EXTENDED CUT! First Impressions: Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotional Incompetent. By Daniel Newwyn.

“Magic runs on emotions. Fabrisse runs on pure, undiluted embarrassment.”

Core Premise & Initial Impression:

Take a young man, and shoot him up with heavy doses of pathetic. And I don’t mean street stuff: the pitifulness of an unheedful galoot, fumbling on the floor, glasses knocked from his head having strolled—with purpose—into a lamppost while everybody watched.

No, Fabrisse Kestovar—the hero of this story—has long since graduated from all that.

He’s all strung out on the medical grade.

The soil-your-undies-while-your-crush-looks-on grade.

The change-your-name-and-reconstruct-your-face grade.

The move-to-a-monastery-and-spend-your-days-in-shameful-meditation grade. Thoughts solely locked on forgetting yourself—but flunking out of that, because wherever you go, there you still are… grade.

In a world well-versed in magic, Fabrisse can barely spell.

Held back by his ineptitude, he’s leapfrogged by juniors. Rejected by his crush. Dejected—though he hides it. And neglected by the magical academy that’s deemed him inert.

Now, Basic Thaumaturgy is a LitRPG. Given the staples of the genre, and the lamentable station Fabrisse holds, one could be forgiven for believing our good friend Truck-sama would take pity on the lad, stalk him to a crosswalk, and smear him across the road straight to another world.

Yes, one could be forgiven for making that assumption.

But it’d be wrong. And though one could certainly be forgiven—I have said that three times—one is not.

One will be publicly lashed, then fed to the dogs.

Because Basic Thaumaturgy is not an Isekai. It is not billed as one. Don’t mention it. Don’t bring it up.

In fact, while we’re still on the subject of what this novel is not, it’s also not an ice cream van, a bowl of hot soup, or Louisiana fried chicken so crispy it shatters like glass when you bite it.

(Sponsor me, Popeyes. I’ll read every chapter from a bucket if that’s what it takes.)

What it is, is a magical academy LitRPG. No reincarnation. No second chances. Just one pathetic magus, one very disappointed academy, and you—along for the ride.

We’re introduced to Fabrisse in the midst of blundering a spell. Magic in this world isn’t based on perfect incantation—though mnemonic devices play an important role. Nor is it determined by ritual or sacrifice—at least not the field of magic our protagonist studies.

It’s constructed through emotions. At least, that’s the general understanding of those learned in Thaumaturgy.

Channel emotions into the ambient magic (read: Aether), Combine this with a physical medium (fire, water, air, what-have-you) and you get a spell.

When it comes to the theory of the craft, Fabrisse is more than competent. But in its application, he flounders worse than a jellyfish in a bouncy castle.

So tell me, dear reader—what do you do when you’re terrible at the very thing you’re meant to be doing?

If this spell-slinging story is to be believed—and I can think of no reason it cannot—you collect rocks.

Fabrisse collects rocks…

You might be imagining magical rocks—ethereal jewels that glow with otherworldly light and mystical potential.

Allow me to dissuade you of that notion.

In this world, earth is the least reactive of the magical elements. It’s seen as about as useful as a male cat’s nipples—and about as enticing as the cream you’d squeeze out.

And the rocks Fabrisse hoards? They’ve been magically tested and confirmed to be especially, spectacularly no good.

But he collects them anyway, and it’s a good thing he does. Because, as it happens, those useless rocks aren’t so useless after all.

What’s their use?

The answer comes to Fabrisse—and smacks him in the head.

No, really. Wham.

Straight on the noggin.

Turns out those rocks were the key to unlocking the magical… whatcha-majigger of mystical destiny.

It downloads a UI straight to his soul—

Basically, the Konami Code for being less inept.

For this First Impressions, I read twenty-five chapters of this novel, and I enjoyed every one. The world is magical, yet deeply recognisable. Every character is, in their own way, quirky yet believable and distinct.

A common issue I’ve found in this genre is that side characters often feel more like props for the protagonist than real people with their own priorities and goals.

Basic Thaumaturgy does not suffer that problem.

The protagonist himself is deeply likeable, relatable, and engaging. The people in his small circle are no less so. Even the minor antagonists and bullies are, if not likeable, at least amusing. No one feels like they’re here on set decoration duty—everyone earns their place on the page.

The novel is humorous and brimming with personality. Even the system UI prompts that feed Fabrisse quests and objectives feel charmingly snarky for a thoughtless machine interface.

There’s a lot to love about this novel. It’s (largely) well-written, well-conceived, and a refreshing take on a genre that can sometimes sacrifice originality on the altar of its tropes.

But nothing’s perfect. Basic Thaumaturgy is no exception to that rule.

We’ll dig deeper on that later. But first, let’s get into…

What Works?

Humorous Prose & Personality Rich Characters:

I won’t linger on this long as I’ve already mentioned it before, but a key strength of this work is the humour and charm that just drips from the pages. It’s suffused into the writing.

The prose plays along. From deliberately dramatising otherwise mundane activities—like gathering spilled rocks—to slyly pre-empting Fabrisse’s next line, at times it’s like watching a double act riff off one another.

