Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 147: Uninvited challenges

Chapter 147: Uninvited challenges

The aftermath of the Academy Festival was... colorful.

Literally.

I still found glitter in my coat despite burning it twice.

Class C had gone to war with expectations, social standing, and fire safety protocols—and walked away triumphant. The "Gauntlet of Glory" was now the most talked-about attraction. Whether out of admiration or trauma, people couldn’t stop discussing it.

And I? I got summoned.

To the staff meeting.

Of course.

I sat at the far end of the table, sipping tea that definitely wasn’t poisoned, while a collection of instructors, senior faculty, and bored administrators reviewed the festival reports.

Headmaster Verrian, ever calm and unnervingly unreadable, set down a parchment.

"The results have been compiled," he announced.

Murmurs buzzed across the room.

"Class A," he continued, "placed second."

That drew more whispers.

Professor Renwick—Class A’s instructor—looked like he bit into a lemon made of humiliation.

"The first place," Verrian said, eyes flicking to me, "goes to Class C."

Silence.

Followed by disbelief. And, from the back corner, a single choking noise. Probably Renwick again.

I leaned back in my chair, swirling my tea smugly. "Didn’t expect that, did you?"

One of the external affairs officers, the same one who delivered the mission orders before, cleared his throat. "It wasn’t just the students’ creativity or participation... your class received the highest number of guest votes and praise from faculty and visitors."

"They also had the highest rate of near-injury reports," another staff member added.

I smiled wider. "You’re welcome."

"They traumatized two noble heirs."

"They survived, didn’t they?"

"Barely!"

Verrian raised a hand, silencing the back and forth. "The Board has agreed to award Class C with a commendation for innovation and engagement."

Applause followed. I accepted it with the humility of a victorious war general.

Later, back in my office, I found the class gathered outside the door.

Julien was the first to ask, "Well?"

I held up a simple envelope and handed it over.

He opened it. Read it. Then blinked. "We actually won?"

"Not just won. They might even clean your reputation a little. Not mine, of course. I’m too far gone."

Felix looked like he might cry. "We... we did something right?"

"Miracles happen," Mira muttered.

Leo grumbled. "Now we’ll never hear the end of it."

"You were never hearing the end of it regardless," I said.

Wallace was already sketching a new design on parchment. "Can we build a victory monument? With fireworks?"

"Only if it doesn’t level a building."

Garrick clapped him on the back. "You just guaranteed it will."

The laughter that followed was rough, loud, and far too chaotic for a "commendable" class. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

As they filed out, I lingered by the window, watching them mess around on the courtyard steps.

My students. My disasters.

And now?

The Academy just painted a target on their backs.

Fun.

Let’s see who tries to knock us off the top first.

"You made enemies," I said flatly.

Julien blinked. "We what?"

I jabbed a thumb toward the stack of letters on my desk. "Fan mail, complaint letters, veiled threats, and one poem from Class D’s poet club calling you all ’gaudy pyromaniacs with no respect for traditional aesthetics.’"

Felix raised his hand. "Are they wrong though?"

"Very," Julien said.

"Moderately," Mira countered.

"Absolutely not," I said, tossing the poem into the fireplace.

They watched it burn with solemn reverence. A fitting end.

The festival had put them on the map—for better or worse. The high-ranking classes didn’t like being shown up. The low-ranking ones? They just hated being out-crazied.

I hadn’t even finished sorting through the aftermath when a knock landed on my door with all the subtlety of a war drum.

"Enter," I said, already regretting it.

A group of instructors walked in, led by Renwick.

"Ah. The sore losers’ parade. What can I do for you?"

Renwick ignored the jab. "We believe it’s time to test Class C properly."

"Test, he says," I repeated. "You mean sabotage, right?"

"Joint training exercises," he clarified, the way a snake might say "surprise hug."

The other instructors nodded.

"We propose a special inter-class combat trial. Team challenges. Evaluated by neutral staff."

"And what exactly do you get out of this?" I asked, leaning forward.

"A chance to see if your students are actually competent... or just good at circus acts."

