Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 171: Map written in flesh

Chapter 171: Map written in flesh

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of nightmares—though gods knew I had plenty of those to choose from—but because my heart wouldn’t stop beating like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest.

The Grimoire of Patterns lay open before me, casting flickering cyan light across my quarters. The runes that had burned themselves into my chest earlier now mirrored markings scrawled across the pages—living, moving ink that shifted like veins beneath parchment.

New section.

Not one I unlocked through study.

This was a gift. Or a curse, depending on how you looked at it.

___

[Sealed Pattern: Drevash’s Line]

Status: Dormant

Anchor: Host Bound

Cycle Detected: 1/5

Warning: Unauthorized Ascension Node Identified

___

Below the text was a diagram. No—a map. Of my own nervous system. Arteries, nerves, and mana circuits drawn like a spell array. Five nodes highlighted along my spine and chest.

I traced one with my finger.

Burning sensation. Vision flicker.

Suddenly, I saw not my room, but a vision of an ancient hall. Dust-choked. Moonlight seeping through cracks in the ceiling. A mirror showing not my reflection, but a child with my eyes, seated in a throne made of chains and black stone.

The vision shattered again as I jerked back, nearly tipping my chair.

Five nodes.

Five steps?

Or five doors?

Either way, something was trying to guide me. Or use me.

A knock at the door. Three quick raps, a pause, then two more.

Roderick.

I grabbed a loose tunic and threw the Grimoire under a pile of old robes. The glow faded. Mostly.

The door creaked open.

Roderick stood there, looking worse than I’d ever seen him. Cloak singed. Arm in a sling. A wild, disbelieving look in his eyes.

"You felt it too, didn’t you?" he asked, voice hoarse.

I didn’t answer.

He stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind him.

"Something broke tonight," he whispered. "Something old. Headmaster’s summoned an emergency conclave. But you—your room—reeked of runes when I passed. What the hell happened, Lucian?"

I stared at him.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t know what lie to tell.

I considered lying.

A half-truth, maybe. Something about an experimental rune or a misfired enchantment. But Roderick wasn’t some half-wit cadet fresh out of the lecture halls. He was a battlefield mage. He’d seen the way my aura had flared last week during the confrontation at the training yard. He’d watched me move like someone who no longer feared consequence.

So I said the most dangerous thing I could.

"...Something woke up."

His eyes narrowed. "Define something."

I reached beneath the robes and pulled out the Grimoire. Its cover was darker than it had been just minutes ago—almost bruised. The ink across the title shimmered faintly, as if responding to my heartbeat. I didn’t hand it over. Just let him see it.

"The Academy calls it the Grimoire of Patterns. I thought it was just a unique artifact, some dead system no one used anymore. But tonight—" I paused, exhaling. "It etched something into me. Carved it into my damn spine."

Roderick blinked slowly. Then, he shut the door with a quiet finality.

"You need to come with me."

"Where?"

He didn’t answer.

The Faculty Wing was unusually silent. No patrols. No students loitering with late-night mischief. Even the statues lining the walls—sentinels enchanted to alert for magical surges—stood inert, like they were holding their breath.

Roderick led me down a narrow hall I didn’t recognize, past a locked door inscribed with the Headmaster’s sigil. He pressed his hand against it. No chant. No passphrase.

The door opened anyway.

What lay beyond was not part of the official floorplan.

The room was circular, sunken, and layered with enchantments that buzzed faintly against my skin. Seven chairs, placed equidistantly along the perimeter, all facing a wide, circular rune drawn into the stone floor. That rune... it was old. Not etched by hand, but woven into the stone itself, like veins beneath skin.

Three of the chairs were already occupied.

High Inquisitor Velryn. A necromancer from the Church’s Scholastic Arm. He wore white robes stitched with gold patterns and eyed me like I was something scraped off a ritual knife.

Dean Elowen. Head of the Alchemic Division. Blindfolded, yet somehow looking directly into my soul.

And finally—Headmaster Thalos himself.

He looked ancient, even by the Academy’s standards. More ghost than man, with eyes like cracked glass and fingers that never stopped twitching. I’d only ever seen him once before, during the entrance ceremony. He hadn’t moved a muscle the entire time.

Now, he turned his full attention to me.

"Lucian Drelmont," he rasped. "You’ve touched something forbidden."

The air in the chamber thickened. Every rune on the floor pulsed.

I swallowed. "I didn’t touch anything. It found me."

Velryn scoffed. "Spoken like every damned heretic before you."

Elowen raised a hand. "Enough. Let the boy speak."

Boy? I’m older than you, you shriveled alchemy-obsessed cryptkeeper— Wait. No. Calm. Smile. Play the role.

"The Grimoire showed me something," I said. "A network. Five points. Anchored in my body. One of them lit up tonight. I didn’t activate it—it activated me."

A hush followed.

Then Thalos leaned forward.

"Describe the vision."

So I did. The chained child. The throne. The hall of moonlight and dust. I skipped the part where the reflection had my eyes—no need to stir the pot more than necessary.

Velryn scribbled something into a thin leather tome. Elowen murmured to herself. Thalos, however, smiled.

Or tried to. His lips didn’t quite remember how.

"Then it begins again," he whispered.

My blood ran cold. "Again?"

He stood slowly, hands tucked behind his back.

"There are patterns older than language. Older than nations. They do not speak. They imprint. On bloodlines, on artifacts, on fools reckless enough to stare too long into their own potential." His eyes met mine. "You are a remnant now, Lucian. A continuation of something long buried."

I felt the marks on my chest burn, just slightly. A warning. A promise.

"What happens now?" I asked.

Elowen was the one to answer. "Now, you choose. You can let the marks consume you—become a vessel for something you don’t understand. Or..."

"Or?"

"You study it," she said softly. "Under supervision."

Velryn snorted. "You mean we use him. As a test subject."

Roderick stepped between them. "He’s still faculty. Not a specimen."

Thalos raised a hand. Silence fell again.

"You will remain at the Academy," he said. "But from this point forward, your movements are restricted. You will report changes to me directly. No exceptions."

"Am I under arrest?" I asked.

"No. But you are watched. And if your Pattern blooms further, Lucian..."

He stepped closer. His breath smelled like burnt parchment and ozone.

"...you’ll wish we had arrested you."

We left the chamber after what felt like hours. Roderick didn’t speak until we reached the main hall.

"You okay?" he asked.

"No."

He nodded. "Didn’t think so."

Back in my room, I collapsed into the chair again. The Grimoire was still pulsing faintly. When I opened it, I saw new text burning across the page.

___

[Node I: The Throne of Echoes – Unsealed]

New Pattern Function: Adaptive Channeling [BETA]

Warning: Structural instability detected. Recommend Calibration Ritual.

Next Node: [REDACTED]

___

And below that, a single line—written in my own handwriting.

"You don’t remember dying, but your body does."

I slammed the book shut.

Sleep never came.