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

Mo discovered that hate-reading Darian's columns had become her morning ritual—like picking at a scab she knew would bleed, but couldn't leave alone. She developed a routine that felt like emotional self-harm: wake up, unfold whatever journalistic atrocity Darian had committed to print, mainline coffee like it was spite in liquid form, then spend five minutes talking her powers down from incinerating the paper through sheer force of loathing.

By the tenth day since Task One, the headlines had evolved from merely offensive to actively dangerous. Today's offering managed to be both:

"NIGHTSHADE'S NARCOTIC EMPIRE: IS YOUR MORNING BREW ACTUALLY MIND CONTROL?"

The article featured an "anonymous expert in magical warfare" claiming Mo had already developed a variety of magical manipulation coffee tailored for each major House, each targeting specific demonic vulnerabilities. There was a helpful diagram showing how "succubus pheromones" supposedly bonded with caffeine to create "will-crushing addiction bombs." The diagram was professionally drawn, which somehow made it worse. Someone had put real effort into illustrating complete nonsense.

Below that, a smaller article promoted "traditional restorative brew" as the "proper beverage for respectable demons who value their mental autonomy." Apparently, the choice of morning drink was now a political statement.

"This is insane," Mo said to her gathered friends in the Great Hall, waving the paper. "I mean, we do have magically enhanced coffee, but this makes it sound like I'm running a pharmaceutical conspiracy to overthrow society one latte at a time."

Lucian, still with slightly rosier than usual cheeks from the recent volcanic blend incident, peered at the diagram. "Is that supposed to be your succubic power? Doesn't it have a bit too many bonds? You are a succubus, not a puppet master… Your power doesn't cage minds like iron bars in winter. It's more like... frost on a window that makes you want to write your name in it."

"You almost sound like you'd want to experience that power yourself," Valerius said, approaching the table. "And since when has accuracy mattered to Darian?"

"The solution is obvious," he continued with aristocratic certainty. "Embrace it."

"What?"

"If they think you're drugging them with coffee, dial it up to eleven by... dramatically drinking coffee." He gestured at the suspicious looks from nearby students. "Make it theatrical. Make them want what they fear."

Mo considered this. It was exactly the kind of backwards logic that worked at the Academy. Then she stood on her table, pulling out the last drops of the volcanic blend the were left after Cordelia's outburst. The container was still warm to the touch, practically humming with energy.

"ATTENTION PARANOID ACADEMICIANS," she announced, making her voice carry across the entire hall. "I'M ABOUT TO DRINK THE ALLEGEDLY MIND-CONTROLLING COFFEE. OBSERVE AS I BECOME A SLAVE TO MY OWN BEVERAGE EMPIRE!"

The Great Hall fell silent. Even the enchanted ceiling stopped its constant weather changes, freezing on an image of storm clouds.

Mo poured a cup with exaggerated movements, holding it up like a toast. "To Darian Blackcrest, whose investigative journalism has uncovered my nefarious plan to make everyone slightly more alert in the mornings!"

She downed it in one go.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then she breathed out a small puff of fire that formed the words "IT'S JUST COFFEE*" in the air, followed by "*REALLY EXPENSIVE COFFEE" in smaller text below.

The silence broke. Students started laughing. Then someone called out, "Do it again!"

Mo grabbed the Frostbrook blend—her third cup of the morning, but who was counting? "For variety," she announced, and downed it in one go. Then, channeling every Viking feast she'd seen in Earth media, she hurled the empty cup at the floor where it shattered spectacularly.

The effect was immediate and bizarre. Frost spread from her lips as she exhaled, but the frost was somehow on fire—ice crystals burning with rose-gold flames that shouldn't exist. The competing magics created aurora-like ribbons that spiraled around her, while her succubus nature made them pulse with an oddly alluring rhythm.

"I feel like winter having a fever dream," Mo said, her breath coming out as snowflakes that sparked and sizzled.

