The Dark Lady's Guide to Villainy [Book 1 Complete] [Dark Lord, School, Romance]

Mo's eighth cup of coffee had gone cold three hours ago, but she kept drinking it anyway—the bitter taste matched her mood perfectly. Her desk looked like the aftermath of a library explosion, if libraries contained essays on 'Practical Applications of Terror in Modern Villainy' that kept catching fire whenever she tried to cite her own servant uprising as a theoretical example.

Three weeks since she'd signed contracts with dragons who considered everyone below them a light snack. Almost one month of trying to manage a blowing-up business of her empire while completing first-year coursework that suddenly seemed both trivial and impossible. What's even worse, it was three weeks of System slowly leaking through the inter-world membranes to the pocket dimension where Umbra Academy was located. It wasn't anything concrete yet. Just a feeling, like when you see something from the corner of your eye, but it isn't there when you turn your head to look directly.

"Time management," she muttered, shoving another stack of papers aside to find her Theoretical Overlording notes. "Just like running a coffee shop. Except the customers can literally collapse dimensions or suck all energy from a star. And my homework might determine whether reality survives until spring."

Adding even more anxiety to the chaos was a tablet. Not of the Earth variety. And not magitech—it was still too early for anything like that. Still, the object had magic in it. But it was infused by none other than Grimz. He'd sent it a few days before to simplify the communication. The ex-revolutionary progressed in levels quite impressively since the moment of the Integration. Was it the resolve that helped him to organize goblins and survive, or just the amount of work that he was doing as the head of Mo's Shadow Council, that was hard to tell.

All of that didn't really matter when the tablet lit up with another urgent message. The forty-first today. Something about goblin unions discovering they could collectively bargain through synchronized magical manifestation. Mo didn't open it. She couldn't. Not when Professor Thornwick expected her "Cultural Implications of Servant Species Uprising" paper in exactly... she checked the Academy's time-keeping orb... four hours.

Mo could only chuckle at the surrealism of the situation. She was literally living the paper topic while trying to write about it theoretically.

"You look terrible," Nyx announced, materializing through the door of Mo's bedroom in a shower of dark particles. They'd given up knocking weeks ago, claiming Mo's stress levels were visible through walls, anyway.

"Thanks. Really needed that confidence boost before explaining to Thornwick why my paper includes actual parliamentary minutes from a servant species revolt I personally oversaw. And not on the defending side." Mo didn't look up from her frantic writing. "Did you finish the Practical Intimidation project?"

"Turned it in yesterday." Nyx sprawled across Mo's bed, and even through her exhaustion, Mo noticed how they shifted between presentations like a mood ring—currently cycling through increasingly concerned variations. When Mo's stress spiked at another urgent message, Nyx's form solidified slightly, as if trying to be an anchor in her chaos. "Lucian's still working on his. Apparently, writing about emotional manipulation through ice sculpture is harder when you've actually done it during a diplomatic crisis. Brings memories or something."

"Where's Valerius?"

"Getting romantic advice from Lady Thornheart, if you can believe it. Something about proper courtship protocols when the object of your affection controls weather patterns." Nyx's grin turned sharp. "Speaking of romance, guess who's arriving today for her 'formal presentation to the Academy faculty'?"

Mo's quill snapped in half. Her magic flared—just for a second—sending rose-gold sparks across the ruined essay. She watched the ink spread as fast as her composure was dissolving, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for another quill.

"Is it already today? Emily's coming? Why didn't you remind me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry if I wasn't a good butler to you," Nyx teased, but their expression softened at Mo's barely contained panic. "You read Grimz's message aloud. It mentioned she'd been summoned to present her findings about the System network architecture and your involvement in the crisis. They continue the investigation. And the timing seems very convenient with the Tournament opening ceremony tomorrow."

Mo stared at the ink spreading across her paper like a metaphor for her life. All this time, since that awkward moment when the portal displacement sickness screwed with the scientist's mind. Weeks of carefully professional messages, discussions of implementation strategies, and magical network analysis through formal channels. And absolutely not thinking about the way Emily had looked at her with those golden-glowing eyes of her newly awakened powers, or how her curiosity about succubus abilities had felt like both intellectual and maybe some other foreplay…

"Your powers are spilling over," Nyx said. "Your emotional chaos is making my form unstable."

