Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 182: Vault below the bones

Chapter 182: Vault below the bones

We traveled in silence.

Down the old western trail—one not charted on any modern map of the Academy.

Roderick led the way, torchlight casting jagged shadows against moss-slicked stones. Two guards from Internal Affairs trailed behind, clutching relic-class blades like prayer beads.

We passed beyond the barriers. I felt the pulse of severed runes—wards that had been chewed through, not dispelled.

Whatever breached this place didn’t bypass security.

It devoured it.

The tomb was not a structure.

It was a wound.

Carved into the cliffside like an open mouth, its entrance bled a dull, golden mist that smelled faintly of silver and vinegar.

The moment I crossed the threshold, the Grimoire in my coat burned against my ribs—eager, terrified, hungry.

Inside, the air changed.

Heavier. Older. Aware.

I could feel it watching me—not the tomb, not a ghost, but something deeper. The memory of a man too dangerous to be remembered.

Augustus Evercrest stood in the center of the chamber, his cane planted in the dust.

His eyes, gold as judgment, turned to me the second I arrived. He did not look surprised. He never did.

"Drelmont," he said, not unkindly. "I was wondering how long it would take for the tomb to call you."

Lysaria stood beside him, arms folded, her expression unreadable. Her usual grace had hardened into stone.

"So," I said, swallowing the tightness in my throat, "whose tomb is this?"

Augustus gestured toward the sarcophagus at the heart of the chamber.

The runes on it were scorched black—severed. The sigil of the Drelmont line barely legible beneath cracked stone.

"This," the Headmaster said quietly, "is the tomb of Evanar Drelmont. The First Severance."

The name hit harder than expected.

The vision. The ichor. The fury of a man who defied heaven and carved rules into reality’s bones.

"My ancestor," I said, voice barely audible.

"Not just that," Lysaria said, stepping forward. "Your predecessor. The one who wrote the first Grimoire of Patterns. The one who vanished after the Sundering War. His death was never confirmed."

Augustus nodded. "And now, his tomb has opened. And the Academy’s wards—linked to Severance blood—reacted violently. Something inside this tomb has recognized you."

My heart thudded.

"Recognized?"

"Yes." The Headmaster stepped aside.

And I saw it.

On the far wall—etched in new, burning runes—was a single phrase:

"Lucian Drelmont. Inheritor. You are late."

I stared at the message. My mouth dry.

"...what do you want me to do?"

Augustus gave me a long look. Then, to my surprise, he smiled—thin and grim.

"We don’t know."

Lysaria turned to face me fully. "This tomb should not exist. Not here. Not now. Evanar Drelmont should not know your name."

"But he does," I said, feeling the cold truth crawl under my skin. "And I think I know why."

Augustus raised an eyebrow.

"I’ve been dreaming of him," I admitted. "Not visions. Not illusions. Memories. Of his war. Of the god he killed. Of the rune he carved from its death."

That silenced the room.

Roderick muttered a curse.

Lysaria simply said, "Then you are already marked."

Augustus adjusted his cane. "We will seal this tomb, for now. Until we understand what Evanar left behind."

I stared at the sarcophagus.

But I already knew the truth.

Evanar hadn’t left anything behind.

He had left something waiting.

And whatever it was...

It was waking up.

I returned to my quarters, but I didn’t sleep.

The tomb hadn’t let me go. Not entirely. Its scent lingered in my lungs. Its pressure haunted the back of my skull like an old scar tugged open.

Evanar Drelmont.

The First Severance.

Why did his tomb call me?

I poured over the Grimoire of Patterns, flipping past etched notes and failed diagrams until I reached the back—where the ink grew darker and the glyphs twisted away from the margins like thorned vines.

Then, a page I hadn’t written.

It was blank... and yet not.

Only under candlelight did the words bleed through. Carved in ancient Drelmont cipher. His cipher.

___

"You wear my name but not my burden. Soon, you will."

___

My hands trembled.

It was Evanar.

He wasn’t dead.

Or if he was—he hadn’t stayed that way.

I woke the next morning to a knock at the door. Too sharp. Too early.

Felix.

Hair a mess, still in his training gear, holding a scroll in both hands like it might explode.

"Professor. We have a... situation."

Of course we did.

I followed him down the north hall, across the courtyard, past a group of second-year alchemists arguing over containment glyphs.

"Class C is waiting," he muttered. "Julien started it, obviously."

I sighed. "Started what?"

Felix opened the door to our training yard.

Julien was floating.

Not gracefully—more like an awkward hover above a rune circle he’d carved into the stones.

Mira leaned against the wall, unimpressed. Garrick stood nearby, arms crossed, clearly resisting the urge to intervene. Wallace was adjusting some glowing contraption near the edge of the field.

"Is this a duel?" I asked.

"No," Mira said dryly. "This is what happens when Julien tries to replicate the levitation sigils from your last lecture."