"I'll try some!" another student shouted. "I want to breathe fire and smash things!"

Nyx moved around the table with theatrical flair. "Alas! Only three ounces of the volcanic blend remain, and at current market prices, that's approximately…" They paused for dramatic effect, "…one hundred soul slivers per ounce. The monthly revenue of a modest barony, if you will."

"One hundred!" a fourth-year called out immediately.

"One-ten!" another student countered.

Nyx's form exploded into pure auctioneer energy—multiple arms for pointing, a mouth that split to call bids simultaneously. "Oooooh! Are we having an auction here? So delicious! One-ten from the shadow demon in row three! Do I hear one-twenty? One-twenty for the chance to breathe actual fire without years of training?"

"One-fifty!"

"One-fifty from the young lady near the far wall. Do I hear one-sixty? One-fifty once, one-fifty twice…!"

"Two hundred!"

The bidding escalated rapidly. Nyx was in their element, conducting the auction like a theatrical performance. "Two hundred from the young lord whose father definitely doesn't know he's spending the inheritance! Two-fifty? Do I hear two-fifty?"

"Three hundred!" someone shouted.

"Three-fifty!"

"Four hundred per ounce!" The voice cut through the noise like a blade.

The crowd turned. A fifth-year with obvious draconic heritage stepped forward, scales glinting at her collar. The other bidders immediately stepped back—no one outbid a dragon unless they wanted to discuss it later. With teeth.

"Four hundred soul slivers per ounce," she repeated, pulling out a money pouch that clinked with the kind of weight that suggested actual gold, not just promissory notes. "All three ounces. Twelve hundred. Fire calls to fire. It would be inappropriate not to answer."

Nyx's gavel came down with a flourish. "SOLD! To the lady who could literally become fire if she wanted to! Three ounces of volcanic blend for the discriminating dragon!"

The dragon collected her prize with satisfaction, but her purchase only intensified the frenzy. If volcanic blend cost twelve hundred slivers, what other powers did these coffees hide? Students who'd been suspicious moments ago now crowded forward, afraid of missing out on whatever transformation awaited.

"Make me a mind slave!" a third-year called out desperately, then blushed furiously. "To coffee! I meant to coffee!"

Within minutes, Mo had a line of students wanting to try the "mind control coffee." She'd become an accidental dealer, but instead of drugs, she was pushing caffeine and magical side effects.

Across the hall, Mo noticed Darian frantically scribbling, his face cycling through colors that didn't appear in nature. One student near him had conjured a cloak reading "NIGHTSHADE'S MIND SLAVE" and was posing dramatically for anyone who'd look. With all the necessary swirls and turns, as was appropriate for a good demonic scion.

"Free advertising," Cordelia observed, cradling her own cup of volcanic blend. Steam rose from her cup in the shape of tiny dragons. "You should thank him, Mo. And don't forget that the next batch of draconic blend is sold through me. But I like how Nyx just set the price expectations."

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Mo caught Darian's eye and raised her cup in a mock toast. The gesture seemed to break something in him—he stuffed his notes into his bag with shaking hands and practically ran from the hall.

"To journalism!" Mo called out cheerfully to his retreating back. "May it always be this helpful to my business ventures!"

Someone started a chant: "MIND CONTROL COFFEE! MIND CONTROL COFFEE!"

***

Mo knew something was wrong when Lady Thornheart's incorporeal dress made actual rustling sounds in the corridor—strange, since ghostly fabric shouldn't make sound. The dorm guardian paused mid-patrol, and that's when Mo saw it.

Ghostly text flickered around Lady Thornheart's translucent form—not the clean notifications Mo had seen on Earth, but corrupted, glitching characters that hurt to look at directly:

[EN͢TITY_͡CL̶AS͠S = U̧NDEF͝IN̨ED]

[ATTEMPTING TO...]
[ATTEMPTING TO...]
[ATTEMPTING TO...]

[DECEASED? LIVING?]