"Sorry." Mo grabbed another quill, trying to salvage her paper. "It's fine. Professional meeting. She presents findings. High Council asks questions. Academy makes some notes that will collect dust in the archives for centuries. Nothing personal, pure business and science."

"Right. That's why you're strangling that quill."

Mo looked down. The quill was indeed suffering in her grip. She set it down carefully.

"Any word on the Tournament tasks?" she asked, desperate for a subject change.

"Cordelia says they're keeping them secret until tomorrow's opening ceremony. That's normal. Too many egos clash during the Tournament. It has to be unpredictable to avoid allegations of the results being staged. But she did mention something odd—apparently several High Council members insisted on personally approving each task. That never happens."

Before Mo could respond, her door burst open. Lucian stood there, frost spreading from his feet in anxiety spirals.

"Problem," he said. "Dorian's holding court in the main hall. He's telling everyone you sabotaged his Tournament participation just to eliminate competition."

"He sabotaged himself by being a bigot," Nyx said, sitting up sharply.

"Yes, but he's claiming he has 'sources' suggesting the Tournament tasks will expose 'certain students' as frauds.' His exact words were 'revolutionary pretenders about to face practical reality.'"

Mo abandoned her paper entirely. Three weeks of Dorian's bitter commentary from the sidelines had been annoying but manageable. This sounded like an escalation.

***

The main hall thrummed with pre-Tournament energy. Students clustered in faction-based groups, their excited chatter dying as Mo entered with her friends. The Academy's floating lights seemed dimmer lately, struggling against the dimensional instabilities everyone pretended weren't happening.

Dorian had claimed the spot directly beneath the Trophy of Supremacy—the most prestigious display in the hall. His followers formed a semicircle that forced other students to walk around them, a petty power play that would have been more effective if Dorian's collar wasn't askew with what looked suspiciously like a wine stain. Shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. Beside him, surprisingly, stood Darian Blackcrest, the wannabe demonic journalist who'd been documenting Academy drama with tabloid enthusiasm.

"…and isn't it interesting," Dorian was preaching to his audience, "that certain students receive special accommodations while others are excluded from rightfully earned opportunities?"

"Still crying about the Ball?" Mo asked, her voice carrying across the suddenly silent hall. "It's been three weeks. Maybe find a new personality besides 'bitter exclusion'."

Dorian's face darkened, but before he could respond, Darian stepped forward slightly. It was subtle—just a shift of position—but something about it seemed protective.

"The Tournament will reveal the truth," Darian said, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion. "Some of us have trained our entire lives for this honor. Other upstarts…" he looked intently at Mo. "Simply... manipulate their way to the top with their powers."

"Like your cousin manipulated Nyx? Oh wait, that didn't work because authentic people don't reshape themselves for someone else's comfort. But also, is it a school for villains or a school for noble maidens? Well, both, I guess. But I think manipulating your way up the food chain shouldn't even be worth a theme for a term thesis."

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

She saw it then—the briefest flicker of something in Dorian's eyes. Not just anger but genuine pain. Beside him, Darian's hand twitched, as if fighting the urge to reach out.

"Authentic," Dorian repeated, his laugh bitter. "Easy to be authentic when you're not…" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

"When you're not what?" Nyx asked, their form sharpening with interest.

"When you're not bound by expectations," Darian finished smoothly, but his eyes remained fixed on Dorian with an expression Mo couldn't quite read. "Some of us carry family legacies that demand certain... presentations. And Mo's lack of parents lets her run like a loose cannon, doing whatever she wants."

"Careful," Lucian said, his voice carrying winter's quiet warning. "Orphaned hearts aren't weapons for your rhetoric. Either your thoughts have frozen mid-stream, or you're deliberately shattering ice you shouldn't walk on."

The moment stretched taut between them.

