Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 137: Nightmares

Chapter 137: Nightmares

I’d seen beast charges before. I’d even baited one or two into them, usually while yelling something inspirational like, "Run faster or you’ll die." But nothing quite prepares you for six muscle-bound pigs with the temperament of berserkers and tusks sharp enough to disembowel a wyvern.

Julien went in first—because of course he did—flashing that cocky grin like we were in a duel and not an open field of screaming death.

"Come on, you walking ham sandwich!"

The lead boar barreled toward him. He dodged, barely, and the impact shattered a tree behind him.

"I am never eating bacon again!" Leo cried, flinging a weak firebolt that singed a boar’s backside and only made it angrier.

"Congratulations," I muttered, slicing across one beast’s flank as it lunged at Wallace. "You’ve given it a reason to hate us personally."

Wallace had somehow rigged together a tripwire trap using vines, a broken crossbow, and Felix’s belt. It worked—barely. One boar stumbled, faceplanted, and took Garrick’s full-body tackle straight to the ribs.

"Stay down!" Garrick yelled.

"I think it’s unconscious!" Mira shouted.

"Nope, just embarrassed," I replied, watching it twitch with rage.

Felix tried to use a stunning rune, but somehow it backfired and shocked himself. He shrieked, rolled backward, and crashed into Leo.

"Felix!" Leo yelled. "Why are you like this?!"

"It’s not my fault I was born unlucky!"

"Yes it is!"

"NO IT’S—wait, what?!"

The largest boar—clearly the alpha—snorted and charged right for them both.

"Oh no," I sighed.

I appeared between them in an instant, drawing on everything I had left. Mana surged to the blade in my hand, and fire licked across the metal.

"Ignition Sword: Third Trigger."

The blade flared like a miniature sun. Heat surged, the air shimmered—and I brought it down in a single arc.

The alpha shrieked, flames erupting across its side as the impact knocked it off course. It tumbled, crashed through a stump, and didn’t get back up.

Silence followed.

Then Felix whispered, "That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen."

I turned slowly toward him.

"You’re cleaning the boar guts off my coat tonight."

"...Worth it."

Half an hour later, the field was a mess of broken branches, soot, and very dead pigs.

Class C looked like they’d survived a war. Julien had a cut across his cheek, Mira was bandaging Wallace’s arm, and Garrick had a boar tooth stuck in his shoulder plate like a trophy.

Felix? Somehow perfectly fine.

"I think I’ve discovered my power," he said. "It’s called: not dying through sheer dumb luck."

"It’s called being a cockroach with a rune fetish," I muttered.

We packed up the remains, recorded the kill counts, and began dragging the bodies back to town with the help of summoned platforms and complaints. Many, many complaints.

Tomorrow, they’d be sore.

Tonight, they were alive.

And as I watched them argue over who got to keep the tusks, I almost felt something dangerously close to pride.

Almost.

We returned to town just past dusk—sweaty, blood-smeared, and dragging enough boar meat to feed a battalion. The local outpost guards didn’t even blink. One of them looked up from his post, saw us hauling six mutilated Razorboar corpses behind a group of battered academy students, and muttered, "Academy brats again, huh."

"Class C," I said. "We don’t die. We fail dramatically, survive, then pretend we meant to do it all along."

"Sure you do," he replied with a half-hearted salute.

Inside the mission hall, things were less welcoming. The clerk at the desk, a man with more wrinkles than hair and an expression that screamed underpaid and unimpressed, took one look at the boar tusks on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Please tell me you have a signed approval slip, properly stamped, and that none of you set anything on fire."

"No buildings," I offered. "Just a field. And a tree. And maybe the back of a student’s robes."

The old man sighed like I’d just confessed to murdering his cat.

"Fine. Forms first. Then carcass registration. Then payment slips. Then damage reports, if any."

"Wallace fell into a pit," Felix chimed in helpfully.

"Not relevant, I didn’t report the pit," Wallace mumbled.

Julien slapped the tusks down with a grin. "We want hazard bonuses. Those things nearly turned Garrick into a kebab."