Oh-ho.

He wanted to throw down.

I stood, stepped around my desk, and stopped an inch from his face.

"You really want to put your overpolished, underbrained, glass-jawed prodigies against my bunch of chaos gremlins?"

Renwick’s eyes narrowed. "Yes."

A beat.

I grinned.

"Fine," I said. "But when they start crying, don’t come asking me for emotional support."

Behind me, Julien whispered, "Wait... are we actually fighting other classes?"

Leo groaned. "Why do we keep getting into these situations?"

"Because you keep surviving," I replied. "Which gives people ideas."

Wallace raised a finger. "If we win, do we get bonus marks?"

"No," I said. "But you’ll get my undying sarcasm instead."

Mira crossed her arms, smirking. "We’ll take it."

Cassandra, as always, stood near the back, quiet—but watching. Her gaze was sharp. Too sharp.

I made a mental note to keep an eye on her again.

As Renwick and his band of pompous peacocks left, I turned to the class.

"Well, congratulations," I announced. "You annoyed them so much they want to duel you."

Felix sighed. "Can we go five minutes without attracting hostility?"

"No," everyone said in unison.

I folded my arms, already planning. "Training begins tomorrow. I want you prepped, mean, and wildly unpredictable."

"You’re just going to make us spar blindfolded again, aren’t you?" Julien muttered.

"No," I replied.

Pause.

"...Okay, yes."

I kicked open the training hall door like a man declaring war on common sense.

"Line up, disasters!"

The chaos began immediately.

Julien was already sparring with Leo using wooden swords wrapped in cloth for "safety," which, considering they were both trying to choke each other out with the hilts, felt more ironic than intentional.

Mira sat atop a stack of supply crates, sharpening her nails with a cursed blade she’d ’borrowed’ from the artifact room.

Wallace was fine-tuning a tiny metal drone that buzzed like a hornet on too much coffee, and Felix—Felix had somehow managed to trip over a spell circle that wasn’t even active yet.

"Impressive," I said, deadpan. "You tripped over potential. I didn’t know incompetence could be that prophetic."

Felix groaned from the floor. "Why are we even doing this again?"

"Because your peers from other classes think you’re clowns," I said. "Which is fair—but that doesn’t mean we’re not dangerous clowns."

I clapped my hands.

"Today’s theme: Unpredictability and controlled violence. First up—dueling drills. But with a twist."

Leo looked suspicious. "What kind of twist?"

"You fight while insulted."

Julien grinned. "You mean, like usual?"

"No. I will be insulting you. Loudly. From the sidelines. With no restraint."

Wallace blinked. "Isn’t that... every day?"

"Yes," I said, "but now it’s intentional training."

We started with Mira vs. Julien.

Julien opened with a flashy feint. Mira retaliated with a sweep kick that nearly knocked his soul out of his body. She followed it up with a barrage of illusion hexes that made Julien fight three different versions of her—none of which were real.

"Excellent," I shouted. "Mira, very creative. Julien, good enthusiasm—shame your brain checked out halfway through."

Next was Leo vs. Felix.

Felix lasted exactly seven seconds before panic-rolling into a wall.

"Felix," I barked, "your fighting stance has the stability of a drunk goose."

"I’m trying!"

"Try harder. Or die funnier."

Wallace dueled a training dummy he’d rigged to explode with compressed runes. It detonated mid-swing and flung him across the room.

"Successful," he wheezed.

"Chaotic, suicidal, and entertaining," I nodded. "Promote this man."

By midday, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, burnt mana, and broken egos.

They collapsed around me, groaning and battered but very much alive.

I let the silence stretch.

Then, calmly, I said, "Get up. You’re going again."

Leo whimpered.

Julien just laughed, madly.

Felix cursed something about his ancestors.

Mira was already back on her feet, eyes gleaming. Cassandra had never sat down.

Good.

"Tomorrow," I said, "we’re starting psychological warfare drills."

Julien blinked. "Aren’t we doing that now?"

"No," I smiled darkly. "That was just emotional damage."