Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 146: Diplomacy and fireball

Chapter 146: Diplomacy and fireball

The problem with student festivals wasn’t the students. It was the adults.

Case in point: the instructor meeting.

I sat at a round table in the faculty hall, trying to blend into my chair and radiate enough menace that no one would speak to me. Naturally, it failed.

"So, Professor Drelmont," began the smiling vulture from Class B, "I heard your class is building a death maze."

"It’s called the Gauntlet of Glory," I corrected.

"I see. And it involves... flaming pendulums? Illusion traps? A fog machine?"

"Only for dramatic flair."

"I see."

She made a note on her clipboard. Probably under Potential Threat to Campus Stability.

Across the table, Roderick Vaughn hid his smirk behind his cup. "At least it’s not another haunted puppet theater."

Someone else groaned. "We agreed to never speak of Class F’s last year project again."

I cleared my throat. "Look, my students are chaotic, unhinged, and lacking in fundamental survival instincts. But they did build something functional. No fatalities. Minimal injuries. And we installed glitter traps. For whimsy."

That did not help my case.

"I’m just saying," continued Clipboard Vulture, "Class B will be running a charming historical re-enactment of the War of the Twin Thrones. Educational. Artistic. With student-led performances."

I deadpanned, "So a cosplay battle."

She bristled. "Authentic costuming."

"Mm. You should visit our gauntlet. It teaches emotional resilience."

Another teacher piped in. "Class D is holding a tea ceremony with spirit-infused pastries."

Roderick glanced at me. "Are yours spirit-infused?"

"Only if we don’t clean up the blood fast enough."

Silence.

I leaned back, letting the chair creak. "Look, the Academy wanted students to engage creatively. You’re getting exactly that. My class bleeds together. That’s bonding."

Before the discussion could devolve further into philosophical debates over trauma-based education, the doors creaked open.

The External Affairs attendant walked in, again carrying far too many documents for someone with that calm a face.

"Apologies for the interruption," he said. "But all participating instructors must finalize booth logistics by this evening. Resource requisition, safety checks, and entertainment licenses."

The groan that followed could’ve powered a rune grid.

He handed me a form.

"Please list your booth’s title, core components, necessary reinforcements, and whether anyone will likely sue you."

I stared at it.

Then I added:

Booth Name: Gauntlet of Glory

Core Components: Pain, Chaos, Pride

Reinforcements: Physical barriers, emotional therapy

Will anyone sue: Probably. But they’ll survive.

I handed it back with a flourish.

The attendant nodded like this was normal.

As the meeting devolved into complaints about noise regulations and fire rune limits, I stood and made my exit.

Outside, the sun was setting over the academy grounds, casting long shadows across the training fields. In the distance, I could see Class C gathered around Wallace’s latest booby trap, arguing over whether it would count as "non-lethal" if they included a trampoline at the bottom.

Mira was making notes.

Felix was screaming.

All was well.

The festival was coming.

And Class C was about to burn their way into legend.

The thing about preparing for a school festival with a class full of unstable prodigies was that nothing ever went according to plan.

Take Felix, for instance.

"Professor, the pendulum blades are too sharp!"

"They’re training your reflexes, Felix. And if you weren’t shaped like a collapsing marionette, you’d be fine."

"I’m bleeding!"

"Barely! That’s not even arterial."

Meanwhile, Wallace was arguing with Leo about fireproofing the walls. Or lack thereof.

"We don’t need fireproofing," Wallace insisted, goggles pushed up over his soot-smeared forehead. "We need commitment."

"What we need is not to die," Leo snapped. "I already smell burnt eyebrows and we haven’t even lit anything yet!"

"Means it’s working!"

From my perch on a nearby crate, I sipped my tea and observed the chaos like a weary war general watching a battlefield of idiots.

Julien approached, grinning as usual. "I think we accidentally triggered the illusion traps during the safety test. Mira’s doppelgänger is threatening people near the cafeteria."

I blinked. "And Cassandra?"

"She’s... just watching. Creepy as always."

"Of course she is."

The Gauntlet of Glory was coming together beautifully. Or horrifyingly. Depending on your standards. There were obstacle sections powered by mana runes, a pit that emitted laughter from somewhere below, and a rune-locked room that Garrick accidentally broke open by punching it.

He still doesn’t know how. Neither do I. We’ve agreed not to question it.

"Professor!" Mira called, striding over. "The illusion sequence needs someone to act as the ’final boss.’ Originally it was going to be a magical puppet."