That being said, the writing is (largely) clear. The similes are evocative and inventive. The humour doesn’t feel forced—it flows naturally. Sometimes it’s overt—banter-driven. Other times, it’s understated and observational. What it’s never is distracting, and it never detracts from the story’s momentum.

The characters radiate that same charm. Fabrisse’s wry, self-conscious humour—the kind that stumbles in sideways, half-apology and half-observation—pairs beautifully with his mentor’s long-suffering exasperation, his sister’s imperturbable cooperation, and his roommate’s dry, surgical asides. Together, they produce fleshed-out yet instantly recognisable personalities who breathe life into every scene.

They’re like the spicy chicken tenders of narrative—perfectly seasoned, dangerously moreish, and likely to ruin you for anything else.

But only from Popeyes…

Assuming Popeyes wants their brand forever linked to fictional rock-hoarders.

Inventive Magic System & Progression:

From the first scene enactment of Fabrisse’s failed spell, you know the magic is special… I mean, by definition all magic is special, but don’t get clever with me.

Fabrisse needs to channel his faux grief over the faux death of his faux dog to get his spell to work. The author details the process: the dog has a name. Hell, it even gets a secret origin story. We learn its favourite meal. By the end of it, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear voices demanding the author pivot and write the dog in as protagonist.

Mine is not among those voices… I mean, I agree. But my writing doesn’t vocalise.

But the monster the author is, he kills the dog all the same—all to fuel a spell to bind a scarecrow in a field.

We watch as Fabrisse works and reworks the story to invoke his grief. We see him take his stance. And smile wryly as he recites his mnemonic.

It’s altogether enchanting—

Unlike his spell…

Which fails completely.

From there, the magic only becomes more intriguing. The story exhibits magic in a scholarly context. It’s respectable, repeatable—that little bit stuffy. The rules are known… or believed to be known. Its origins are novel—supposedly from an asteroid that struck the world.

Even when the Duracell bunny (read: System UI—reread: Glyph) plugs itself into Fabrisse’s brain, the magic doesn’t get diluted.

He learns shortcuts—sure. But he still has to learn. Even the power-ups he gets access to don’t come easy. He has to complete his quests. He has to lie. He has to cheat. He has to steal. And sometimes, he has to hunt down an avaricious duck in search of a missing freckle.

(No, that’s not a punchline. But it makes more sense when you read the book.)

Power isn’t granted—it’s learned.

It’s earned.

Just like my future sponsorship deal…

From Popeyes Chicken.

Measured Pacing:

With the magic system as richly defined as it is in this story, you’d be right in thinking there’s a lot to take in.

Fortunately, the pacing allows for it. The introductory chapters give the world the space to expand without rocketing ahead and leaving the reader adrift in confusion.

We follow along as the world gently unfolds—like a flower in bloom, an origami napkin at a tipsy banquet, or the slow, inevitable approach of Popeyes legal team as they watch me scale their headquarters with a family bucket.

What Might Hold It Back?

Narrative Anachronisms:

Let me explain. You get the general vibe of the world the author’s created: you’re in a magically advanced society. They might not have circuits and wires, but they have enchantments and glyphs.

That’s absolutely fine. Splendid, even.

I can roll with that.

But then some contemporary phrases and modern establishments slip into the narration, and you can’t help but raise a brow.

Even when there are narrative reasons for some of the phrases—such as those voiced by the System UI—the fact that they don’t raise more questions from Fabrisse’s perspective does chip away at immersion, at least for me.

At first, I couldn’t quite get the hang of the world. I half-expected Fabrisse’s sister to pull out an iPhone, load up Bardic Planet, and spit my review right back in my face.

And then there’s the bit where Fabrisse briefly imagines himself condemned to some arcane customer service oubliette.

Now—could a magical world have some form of complaint-handling bureaucracy? Sure. But “customer services” is a very modern concept, loaded with our world’s cultural baggage. Drop it into a setting without modern infrastructure, and it pulls the reader’s mind straight back to reality. That’s why it snagged my immersion, brief though it was.

Ultimately, it’s a small issue, but I had to bring it up.

(Please note the lack of a Popeyes shill. I could have slipped it in here, but I behaved.)

Slow Start:

Since I’m way over word count, I’ll keep this short.

I’ve mentioned the measured pacing as something that works—and it does. The character interactions and progression hold momentum. But in the chapters I’ve read, the story has yet to fully make clear its direction.

There’s tension from Fabrisse being unexpectedly chosen by the magical whatchamabob and from how the academy responds to his new status. But what’s left unclear is the ultimate path Basic Thaumaturgy intends to take.

Once again, this is minor. The world is so creative and defined that even without direct confirmation, I have faith the author knows what they’re doing and where they’re going.

It’s not blind faith—the work justifies my trust—but in what I’ve read, that destination is still unseen.

I would have liked a hint. Some dramatic irony. Something to clutch at. Whispers of shadows marching forward. A promise in the wind. Something.

You don’t get that in the early chapters.

It’s not a big deal…

But it would’ve been nice.

Closing Thoughts:

If you’re looking for a creative, magical, whimsical world to get lost in, look no further—you’ve found it in these pages.

What you won’t find is ripping action straight from the go. The story takes its time to heat up. And that works for me.

It’s a slow burn, but it cooks up nicely.

Just like Louisiana Fried Chicken…from Popeyes.

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