A Villain's Guide to Saving the World-Chapter 57: The Great Villain! As a Training Instructor...?

Chapter 57: The Great Villain! As a Training Instructor...?

Ivan gave a brief chuckle as he adjusted the collar of his newly conjured outfit. The way the golden fabric complemented the shimmer of his draconic features gave him the air of a true monarch—regal, formidable, and unmistakably changed.

"Time to make good on my promise."

He spoke with quiet resolve, turning toward the exit of his chambers. The doors responded to his presence with a soft hiss, golden light spilling into the room. His eyes, now tinged with faint reptilian brilliance, glinted with mischief and the faintest hint of amusement as he gestured for Lucian to follow.

"What?"

Lucian blinked, slightly thrown off, his mind still preoccupied with echoes of their brutal trial in the crater. He tilted his head, genuine confusion lining his features.

"Don’t tell me you forgot already?"

Ivan paused just long enough for the jab to land.

"You’re going to train my followers, obviously."

Without waiting for a response, Ivan stepped through the threshold and into the high-vaulted hallway of the royal palace, his stride confident and unhurried.

"Oh... I thought you were joking about that."

Lucian’s voice carried a dry laugh as he followed, his boots clicking softly against the polished obsidian tiles. The twisting, mazelike corridors stretched around them, lined with etched murals of past monarchs and enchanted lanterns glowing with restrained light.

"So," he asked, drawing out the word with skepticism, "how many of your followers am I supposed to train?"

Ivan brought a finger to his chin in mock contemplation, a playful glint in his eye as he turned slightly over his shoulder.

"A few thousand or so..."

"Up for it?"

Lucian stopped walking, his expression morphing into one of flat disbelief. Brows raised, arms crossed, he stared at Ivan like he’d grown a second head.

"You expect me to believe that?"

Ivan’s smile widened, infuriatingly charming—his fingers still resting thoughtfully at his chin, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Handsome as ever. Annoying as always, Lucian thought.

"Of course not."

He let the tease linger in the air before continuing, this time with a more serious tone.

"But in all seriousness, you’ll only be training a few of them. They’ll be the ones handling their own squads. Think of it as... command-level training."

They walked in stride again, passing through archways flanked by banners bearing the royal crest. The scent of incense and steel grew stronger the closer they drew to the outer courtyards.

"Efficient, isn’t it?" Ivan added, his tone casual, but the weight of foresight behind it unmistakable.

As they stepped outside, a brilliant stream of golden sunlight bathed them in warmth. The sounds of distant shouting, weapons clashing, and the stomp of boots rang clear—training in full swing. Some voices were confident, others impatient, but most carried an eager energy, charged with anticipation.

What awaited them was not merely a training yard—it was a fortress in its own right.

Another grand building rose before them, an architectural marvel of ivory stone and gilded trim. Opulence bled from every corner, no expense spared—columns of marble, weapon racks gleaming with enchantments, and armor stands lined with sets worn only by the elite.

"Welcome to the royal training grounds," Ivan said with a half-smile, his wings shifting slightly behind him. "Father allowed me to borrow it for a while."

Lucian’s eyes scanned the scene before him—rows of elite soldiers sparring with precise form, dominion-based simulations unfolding in various corners, overseers barking instructions laced with mana amplification.

It looked less like a place for instruction and more like a staging ground for war.

Then again, Lucian mused, the royal selection might as well be one.

The soldiers turned toward Ivan’s direction, their heads snapping up as they sensed his approach. At first, their faces lit up with recognition and excitement, eager to see their liege once more. But the sight that greeted them froze the energy in the air like a sudden cold gust.

A dragonborn stood at the threshold—tall, regal, and emanating a quiet, contained power that shimmered faintly beneath golden, scale-lined skin. Wings, folded neatly behind his back, twitched with unconscious movement. That alone was enough to inspire awe or fear. But what sent true shock rippling through the ranks was the realization that this wasn’t just any dragonborn.

It was their prince.

"Is that really... Prince Ivan?" one of the younger soldiers muttered, voice faltering.

Another, in the middle of casting a dominion spell, broke his concentration entirely. The luminous script mid-air fizzled out as his jaw slackened. He choked slightly, coughing in disbelief as the full weight of the sight hit him.

"What the hell is that!? Why is there a dragonborn here?!"

Ivan gave an amused sigh, resting a hand lightly over his chest—part etiquette, part theatrics.

"Relax, all of you. It’s still me."

His voice was calm, casual—far too casual for someone who had just undergone one of the rarest and most sacred transformations known in the kingdom. As if becoming half-dragon was something he did between breakfast and a stroll in the courtyard.

