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

The first thing that hit Mo after she entered the simulated pocket dimension was the smell—blood, ozone from discharged magic, and underneath it all, the distinct scent of fear-sweat from beings who'd never had power suddenly wielding it without any training and structure.

Before even beginning to analyze the scene, Mo remembered the last words Valerius whispered to her before they parted to fulfill their tasks: "The Duke in your scenario," he said, "is Lord Ashworth. Old family, not very large but very traditional. At the beginning of the real uprising last month, he had thirty-seven goblins executed before they even had a chance to explain their demands. Pretty standard approach, really. Why listen to property?"

The throne room was smaller than expected, more like a fortified hall than something belonging to a grand palace. Lord Ashworth sat rigid on his throne, his family—wife and two teenage children—held at magical knifepoint by goblins whose hands shook under the discharges of barely controlled magical energy that were running up and down their arms.

The goblin leader stood in the center, and Mo's breath caught. She looked almost exactly like Grimz if he was put into a female body.

"Another negotiator?" the goblin spat. "We're done talking. Three centuries of 'negotiations' got us nothing but graves."

"You're right," Mo said, and felt the room's attention snap to her. "Negotiation without power is just begging. But you have power now. The question is: how do you want to use it?"

Lord Ashworth started to speak, probably to demand Mo crush the rebellion immediately. She raised a hand, not even looking at him.

"Wait your turn, Lord Ashworth. The adults are talking."

The insult to his authority made the lord splutter, but it also made several goblins laugh—nervous, disbelieving laughter, but laughter nonetheless. It was a small win, but Mo had shifted the dynamic already. The Duke wasn't the automatic center of power anymore.

"What's your name?" Mo asked the goblin leader.

"Why does it matter?"

"In about forty minutes, you're going to be remembered as either the revolutionary who changed history, or the murderer who set back servant rights by decades. I'd like to know the name that goes in the history books either way."

The goblin's magical knife wavered slightly. "Greta. Greta Ironworth."

"Fitting name for someone strong enough to stand up to centuries of oppression," Mo said, moving slowly closer. "Tell me, Greta, what do you want?"

"Justice! Payment for centuries of stolen labor! Recognition as people, not property!"

"All reasonable. All achievable. But not if the Duke's children die today." Mo let her own magic flare slightly—not threatening, just present. "You may still be remembered as revolutionaries. Or rebels, depending on who wins today's standoff. But you'd probably never achieve what you claim you want. You're just providing an excuse they've been waiting for to justify worse oppression."

"You think we care about their propaganda?" another goblin called out.

"I think you care about your children," Mo replied. "The ones who'll inherit whatever world you create today."

She turned to Lord Ashworth. "And you, my Lord. Your children are about to die for the crime of being born to a father too proud to admit the world has changed."

"I will never…"

"Yes, yes, death before dishonor, we've all heard the song." Mo's voice cracked like a whip. "But here's what you haven't heard: the magic that spreads all over the demonic worlds? It's permanent. It's getting to more and more worlds, and it's getting there faster and faster. Within a year, every servant in every territory will have power. You can be remembered as one of the first lords smart enough to adapt, or the first casualty of the new age. But your House wouldn't survive as it was in any case. Your choice. Either continuing to lead it in the new circumstances, or watching it being consumed by one of the larger Houses. Maybe even the Nightshade Empire will participate in that; I haven't decided yet."

She could feel the simulation responding to her approach, the magical contracts underlying it beginning to align with her intent. But she could also feel resistance—the historical weight of how these scenarios usually played out.

Time to change history.

"Greta, I propose a simple trade. Release the family, and I'll get Lord Ashworth to sign a magical contract acknowledging goblin personhood and establishing fair wages going forward."

"He'll never…"

"Oh, he will." Mo turned to the Duke, letting her succubus heritage shine through her smile. "The alternative is I stand back, let you all kill each other, and then implement my own will in the power vacuum. I've done it before. Ask the High Council about Blackthorn Keep."

