Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 188: Ashes and embers

Chapter 188: Ashes and embers

When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was unfamiliar.

Not because it was new.

Because it was intact.

I lay in my quarters—sheets tangled, throat dry, and mana core sputtering like a candle in the rain. My muscles ached in ways that didn’t make anatomical sense, and my brain kept replaying that final moment.

Light. Static. Fear. And then—

Silence.

It wasn’t the vision that unsettled me.

It was the echo it left behind.

There, carved just beneath my skin—subtle, humming with buried heat—was a new Pattern. A vow-shaped sigil that wasn’t born from calculation or theory, but instinct. Will. Desperation.

___

Grimoire of Patterns: Votive Sigil – "The Ashen Ember"

"When hope burns out, let defiance remain."

___

It wasn’t a combat spell. Not yet. But it had potential—dangerous, volatile potential. A glyph that grew with conviction. A rune powered by the act of standing back up when everything told you to stay down.

Poetic. Suicidal. Fitting.

A knock pulled me out of my spiral.

"Professor?"

Felix’s voice. Quiet. Hesitant.

I forced myself up, ignoring the stabbing protest from every joint. "Come in."

He did, peeking around the door like I might bite.

Or collapse.

"...You missed morning drills," he said. "Wallace bet five silver you were dead."

"And what did you bet?"

Felix looked down. "Ten that you’d be back by lunch."

"...Huh."

Not the worst odds.

I swung my legs over the bed. "Why are you here, Spineless?"

He hesitated, then held up a letter. "It’s from home."

Ah. Right.

The Dorne estate. The reason we were heading into a freezing marsh filled with old grudges and murky politics. I took the letter, but didn’t read it yet.

Instead, I stared at him.

He looked... steadier. Still pale. Still nervous. But there was something in his eyes—less fear, more resolve.

Maybe watching your unkillable, half-crazed instructor vanish into a vision circle and not die did that to people.

"I want to leave tomorrow," Felix said.

I raised a brow. "Why the rush?"

"My sister’s not doing well. And I think—I think something’s happening. In the marsh. People are disappearing. And my uncle won’t say a word."

Interesting.

"Then pack your things," I said. "And tell the others to do the same."

Felix blinked. "All of us?"

"Yes. We’re taking a field trip."

"...Professor, you can’t just—"

"I can and I will," I growled, standing. "Unless you’d rather go alone. Into what’s clearly a trap. Surrounded by people who probably want you dead."

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.

"...I’ll tell the others."

"Good boy."

As he left, I looked at the letter.

The seal had been broken and re-glued.

Tampered mail. From a noble house.

Whoever was watching Felix clearly didn’t want him to leave the academy.

Too bad.

They’d have to deal with me now.

Lucian Drelmont.

The man who breaks his own fate.

And theirs.

I held the letter between two fingers, inspecting the seal like it might bite me.

House Dorne’s crest had been reapplied—a crude patch job done with the assumption that I wouldn’t notice. But they forgot one thing:

I’m paranoid.

I carefully peeled it open and unfolded the parchment. The script was tidy but rushed. Desperate. Like someone had written it with a dagger to their throat.

___

Brother,

If you’re reading this, come home. Don’t ask questions. Just come. The reeds have turned black and the lanterns don’t stay lit. Mother won’t leave her room. Uncle says it’s nothing. But something’s in the water.

Come soon.

—Rin

___

No signature. No wax. Just the name Rin scratched like a plea.

I stared at it, unmoving, as mana gathered beneath my skin.

Black reeds. Lanterns failing. Something in the water.

Folklore. I’d seen those terms before.

Not in a grimoire, but in a side-quest from Sword of Radiance. A niche hidden event. Optional. Minor.

And fatal.

In-game, you’d stumble across a Dorne-related sub-event near the Murkfen Marshes, a side area filled with poisonous fog and blood-slick altars. You’d find traces of a minor noble house being devoured by a spirit infestation, twisted by a forgotten pact.

Most players ignored it. There were no legendary rewards. Just lore.

But Allen Cross? Allen Cross did every side quest.

And what I remembered was this:

"When the marsh moans and the dead don’t drown, run."

I folded the letter and slid it into my coat.

This wasn’t just a vacation.

This was a massacre waiting to happen.

And now it was personal.

By midday, I stood in front of my class with a cane in one hand and a chalkboard behind me. My body still ached from the vision trial, but I hid it well. Pride’s a damn good painkiller.

"Alright, disasters," I said. "We’re taking a trip."

The students stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

"Trip?" Julien asked, raising an eyebrow. "As in... field trip? Like actual, unsupervised, ’let’s go die in the wild’ kind of trip?"

"Precisely."

"Where?"

"To the lovely marshlands of Dorne."

Felix flinched.

Leo groaned. "Gods, why?"

I smiled. "Because your classmate’s family is in danger. And I’m too morally compromised to let that go without poking my nose in."

Mira snorted. "So, blackmail and heroism. Classic."

"Precisely, Trickster. Pack your gear. Travel clothes. Light armor. No dueling blades. We leave at dawn."

Wallace raised a hand. "Is this... sanctioned?"

"No."

"Will the Academy approve?"

