Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 130: Why is this on fire

Chapter 130: Why is this on fire

The morning after my delightful episode of almost manslaughter, Class C showed up early.

Too early.

It was suspicious.

They were standing in formation when I arrived—Felix twitching, Julien with his "I’m planning something" face, and even Leo looked mildly afraid of me, which meant something had finally gotten through his skull.

Garrick gave me a respectful nod.

I didn’t like it.

"Did someone die?" I asked, voice flat.

"No, Professor," Mira replied from the side. She and Cassandra had finally returned from whatever shady errands or blood rituals they’d been up to.

I stared at her.

"Where were you?"

"Busy," she answered.

Cryptic. Typical.

Cassandra didn’t even reply—she just stood there, arms folded, eyes like distant mirrors. Eerie as always.

"Fine," I muttered. "We’re doing practicals today. Individual combat evaluations. If you cry, cry quietly—I’ve got a headache and a low tolerance for emotional outbursts."

Julien grinned. "Is that because you almost murdered someone yesterday?"

"No, that’s because I didn’t. Don’t make me regret my restraint."

He shut up.

Smart.

The drills began.

Felix vs. Leo was like watching two cats trapped in a barrel, except one was blind and the other allergic to competence.

I stopped them halfway through.

"Felix, what is this move called?" I asked, gesturing to his awkward lunging spin.

"Uh... Whirlwind Slash?"

"It’s called ’Tripping Over Your Own Stupidity.’ And Leo, stop retreating like you’re reenacting your tragic childhood."

Leo muttered something.

"I heard that," I said. "And no, I will not schedule a therapy session. That’s what these fights are for. Emotional trauma makes you stronger. Or dead. Either way, I get results."

Next up: Mira vs. Garrick.

Now this was more interesting.

Mira fought like she had a grudge against physics. Smooth, subtle, deadly. Garrick countered with raw force, like a battering ram trying to outthink a scalpel.

Mira won.

Of course she did.

"Excellent work," I said, nodding. "Mira, you’ve clearly mastered the art of defeating someone three times your size with only passive aggression and a curse circle."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Garrick," I added. "I’ve seen broken wagons put up more resistance. Maybe use your brain next time."

He scratched the back of his neck. "I thought I was."

"That explains a lot."

Then came Cassandra.

I paired her against Julien, mostly because I wanted to see what would happen when an unpredictable storm collided with an idiot trying to flirt mid-fight.

It went poorly.

For Julien.

He tried to feint.

She vanished.

He swung wide.

She appeared behind him.

He screamed, spun, tripped, and landed face-first into the dirt.

I gave it three seconds.

"Any last words?"

He spat out mud. "I regret everything."

Cassandra walked off without a word.

Terrifying.

By noon, everyone looked half-dead and fully traumatized.

I leaned on my sword, watching them groan on the ground like wounded animals.

"Today’s lesson?" I said. "Pain builds character. But not if you die—so try not to."

Felix raised a trembling hand. "Permission to die quietly, sir?"

"Denied. If you’re dying, do it dramatically. Make it a learning opportunity."

"...Figures."

I glanced around the group.

Wrecked. Bruised. Exhausted.

Perfect.

"Get lunch. Then clean up the training yard. We’re done."

"Wait," Julien muttered. "We’re not... doing extra drills?"

I smiled.

The class tensed.

"No," I said. "You’re doing punishment essays. 500 words on why being incompetent makes my job harder."

Collective groans.

Garrick actually looked betrayed.

"Due tomorrow," I added. "Fail to submit and you’ll spar against me. Blindfolded."

"Us or you?" Mira asked.

"Me."

They scattered.

As they should.

I stayed behind, watching the yard empty.

Cassandra lingered for a moment—then vanished like mist.

Mira gave me a knowing glance and walked off.

And I stood there, blade resting on my shoulder, wondering how long it would be before the next idiot thought I was weak.

Hopefully soon.

Because I hadn’t had enough chances lately to really cut loose.

And next time?

I wouldn’t stop at mockery.

Next time, I’d remind the academy that even the lowest-ranked instructors had teeth.

Especially the ones with nothing left to lose.

By the time I got back to my office, someone had lit a candle and knocked over my bookshelf.

Again.

There were muddy footprints on the floor, a sticky juice stain on one of my scrolls, and someone had left a sandwich in my drawer.

Still warm.

Someone was either dumb, suicidal, or both.

I didn’t even ask anymore.

Just sat down, shoved the sandwich into the trash, and exhaled like an old man who’d lived through five wars and a cursed marriage.

Five minutes later, the door opened without knocking.

Of course.

"Felix," I said without looking.

"Professor."

His voice was unusually serious.

I glanced up.

His face was bruised, again. A cut across his cheek. His uniform burned at the edges.

"Explain."

"Training dummy exploded."

"Liar."

"Julien dared me to pour volatile oil on it."

"Better. Continue."

"I said it’d be fine. Then Wallace threw a spark rune at it."

"And?"

"Boom."

I stared at him.

He tried to smile.

I raised a brow. "And this connects to you being here because...?"

He squirmed. "I think I might’ve cursed myself."

"You’re not important enough to curse. Sit."

He sat.

I inspected the mark on his hand. It wasn’t a curse—it was a partial ignition rune that had carved itself into his skin mid-explosion. Probably Wallace’s doing.

Fantastic.

I tapped my fingers on the desk.

Then I reached into the locked drawer and pulled out a black-glass vial.

Felix blanched. "Wait, what’s that?"

"Painkiller. Probably. It also kills worms. And... your fear of commitment."

He tried to bolt.

I grabbed his collar and poured the contents down his throat like a parent force-feeding medicine to a particularly twitchy raccoon.

He gagged. Choked. Cursed.

Then froze.

His pupils shrank to pinpricks.

The glow of the embedded rune dimmed, cracked, and fell apart like brittle charcoal.

"Fixed," I said.

He stared at me. "Am I... dying?"

"No. That’s just how it feels to stop being pathetic."

An hour later, I walked into the training yard again and found Julien and Wallace sword-fighting using cleaning mops.

"I don’t even want to ask," I muttered.

Julien grinned. "We’re inventing a new style—Custodian Clash!"

Wallace nodded. "We’re testing magical enhancements for janitorial combat. Experimental phase."

"Do either of you remember why you were assigned to clean the yard?"

Julien pointed to the mop. "This is cleaning."

I considered violence.

Instead, I drew a chalk rune in the air and slammed it into the ground. A burst of wind scattered dust, dirt, and both of them into the nearest bush.

"Now it’s clean," I said.

Wallace groaned from the shrubs. "That’s... cheating..."

"Cheating is just winning more efficiently."

Later, as the sun dipped below the Academy’s jagged skyline, I sat in my quarters.

My coat hung over the chair. A half-eaten loaf of bread sat on the table. I didn’t even remember buying it.

The Grimoire of Patterns glowed faintly beside me. Not from a new spell—but from activity. Observation. The way it reacted meant something was near. Something unusual.

A flicker of movement from the corner of my eye.

But when I turned, nothing.

Only shadows.

I tapped the cover of the Grimoire. "You don’t usually warm up unless someone interesting is watching."

The page turned on its own.

A single word written in crimson ink: "Soon."

I stared at it, jaw tightening.

The Grimoire didn’t lie. And it didn’t joke.

That meant trouble.

Good.

It had been too quiet.

And chaos?

Chaos was my favorite classroom.