Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 165: Rotten roots

Chapter 165: Rotten roots

Morning sunlight struggled to pierce the thick mist still clinging to the marshes around the Dorne estate. The swamp had an odd way of holding onto the night, like it refused to let go of its ghosts. Our little ghost-hunting excursion from the night before had left most of Class C in various stages of sleep-deprived trauma, but that wasn’t enough to grant mercy.

Because I was still their instructor.

And chaos, after all, had a schedule.

"Alright, shameful degenerates," I announced, kicking open the creaky barn door of what had become our makeshift field base. "Rise and shine! Today we dissect trauma."

Felix let out a muffled whimper from beneath a pile of blankets.

Julien groaned, halfway upside down on a haystack. "Professor, it’s barely dawn."

"Exactly. Dawn means discipline. Discipline means development. Development means one day you might die with a sliver of dignity."

"That’s not how that sequence goes," Mira muttered, combing swamp gunk from her dark hair.

"Oh? Enlighten me, Trickster."

"Dawn usually means regret, blisters, and an existential crisis."

"Excellent. That means the education is working."

I herded the barely-awake disaster crew out onto the training field that overlooked the foggy outer edges of the estate. A few gnarled trees still bore runes from generations past—some cracked and dormant, others softly glowing, like they were keeping watch.

Felix lingered near the back, eyes hollow, clutching a letter.

"So," I said, circling him like a vulture. "Still planning to leave without explanation?"

He flinched. The rest of the class went quiet.

"It’s... it’s a family matter. I have to go back. Alone."

"Mm. Alone. Because dragging seven lunatics and one walking hazard into a cursed swamp wasn’t already a team-building exercise."

He looked up, genuinely pained. "This isn’t something I want anyone else involved in."

"Too late. You got us haunted. We’re invested now."

Julien crossed his arms. "He’s right. You think we’ll just let you waltz off into more creepy noble nonsense while we stay behind doing pushups?"

"I like pushups," Garrick offered.

"Not the time, Brick."

Felix gave a small laugh despite himself. I narrowed my eyes. There was more here—a weight in his posture, in the way he wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

"Talk," I ordered.

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he began.

"There was a letter... sealed with black wax. That only happens when someone dies. My older brother. He was the heir. I... I think he got involved in something bigger. Something dangerous."

Mira tilted her head. "Like blood cult dangerous or ’forgot to pay his taxes’ dangerous?"

"The kind that leaves a name erased from the family records."

Everyone went still.

Even Julien stopped his usual banter.

I let the silence settle, then clapped my hands once.

"Alright, vacation’s extended. Pack up. We’re paying the Dorne Manor a proper visit."

The journey deeper into the estate took us down ancient stone paths barely visible beneath moss and roots. Felix led us, quieter now, like a boy retracing the steps of a nightmare he never wanted to relive.

"You know," I said to him as we walked, "for a noble family, your estate has a shockingly high body count and alarmingly low lighting."

"I... didn’t design it."

"Clearly. You don’t even know where half your cursed trees are buried."

"That was my uncle’s project."

"And is he still alive?"

"He turned into a moss elemental."

"So no."

We arrived at the main manor house—a looming structure of blackstone and ashwood, perched at the edge of a hill like it was ashamed of itself. The servants barely glanced up when we arrived. Most were older, silent, and had the haunted look of people who’d outlived a dozen masters and at least one estate-wide incident.

Felix led us into a wide chamber with faded tapestries and a long, cracked dining table. It smelled faintly of mildew and incense.

"Wait here," he said, voice low. "I need to speak with the steward."

I nodded. As soon as he left, Julien turned to me.

"This place gives me the creeps."

"Because it is creepy. And haunted. And possibly sapient."

Mira picked up a candle. "This wax is made from grave-root. That’s only used in ritual protection. Someone’s afraid."

Leo groaned. "Why are noble families always either arrogant or cursed? Can’t we get a normal one for once?"

"Normal noble families don’t send their kids to Noctis Ardentis, brat."

Cassandra, who had been silent the whole time, finally spoke.

"Something moved upstairs."

I didn’t doubt it. I activated a perimeter rune and slid into a half-crouch, eyes scanning the darkened halls.

Then, from above, came a sound we all recognized instantly.

Footsteps.

But wrong.

Too heavy. Too sharp.

Like hooves.

Felix returned moments later, pale and shaking. "The steward’s gone. Vanished. And someone left this in the shrine room."

He handed me a scrap of parchment.

"The heir falls. The root wakes. Silence the blood."

I read it twice. Then, aloud: "Oh, fantastic. Cultists, curses, AND cryptic poetry. My favorite."

Julien sighed. "Why is it always poetry?"

"Because people who want to summon ancient evil are also somehow pretentious."

We investigated the shrine room next.

It was old—older than the rest of the estate. Circular, with blackened stones and carved reliefs of vines swallowing the moon. In the center lay a basin filled with water that shimmered like silver and oil. A faint humming filled the air.

Felix stood at the edge, trembling.

"I was baptized here. As a child. They said the basin was blessed by our founder."

I knelt beside it. My rune sense itched.

"This isn’t a blessing. It’s a seal. A very, very old one. And it’s breaking."

The basin pulsed.

Wallace whipped out a detection rod. It snapped in half.

"That’s not good."

"That never happens," he added. "Not unless something really old is pushing back."

Julien drew his blade.

"So what do we do, Professor?"

I stood, brushing off my coat.

"We do what we always do. Prepare an insane plan, involve everyone, and insult as many enemies as possible along the way."

Leo muttered, "I hate that that actually works."

I grinned.

"Class C, consider this your mid-semester swamp exorcism assignment. Grade weight: lethal."

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