Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 175: When Ash falls like snow

Chapter 175: When Ash falls like snow

If you ever find yourself at the center of a web, feeling the silk tighten around your throat, it’s already too late. That was the kind of morning I had.

The academy halls were unusually quiet for a weekday. Not the comforting silence of diligent study, but the kind that slithered. Whispered. Eyes that lingered too long, students pretending not to glance, and the occasional chuckle just a little too forced.

It started with Mira.

"Professor," she said casually as we crossed paths near the central spire, "you might want to check the board near the east courtyard. Someone’s been... creative."

I raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like someone who collects student art?"

She smirked. "It’s more in the vein of... scandalous fiction."

That’s how I found the first of the Crimson Writs.

Posted on official parchment—blatantly forged, but convincingly so—was a detailed, dramatic account of a supposed encounter between yours truly and the Head of Department, Lysaria. It described candlelit meetings, forbidden research, and secret duels under moonlight. My character was portrayed as a seductive villain, her as a conflicted genius.

I stared for a long time. Then longer.

"...I’m not even offended. That’s impressive prose."

Behind me, Leo coughed. "Uh, Professor. There’s more."

He wasn’t wrong. The Crimson Writs, as they came to be called, had been plastered across three wings of the academy, each more ridiculous than the last. One suggested I’d personally dueled Augustus Evercrest and been offered the headmaster’s job out of sheer respect. Another accused me of secretly being a royal bastard of the Drelmont line, hidden to protect the crown.

The last one had me riding a dragon.

"Wallace," I called out. "What have I said about using the printing press unsupervised?"

He looked just guilty enough to confirm my suspicions. "I only made copies! I didn’t write it! Someone slipped the original under my door."

"Do you often mass-produce anonymous slander?"

"I thought it was fanfiction."

This academy was going to kill me in more ways than one.

Later, in the staff room, I found Lysaria leaning over a stack of grimoires. Her silver hair was bound in a loose braid today, and her fingers glided over a rune-sequencing tome like she was caressing a lover.

Which, given the rumors, was unfortunate timing.

"I suppose you’ve read the latest?" I asked, stepping inside.

She didn’t look up. "I’m debating whether to sue for libel or frame you for necromancy."

"How charitable. At least let me choose the style of execution."

She finally looked at me. Her violet eyes didn’t shimmer with amusement—no, Lysaria was too seasoned for such pleasantries. But the smallest twitch of her lips gave her away.

"You’re oddly calm."

"I’ve been accused of worse. And I admit, the part about the dragon was flattering."

She closed the tome with a snap. "This won’t go away on its own. Either someone wants you discredited or they want you distracted."

"Could be both."

We shared a knowing look. Enemies weren’t uncommon at Noctis Ardentis—least of all among faculty.

"I’ll investigate," she said, standing. "And you’ll behave."

"Do I ever?"

"Lucian."

"...Fine."

That night, I found a new message.

Unlike the Writs, it wasn’t decorative. A single sheet, inked in blood, folded into the shape of a sword.

No signature.

Just one line:

"When the northern forest burns red, choose who you save."

My fingers curled around the paper.

Roderick Vaughn’s fate.

It was beginning.

And whoever wrote this knew far too much.

They say fate is a straight line, but whoever coined that phrase never lived in a world where even the sky lies to you.

It began with the ash.

Not fire. Not thunder. Not screams. Just ash. Falling soft as snow over the Northern Forest, drifting on wind that tasted like copper and regrets.

I stood at the edge of the observation balcony atop the western spire, cloak rustling, fingers tightening around the blood-inked note folded in my pocket.

"When the northern forest burns red, choose who you save."

Cryptic. Prophetic. And terrifyingly accurate.

"Professor?"

Julien’s voice reached me like a thread trying to tether me to this world. I turned.

He was dressed in training gear, eyes narrowed, lips tight. Not his usual cocky smirk. Not today.

"We heard rumors. About a beast tide. Is it true?"

I didn’t answer immediately. Not because I didn’t know, but because saying it aloud would turn it from possibility to certainty.

"...Yes. Something’s coming."

He didn’t ask if I was sure. They trusted me more than they should.

Within the hour, I had the entire class gathered in one of the sealed briefing halls. Dusty. Unused. Perfect for a meeting we weren’t supposed to be having.

Mira was lounging against the wall, already decoding the note I handed her. Felix paced. Leo muttered about stomach pains that were definitely stress-induced. Wallace had brought a gauntlet that hummed ominously, and Cassandra—of course—was silent as death.

"Roderick Vaughn," I began, "will lead a group of students into the forest tomorrow. They won’t all return."

Garrick frowned. "How do you know?"

"I just do."

"You have visions now?" Leo asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Let’s call it... a veteran’s instinct."

I wasn’t ready to say "I played this damn event in a game and watched him die twenty different ways."

But I could remember how the original Lucian didn’t lift a finger to help. This version—my version—would not repeat that mistake.

"So what do we do?" Mira asked, twirling the blood-folded paper between her fingers. "Stage a rescue? Warn the headmaster?"

I shook my head. "Evercrest will ignore it. He has his own reasons. And we can’t tip off the enemy."

"Enemy?"

I nodded. "Whoever wrote this note is part of the academy. Or at least knows it well."

Julien leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Then we lay a trap."

I studied their faces—eager, fearful, defiant. Not soldiers. Not yet. But they’d follow me into hell.

"I’ll join the forest party under the pretense of evaluating students. You," I gestured to the rest, "will be on standby. The moment things go wrong, I want Class C ready to act."

Wallace adjusted his gauntlet. "Define ’go wrong’?"

"When the sky turns red."

Later that night, I found myself outside Roderick’s quarters, fingers hesitating inches from the door.

He deserved to know.

But I didn’t knock.

He looked tired when I caught a glimpse through the slightly ajar frame. Sitting by the hearth, polishing his axe. The same one he’d die with in the forest, trying to protect students who would already be dead if he hadn’t been there.

How do you warn someone of their death without sounding insane?

I walked away.

But not before slipping a rune-sequenced stone into his weapons rack. One I personally modified. One that would absorb a fatal strike—once.

It’s not enough, I thought bitterly.

But it’s more than nothing.

Dawn bled across the sky like the opening eye of some ancient predator.

We rode out in silence. Roderick led the way. I trailed behind, cloak drawn, face unreadable.

The Crimson Writs had been replaced this morning with something new—pinned across the walls of the dorms in crimson ink:

"The forest hungers. Let the wolves feast."

And the ash began to fall again.