That was a calculated risk—referencing real events in the simulation. But she felt the watching presence of that shrouded Council member pulse with what might have been approval. This reality was a magical construct. But a construct rooted in the reality, if Mo could rely on the manifestation of magic among the servants as evidence.

"You wouldn't dare," Lord Ashworth said, but uncertainty crept into his voice.

"I'm Mo Nightshade. I turned a goblin revolution into a parliamentary happening. I have dragons investing in my social reform framework. I'm either the best thing that could happen to your territory, or the architect of your obsolescence. Decide quickly. I don't have a lot of time to spend on your petty ambitions—you have thirty-seven minutes before this offer expires."

The specific number—thirty-seven, matching the executions he'd ordered in reality—made the Duke go pale. He understood the message: she knew exactly who he was and what his methods were.

"Even if I agreed," he said slowly, "they have my family…"

"Greta," Mo said, not breaking eye contact with the Duke, "what would it take for you to trust his word?"

"A blood contract. Witnessed by the Ethereal Codex. Implemented immediately."

Mo felt the simulation's magic pulse. This was the critical moment.

"Lord Ashworth, you have a choice. Sign a blood contract establishing fair wages, working conditions, and personhood recognition for all servants in your territory. I will even provide you with a draft. Or watch your legacy die with your children."

"That's not a choice! That's extortion!"

"You should have thought about that before you were cornered in your own throne room," Mo said. "The only choice right now is whether you'll surf the wave or be crushed by it."

The silence stretched taut. Around them, the simulation's background characters—other servants, guards, observers—waited to see which way history would turn.

Finally, Lord Ashworth spoke: "If I agreed to terms. What would prevent them from demanding more? From taking it all?"

"I would," Mo said. "My framework—the D.E.V.I.O.U.S. system—creates stability for both sides. Workers get rights and dignity. Lords keep their positions but with accountability. Everyone prospers, or everyone falls. Together."

As the words left her mouth, something unprecedented happened. Golden text materialized in Mo's vision—not above her head like she saw over newly-integrated humans, but directly in her sight, translucent and pulsing:

SYSTEMIC FRAMEWORK SYNCHRONIZATION
D.E.V.I.O.U.S. ADMINISTRATOR INTERFACE
STABILITY PROJECTION: CALCULATING...
REALITY INTEGRATION: CALCULATING…

Mo blinked hard, but the text remained. She'd never had System access before—none of them who'd possessed magic prior to Integration did. However, she had no doubt that it was exactly what she was experiencing right now. It felt exactly like what humans on Earth described. If looked very similar to what she read in fantasy books she got from "Between the Lines." The same books that inspired Julian to create that damned ritual.

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There was no time to figure out why Mo got access to the interface. No way to set up a proper experiment. The only explanation she could imagine on the spot was that here, in the simulation where reality's rules bent and merged, the boundaries were thinning. She could feel the System itself listening, learning, adapting to her words.

Mo remembered Cordelia's words: "And if you make a promise in there that resonates with the audience, the magic might try to hold you to similar principles in reality."

What if the System was that audience? Not the representatives of the High Council. Not her fellow students. Not even the faculty?

The magic of the simulation responded to her offer—not just the words but the genuine belief behind them. The System that had been creeping through the interworld membranes and the Academy's walls pulsed in recognition, and for a brief moment, Mo felt truly connected to it, understanding its vast network of possibilities.

A shimmer in the air caught her attention. Lady Thornheart's ghostly form materialized beside the throne, but neither Lord Ashworth nor Greta reacted. Only Mo could see the Victorian specter, whose translucent eyes widened slightly as she looked around the simulation. The ghost's fingers traced the air where Mo's System interface flickered, and her expression shifted—recognition dawning that something fundamental was changing, that the rigid rules she'd upheld for centuries were bending toward something new.

"Twenty minutes remaining," Lady Thornheart announced, her voice echoing through the scenario though only Mo heard it. The ghost's expression held something Mo had rarely seen from her—maybe a hint of approval—before she faded back into nothing.

