Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 158: Terminally inept

Chapter 158: Terminally inept

"All right, you clowns," I barked, standing before the assembled disaster brigade that was my class. "Today, you will experience firsthand the fruits of your own stupidity."

My students—mud-smeared, rope-burned, mildly concussed—stood in a loose, worried huddle. Julien cracked his knuckles, grinning. Mira looked positively gleeful. Felix seemed to be silently praying to every god he could name. Wallace was still adjusting the tension on the cabbage catapult, muttering about "trajectory correction" like a mad scientist.

Leo raised his hand weakly. "Professor... are you sure this is safe?"

I stared at him.

"Safe? SAFE?" I roared. "Safety is for nobles with titles worth a damn and houses that aren’t made of rotting swamp wood! We are Class C! Safety is an illusion!"

Leo visibly shrank.

Garrick, ever the brave idiot, stepped forward. "I’ll go first."

I clapped him on the shoulder. "That’s the spirit. Meathead goes in first to trigger all the hidden disasters. Standard tactics."

He didn’t even flinch. Just nodded solemnly like I’d handed him a sacred mission.

"All right!" I shouted. "FIRST CHALLENGE: THE ROPE OF DEATH."

The ropes Wallace had set up were swinging wildly in the breeze, some coated in mud, some rigged with tripwire spells. It looked less like a course and more like a deathtrap assembled by drunk goblins.

"On your mark!" I yelled.

Garrick tightened his boots.

"Get set!"

He crouched, muscles tensed.

"...NOW GO, YOU FOOL!"

He charged forward.

Immediately, a rope snagged his ankle and flipped him upside down, slamming him into a second rope that whacked him across the face like a disciplinary paddle. He spun like a windmill for a solid ten seconds before face-planting into the mud.

I nodded proudly. "Excellent. Natural disaster levels achieved."

Julien cackled. Mira covered her mouth, trembling with laughter.

"I—I think his soul left his body halfway through," Wallace commented as he scribbled down notes.

Garrick staggered upright, grinning despite the mud and rope burns.

"Again!" he barked.

"There’s a masochist in every class," I mused. "Congratulations, Garrick. You’re ours."

Next up: Felix.

Poor Felix.

He was shoved to the front by the others under the guise of "honoring seniority," but really it was because he was the softest target. He stood at the starting line of the Psychological Horror Maze, his knees visibly shaking.

"Remember," I said seriously, putting a hand on his shoulder. "The only thing you have to fear... is everything inside that maze. Good luck, Marsh Boy."

Felix whimpered and stepped into the illusory mist Mira had conjured.

Within seconds:

A giant wax dummy of me popped out, shrieking, "PATHETIC!"

A pitfall trap opened under his foot, dropping him waist-deep into cold water.

An illusion of his own father appeared, disappointed.

That last one wasn’t even planned. Mira just got really into it.

Felix stumbled out the other side five minutes later, soaked, shaking, and muttering incoherently about "expectations" and "mud spirits."

I handed him a towel. "Therapy’s extra."

Leo tried the climbing wall.

He made it three steps up before the structurally-questionable boards collapsed under him, sending him crashing into a strategically placed mud pit.

I whistled. "At this rate, I won’t even have to roast you. Nature’s doing it for me."

"Why does everything you build hate me?!" Leo cried from the mud.

"It’s not hate," I said kindly. "It’s instinct."

Mira and Julien cheated through most of the course—Mira by using illusion tricks to find the safe paths, and Julien by charming Wallace into giving him hints.

I let it slide. After all, cheating was just advanced survival skills in this cursed world.

"Congratulations," I said dryly as they high-fived at the finish line. "You’re officially the two least disappointing people here today. That’s not saying much."

As the sun dipped low again, my battered, bruised, and filthy students slumped in the courtyard, groaning in the dirt.

I stood over them, arms crossed, a proud tyrant.

"You’ve all done me proud," I said solemnly. "Not because you succeeded. Oh no. You failed gloriously. You failed with enough flair to burn this memory into your souls forever."