"Speaking of presentations," a familiar voice said from the doorway, "the High Council requests all Tournament participants and their associates attend a preliminary briefing."

Professor Malvolia stood there, her expression unreadable. Behind her, Mo caught a glimpse of a face that made her stomach flip.

Emily. Dr. Foster. Here, expanding her official capacity as a researcher further and further away from Earth. Looking every inch the interdimensional scientist in Academy-provided formal wear.

Their eyes met across the hall. All these past days of professional distance collapsed into a single moment of connection that made Mo's magic flare involuntarily. Gold flickered in Emily's eyes—just for a second—before she looked away, focusing on the tablet in her hands.

"The briefing begins in one hour," Malvolia continued. "Dr. Foster will be presenting her findings on the new magic's patterns. Attendance is mandatory."

She swept away. Emily followed, but not before catching Mo's eye for the briefest moment—a look that managed to convey 'we need to talk' and 'I'm sorry about this formal distance' and 'please be careful' all at once.

"Mandatory," Dorian muttered to his group. "As if we need a human explaining magic to us."

"That human has more knowledge about the spread of this new magical System than all the faculty combined," Mo said, her protective instincts flaring. "All of you should count yourselves lucky she's willing to share that information for free."

"For free?" Darian's voice cut through the murmurs, his tabloid instincts apparently triggered. "Isn't Dr. Foster on the Blackthorn Keep payroll? One might wonder if her 'findings' conveniently support certain agendas." His smile was razor-sharp. "Don't worry, tomorrow morning's edition will explore these fascinating connections. 'Human Researcher or Goblin Revolution Mouthpiece?' has such a nice ring to it."

Several students looked between Mo and Darian with renewed interest.

"The Tournament begins tomorrow," Dorian said, his voice low and dangerous. "We'll see who's laughing then."

He stalked away, his followers trailing behind. But Darian lingered for just a moment, studying Mo with those calculating eyes.

"Should be an interesting competition," he said mildly before walking away. "My next article will be... illuminating."

***

The lecture hall had been reconfigured for the presentation. Tiered seating faced a central platform where Emily stood, her professional composure almost hiding her nervousness. Almost. Mo could sense the anxiety radiating from her—a skill that had nothing to do with succubus abilities and everything to do with having memorized every tell during their brief time together.

Cordelia lounged in the VIP section, her presence making everyone else unconsciously lean away. She caught Mo's eye and patted the seat beside her.

"Dragon privilege," she said as Mo reluctantly joined her. "Best seats for watching a human explaining the obvious. Changes are coming. We are all doomed. Blah-blah-blah. Though your human is rather more interesting than most."

"She's not…" Mo started, then stopped. What was Emily to her? Not hers, certainly. Not after three weeks of careful distancing.

"She keeps glancing at you," Cordelia observed, her vertical pupils dilating with interest. "Her heart rate increases each time. Fascinating physiological response."

"Could you not catalog people's vital signs?"

"Can't help it. Predator instincts." Cordelia smiled, showing too many teeth. "Besides, the mutual pining is entertaining. Almost makes me forget I'm constantly hungry."

Before Mo could respond, Malvolia called for silence. Emily stepped forward, her tablet projecting complex diagrams into the air above her.

"Thank you for this opportunity to present my findings," Emily began, her voice steady despite the magical recording devices floating around her. "Over the past three weeks, I've analyzed System integration patterns across seventeen dimensional planes of the Nightshade Empire."

The diagrams shifted, showing interconnected networks that hurt to look at directly. Mo recognized some of the patterns—they matched the sensations she'd been experiencing, the growing awareness of the System's vast reach.

"My calculations show that Julian Fennar may have accounted for different events of magical instability or concentration in preparation for his fateful ritual. Many of the System's connections I traced led here, to this place and to this moment. The Tournament's timing is not coincidental," Emily continued. "Large gatherings of magically capable individuals actively and purposefully performing magic may be something that will propagate the System even more. My perception shows that while the Academy's pocket dimension has remained relatively stable, it may change when concentrated magical competition begins."

"Are you suggesting the Tournament is dangerous?" someone called out.

