Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 167: Unquiet echoes

Chapter 167: Unquiet echoes

We didn’t sleep.

Didn’t speak much either.

By the time we dragged ourselves back to the estate, the sun had fully risen. Pale again. Like the world hadn’t quite figured out how to be warm yet.

Felix looked like hell. Mud on his boots. Dry blood on his sleeve. A bruise just under his eye. He didn’t seem to care. I didn’t either. My side ached where that merc nicked me, and my coat had a hole in it that hadn’t been there before.

The gates creaked shut behind us.

The estate was still asleep. Or pretending to be.

We entered through the servant’s wing. Quieter. Less eyes. Mira was in the corridor near the kitchen, clutching a cup of tea like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

She didn’t say anything. Just looked at us. Then looked away.

Smart girl.

We made it to my guest room. Shut the door. Locked it.

I poured us both a drink from the cabinet. Cheap brandy. Probably older than Felix.

He downed his in one gulp. Didn’t flinch. That worried me more than the blood earlier.

"Did we do the right thing?" he asked, voice hoarse.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Stared out the window.

"Right’s a big word," I said. "What we did was necessary."

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor like it had betrayed him.

"I keep thinking about the ones in the vats," he said. "Their faces. Some were our age. Some younger."

"Some older," I added. "All of them victims."

Felix rubbed his temples. "I thought I could handle it. That knowing the truth would make things clearer."

"It doesn’t," I said. "It just makes the shadows darker."

We sat there for a while.

Eventually, he drifted off. Couldn’t blame him. The weight on his shoulders could break a grown man.

I let him sleep.

Then I got up and went to find the others.

Julien was lounging on a stone bench, sunbathing like he hadn’t spent the last three days annoying every spirit in the marsh.

"You’re late," he said, not opening his eyes.

"You’re nosy."

"You’re predictable. You reek of burnt metal and bad decisions."

I sat next to him.

"Listen," I said.

"No need," he cut in. "We saw the light from the depot. Mira tracked the alarm. Wallace found some of the leaked mana signatures. Garrick nearly charged off to help before Cassandra reminded him that stomping through the marsh like an angry bull wasn’t the best approach."

I blinked.

"...I was gone for four hours."

Julien grinned. "We’re not as dumb as we look. Well. Most of us."

That... was alarming.

"How much do you know?"

"Enough to know Felix isn’t the only one tied to something ugly. And enough to know you’re not letting us help because you think you’re protecting us."

"I am protecting you."

"No, Professor," he said, eyes sharp now. "You’re underestimating us."

That gave me pause.

I didn’t answer.

Not because he was wrong.

But because I didn’t like how right he was.

Later that afternoon, Felix finally woke up.

He didn’t speak much. But his eyes were steadier. Like he’d made peace with something—or decided to carry it anyway.

He joined the others for lunch.

Cassandra passed him a bowl of soup without a word. Garrick shoved a chair toward him with his foot. Mira didn’t look up from her book, but she scooted over slightly.

No one asked questions.

They didn’t need to.

Family secrets. Quiet missions. A rotting legacy buried under nice wallpaper.

We weren’t just on vacation anymore.

We were knee-deep in whatever came next.

And for once, I wasn’t sure where it would lead.

The morning sun cut through the marsh fog like a knife through gauze, casting golden shards across the dew-slick reeds. The Dorne estate stood silent in the distance, its crooked towers catching the first light like rusted blades. Felix and I sat on a moss-covered log just beyond the treeline, our breath misting in the cold.

Neither of us said anything for a while.

It wasn’t the good kind of silence—the companionable sort that followed shared victories. It was the brittle, aching quiet of knowing you’d cracked something open, and now you had to live with whatever came out.

I broke it first.

"So," I said, nursing the bandage on my side, "we just dismantled an illegal experimental mana site. Left a few mercs unconscious. Burned a core array. And possibly pissed off half your extended family."

Felix winced. "You make it sound so... reckless."

"It was reckless," I replied. "But it was also necessary. The difference is intent. We didn’t do this because we wanted chaos. We did it because someone had to."

He nodded, slowly. "What now?"

"You’re the heir, aren’t you?"

He looked away. "Technically."

"Then technically, it’s your move."

I stood, brushing off my coat. The bloodstains weren’t deep enough to worry about. The shame on Felix’s face, though—that ran deeper.

"You can burn the roots or you can let them grow back," I said, voice softer. "If there are elders behind this, you either bring them down... or become them."

"I don’t want to become them."

"Then don’t."

It sounded simple. It wasn’t. But I needed him to believe it was—for now.

We returned to the estate by mid-morning. The others were gathered in the main hall, groggy, confused, and suspiciously too quiet.

Julien was the first to speak. "Okay. Who died?"

"No one," I said, walking past him. "Surprisingly."

Wallace raised a brow. "Then why do you look like you wrestled a bear?"

"Because I did," I muttered. "A very metaphorical one."

Mira leaned forward from her chair by the hearth. "You vanished before dawn. So did Felix. Don’t suppose this vacation is about to become even more suspicious?"

"Define ’suspicious,’" I said, pouring myself a drink from the estate’s horrifically dusty decanter.

Cassandra, of course, said nothing. Just watched. Sharp as ever.

Leo finally broke the gathering tension with a groan. "I knew this trip was cursed. Can we please just go somewhere normal next time? Like a lava lake. Or a kraken pit."

Felix stepped forward.

"I need to tell you all something."

The room stilled.

And to his credit—despite the weight, despite the fear—he told them. Not everything. But enough. Enough to shift the atmosphere from playful tension to something solemn.

When he finished, no one laughed.

Julien looked thoughtful. Wallace unusually quiet. Garrick simply nodded once, firm and steady.