Ivan knew it wasn’t normal. Of course it wasn’t. But ever since he’d begun spending time with Lucian—watching the man bend the laws of magic and reality like cloth—his own definition of "normal" had become increasingly flexible.

"Also," he added with mock indignation, placing both hands firmly on his hips, "is that really how you should be addressing your lord?"

He scanned their stunned faces, golden eyes glinting with playful menace. A grin tugged at the corners of his lips—mischievous, sharp, and unmistakably princely.

The soldiers shifted, their postures stiffening instinctively, though none dared move too abruptly. The presence of a dragonborn—let alone a royal one—demanded a reverence that training manuals couldn’t prepare for. Some bowed; others simply stood at attention, eyes wide and unsure whether they should salute or kneel.

Lucian stepped up beside Ivan, arms folded, gaze sweeping across the yard. "Well," he said, voice dry, "they’re going to be great once they stop wetting themselves."

A few of the more perceptive recruits flinched at his words. Ivan didn’t miss it. He leaned slightly toward Lucian, his tone low and amused. "Let them be nervous. Fear can be an excellent motivator."

Lucian tilted his head. "So can respect. Just depends on what you’re trying to build."

Ivan didn’t answer immediately. His eyes roved over the yard, weighing not just the bodies but the energy, the synergy—or lack thereof—between the squads. The magic users clustered too tightly. The frontline fighters lacked coordination. The dominion tacticians were off in a corner practicing solo spells instead of integrating.

He sighed. "They’re not ready."

Lucian shrugged. "Most people aren’t until they’re bleeding."

Ivan nodded slowly, then stepped forward, projecting his voice with a controlled intensity that cut through the clamor like a blade.

"Enough."

Silence swept over the grounds like a crashing wave. All motion ceased. Spells halted mid-air, swords froze in mid-swing, and even the distant clatter of armor seemed to hush itself.

"I know I look different," Ivan said, his tone cool but clear. "And I know some of you are questioning if it’s really me."

He spread his wings slowly—not in a show of intimidation, but in full, unapologetic display. The golden light caught each scale, each feathered edge, and painted him like a figure from ancient myth.

"It is," he continued. "And you should take that as a sign of what’s coming. Not just from me—but from this kingdom."

He let the silence settle again, letting the words twist through the air.

"You all know about the deathmatch. You know what it means. You’ve heard the stories of betrayal, ambition, and how many princes bled out before even reaching the final bell."

He looked over them, not with contempt, but with precise scrutiny.

"I won’t make you promises about safety or fairness. Because there won’t be either."

Lucian, watching from a few paces behind, felt a flicker of approval. Ivan wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t playing noble. He was commanding.

"But I will promise this," Ivan said. "If you stand with me—if you fight well, think clearly, and follow the orders of the one I’ve brought to train you..."

He gestured back at Lucian, who gave a modest wave that somehow managed to be both insulting and charismatic.

"...then you’ll survive. And some of you might even make legends of yourselves."

A murmur ran through the ranks. Nervous energy, yes—but it was no longer paralyzed. It was moving. Sharpening.

Lucian stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "Alright, who here actually knows how to use dominion magic in live combat without frying their own eyebrows off?"

No one raised their hand.

He sighed, theatrically long. "Perfect. We’ll start with the basics, then. Line up in four rows—mages on the left, melee in the center, support on the right, and anyone who doesn’t know where they belong—" he pointed at a shaded patch of grass, "—over there in the embarrassment zone."

A few hesitant chuckles emerged. Tension eased. The soldiers moved, slowly at first, then with more order.

Ivan watched them assemble, arms folded, eyes distant. He wasn’t thinking about the formation. He was thinking about the deathmatch. About his brothers. About how many would try to kill him before the first bell finished echoing.

Lucian clapped twice. "Let’s go, people! We’ll start with reaction casting—if someone swings a sword at you, what’s your spell? Don’t think. Cast."

The first mage lifted his hand.

Too slow.

Lucian’s blade was at the boy’s throat before he finished his incantation. The soldiers gasped.

"Dead," Lucian said flatly. "Try again."

The lesson had begun.

Ivan turned to leave, but paused. One of the younger soldiers—a girl with cropped hair and a deep scar across her brow—caught his eye. She wasn’t afraid. She was watching him with something sharper than reverence.

Expectation.

He gave her a slight nod.

Then he stepped away, leaving the chaos in Lucian’s capable, brutal hands.

He had preparations of his own to make.