"They’ll hear about it after we’re three days gone."

Garrick nodded. "Cool."

Cassandra tilted her head, eyes unreadable. "Will we be fighting?"

I looked at her, and for a moment, I considered lying.

But I didn’t.

"Yes," I said. "We’re walking into a marsh where the dead don’t stay buried, and the air itself whispers curses. Something is stirring. And we’re going to find out what."

The class fell silent.

Then, slowly, a few of them smiled.

Julien grinned. "Guess we’re earning extra credit."

That night, as I packed my satchel, I stared out my window.

The moonlight touched the runes I’d scrawled on my walls. I traced a familiar sigil—one from the Grimoire. One I hadn’t tested yet.

Pattern: Threshold.

A boundary rune. Something old. A glyph meant to contain.

I had a feeling I’d need it.

From the marshes of Dorne to the cursed roots of their bloodline, we were heading into something foul. Not just rot or decay—but memory. Old sins buried in bog water.

And if I had to carve a path through drowned corpses and ancestral guilt to protect my students?

So be it.

I was Lucian Drelmont.

A minor villain.

A walking contradiction.

And the last ember refusing to go out.

We left before the first bell rang.

The academy grounds were still soaked in dawn mist, shadows stretched long and quiet. Most faculty were too hungover or too asleep to question a group of students slipping away with travel packs and cloaks. That’s the thing about Noctis Ardentis—everyone assumes if someone’s walking with purpose, they must have permission.

They clearly hadn’t met me.

"Professor," Felix muttered as we passed the south gate, "You really didn’t tell anyone?"

"Would you have preferred I filed a formal request? Waited three weeks for a seal of approval while your brother’s begging for help?"

He flinched. I didn’t let the silence linger.

"We’re already halfway to exile. Might as well make it stylish."

Julien hummed as he walked beside me, spinning his staff lazily in one hand. "So, how bad is it? The marsh."

"Bad enough that birds don’t sing," I said. "Worse than that when they do."

Leo groaned behind us. "I knew I should’ve forged a leave of absence. I could be in a warm bath right now, not marching toward sentient mold."

Mira patted his shoulder. "Cheer up. You’ll probably die before it gets cold."

Wallace was at the rear, carrying more bags than anyone else. Mostly gadgets and strange brass tubes he insisted we’d need. Garrick helped with the weight, saying nothing. Cassandra hadn’t spoken since we left, but her eyes were sharp—watching the trees, the air, the shifting light between leaves.

Good, I thought. Someone else feels it too.

By midday, we reached the forest trail that would curve down toward the wetlands. The atmosphere shifted like a mood swing—birdsong vanished, and the wind stopped carrying warmth.

It felt... wrong.

Like the world was holding its breath.

I called a halt by a broken milestone covered in moss.

"Take fifteen," I said. "Drink, eat, check your gear."

They obeyed, mostly. Mira wandered off to scout, Wallace fiddled with a rune lantern, and I took out my grimoire.

The pages fluttered without wind, revealing a pattern I hadn’t marked.

Pattern: Wakebone.

Catalyst of disturbed rest. Drawn when graves lie uneasy.

I traced it with a gloved finger, and the glyph shimmered faintly.

"This place is humming," I muttered.

"Talking to yourself already?" Julien said, dropping beside me. "That’s a good sign."

"Don’t need signs. I’ve got instincts."

He tilted his head. "And what do those say?"

"That we’re walking into a place where the past doesn’t stay buried."

That night, we made camp at the edge of the Weeping Pines, a ridge just before the marsh boundary. The trees here cried sap so thick it stained the bark like old blood. Felix stayed close to the fire. Cassandra sat with her back to the woods. Wallace set up perimeter tripwires with glowing beads.

I drew three runes into the dirt around our camp.

Threshold. Warding. Anchor.

Just in case.

When everyone else drifted off, I stayed up.

Then, I heard it.

A low sound. Wet, dragging, like something pulling itself through bramble and muck. I reached for my cane-sword and rose silently.

The noise stopped.

Then—

A voice. Small. Fragile.

"...Professor?"

Felix.

But he was still asleep, mouth slightly open, snoring.

I turned sharply.

The voice came again. Closer.

"...help..."

No. Not his voice.

His brother’s.

Something cold slithered down my spine. I stepped outside the runes and the air thickened like syrup. The forest around us didn’t breathe. No wind. No insects. No life.

Then I saw it.

A figure—barely visible—just past the treeline.

Pale. Thin. Crooked like a snapped reed.

Its face was... familiar. Not Felix. Almost Felix.

And its mouth moved.

"...Wake us..."

I flung a ward rune with practiced speed. The glyph exploded in blue light, and the thing shrieked—no voice, just sound peeling from a mouth too wide.

Then it vanished.

The runes around the camp flared like a heartbeat.

The others stirred awake.

"What the hell was that?" Garrick asked, sword half-drawn.

"Trouble," I said. "Marsh-born. Shadebound. We’ve crossed into haunted ground."

Leo looked like he wanted to run.

Mira just grinned. "Finally. A real trip."

I sighed.

Dorne was already waking.

And something—something old—was waiting for us.