Mo kept her expression neutral, not revealing the private warning she'd received. The System interface flickered again:

NEGOTIATION WINDOW: 19:59 REMAINING
OPTIMAL RESOLUTION PATH AVAILABLE

"Decide now," Mo said, dismissing the golden text with a thought—somehow knowing she could. "Both of you. Choose the future or cling to the past. But know that only one of those options includes survival. And that I don't care much about your choice: I'll benefit from any result."

Greta and Lord Ashworth looked at each other across centuries of hatred and oppression. Then, slowly, Greta lowered the magical knife.

"If he signs in blood, implemented immediately... we'll accept."

Lord Ashworth's gaze shifted from Greta to his children. His daughter, barely sixteen, tried to look brave despite the magical blade still hovering near her throat. His son, two years younger, had tears streaming down his face. The Duke's jaw clenched as he looked around his throne room—at the banners bearing his family crest, at the portraits of stern-faced ancestors who'd ruled through fear for generations.

His eyes lingered on his grandfather's portrait. Lord Cassius Ashworth, who'd crushed three servant uprisings and was celebrated for it. What would he think of his grandson negotiating with goblins? But then the Duke's gaze fell on the newer portrait—his own, painted just five years ago. He looked so certain then, so secure in the eternal order of things.

That man in the portrait would have chosen death before dishonor. But that man hadn't seen goblins manifest lightning from their fingertips. That man hadn't watched the world change in ways that made ancestral wisdom obsolete.

His wife caught his eye and gave the slightest nod—permission to save their children, whatever the cost to pride.

Lord Ashworth stood from his throne—not in rage but in resignation. "Bring the contract."

Mo felt the simulation's magic surge as she pulled together the framework—based on her real D.E.V.I.O.U.S. implementation but adapted for this specific situation. As she wrote, she was almost sensing the audience watching, the councillors evaluating, and Emily somewhere probing the strands of the System's network, taking notes on how it responded to each clause.

The contract took fifteen minutes to draft. When she finished, Mo held up the parchment. "Ready to sign?"

Lord Ashworth reached for his ceremonial dagger, preparing to slash his palm. Greta pulled out her own blade, ready to do the same.

That's when the realization hit Mo like ice water. In one fluid motion, Mo let her powers flare. Rose-gold energy wrapped around the nearest goblin guard, not controlling but stunning him into momentary paralysis. She plucked the magical dagger from his frozen grip, spun toward the two leaders, and before anyone could react, slashed quick, shallow cuts across both Lord Ashworth's and Greta's palms.

"What…" Lord Ashworth started.

"Sign. Now." Mo's voice carried the full weight of her succubus heritage, not compelling but commanding attention through sheer presence.

Both leaders stood frozen in shock from the sheer audacity of what had just happened. A negotiator had drawn their blood. The throne room erupted in gasps and confused shouting. But their hands were already bleeding. The contract was waiting. And in their stunned state, both Lord Ashworth and Greta found themselves pressing their bloody palms to the parchment, almost on instinct.

The moment the signing was complete, the simulation pulsed with magical light—the System itself acknowledging the agreement. Mo's interface flickered:

CONTRACT SEALED: BLOOD AUTHENTICATION VERIFIED

"Scenario complete," Malvolia's voice announced, and Mo could hear disapproval in her tone. "Zero casualties. Comprehensive agreement reached. Long-term stability projection: 89%. However, participant Nightshade, your pacifist approach may have consequences. The Tournament rewards refined villainy, not diplomatic solutions. Your Ball points remain at risk if this pattern continues."

***

Mo stepped back through the portal to find the hall in tense anticipation. Several other participants were already emerging from their own scenarios with varying degrees of success.

A student from House Darkmore stumbled out, his robes singed and torn. "Seventeen thousand casualties on both sides," Malvolia announced coldly. "Territory retained through massacre. Major loss of the workforce. Death of the heir of the House. Projected collapse within three months."

Another portal flared—a girl from a minor house, tears streaming down her face. "Scenario failed. Total revolution. All nobility executed."