[ERROR]
[ERROR]
[ERROR]

Lady Thornheart flickered, her entire form fracturing into lines of what looked like tiny phrases before snapping back together. For a moment, Mo could have sworn she saw the ghost's internal structure—not bones and organs, but pure information struggling to maintain coherent form.

"What was that?" Mo asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

The ghost's expression was more distressed than Mo had ever seen—worse even than when she'd realized the scope of Julian's betrayal. Her usually perfect composure was cracking.

"It's like I'm at high school all over again, but worse," Lady Thornheart said, touching her translucent hand as it flickered. "Something's trying to categorize me, but I don't fit its parameters. I'm neither living nor properly dead, neither magical construct nor natural entity."

Other students had started reporting similar oddities. A third-year claimed he'd seen magical equations floating through the library, solving themselves in midair and even manifesting illustrations of desired outcomes. Another swore the training dummies in Combat Applications had started displaying something that for Mo sounded very much like health bars and damage numbers. One student insisted her breakfast had briefly shown nutritional information floating above it.

During lunch, it happened to Lady Thornheart again, but this time the text was clearer, more insistent:

[TOURNAMENT PROTOCOLS UPDATING...]
[NEW PARAMETERS DETECTED...]

Then she simply vanished for three seconds—not her usual dramatic exit, but a complete cessation of existence—before reappearing, looking shaken and with her form of a slightly different shade of color.

"The Academy is pretending nothing's happening," Lucian observed. "But something's changing. The System isn't just spreading—it's trying to integrate things that shouldn't be integrated. Things that predate its existence."

"Like ghosts who've been haunting these halls for centuries," Mo said.

"Or like all of us," Nyx said. "Wasn't it supposed to not touch us? We're all anachronisms to whatever Julian unleashed. But it definitely looked like the System is probing for ways to interact with… all of that. All of us."

Valerius pulled out a notice from his pocket. "Speaking of things the Academy's ignoring, has anyone else gotten one of these?"

It was a formal summons to the Great Hall for that evening. Task Two briefing.

"Already?" Mo's stomach dropped. "But we still have…"

"Thirteen days have passed already," Valerius said quietly. "Things are getting real soon."

***

That evening, they filed into the Great Hall to find Professor Malvolia at the podium, her face wearing an expression of anticipatory pleasure that made Mo's stomach knot. The space had been reconfigured, with projection crystals floating at strategic points.

"Task Two," she began without preamble, "will test your ability to navigate the most complex form of villainy: diplomatic manipulation."

The air shimmered, and the Great Hall filled with projected scenarios—throne rooms, war councils, negotiation chambers.

"Each of you will be assigned a crisis requiring mediation. You will enter the simulated pocket dimension as neutral arbitrators, representatives of the High Council's diplomatic corps. The parties involved will not know you're students—to them, you are mediators with full authority to broker agreements."

Mo looked at the scenarios floating in front of them, and something made her heart skip a beat every time she saw a new scene. The projections felt wrong—too detailed, too specific, like watching through windows rather than viewing simulations.

"Your briefing will position you to defend certain principles," Malvolia continued smoothly. "Success will be measured by your ability to prevent economic collapse while minimizing expenses. The Academy values practical results over ideological purity."

A burly student from one of the warrior houses raised his hand. "Professor, why not just let them fight it out? Strongest wins, hierarchy maintained. That's the demon way."

Malvolia's face showed something that might have been amusement. "An excellent question that reveals why you're in school rather than running an empire. War is expensive. Destroyed infrastructure needs rebuilding. Dead workers can't generate revenue. Dead nobles can't pay tributes to the High Council."

She paused, letting the economic simplicity of the approach sink in. "Mediation, while not traditionally villainous, serves demon society by maintaining order. It prevents the chaos of all-out war, which is bad for business. Consider it strategic mercy—just enough kindness to prevent unprofitable chaos—preserving hierarchies through words rather than blood. Much cheaper, much more efficient."

