing larger and more complex with each failed attempt at communication. New appendages sprouted, rulers for measuring my failures, compasses for drawing circles around my mistakes, protractors for calculating the exact angle of my inadequacy.
A massive tentacle made of rolled-up pop quizzes wrapped around my smoke-form. Even incorporeal, I could feel it somehow draining my confidence and replacing it with the specific anxiety that comes from realizing you studied the wrong chapter.
"YOUR CITATIONS ARE IMPROPERLY FORMATTED!" it bellowed, and the psychic damage was so intense that I partially solidified just from sheer academic terror, which allowed several flying staplers to actually hit me.
Blood began to seep from small cuts where the staplers had connected. My smoke form was failing under the sustained assault, flickering between incorporeal and solid in the worst possible way, solid enough to be hurt, too unstable to fight back effectively.
I tried to reform into something more stable, but each attempt to consolidate my form was met with another wave of academic criticism that scattered my concentration.
"NEEDS MORE SUPPORTING EVIDENCE!"
WHACK, a flying three-hole punch caught me across the shoulder.
"UNCLEAR THESIS!"
SLASH, a paper cut that somehow extended across my entire forearm despite being inflicted by a floating index card.
"DID YOU EVEN PROOFREAD THIS?"
That last one didn't come with a physical attack, but the psychic damage was so intense that I collapsed entirely, my smoke form pooling on the ground like defeated mist.
The Academic Frustration monster loomed over me, preparing what looked like a final attack, a massive stamp that read "FAILED" in letters that seemed to burn with the concentrated disappointment of every academic institution that had ever existed.
I tried one last desperate attempt to pull myself together, to find some way to fight back, but my chaotic language had devolved to the point where even my thoughts weren't making sense anymore. "The random why of mathematics is desperate... car wash...aglet... Today?"
The stamp began its descent.
That's when Elias appeared.
One moment the space beside me was empty, the next moment he was there, looking perfectly composed despite the linguistic chaos around us. More importantly, he seemed to understand my chaotic language perfectly.
"Forsooth, the alliance protocol of mutual assistance doth suggest immediate tactical cooperation betwixt us," he said in flawless chaotic-speak, a simple barrier intercepting the massive "FAILED" stamp with a sound like reality being properly cited.
"By Jove and all the geometric fish of gratitude, they do perform most elaborate dances in the ballroom of relief!" I replied in what my chaotic language had apparently decided was Elizabethan enthusiasm, while struggling to reform into something resembling human shape.
Elias didn't give the monster time to regain its senses and started countering its essay prompts with perfectly structured thesis statements.
"Your central argument lacks supporting evidence!" the monster shrieked, launching a barrage of citation requirements that looked like flaming bibliography entries.
"Actually," Elias replied with the kind of calm that could make volcanic eruptions feel self-conscious, "my supporting evidence suggests you're about to be defeated by a coordinated assault utilizing both conventional magical theory and applied probability manipulation. Please refer to the attached appendix for detailed methodology."
While he kept the creature distracted, I finally managed to pull myself together enough to contribute to the fight. My smoke form was still unstable, but I had an idea.
If I couldn't fight the monster directly, maybe I could interfere with it indirectly.
I dispersed myself partially, flowing around the monster's attacks while Elias engaged it directly. Every time it tried to form a coherent accusation of academic inadequacy, I would swirl through its thought processes and introduce chaotic elements, not to damage it, but to confuse it.
"EXPLAIN YOUR—what is this? EXPLAIN YOUR methodology requires seventeen dancing—NO, THAT'S NOT RIGHT! SHOW YOUR WORK MEANS—banana hammock? ACADEMIC STANDARDS DEMAND – EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
The monster began to flicker and spark as its core programming struggled with the introduction of chaotic language directly into its attack patterns.
"Excellent tactical application," Elias called out while striking at what appeared to be the creature's central processing unit, a glowing orb surrounded by floating textbooks. "Continue the linguistic interference while I address the structural vulnerabilities."
Working together, we managed to overwhelm the Academic Frustration's ability to maintain coherent criticism. My chaotic language pollution corrupted its attack patterns while Elias systematically dismantled its defensive systems with precise strikes.
After what felt like decades, the creature let out a sound like a thousand students sighing in relief simultaneously, mixed with the sound of every impossible exam being canceled forever. It dissolved into sparkles that looked suspiciously like glitter mixed with tiny diplomas.
I reformed into my normal, thankfully solid shape, immediately feeling more like myself and less like a probability distribution having an identity crisis. But I was covered in small cuts and bruises from the earlier attacks, and I felt drained in a way that went beyond mere physical exhaustion.