"Replace it with Felix in a cape," I said instantly.

"What?! Why?!"

"Because I said so."

Mira smirked. "Brilliant."

Felix groaned louder than the trapdoor snapping open beneath him. Again.

At this point, they had learned to catch him.

Mostly.

Later that evening, while the students bickered and adjusted runes, I sat with the final list of registered festival events.

Class A was doing a high-end restaurant experience.

Class B was still deluded into thinking their historical re-enactment would matter.

Class F... somehow convinced their instructor to let them host a comedy play titled "How to Die at the Academy: A Musical."

Honestly, I respected the honesty.

And Class C? Oh, we were going to ruin reputations, shatter expectations, and possibly get sued.

But by the gods, we’d look fabulous doing it.

"Let them come," I muttered, watching the sun dip beyond the academy walls. "Let them try to outdo us."

Because this wasn’t just a festival anymore.

This was war.

And Class C was ready.

Kind of.

Mostly.

...Hopefully.

Festival day dawned with the kind of ominous serenity that warned of incoming catastrophe. Birds chirped. Sunlight filtered through the banners and decorations hanging across the Academy’s courtyards. Students rushed about in frantic last-minute preparations.

And Class C stood proudly in front of their hellscape.

The "Gauntlet of Glory" looked like someone had fused an obstacle course with a haunted dungeon, slapped on a layer of theatrical flair, and sprinkled explosives for good measure. Literally. Wallace had insisted on "harmless" mana-spark mines for flare.

I had very little faith in the "harmless" part.

Julien adjusted his cape, grinning. "I feel like a supervillain."

"You are one. You just don’t get paid enough," I replied.

Felix was in the final chamber, standing on a small platform in a cloak that made him look like a depressed sorcerer. He was practicing his ’evil laughter.’

It sounded more like a hiccuping goose.

Leo was manning the controls. I had personally double-checked that the illusion projectors wouldn’t go rogue this time. Mira had "borrowed" some of the forbidden rune books for ambiance. Garrick was stationed at the entrance, flexing for dramatic effect.

Cassandra?

Well, Cassandra had vanished the moment the festival started. She left behind a note that read: "I’ll return when it’s amusing again."

So, normal.

Then came the first wave of guests.

Class A students sauntered in, smug in their silk uniforms and imported snacks.

"This can’t be that dangerous," one of them scoffed.

Garrick grinned.

Ten seconds later, a shriek echoed down the hall as a Class A student was catapulted into a pool of foam that spat glitter and insults in Old Akaran.

I sipped my tea, satisfied. "Beautiful."

Soon, other classes poured in. Class F came in like a mob ready to enjoy chaos. Class D started taking bets on who would survive. Even the faculty showed up, curious about the infamous ’disaster attraction’ engineered by the allegedly unhinged Instructor Drelmont.

"Oh," I said, watching as a fireball narrowly missed a student’s hair. "They’re starting to believe the rumors."

Julien leaned against the booth beside me, watching the chaos unfold with a proud smile. "You know, I thought you were insane at first."

"You still think that," I reminded him.

"True. But now I know it’s productive insanity."

Cheers erupted as Mira’s illusions kicked in, creating shadowy clones chasing contestants through a fake catacomb. Felix missed his cue and tripped over his cape. Again. Garrick saved a flailing Class B girl with one hand, accidentally flirting in the process.

Leo activated a trap too early and panicked. I yelled at him. He yelled at me. A smoke bomb detonated. Someone screamed. I think it was a faculty member.

It was perfect.

Hours later, the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the courtyard. Our booth was a mess. Our team looked like survivors of a magical apocalypse. But our lines were still long, our name was being chanted, and even the headmaster had raised an eyebrow in what I could only interpret as mild approval or existential horror.

Either worked.

As we packed up, I clapped my hands to get their attention.

"Well. None of you died. Barely. And I suppose that counts as a victory."

"I think I broke my dignity," Felix muttered.

"You never had any," Mira replied.

Julien chuckled. "So, Professor, what now?"

I gave them a crooked smile. "Now? We wait for the results. And if the judges are really stupid, we might even win something."

"Like what?" Garrick asked.

"Bragging rights."

Wallace perked up. "Can I build a trophy?"

"No. You’ll make it explode."

The others laughed as we walked away from the battlefield we’d built.

One thing was certain—Class C didn’t just participate in the festival.

We conquered it.

With chaos. With explosions. With roasted pride and screaming nobles.

Just the way I liked it.