Emily's eyes found Mo's for a split second. "I'm suggesting it will accelerate integration in ways we can't fully predict. All of us have to be prepared for that. The spread will continue anyway, there's no tool that can stop it."

She continued her presentation, explaining technical details that made most students' eyes glaze over. But Mo heard the subtext, the warnings carefully embedded in academic language. The Tournament wasn't just a competition anymore. It was a catalyst. It was making everyone involved. Not just her and her friends.

"Questions?" Malvolia asked when Emily finished.

"Why should we trust human analysis of magical phenomena?" The voice came from the back—one of Dorian's supporters.

Emily's spine straightened. "Because humans are experiencing magical integration without centuries of preconceptions. We see patterns that established magical societies might overlook."

"Or you see patterns that don't exist," the student countered.

"The data doesn't lie," Emily said, and for the first time, Mo heard steel in her voice. "Something is coming. I didn't have to be here, and I came only at the Academy's and the High Council's personal request. I could have saved all of this information for the Nightshade Empire's use only. The Tournament will accelerate everything. You can prepare, or you can dismiss my findings. But denial won't stop reality from shifting."

"How convenient," a voice called from the upper tiers—this time it was Darian himself. "These findings just happen to suggest everyone needs Lady Nightshade's framework to survive the integration. Almost like you're creating a problem to sell a solution."

Emily's golden eyes flared brighter. "The D.E.V.I.O.U.S. framework is one possible mitigation strategy. Probably not the only one. But yes, structured adaptation beats chaos. Good luck finding other solutions on such short notice. Would you prefer I lie about the data to make you feel better about traditional methods that are already failing?"

Silence greeted this pronouncement. Then Cordelia laughed—a sound like water boiling in dragon fire.

"I like her," she announced to the room. "She has the audacity to tell uncomfortable truths. Very dragon-like for a human."

"Thank you, Lady Emberclaw," Emily said, and Mo caught the slight quirk of her lips. "Though I'd prefer to remain human-like, if it's all the same to you."

Another laugh from Cordelia. "Oh, she's definitely yours, Nightshade."

Heat flooded Mo's face. "She's not… we're not.. she's not…!"

"The briefing is concluded," Malvolia interrupted. "Tournament participants should prepare for tomorrow's opening ceremony. Dr. Foster, the High Council requests your presence for additional consultation."

Students began filing out, chattering excitedly about the upcoming competition. Mo stood to leave, but Cordelia's hand on her arm stopped her.

"Wait," the dragon said. "Watch."

Emily was gathering her materials when three High Council representatives approached her. Mo recognized them—traditionalists who'd been vocal about investigating Mo's involvement in the Integration. They surrounded Emily with the casual menace of predators who knew their prey couldn't escape.

"Your theories are interesting," one said, his voice carrying despite the distance. "But perhaps you'd like to share your more... personal observations about System carriers?"

Emily's hands stilled on her tablet. "I've shared all relevant data."

"Have you? Because we've heard you have quite personal experience with certain magical influences." His smile was sharp. "Surely that affected your... analysis."

Mo started forward, but Cordelia held her back. "Wait," she repeated.

Emily looked up at the Council member, and gold blazed in her eyes. Not the gentle glow of her ability activating, but something fiercer.

"My personal experiences," she said, each word precise, "have given me insights your centuries of magical assumption never could. I've felt the System awakening. I've seen its architecture from the inside. And yes, I've experienced how certain individuals catalyst that awakening."

Emily stepped into the Council member's personal space—a move so unexpected from a human that he actually stepped backward, his heel catching on the ancient stone. Emily didn't pursue, but she didn't retreat either, holding the space she'd claimed while golden light turned her eyes into small suns. "Would you like me to share what I've learned about you? Because your magical signature tells quite a story about traditional power structures built on suppression rather than cultivation."

The Council member's face darkened. "You forget yourself, human."

"No," Emily said. "I remember exactly who I am. I'm the human who understands your new reality better than you do. Dismiss me if you want. But when the Tournament triggers what's coming, remember that you had warning."

Emily turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the Council members staring after her.