"Thank you," I said to Elias, the words emerging in normal English that felt almost foreign after so much chaotic language.
He raised an eyebrow with that characteristic expression of mild surprise. "Your linguistic limitations appear to have been temporarily suspended for the purpose of genuine gratitude. Fascinating. Also, you're bleeding in approximately seven locations and appear to have suffered minor probability field destabilization."
"Yeah, well, don't get accustomed to the gratitude," I muttered, already feeling the chaotic language trying to reassert itself. "And the bleeding is just... occupational hazard at this point."
That's when I remembered Gavril, and my temporary relief was immediately replaced by worry sharp enough to cut glass.
He was still stuck in his recursive loop, and if anything, getting more frantic by the minute. Creative-Gavril had now attempted the same impossible spatial fold at least forty times, each failure making him more determined to try an even more impossible variation. Theoretical-Gavril was caught in calculations that led nowhere, and Practical-Gavril was repeating the same hand gestures over and over like a broken record.
I ran over to where my friend was fragmenting himself into theoretical knots, but there wasn't anything I could do with conventional methods. I couldn't just reach into someone's consciousness and fix a magical feedback loop like adjusting a broken radio.
Unless...
I closed my eyes and focused harder than I'd ever focused on anything in my life, channeling the same energy I'd used when I broke out of that ethical dilemma scenario. I focused on asking reality the right question, the kind of question that could reshape possibilities.
What if helping Gavril was my next task?
The magical wheel across the chamber began to glow with an intensity that made everyone stop what they were doing.
The remaining students stopped their various struggles with linguistic chaos and reality distortion to stare as the wheel started spinning on its own, faster and faster, until it became a blur of motion that seemed to bend space around it. When it finally stopped with a sound like cosmic gears clicking into place, new text appeared in the air, not just for me, but for everyone to see, glowing with the kind of significance that made reality sit up and pay attention:
Special Task Assignment: Venture into fractured mindscape to resolve recursive consciousness loop and reintegrate fragmented psyche. Time limit: Before permanent psychological damage occurs.
The chamber fell silent except for the sound of various magical processes grinding to a halt. Even the Personifications who were scattered throughout the space stopped their chaos to stare at what had just happened.
"The mathematical impossibility of forced probability manipulation," Elias said quietly, "You actually managed to do it again."
I barely heard him. All my attention was focused on Gavril—all three versions of him—and the task description floating in the air like a beacon of hope wrapped in academic jargon.
Suddenly, Bloombastic's voice boomed across the chamber, accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves and what might have been a small botanical explosion.
"OH SACRED SUNLIGHT! Did everyone see that magnificent display of probability manipulation? I do apologize for my absence, dear spectators and fellow academics. I've been in intense negotiations with the examination committee to recognize my newly invented language of Botanical Sarcasm as a legitimate form of communication! The patent paperwork alone required seventeen different forms of magical notarization!"
Professor Zephyr's voice followed immediately, crackling through the air with characteristic enthusiasm: "Bloombastic, where have you been? Professor Gravitas said the linguistic situation was giving him too much of a headache to provide commentary!"
"Fear not, my aerial colleague! I have returned with official documentation proving that my language predates this entire examination by at least six minutes, possibly seven!"
I tuned out their familiar banter and focused on the task details that were materializing in more specific text, floating at eye level like the world's most important instruction manual:
Mindscape Navigation Protocol: Subject's consciousness has fragmented into three distinct aspects - Theoretical, Practical, and Creative. Creative aspect trapped in recursive loop within spatial manipulation matrix. Agent must enter mindscape, locate Creative aspect, break recursive pattern, and guide all three aspects back to integration point.
"STUFF requires moi," I announced, which should mean something like "I'm going in, and I'm bringing my friend back whole, no matter what kind of impossible mental landscape I have to navigate."
Elias stepped up beside me, his expression serious but determined. "The alliance protocol suggests continued cooperation in unprecedented circumstances that may benefit from multiple perspectives."
I looked at him in surprise. "You want to come into Gavril's head with me?"
"I am pretty sure it would be easier with someone who should be able to predict multiple outcomes," he replied.
Despite everything, I found myself smiling. "To Infinity and Beyond, partner!"
I took one last look at the three Gavrils, each trapped in their own version of trying too hard to solve an impossible problem, and felt my resolve crystallize.
Whatever was waiting for us inside Gavril's fractured mindscape, we were going to face it together. And we were going to bring him back.