Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 124: Emergency

Chapter 124: Emergency

The next day arrived like a punch to the teeth—early, rude, and with terrible intentions.

I stood at the front of the classroom, arms crossed, watching my brilliant collection of future disappointment slump into their seats one by one. Mira and Cassandra were still absent, supposedly attending an advanced magic review or secret girl meeting to avoid my creative torment. Their loss.

The rest of the circus had arrived.

Leo was limping. Garrick had an arm sling, which he insisted was "just for the vibe." Wallace’s hair had not recovered from the steam explosion he called an ’engineering success,’ and Felix... poor, sweet, perpetually cursed Felix... was wheeled in by Julien on a rusted cart.

"Permission to exist, Professor," Julien said lazily, kicking the cart to a stop.

"Denied," I replied without looking up. "And points deducted for improper wheel alignment."

Felix groaned. "I think I swallowed a bug."

"Good," I said. "Maybe it’ll be the first useful thing you’ve digested this week."

"Today," I announced, flicking a rune to activate the blackboard, "we’re reviewing yesterday’s disasters frame by frame."

The Tactical Feedback Recorder orb floated forward. The students collectively groaned.

"Oh yes," I continued, "every scream, every fall, every tragically stupid decision—you’re all about to relive it. Together."

The orb flickered to life.

The first image: Felix smacking face-first into the wall.

The sound: "Owgh! My everything!"

Julien snorted. Wallace choked on his tea. Leo laughed so hard he triggered a nosebleed again.

"Observe," I said, laser-pointing at the image, "the majesty of poor planning and worse execution. Felix, what went wrong here?"

"I... tried my best?"

"Wrong. You tried your worst and succeeded. Applause."

Cue laughter. Garrick gave a slow clap. Even Felix chuckled in defeat.

The next scene was Wallace’s grand detonation dive, launching Leo into the thornbush.

Leo winced. "That explains the scratch in my underwear."

"Never say that again," I warned. "And Wallace?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"What did we learn?"

"Test explosions before deployment?"

"Close. What we learned was: ’If your plan starts with the words what if, abandon it immediately.’"

As the footage rolled, I handed each student a tiny notebook titled Your Most Idiotic Moments – Volume One.

Felix’s was already halfway full.

We ended with a slow-motion reel of Garrick tripping over Leo mid-lap and face-planting into the mud pit. The cursed mud pit. It hissed and belched as he emerged like a swamp monster reborn.

"I felt something touch my soul," Garrick muttered.

"Yes," I said. "That was your dignity. It died there."

After the suffering ended, we headed outside for part two: live simulation.

I summoned a few illusory monsters—nothing lethal, just fast, loud, and annoying.

Like toddlers with teeth.

"Each of you will take a turn fending them off while coordinating with a partner. Felix, you’re up first."

He paled. "Alone?"

"No, no. You get Leo."

"...That’s worse."

The training began. Screams followed.

Julien failed to keep his back covered and got ’bitten’ by a fake wyvern. Wallace’s trap collapsed on himself. Garrick forgot the plan and threw Leo like a sack of potatoes. Leo complained he wasn’t aerodynamic. I made a note to deduct points for physics denial.

And Felix? He actually managed to dodge something for once.

Until he tripped over his own boot and headbutted a training dummy into unconsciousness.

I didn’t even know that was possible.

By lunch, they were barely standing.

I gathered them one last time under the shade.

"Today was a masterpiece," I said solemnly.

They straightened up, hopeful.

"A masterpiece of failure," I clarified. "I will be dreaming of this day whenever I need a laugh."

Groans.

"But..." I added, "You are improving. Slowly. Painfully. Like watching a tree learn to walk. But improving."

They stared.

"Thanks, I guess?" Julien muttered.

"You’re welcome. Now, dismissed. Felix, you stay behind."

He froze.

"Why me?"

"Because I suspect your cursed luck is contagious, and I need to run tests."

He whimpered.

"Also, your entire performance today has qualified for a new classification: Felix-level emergency."

He groaned, head hitting the bench.