Mira smiled. Not mockingly, but with a trace of admiration. "Well," she said. "I always knew there was a spine under all that dramatics."

Felix flushed.

Leo just slumped forward. "This is why I wanted to stay in bed."

I clapped my hands together. "Great. Team bonding through generational trauma. Love that for us. Now, if no one minds, I suggest we actually take a vacation day before the Inquisition or the Dean shows up and starts asking questions."

They all agreed. Or at least didn’t protest. Which, for Class C, was a victory.

That evening, as the sun sank behind the hills and cast the marshlands in hues of violet and gold, I found myself alone in the estate’s old observatory. The telescope hadn’t worked in years, but the view was still good. Still quiet.

Felix joined me eventually, a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape.

"Do you think I did the right thing?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I think you did the hard thing. And that counts for more."

He nodded, eyes on the distant treetops. "I’m going to stay."

I turned. "At the estate?"

"For a while," he clarified. "There are still records. Still things that need to be dealt with. People who need answers. But I’ll be back. Class C’s already a disaster without me."

I snorted. "You overestimate your importance."

"And you care more than you let on."

"Blasphemy."

We shared a smile.

Then he asked, quietly, "Do you think it’ll change? The Dorne legacy?"

I looked out at the marsh, at the broken towers and the flickering lights of an old house finally starting to breathe again.

"With the right people," I said. "Maybe."

The gates of the Academy creaked open with the same pretentious drama they always had. Ornate runes flared to life across the archway, scanning me like an overzealous customs officer. I gave the glowing glyph a sarcastic salute.

"Relax," I muttered. "I’m still corrupt."

A few students nearby flinched at my arrival. It warmed my heart. Nice to know that even after a week-long vacation, the legend of Professor Lucian ’Drelmonster’ Drelmont still inspired fear and confusion.

I stepped onto the marble path just as the bells tolled third period.

Class C was waiting. Not in the classroom, of course—that would be too normal. No, they were huddled outside, arguing loudly in a half-circle, with Julien gesturing wildly like a noble caught in a scandal.

"You can’t just replace him!" Julien snapped. "He’s not dead!"

"Technically," Wallace replied, "Professor Drelmont did vanish for seven days without formal leave. That counts as abandonment under clause—"

"Oh gods, Wallace, no one cares about sub-clause thirteen!"

Garrick loomed behind them, arms crossed. "I was fine with the new guy. He brought snacks."

I cleared my throat.

All heads turned.

Mira was the first to recover, her grin sharp. "Well, well. Look what the swamps dragged back."

"Your replacement was five minutes from declaring himself the new Messiah of Tactical Combat," Leo added, glaring. "I was ready to defect."

Felix wasn’t among them. Neither was Cassandra.

I raised a brow. "Replacement?"

Julien folded his arms. "Some guest lecturer. The Academy assigned him while you were... missing. Said you’d probably resigned or died."

"I wish," Leo muttered.

"Where is he now?"

"Classroom," Garrick said. "Still preaching about the ’Order of Pure Combat Forms’ or something."

Fantastic. I could smell the cultish nonsense from here.

Inside the Lecture Hall

I opened the door.

The guest lecturer was a tall, well-groomed man with dark red robes and a golden monocle that screamed I studied in the Empire, and I never shut up about it. He stood before my chalkboard, drawing diagrams of concentric battle formations like they hadn’t been debunked a century ago.

He turned with the stiff posture of someone used to applause. "Ah, students, as I was saying, true battlefield victory comes from symmetry—"

He saw me.

Stopped.

I stepped into the room. Slowly. Like a villain entering his domain.

"I see the Academy’s budget for desperation has increased," I said, voice low. "Did they find you in a philosophy alleyway?"

The man stiffened. "I am Master Edric of the Tranquil Line, certified tactician of the Silver Ring. And you are?"

I smiled. "Your final exam."

I threw a piece of chalk.

It pinged off his forehead. His expression twisted in disbelief.

The students burst into laughter.

Later, in the Head Instructor’s Office

Instructor Roderick Vaughn was leaning back in his chair, trying—and failing—not to smirk as I recounted Edric’s outraged departure.

"He stormed out shouting something about ’doctrinal heresy.’ I told him to file a complaint with the Gods."

Roderick snorted. "He’ll live. Though next time, try not to start a philosophical duel with staff inside the classroom."

"He had it coming. The man said formations were more important than morale."

"That is heresy."

A pause.

Then Roderick glanced at me, serious now. "You okay?"

I leaned back, sighing. "No. But I’m functional. That’ll do."

He nodded. "Your class missed you. Even if they’ll never say it."

"They better not."

He hesitated.

Then added, "Word is, there’s been chatter about your movements. Someone’s asking questions. Not Academy staff."

"Outsiders?"

He nodded. "Maybe connected to the southern marshes. Maybe not. Just... be careful."

I filed that away. Marsh secrets didn’t stay buried forever.

Especially not when you dug them up and lit them on fire.

I sat by the open window, moonlight spilling over my desk. The Grimoire of Patterns sat before me, pulsing faintly with unreadable runes.

I traced a finger across the cover.

Felix’s voice echoed in my mind. Do you think it’ll change? The Dorne legacy?

That legacy wasn’t unique.

Every student in Class C carried a storm beneath their skin. All I could do was teach them how to weather it without becoming the lightning.

I used the status window and opened the Grimoire.

The next Pattern had begun to form—foreign, complex, half-buried in old languages.

But I recognized one thing.

A symbol etched into the bottom margin. Small. Subtle.

A rune of summoning.

Not for a spirit. Not for a weapon.

But for a door.

A door with no key.

And something on the other side was already knocking.

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