Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 122: Dumb decisions

Chapter 122: Dumb decisions

The academy’s training field had returned to silence, but my mind hadn’t. The shadow from earlier still lingered in my thoughts like smoke that refused to disperse. Caspian Arvell. Phantom Duelist. Watching.

Who the hell left a book in the library with just a name written in it... only for that name to vanish and be replaced with "The Phantom Duelist is watching"?

That wasn’t something normal. Not even by Noctis Ardentis standards, and we’ve got students who light themselves on fire just to prove a point.

Back in my quarters, I unrolled a worn parchment on my desk, the one I kept for tracking rune theory and skill interactions. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for—just that this felt like a pattern. The Grimoire of Patterns skill hadn’t reacted to the encounter directly, but there was this subtle... tickle. Like it wanted to. That didn’t sit right with me.

I glanced at the edge of the desk. There, half-buried under a stack of unfinished reports, was the book from the library. The one that had "Caspian Arvell" written in old ink, now replaced by that ominous message. I turned it over in my hands again, this time looking for magic traces—sigils, bindings, illusions.

Nothing.

Except for one thing I hadn’t noticed before.

There was dust... in the shape of fingerprints. On a book that hadn’t left my room. I rubbed the cover gently and saw smudges, like someone had opened it again after I had left it. Someone—or something—had been in my room.

"Cute," I muttered, setting the book down and reaching for my dagger. "Next time, leave a calling card."

A knock on the door nearly made me throw the thing.

"Professor Drelmont?"

Wallace’s voice. Of course. My own personal gremlin.

"What?" I snapped, opening the door with a flick of my wrist.

Wallace stood there, holding a contraption that looked like a kettle merged with a telescope. His hair was smoking slightly.

"I, uh, may have accidentally set the alchemy lab on fire. Again."

I stared at him.

"I was trying to improve the evaporation rate of flammable extracts, and then I thought—"

"You thought," I cut him off, "that blowing yourself up would advance your career?"

"Well, it did teach me that adding powdered starshroom to catalyzed fire salts causes rapid expansion in closed spaces—"

"—which you learned by turning the academy’s lab into a crater?"

He opened his mouth.

I shut the door in his face.

One problem at a time.

I turned back to the mysterious book, pulled out a quill, and began to jot down everything that had happened. If there was one thing the Grimoire of Patterns thrived on, it was repetition and observation. Even if it didn’t register anything now, I’d be damned if I let some masked stalker outmaneuver me in my own world.

I wasn’t the same Lucian Drelmont from the game anymore. I wasn’t a disposable villain on a scripted path.

I was someone who survived Black Stone Mountain on bare supplies and taught chaos incarnate.

If the Phantom Duelist was watching me...

Good.

I hoped they were taking notes.

The next morning arrived with the enthusiasm of a hungover banshee. My head throbbed—not from drink, but from the creeping suspicion that someone, or something, was watching me sleep. I double-checked the windows, the corners, even under my bed. Nothing. But the unease remained like a stone in my boot.

I shoved the cursed book into a drawer and locked it. No new symbols, no messages, no mysterious pop-ups from the system. Just that same line etched into my skull:

The Phantom Duelist is watching.

Fine. Let them.

I had a class to mock into greatness.

"Line up, future disappointments!" I barked as I stepped onto the training grounds.

Mira and Cassandra were absent—"prior engagements" according to the roster. Honestly? Good. They were the only two with enough brain cells not constantly colliding. Today was for the dumber half of Class C.

Julien smirked like he was ready to spar with the gods. Felix tripped over his own boot trying to salute. Wallace had a metal gauntlet on one hand and a wrench in the other. Leo looked like he wanted to die. Garrick, gods bless him, stood firm and proud like I hadn’t crushed his hopes last week.

I rubbed my temples.

"Alright. One at a time. Sword drills, pattern spacing, and evasion training. If you don’t dodge, you get hit. If you don’t hit, you get mocked. If you whine, I throw a rock at you. Clear?"

Felix raised his hand.

"Can we—?"

I threw a rock at him.

He yelped.

"Class has officially started," I said cheerfully.

Garrick was first. The meathead was strong, sure, but subtlety was as foreign to him as modesty to Julien.

"You’re swinging that like you’re trying to pet a dragon with a slab of ham," I said as he lunged at the training dummy and missed the vital mark by a foot. "Aim, Garrick. You ever heard of it? It’s this revolutionary concept where you actually hit what you’re trying to kill."

He grunted and tried again, slashing harder.

The dummy creaked, then spun and whacked him in the back.

"Congratulations. You just lost to a stick with a face painted on it."

Leo stepped up next, sighing so deeply you’d think he was carrying the weight of the entire curriculum on his back.

"Do I really have to—?"

"Yes."

"But I’m more of a theorist, I don’t—"

I launched a small spark of mana at his feet. He screamed and jumped forward.

"Good. See? Movement. Progress. Now hit the dummy or it hits back."

He missed, panicked, tripped, and somehow rolled into Julien’s legs.

Julien laughed so hard he forgot to block when his dummy retaliated.

I clapped slowly. "Excellent. If this was a play called How Not to Survive Combat 101, I’d nominate you all for awards."

Then came Felix.

Ah, Felix.

He approached his dummy with the seriousness of a man approaching his executioner.

He raised his sword, took a deep breath... and dropped it.

Silence.

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Felix," I said, voice calm and cold. "Is this your tactic? Disarm yourself and hope the enemy trips on your sword?"

He scrambled to pick it up. "Sorry, Professor, it slipped—"

"Of course it did. Because you sweat fear. Your palms are practically oozing terror."

He tried again. This time, he managed to swing.

The dummy didn’t even move.

"That," I said, "was not a strike. That was a gentle suggestion. Are you trying to ask it to die politely?"

Julien leaned in, grinning. "Professor, should we put a flower crown on Felix and call him the Saint of Mercy?"

Felix blushed furiously. "I’m trying, okay?"

"You’re failing, okay?" I snapped. "Try less like a squirrel juggling knives and more like someone whose life depends on it. Because guess what? It will."

The rest of the session was a parade of missteps, blunders, and minor injuries. Wallace accidentally launched a small explosion that singed Garrick’s hair. Julien got overconfident and nearly sprained his wrist. Leo kept muttering that he should’ve enrolled in botany.

But somehow... they were improving.

Marginally.

By the time I called for cooldown stretches, Garrick was landing decent hits. Wallace’s gadgets hadn’t exploded in the last fifteen minutes. Julien wasn’t showboating as much. Felix... well, he only dropped his sword three more times.

Progress.

I stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed, watching the disaster brigade pant and flop onto the grass.

"Terrible," I announced.

Groans filled the air.

"But less terrible than yesterday," I added.

They perked up.

"Which isn’t praise. It’s a warning. Improve faster, or the only thing you’ll be good at is dying."

They nodded. Even Felix, who looked like he’d been through war.

I turned to leave, but paused.

"Tomorrow, we go over mana reinforcement and combat scenarios. Come prepared."

"And if we’re not?" Wallace asked.

I grinned. "Then I’ll let Garrick punch you as a demonstration."

Felix whimpered.

I walked off, the faint breeze carrying the scent of effort, sweat, and barely-avoided catastrophe.

Behind me, Class C laughed, argued, and mocked each other with the kind of easy camaraderie only shared between fools destined for trouble.

And yet...

They were mine.

For now.

And I’d make damn sure they survived.

Even if I had to insult them into greatness.