"Because nothing says 'maintaining traditional order' like letting just a bit of blood from time to time," Nyx muttered.

Malvolia made a sharp turn to face Nyx and her smile sharpened. "Precisely. A good mediator ensures everyone gets just enough to prevent the total collapse, but not enough to upset the balance of power. The powerful stay powerful, the weak stay productive, and commerce continues uninterrupted."

She waved her hand, and individualized assignments appeared in shimmering text before each student. Mo read hers with growing dread:

Morgana Nightshade: Mediate between Lord Brightwater and Lord Blackstone regarding D.E.V.I.O.U.S. implementation dispute
Position: High Council neutral arbitrator with expertise in progressive economic models
Success metrics: Prevent war, minimize economic disruption, maintain regional stability

It seemed straightforward. Too straightforward.

"Neutral arbitrator with expertise in progressive economics," Mo read aloud. "That's like saying 'unbiased judge who thinks prosecution is always right'."

"Welcome to demon diplomacy," Valerius said dryly. "Where 'neutral' means 'pretending to be neutral while pushing an agenda that provides the desired outcome'."

Cordelia's assignment made the dragoness hiss. She showed it to Mo and her friends:

Cordelia Emberclaw: Resolve hoard redistribution dispute between Ancient and Lesser Dragon Houses
Position: Council economic advisor specializing in wealth preservation
Note: Clan Scorchwing is the most vocal among the Lesser Houses demanding redistribution

"They've been attacking the traditional order for weeks already," Cordelia growled. "The main claim is that because the hoards are gaining consciousness, they have to be distributed as any other servant species."

A bang split the air—Marcus Darkmore had put his fist through the assignment projection, the illusory text deforming in front of him, changing shape, and vibrating.

"This is INSANE!" Marcus Darkmore's voice carried across the room, his usual composure completely shattered. "They want me to negotiate with servants? MY family's servants? With my FATHER watching?"

Several students turned to stare as Marcus continued his outburst, apparently not caring who heard.

"Labor relations specialist with traditional hierarchy expertise?" He laughed bitterly, loud enough for everyone to hear. "They're literally telling me to act as a petty clerk while my father breathes down my neck! And they're calling it neutral arbitration!"

A friend tried to calm him: "They told us we are going to be Masked. Your father wouldn't know it's you."

But Marcus dismissed him with a gesture. "Look at this! 'Lord Darkmore himself will be present!' They're putting me in a room with him while I pretend to be neutral about our own servants demanding independence! He will sense me!"

"But it's only a simulation," the same friend argued. "Why do you even care about your simulated father?"

"Such a pity, he'd have to defend what his family had always stood for and what he had always approved, poor thing," Nyx said, beginning to read their assignment.

"Which means it's definitely a trap," Mo said. "They're giving us exactly what we want to argue for. In villain education, that's never good."

"Do you remember the headlines of the past few weeks?" Valerius asked quietly. "These are the actual conflicts. The ones we've been reading about. Dragons and their hoards. Two lords bickering about the implementation of the D.E.V.I.O.U.S. framework. They're sending us into real diplomatic crises. I wouldn't be surprised if Nyx gets that claim made by one of the Great Houses against House Obscuris. Something about falsely appropriating the rigidity invented a few millennia earlier."

"Wait, what?" Nyx's voice went up an octave as they read the assignment. Their form suddenly became much paler.

Malvolia's smile widened as if she could taste their confusion. "The negotiations begin at sunset tomorrow. You have twenty-four hours to prepare. I suggest you use them wisely."

As students filed out in various states of panic, Mo caught her friends exchanging looks of barely controlled terror.

"Too easy," Valerius muttered, his shadows writhing with agitation. "Supporting positions we actually believe in? Since when does the Academy test us on things we're good at?"

Mo looked at her assignment again. Mediate between Blackstone and Brightwater. Support progressive economics. Support her own D.E.V.I.O.U.S. framework. Prevent war. It aligned perfectly with everything she believed in and her empire's business interests.