Mira raised a muddy hand. "Does this mean we get a reward?"

I grinned. "Of course. Your reward... is knowing you survived my sense of humor."

Collective groans echoed through the courtyard.

I stretched, feeling unusually light-hearted.

For now, things were chaotic, stupid, and normal.

And for now, that was enough.

The next morning, I was in the middle of writing "psychological torment course v2" into my lesson plan when a familiar, irritating knock came at my door.

Three sharp raps, a pause, and then two more.

I sighed.

"Enter," I said without looking up.

The door creaked open and in walked that same eternally stressed attendant from the Academy’s External Affairs department—the poor guy who kept getting stuck with the ’Class C Problem.’

He looked even worse than last time. Pale, dark bags under his eyes, and carrying an armful of paperwork like it might bite him at any moment.

"Professor Drelmont," he said, voice thin and tight, "we require your cooperation once again."

I steepled my fingers ominously. "Is it another ’enriching’ experience like the last one where my students tried to kill themselves with ropes and cabbage launchers?"

The attendant flinched. "No, sir. This is regarding the Academy Festival."

I raised an eyebrow. "Festival?"

"Yes. Preparations are underway," he said, handing me a form that looked suspiciously like it had been rewritten a dozen times. "Each class must submit their festival project idea by the end of the week. This is non-negotiable."

I stared at the form.

Class Festival Proposal Sheet

Name of Class:

Instructor:

Proposed Activity/Event:

Required Materials/Support:

Potential Risk Factors (if any):

Emergency Contact:

It even had a cheerful little mascot doodle in the corner. I scowled at it.

Behind me, some of my students had gathered like curious raccoons.

"Festival?" Julien asked, perking up. "We get to actually have fun?"

Mira grinned wickedly. "Or cause chaos disguised as ’cultural exchange.’"

Felix—poor, sweet Felix—still looked haunted from the obstacle course yesterday. He clutched a towel like it was his last link to sanity.

I turned to the attendant.

"And if I refuse?"

"You’ll be personally responsible for paying the fine the Academy will incur for not participating."

I tapped my chin thoughtfully. "How much is the fine?"

"Five hundred gold."

"...Per student?"

"Per instructor."

I slammed the paper down on my desk.

"Congratulations, children!" I announced grimly. "We’re doing the damn festival."

Cheers broke out.

Wallace immediately started mumbling about building "mechanical mascots" and "explosive fireworks displays."

I felt a headache incoming.

Later, during our "mandatory brainstorming session," I sat at the head of a long table while my students bickered like seagulls over a single piece of bread.

"An illusion house!" Mira said. "We could trap people in mind puzzles."

"A battle exhibition!" Julien countered. "Show off our skills and beat down visitors!"

"A food stall!" Felix said timidly. "Something simple... like traditional marsh snacks?"

They all stared at him like he had grown two heads.

"You want us to sell mud cookies, Felix?" Julien asked, aghast.

"They’re... not mud..." Felix muttered.

I leaned back, arms crossed.

This was going to be a disaster.

Which meant it was absolutely perfect for Class C.

I clapped my hands loudly.

"All right, my little gremlins. Here’s how this is going to work."

They all straightened up warily.

"You have three days to come up with a complete plan. Pitch it to me. If it’s idiotic enough that I think it’ll leave a permanent psychological scar on the Academy’s memory, I’ll approve it."

They exchanged glances full of unholy glee.

"But," I added, grinning sharply, "if it’s boring or half-assed, I will choose the project."

"And your idea of a project is...?" Leo asked hesitantly.

I leaned down so he could see the mad gleam in my eyes.

"Public shaming booth. Featuring you. In a chicken costume."

Leo paled.

"Understood!" they all barked in unison.

I chuckled darkly.

Good. Fear was the best motivator.

And thus, the seeds of madness were sown.

The Festival of Poor Life Choices was officially underway.