Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 149: Dumb ideas

Chapter 149: Dumb ideas

"Felix, what in the name of molten goat cheese are you wearing?"

He looked up proudly from the makeshift stage we’d constructed behind the training field. "It’s a ceremonial battle robe! For my dramatic performance during the Trial of Doom & Delight!"

"It’s a bathrobe," Mira corrected, voice flat.

"And the slippers?" I asked, gesturing to the fuzzy blue monstrosities on his feet.

"They’re enchanted for... speed!"

He tripped trying to demonstrate.

I massaged my temples as Wallace’s third test of the confetti cannons misfired again—this time launching a perfectly intact cake into the air and onto Leo’s head. Mira didn’t even flinch. She just wiped some frosting off her cheek and muttered, "This isn’t even the worst part of my day."

Garrick was trying to help set up the obstacle course again. Emphasis on "trying."

"Professor," he called, hefting a suspiciously creaky wooden board. "Where does this go?"

"Not there," I shouted, just as he wedged it at a terrible angle and sent the entire left section of the stage collapsing like a drunk spider trying to build a web.

I took a deep breath.

"One day," I said aloud. "One day I will get through a rehearsal without contemplating arson as a solution."

Julien passed by with a top hat and monocle on. "The pie-launcher is ready. I added a flamethrower function for ’dramatic flair.’"

I blinked.

He grinned. "Just kidding."

"...I hate that I had to pause and consider whether that was a joke."

He tipped his hat. "Means I’m growing."

Cassandra finally spoke as she approached with a calm expression and a clipboard of notes. "The ghost corridor is functioning. No casualties yet."

"Define ’yet,’" I asked.

She tilted her head, as if listening to something. "Unclear. But the walls are whispering again."

"Perfect," I muttered. "Exactly the kind of ambience a school festival needs—mild psychological trauma."

Leo staggered over with the green goo sloshing ominously in a containment vial. "The slime evolved."

"It what?!"

"It’s naming itself now. It said it wants to be called Blorpheus, Destroyer of Joy."

I stared into the distance for a long time. Then said, "Put it in the comedy act."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. If it wants a stage, let it earn it."

And so the day spiraled on—full of pie traps, collapsing sets, cursed snacks, and inexplicably interpretive sword dances.

The chaos of creation, with Class C at the helm.

Somehow, despite the idiocy, there was a rhythm forming. A strange unity. And maybe, just maybe...

This might actually work.

If we survived the next rehearsal, that is.

The day before the festival arrived like a divine punishment wrapped in glitter and poor decisions.

By sunrise, Wallace had already managed to turn half the stage into a smoking crater. "In my defense," he coughed, emerging from the soot, "the new confetti fuel was technically stable. The explosion was a... bonus effect."

"You reinvented fireworks," I muttered, brushing ash off my coat. "With the subtlety of a siege weapon."

Nearby, Mira was fending off sentient props. "The puppet stand tried to bite me again."

"Maybe it’s possessed," Cassandra offered thoughtfully. She was sitting cross-legged, surrounded by protective wards she’d carved into the dirt. "I tried to exorcise it, but it just got angrier."

"Of course it did," I sighed. "Because when I said ’comedy play,’ what I clearly meant was ’summon an eldritch carnival.’"

Felix, ever the optimist, proudly waddled up wearing two different boots and a helmet that looked like it belonged in a gladiator arena. "Professor! I reinforced the costume!"

"You’re wearing a soup pot on your head."

"Exactly! It’s practical and intimidating!"

"I’m intimidated," Leo deadpanned from a distance, dripping wet after accidentally setting off the slime trap for the third time that morning.

"Blorpheus says hi," he added.

"Tell Blorpheus if he escapes containment again, I’m throwing him into the sun."

Julien was balancing on a barrel, juggling daggers. "We should have charged admission to the rehearsals. We’ve already got horror, comedy, and tragedy all happening at once."

"Why do I feel like I’m the tragedy?" I asked the gods. They didn’t answer.

Still, amidst the spiraling chaos, something had changed. The students bickered, but they worked. They argued, but they fixed things. Every time something collapsed or caught fire or started whispering in tongues, someone was already rushing to fix it. Not because I told them to—but because they wanted to see this ridiculous, over-the-top, utterly doomed-to-fail performance come to life.

And against all odds, it was starting to come together.

Even Garrick, who couldn’t act to save his life, had found his calling: playing a silent, shirtless villain who flexed intimidatingly in the background. The crowd would either cheer or file a lawsuit—either way, it was engagement.

As the sun set and the smell of half-burned pastries filled the air, I looked over my class—my chaotic, unhinged, brilliant little disaster of a class—and smirked.

Tomorrow was showtime.

And gods help anyone who tried to upstage us.

The morning of the festival arrived like a war drum made of festival music, screaming students, and the distant sound of something collapsing.

Probably Wallace’s stage.

I stood at the edge of the plaza, watching as the other classes presented elegant booths, dazzling enchantments, and polished performances. Class A had conjured a floating pavilion with illusionary dancers. Class B had an elemental tea shop that brewed drinks using controlled fire spirits. Class D had, surprisingly, an orchestral play with magical instruments.

And then there was Class C.

Our booth looked like a repurposed weapons cache decorated by drunk gremlins.

Julien was applying final adjustments to his costume with a needle in one hand and a dagger in the other. "Professor, if this doesn’t end in a standing ovation or a riot, I’ll be disappointed."

"That’s a very narrow outcome window," I muttered.

Mira arrived with Cassandra in tow, both carrying spell scrolls and props. "Everything’s set. The slime containment wards are holding, the enchanted spotlight is working, and Blorpheus has been sedated with chamomile."

I blinked. "You drugged the slime?"

Cassandra gave a slow, serene nod. "It’s better this way."

Meanwhile, Felix had somehow glued himself to a wooden set piece. Again.

"I’m part of the scenery now," he said, eyes wide with resignation. "Leave me behind."

"You wish I’d be that merciful," I growled, yanking him loose with a loud crack and a puff of glitter.

Ten minutes before the performance, I gathered them backstage. The crowd was already gathering—students, faculty, some outsiders, even a few nobles who had clearly come expecting refinement.

Well, they were about to get an education.

"Listen up, you gremlins," I began. "This performance is the definition of suicidal. The script was written by a masochist, the props were designed by lunatics, and the magic involved is... technically stable."

"Technically," Wallace muttered, lighting something that immediately sparked.

"But I’ll say this—no other class has the guts to try what you’re about to do. So go out there, make them laugh, make them stare, and if possible, make sure we’re not sued."

Garrick raised a hand. "What if someone tries to heckle us?"

"Flex. Until they regret being born."

He nodded solemnly.

The curtain rose.

Julien stepped onto the stage with a dramatic twirl, launching the opening monologue. Mira triggered the stage illusions with a flourish. Cassandra summoned ghostly lights that danced in tune with Wallace’s (questionably legal) explosives. Felix tripped twice and still managed to land a punchline that got a laugh.

And for a moment—just a moment—I stopped worrying.

They were chaotic.

They were unscripted.

They were a disaster.

And they were brilliant.