Leo had always believed that academic excellence was something to be celebrated, admired, and possibly rewarded with scholarships or prestigious internships.
What he had not anticipated was how thoroughly terrifying it would be to receive a perfect score on an examination when you were supposed to be maintaining a carefully crafted reputation for mediocrity.
The summons to Professor Grimwald's office arrived via a very official-looking piece of parchment that had been delivered by a mechanical owl with glowing red eyes and an attitude problem.
The owl had perched on Leo's windowsill at precisely seven in the morning, tapped imperiously on the glass with its metal beak, and refused to leave until Leo had signed for the delivery in triplicate.
"Mr. Vance," the parchment read in Professor Grimwald's distinctive handwriting, "Please report to my office at your earliest convenience to discuss your recent examination performance. I have some questions about your... methodology."
Leo stared at the parchment, his heart sinking as he realized that his carefully planned strategy of academic mediocrity had failed spectacularly. Again.
"This is bad," he said to Sir Reginald, who was perched on his desk examining the mechanical owl with professional interest. "This is very, very bad."
"How bad could it be?" Sir Reginald asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer. "It's just an examination. Surely you didn't perform so well that it aroused suspicion."
Leo pulled out his copy of the Advanced Magical Theory examination, which had been returned to him the previous day with a score that made him want to hide under his bed and never emerge. "I got a perfect score," he said miserably. "Not just a perfect score—I got extra credit for answers that weren't even part of the original questions."
Sir Reginald flew over to examine the test paper, his tiny eyes widening as he took in the professor's comments.
"Good heavens," he said. "Listen to this: 'Mr. Vance's analysis of cross-dimensional magical resonance demonstrates insights that go far beyond the scope of this course. His theoretical framework for emotional thaumaturgy could revolutionize our understanding of magical consciousness.' This is... quite impressive."
"It's not impressive," Leo groaned. "It's a disaster. I was trying to get a mediocre grade. A forgettable grade. The kind of grade that would mark me as a perfectly average student with no special talents or mysterious knowledge."
"And instead, you've written what appears to be a graduate-level thesis on advanced magical theory," Sir Reginald observed. "How exactly did this happen?"
Leo slumped in his chair, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "I tried to give wrong answers," he said.
"I really did. But every time I started to write something incorrect, I would think about how the magic actually worked, and then I would end up explaining the real theoretical principles behind the spells, and then I would realize that I was demonstrating knowledge that no first-year student should possess, so I would try to make my answers sound more basic, but that just made them sound like I was explaining complex concepts in simple terms, which made me sound like an expert who was dumbing things down for educational purposes."
Sir Reginald stared at him. "You overthought your way into academic excellence?"
"Apparently," Leo said miserably. "And now Professor Grimwald wants to discuss my 'methodology,' which means he's going to ask me how I know things that I shouldn't know, and I'm going to have to come up with explanations that don't involve admitting that I wrote this entire world and therefore have intimate knowledge of how all the magic systems work."
"Perhaps," Sir Reginald suggested, "you could claim to be a naturally gifted student with an intuitive understanding of magical principles?"
"I tried that in class," Leo said. "It just made him more interested in my 'innovative approaches to theoretical analysis.'"
"What about claiming that you've been doing extensive independent research?"
"That would require me to cite sources," Leo pointed out. "And most of the sources for my knowledge exist only in my head because I made them up when I was writing this story."
Sir Reginald considered this problem with the kind of serious attention that he usually reserved for matters of pixie honor and proper sword maintenance. "You could always tell the truth," he suggested finally.
Leo stared at him. "The truth? You want me to tell Professor Grimwald that I'm actually a failed fantasy author who died in a car accident and was reincarnated into my own badly written novel with complete knowledge of how the plot is supposed to unfold?"
"When you put it like that," Sir Reginald admitted, "it does sound rather implausible."
"Implausible doesn't begin to cover it," Leo said. "It sounds like the kind of story that would get me committed to a magical psychiatric facility for people who've had too many encounters with reality-altering spells."
----
[New Quest Issued: Explain Your Academic Excellence]
• Description: Professor Grimwald wants to know how you know so much about magic. Try to come up with an explanation that doesn't involve admitting you're the author of reality.
• Reward: Continued enrollment at the academy and the slim possibility of maintaining some semblance of a normal student life.
• Failure Penalty: Increased faculty attention and possible recruitment into advanced research programs that will make anonymity impossible.
----
Leo spent the next hour preparing for his meeting with Professor Grimwald by rehearsing various explanations for his suspiciously advanced knowledge of magical theory. He practiced claiming to be a naturally gifted student, a dedicated autodidact, and someone who had been secretly tutored by mysterious experts in advanced magical principles.
None of his prepared explanations sounded even remotely convincing.
"Perhaps," Sir Reginald suggested as they made their way through the academy's corridors toward Professor Grimwald's office, "you should simply embrace your reputation as an academic prodigy. It might be easier than trying to convince people that your expertise is accidental."
"I don't want to be an academic prodigy," Leo said desperately. "I want to be a forgettable background character who attends classes, does adequate work, and graduates without anyone remembering my name."
"That ship has sailed," Sir Reginald pointed out.
"You've defeated golems with cleaning supplies, saved princesses from assassination, created magical light shows that made people cry, and now you've written examination answers that could be published in academic journals. I think it's safe to say that your career as a forgettable background character is officially over."
Leo groaned. "There has to be a way to convince people that I'm not as smart as my test scores suggest."
"You could try acting stupid," Sir Reginald suggested. "Though given your track record, you'd probably end up accidentally revolutionizing the field of strategic ignorance."