Tomorrow, we’d tackle real strategy. Maybe even let them win a round.

But for now?

They were still my beloved disasters.

And chaos was still the curriculum.

Felix stared up at me with the kind of expression reserved for orphans in tragic plays or cats caught in the rain.

"I—I can’t feel my ribs, Professor."

"Then you’re finally learning to stop relying on them. Progress."

The rest of Class C had stumbled off toward the dining hall or infirmary—likely both. I stood over Felix, arms folded, waiting for the right moment.

Not to help him.

To mock him further.

"You realize, of course," I said, crouching beside him, "that out of all the chaos, explosions, poor decisions, and what I suspect was an illegal grappling maneuver by Leo... you still ranked dead last."

"I... killed a dummy," he muttered.

"You headbutted it to death. That’s not a skill, it’s a cry for help."

"I panicked!"

"That’s also not a skill. That’s just your default state."

I summoned a small illusion of a gold medal and gently dropped it onto his chest.

"Here. For bravery in the face of common sense."

He wheezed. "Why does it weigh so much?"

"Because it’s made of disappointment."

Eventually, I dragged him to his feet. Well, half dragged. He flopped along like a wet scarf until we made it to the shade of the courtyard tree, the same one where Mira had cursed that poor squirrel last month. I still hadn’t seen the creature blink right.

Felix leaned against the trunk, wheezing.

"You know," he said between gasps, "most instructors give, like, lectures. Books. Encouragement."

I raised an eyebrow. "And where would you be with lectures, books, and encouragement?"

He didn’t respond.

"Exactly. Dead. Probably impaled on a tree branch trying to read while running."

He nodded slowly. "That sounds... accurate."

I sighed. "Felix, listen. You’re not the strongest. Not the smartest. Certainly not the most coordinated. But you’ve got something none of them have."

His eyes widened.

"An uncanny ability to survive absolute idiocy. That’s rare. And might even be useful—if we sharpen it enough."

His mouth opened in awe.

Then shut when I smacked a training manual against his forehead.

"Stop looking like I just adopted you. We’ve got work to do."

By the time we returned to the classroom, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows through the cracked windows. I cleared the board and summoned a few rune diagrams midair. Simple stuff. Just enough to make Felix sweat.

"What do you see here?" I asked.

He squinted. "A... circle?"

"No."

"A triangle?"

"No."

"A curse?"

I gave him a look.

"It’s a basic reinforcement rune. Used to stabilize objects, deflect minor magic, and—if you don’t screw it up—can even boost movement."

He frowned. "I’ve never been able to get that one right."

"Yes. Because you write like a chicken trying to draw with its feet."

I summoned the rune again.

"Trace it. Slowly. Then we’ll do it in real-time. If you can stabilize even one, I’ll stop calling you ’Spineless’ for a week."

His eyes lit up. "Really?"

"No."

"But you just said—"

"I lied. Now trace."

He spent the next hour fumbling, grumbling, and tripping over his own magical circuits. But by the end of it, there was a shimmer. A flicker. A barely-there glow that didn’t explode or catch fire or scream.

We stared at it.

"Is it working?" Felix whispered.

I nodded slowly.

"It’s... functioning. Somehow."

"I did it?"

"You did something," I muttered, watching it wobble like a drunk moth.

Then it popped. But no damage. No screaming.

A win.

Felix slumped back, arms limp. "I want to sleep for a week."

"You’ll sleep for five minutes," I said. "Then we’re starting on the shield forms."

"I hate magic."

"It hates you back. Get in line."

By the time I dismissed him—barely conscious and dragging his feet—I actually felt something stir in my chest.

Pity? Affection?

...No. Just gas. I skipped breakfast.

Still. The kid had tried.

And in a world like this, sometimes that was enough to stay alive.

I looked down at the shattered dummy from earlier and muttered, "We’re gonna have to reinforce training gear. And maybe teach the others how not to copy Felix."

Because chaos wasn’t just the curriculum.

It was contagious.

And I had a class full of disaster vectors.