"I ate one of them while it was still moving," Garrick added proudly, covered in dried blood.

The clerk didn’t even look up. "Wonderful. Fill out Form 7C."

Two hours later, we were finally done. The students split into groups—some went to wash, some to eat, some just collapsed on the spot like freshly-killed livestock.

I stood alone by the mission board, sipping a cup of terrible tea one of the assistants had offered. My coat smelled like death and smoke. My back hurt. And my sword needed a full re-oiling.

But still... the kids made it. And none of them cried. Not even Felix. Out loud, anyway.

They were getting stronger.

There was something satisfying about that.

Then I heard it.

"Professor!"

Felix again. Of course.

He skidded into the room, holding what looked like a bag of coins and a comically oversized boar tooth.

"I bartered with a merchant and got us free stew at the tavern!"

I blinked. "You... bartered?"

"I think. Or maybe I threatened him by accident. He said ’whatever gets you out of my stall.’"

"That’s fair."

So that night, we ate like kings.

Boar stew. Rough bread. Questionable ale. Laughter louder than sense.

Even I cracked a smile.

The tavern was the kind that smelled like burnt onions, sour beer, and something faintly illegal. The kind of place that only cleaned the tables when they broke and considered splinters a seasoning.

Perfect.

We commandeered the biggest table in the back, right next to the hearth, where the fire crackled like it was trying to roast us all alive. The students crowded around, still sore from the mission but drunk on the taste of victory—and possibly the ale.

Felix was already halfway into his third bowl of stew, slurping with the desperation of a man trying to forget the taste of raw boar blood. Wallace had a stack of napkins and was writing something furiously—either notes or a complaint about the kitchen’s use of "steam-based meat hydration." I didn’t ask.

Julien was retelling the battle with increasing exaggeration. "And then I stood atop the hill, three boars surrounding me—"

"You tripped over Garrick’s foot and faceplanted into a bush," Mira corrected, somehow appearing without warning. She’d cleaned up, cloak neatly folded, eyes sharp.

"Details," Julien waved her off. "You weren’t even there."

"Exactly. I had to hear about your heroism secondhand while helping Cassandra patch up Garrick’s shoulder."

Speak of the ghost, and she appears.

Cassandra was leaning silently against the wall, arms crossed, watching the group like a cat surveying a pack of noisy puppies. When our eyes met, she gave the smallest nod.

Even she was warming up.

I took a long drink of whatever disgusting liquid the tavern owner insisted was ale. It burned like betrayal and had the aftertaste of regret. But it was warm, and that was good enough.

"You’re smiling," Mira said, sliding onto the bench beside me.

"I’m not."

"You are. It’s disturbing."

I leaned back, watching the kids bicker, laugh, and demolish food like rabid wolves. "They survived. And they’re not acting like they almost died. That’s a win."

"They’re growing," she said quietly.

I glanced at her. "You worried about them?"

"No," she lied. "I’m worried about you. You looked like you were ready to gut that training ground keeper the other day."

"He touched one of mine."

Mira didn’t argue.

After a long pause, she added, "It’s going to get worse, isn’t it?"

"It always does."

She nodded again, then stood. "I’ll keep an eye on the others. You... try not to set anything on fire."

"No promises."

Later that night, once the students began to drift off to their rooms or collapse face-first onto tables, I stepped outside for some air.

The town was quiet now, wrapped in fog and flickering lantern light. I lit a cigarette—an awful habit I picked up in the academy’s worst corners—and stared at the moon.

A mission arc.

I remembered it from the game. Sometimes, it was a chance for side stories, bonding events, or power-ups. Other times, it spiraled into death traps, betrayals, or enemy ambushes that left permanent scars on the storyline.

There was no system prompt warning me this time. No percentage risk, no "Secret Path Unlocked."

Just instinct. And that ever-gnawing unease.

Still...

I looked back through the tavern window. Felix was drooling into his bowl. Julien was asleep mid-boast. Garrick had used a chair as a blanket.

They were mine now.

And I’d burn the world before I let it take them.