Mo watched as more students emerged. Some looked triumphant, some were surprised by their scores that told different stories—critical loss of workforce, unstable peace, territories held through fear that would inevitably explode into worse violence.

Then Cordelia stepped through her portal, looking almost bored. She glanced around the hall, taking a quick inventory of who had succeeded and who had failed. Her vertical pupils dilated slightly as she spotted Mo already waiting, and a slow grin spread across her face.

"Twelve surgical casualties," Malvolia announced for Cordelia. "Territory retained through selective elimination. Probability of a follow-up uprising within eighteen months less than three percent."

Cordelia's gaze swept the crowd, noting the betting ledgers various students were clutching. She waited for three more participants to emerge—all with worse results than Mo's—before her voice boomed out:

"PAY UP, DOUBTERS! THE BARISTA REVOLUTIONARY STRIKES AGAIN!"

The noise that erupted was deafening—arguments, exclamations, the clink of soul slivers changing hands. But Mo was focused on the Council's platform, where the shrouded figure had leaned forward slightly.

A tendril of shadow extended from beneath their robes—not quite a hand, not quite smoke, but something between states. It crooked in a clear beckoning gesture.

Mo glanced at her friends, who nodded encouragingly. She approached the platform, close enough now to feel the strange pressure that emanated from the Synthesis Collective representative—like standing next to a door that opened onto somewhere that shouldn't exist.

When they spoke, their voice came from multiple directions at once, whispers overlapping in a way that made Mo's inner ear protest: "Application of emotional leverage noted. The specific number reference was... elegant. You understand something most never learn—that true power isn't just blunt force."

They paused, and Mo could feel their attention like a weight, as if she was being examined by something that could see through more than just physical form.

"Power," the whispers continued, "is knowing what people fear to lose. And knowing when losing it might free them."

"Thank you?" Mo said, uncertain if that was a compliment or criticism. The shadow-tendril withdrew, but she could still feel their attention on her, curious and calculating.

Mo made her way to where her friends waited, legs shaky with adrenaline drain. Emily was there too, maintaining professional distance, but her eyes were warm with pride.

"That was… quite exciting!" Mo said, accepting water from Nyx. "How did you all manage? I saw some of the results, but..."

"Adequate," Valerius said, though his usual composure seemed frayed at the edges. "My scenario involved a mining revolt. Twenty-two casualties before I established martial law. Not my finest moment."

"Mine was..." Nyx paused, their form flickering through several uncomfortable configurations. "Let's just say shapeshifters don't seem to be ideal for scenarios requiring consistent authority figures. The simulation kept trying to assign me different roles."

"The Council is monitoring you, though," Lucian added quietly, nodding toward the platform. "The Synthesis Collective representative hasn't looked away since you emerged."

Before Mo could respond, Malvolia began announcing the final results. Only three other students had achieved comparable results to Mo's: a quiet boy from House Ravencrest who'd somehow convinced both sides to accept third-party arbitration, a girl who'd used illusion magic to fake deaths until tempers cooled enough to negotiate, and, surprisingly, Lucian.

"One casualty," Malvolia announced when his score appeared. "The Duke. Natural causes—heart failure from stress. Peaceful transition of power to a heir more amenable to negotiation."

"You gave him a heart attack?" Nyx asked, incredulous.

"The simulation's Duke had a pre-existing condition," Lucian said quietly, frost still clinging to his fingers. "I may have... encouraged his natural anxiety about losing control. His son was already prepared to negotiate—just needed the obstacle removed. Winter comes for all tyrants, eventually."

Mo stared at him. That was darker than she'd expected from gentle Lucian.

"Points will be calculated based on multiple factors," Malvolia announced once the last student emerged. "Territory retention, casualty optimization, long-term stability, projected revenue, and such."

The crowd began to disperse, students clustering in groups to discuss strategies. But before Mo could join her friends, Cordelia appeared at her elbow.

"Walk with me," the dragoness said, and it wasn't a request.