Julien shouted from midair. "Professor! I’ve ascended! This is a higher state of education!"

"...You’re stuck, aren’t you?"

"...Maybe."

I looked to Wallace. "How long before he crashes?"

"Four minutes. Maybe six. Depends on his dignity threshold."

"Unreliable metric."

I dispelled the rune midair with a flick of my wrist. Julien dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Later, as they trained, I watched them from the side.

My class. The misfits.

Felix trying to memorize three different shield runes at once. Garrick adjusting his stance under my corrections. Mira, as always, untrustworthy but competent. Wallace’s new gadget catching fire.

Cassandra was absent.

Again.

My eyes narrowed.

I’d let it go the first two times. But today?

Today I felt something in the threads. The pattern shifted.

I reached into my coat, pulling out the Grimoire. A new page shimmered where there should’ve been none.

It was a map.

Not of the Academy.

Of what lay beneath it.

The crypts. The forbidden vaults. The sealed place beneath the Severance tomb.

A rune pulsed at the center.

Cassandra’s magic signature.

I dismissed class early.

Said it was due to "faculty reports" and "emergency paperwork"—which, in a way, was true.

But as I stepped into the restricted wing with the Grimoire humming at my side, I wasn’t Lucian Drelmont the corrupt professor.

I was a dead man chasing the echo of another.

And somewhere deep below this school of magic and politics and war—

Something old had begun to move.

And Cassandra?

She might already be part of it.

They say the Academy was built on ancient ground.

They weren’t wrong.

What they never said—what no textbook dared to mention—was that beneath Noctis Ardentis, past the runed foundation stones and the ceremonial catacombs, there lies an older vault. A place sealed not with locks, but with intent. Magic so dense and silent it hums like an old wound.

I followed the map etched in the Grimoire of Patterns.

Every corridor I passed grew colder. Dust gathered in places it shouldn’t. The torches along the wall didn’t flicker—they leaned, ever so slightly, away from something ahead.

The Grimoire vibrated against my coat, a low thrum pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Cassandra had come this way. Her magic thread was woven into the air like a subtle perfume of silence and dusk.

She had gone willingly.

The entrance wasn’t a door.

It was a broken statue in a dead-end hallway: a cracked likeness of an unknown headmaster, forgotten and faceless. But the stone base bore the rune.

Veritas Vinctum.

Truth, Bound.

I touched it.

Pain lanced through my palm as the rune activated, feeding on blood and will. The wall behind the statue melted—not physically, but perceptually. Like reality had given up for a moment, admitting there were places even it couldn’t hold closed.

And beyond it?

Darkness. Heavy, waiting, alive.

I stepped through.

The Vault was colder than death.

Runes scrawled across the ceiling in patterns I couldn’t comprehend—not even with the Grimoire’s aid. They weren’t written to be read. They were felt. They pulsed with fear and reverence. With dread.

In the center of the vast chamber stood a stone plinth.

And atop it... Cassandra.

She didn’t turn. Her silver hair drifted slightly, like caught in a wind I couldn’t feel.

"Lucian," she said.

No honorific. No emotion.

"You followed me."

"You left a trail a blind man could follow."

She turned then. Eyes like dusk before a storm.

"Then stop me. If you can."

And before I could speak, the runes on the ceiling ignited.

The Vault reacted.

Runes spiraled into life. Not just light—but motion. Shapes I couldn’t describe folded in on themselves. My Grimoire screamed, pages flapping wildly as it tried to close itself.

Cassandra stood calm in the middle of it all.

"Do you know," she said, "why the Severance Line was called cursed?"

I clenched my fists. "Their legacy is soaked in blood."

"No." Her voice dropped. "Because they bound something down here. Something that shouldn’t have survived the First Severance."

A second plinth rose from the ground beside her. Chained.

It pulsed.

A heart. Black and violet. Still beating.

"You found a relic."

"No," she said. "I found what remains of Evanar Drelmont."

I could feel it now. His presence.

It wasn’t memory.

It was will.

Evanar—the First Severance. The founder. The killer. The visionary who carved war into a philosophy. His heart... pulsed with runic pattern beyond reason.

"You’re trying to awaken him?"

Cassandra’s expression flickered. Something broke through her usual stillness.

"He never died."

I stepped forward.

"Then you’re a fool," I said. "Whatever he is now, whatever power lies in that heart, it’s not Evanar. It’s a ruin. A curse wearing a legend’s skin."

She turned fully, facing me with the same unreadable expression she wore during lectures. But now... I saw the edge of it. Desperation.

"Maybe," she whispered. "But if I let the world choose between you and him, it will pick the devil it remembers."

My hand dropped to my belt. I drew my rune-etched dagger.

I wasn’t ready for this.

Not for Cassandra. Not for Evanar. Not for the truth buried beneath bones and duty and ambition.

But I stepped forward anyway.

Because I’d be damned if I let her become what I nearly did.