Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 112: Arena

Chapter 112: Arena

The air thrummed with mana. High above the coliseum, arcane projectors cast shimmering projections of the arena onto massive banners, replaying every moment in vivid detail. In the crowd, noble sponsors leaned forward in their cushioned seats, eager for blood, spectacle—or ideally, both.

And below, at the edge of the platform suspended over the void, Class C prepared to break every expectation.

I stood in the waiting zone, arms folded, ignoring the nobles whispering behind me. I’d seen their evaluations—dismissive scrawls in red ink branding Class C as "statistically unlikely," "pedagogically doomed," "barely combat capable."

Statistically unlikely?

Good.

Let’s destroy statistics.

Julien stepped onto the field first, grinning like he was about to rob a bakery.

Varnin was a hulking, tusked beast of a student. Orc-blooded. Greatsword. 300 pounds of sheer "I eat swords for breakfast" energy.

The arena shimmered.

Reality rippled like a disturbed pond.

The flat platform warped into a circular jungle of warped trees and twisted vines, the scent of spice and rot thick in the air. Each fighter’s subconscious desires seeped into the Arena of Intent—and apparently, Julien’s deepest yearning involved *verticality*.

"Hey Professor," Julien called across the bond, "I always wanted to be a monkey."

"Don’t say things like that out loud. Sponsors are listening."

Varnin roared and charged.

Julien immediately *ran away*.

To the crowd, it looked like cowardice.

To me?

It was *classic Julien*.

The first few minutes were a blur of aerial footwork and wild cackling. Julien darted through branches, forcing Varnin to swing and crash and stumble after him. Then came the trick:

Varnin leapt to meet Julien midair—

And fell into a rune trap. The canopy exploded with a burst of repelling force. Varnin was launched backward—right into the arena’s barrier.

RING OUT.

Cheers.

Gasps.

One noble woman in a powdered wig screamed, "That’s *Class C?!*"

Julien took a bow. "I’m here all week."

---

**Round Two: Mira vs. Elric Danthiel (Class B)**

Elric was precision incarnate. Ice spells, tight footwork, a duelist’s discipline. Mira?

Mira was chaos in a cloak.

The arena reshaped again—this time into a warped ballroom filled with shattered mirrors. Elric’s ice glimmered across surfaces, reflecting his position a dozen times over.

But Mira didn’t fight fair.

While Elric cast from one reflection, Mira simply vanished.

Not with invisibility.

With *audacity*.

She stepped *into* the reflection.

It was something only a dark-elemental caster could do—fold herself between surfaces, walk the line between light and shadow.

Elric swung.

His ice struck a mirror—

Mira stepped out of another.

And tapped him on the shoulder.

"Boo."

Elric turned.

And was hit with a hex burst that turned his limbs to jelly.

He collapsed in a heap.

Mira curtsied. "Next."

No finesse. No cleverness. Just two freight trains colliding.

The arena turned into a massive ironworks—clanging hammers, molten pits, steam and sweat and steel.

Garrick emerged like a titan. No weapon. Just gauntlets reinforced with rune-etched plates.

Alden had twin hammers and a chip on his shoulder.

They clashed.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, Garrick caught both hammers in one hand and *headbutted* Alden so hard his helmet flew off.

I winced.

"He’s getting too comfortable with brute force," I murmured.

Gregor, watching beside me, nodded. "You’ve trained him well."

"He trained *himself.* I just gave him permission."

Felix walked into the arena with all the confidence of a rabbit at a wolf convention.

Arienne? Elegant. Fire caster. Delicate and deadly.

The arena turned into a massive library—a maze of bookshelves and flickering candlelight. Appropriate. Arienne was the favorite. Odds-makers hadn’t even listed Felix as a "real" contender.

Which made what happened next all the more beautiful.

Arienne conjured a phoenix.

Felix screamed, turned to run—

And tripped.

Which ’accidentally’ triggered a rune mine Wallace had pre-loaded into his coat for "good luck."

The phoenix exploded into sparks.

Felix stared.

Arienne stared.

Then Felix sneezed.

A gust of wind knocked over three shelves, trapping her beneath falling tomes.

*RING OUT.*

He won.

By accident.

Again.

Wallace’s fight was less a duel and more a physics lecture gone horribly wrong.

The arena reshaped into a giant workshop.

Minerva used gravity manipulation. Elegant, practiced, terrifying.

Wallace used... *Wallace*.

He pulled three devices from his coat. One exploded. One beeped. One turned into a tiny metal ferret that ran off screaming, "All glory to the gremlin king!"

Minerva raised a hand.

Wallace vanished.

Literally.

Then reappeared above her in a flash of blinding light, riding the recoil of a reversed polarity disc.

He crashed onto her with the weight of four exploding alchemical canisters.

Minerva was thrown off the edge.

RING OUT.

Wallace stood, smoking slightly.

"Science," he said solemnly, "is pain."

Her opponent forfeited.

They said it was because of a "mana imbalance."

But everyone watching felt the truth.

When Cassandra stepped into the arena—alone—it turned cold.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The arena didn’t change.

*She* changed it.

The platform dimmed. Shadows grew longer. The world bent inward, uncertain.

Cassandra didn’t move.

She didn’t have to.

She just was.

And everyone watching knew: this was not someone you wanted to fight unprepared.

She walked off the field like a whisper, eyes calm, unreadable.

I felt the hairs on my neck rise.

The first day of Convergence ended with Class C undefeated.

The crowd was stunned. The instructors were speechless. Gale looked like he’d swallowed a lemon wrapped in shame.

Back in the staging zone, my students crowded around, sweaty and sore but radiant with adrenaline.

"WE WON," Julien shouted.

"We didn’t die!" Felix added helpfully.

Mira rolled her eyes but smiled faintly.

Wallace was unconscious.

Cassandra was already sketching something into a notebook.

I looked at them—my reckless, chaotic, glorious disasters.

"You’re all still getting homework."

They groaned.

But their smiles never left.

And above us, in the hidden rafters, three robed figures watched in silence—sponsors, yes, but something else too.

One leaned to another and whispered, "Lucian Drelmont... is no longer following the script."

The Spiral Veil was shifting.

And the world would follow.