Chapter 34 - 34: The Silent Coup [3]

1 month ago, at the start of the Academy. The alchemy lab smelled of crushed herbs and polished glass, sunlight streaming through high windows to glint off rows of pristine beakers. Kyle sat at the back of the room, fingers steepled under his chin, watching as the last of his classmates filed in. Then the door opened. A man stepped inside—tall, silver-haired, with a face that seemed carved from grandfatherly kindness. His robes were immaculate, his posture relaxed, and when he smiled, it reached his warm amber eyes. "Good morning, students" he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "I am Professor Veylan Mourncrest, your alchemy instructor." A murmur of approval rippled through the room. Even the usually stoic Cedric nodded in respect. Kyle didn't react. "Now" Veylan clasped his hands "who here has struggled with potion stability?" Half the class raised their hands. "Excellent!" He chuckled. "That means you are thinking. Alchemy isn't about perfection—it's about understanding why we fail." Kyle sat perfectly still in the back of the alchemy lab, watching as Professor Veylan moved between the student workstations. The man's silver hair caught the sunlight as he bent over a bubbling flask, his voice patient as he explained the reaction process to a wide-eyed first year. To anyone else, he looked like the ideal teacher—kind, knowledgeable, endlessly patient. But Kyle knew better. Every gentle word from Veylan's lips was a lie. Every encouraging smile hid something monstrous. The man wasn't human—not entirely. Somewhere along the way, he'd made a deal with the Demons, trading his humanity for power. And now he walked these halls wearing the skin of a scholar, while underneath, something far darker stirred. From the novel Kyle had read in his past life, he knew exactly how this would unfold. Veylan would spend his first month playing the perfect instructor—gaining trust, identifying the vulnerable students. The ones who struggled. The ones no one would miss. Then, when the time was right, he'd offer them "extra help." seaʀᴄh thё NôᴠelFirё.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Private tutoring sessions where he would slowly, carefully, twist them into something not quite human. And Princess Eleanora... Kyle's grip tightened around his stylus. In the original story, Eleanora had been the one to discover Veylan's experiments. She had followed a missing student, found the hidden lab, seen the truth with her own eyes. And when she had tried to stop him, when she had tried to save them... She'd died. Killed by the very students she had tried to protect as they writhed in the throes of their monstrous transformations. 'Not this time.' The thought burned through Kyle's mind like lightning. He wouldn't let that happen. Couldn't let that happen. As Veylan laughed at some joke a student made, his amber eyes crinkling at the corners, Kyle studied him with cold precision. Across the room, Emily Williams giggled as Veylan helped her adjust her alembic. The purple-haired girl had no idea how close she stood to danger. How carefully the professor was cataloging her weaknesses. Kyle exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax. He had time. Veylan wouldn't make his move yet. Not until he would fully established himself. Not until the students trusted him implicitly. That gave Kyle a month to prepare. A month to study his enemy. A month to lay traps of his own. As the bell rang signaling the end of class, Veylan clapped his hands together. "Wonderful work today, everyone. Remember, my door is always open if you need help." His gaze lingered just a moment too long on Emily. Kyle waited until the room had mostly emptied before gathering his things. As he passed Veylan's desk, the professor looked up with that same benevolent smile. "Ah, Mister Valemont. Is there something I can help you with?" Kyle met his eyes and smiled back. "Not today, Professor. But I'll keep that in mind." The walk back to his dorm was quiet, his mind racing with plans. He would need to be careful. Methodical. Veylan was dangerous—not just because of what he was, but because of how well he played the part of the harmless academic. But Kyle had advantages the original story's characters hadn't. He knew what was coming. And he had no intention of letting history repeat itself. Not this time. **** Kyle had always been good at watching people. Back on Earth, it was how he survived—noticing the little things others missed. Now, in this world, that skill was the only thing standing between a demonic professor and his next victim. The first three days were about patterns. Every morning, before the sun had fully risen, Kyle positioned himself near the faculty quarters, pretending to review notes while keeping his eyes sharp. He didn't need magic or spies. Just patience. At exactly 6:45 AM, Professor Veylan Mourncrest stepped out of his room, his silver flask glinting in the early light. The man moved with an easy confidence, his robes perfectly pressed, his expression calm. To anyone else, he looked like just another dedicated teacher. But Kyle wasn't watching the man's face. He was watching his hands. Veylan's fingers curled around that flask like it was something precious. He didn't sip from it yet—just carried it with him as he walked toward the academy's central pantry. Kyle followed at a distance, blending into the shadows of the hallway. The pantry was already bustling with staff preparing breakfast. Steam rose from kettles, and the smell of fresh bread filled the air. Veylan approached the counter, where a tired-looking kitchen worker offered him a cup of the academy's standard brew. "No, thank you" Veylan said with a polite smile, tapping his flask. "I prefer my own blend." The worker shrugged, used to the refusal. Kyle filed that away. 'He doesn't trust the academy's coffee.' Over the next two mornings, the scene repeated itself. Veylan never accepted the kitchen's coffee. Always the flask. Always the same polite refusal. On the third day, Kyle lingered near the pantry after Veylan left, pretending to examine a tray of pastries. The pantry master, a grizzled old man named Lyros, muttered under his breath as he wiped down the counter. "Still won't touch our coffee," Lyros grumbled to a junior cook. "Acts like his fancy Blackfire Roast is some god's gift to mortals." Kyle's ears pricked up. 'Blackfire Roast.' He'd heard of it before—a rare, expensive import, known for its smoky, almost bitter flavor. The kind of coffee that cost more than most students' monthly allowances. Now he had a name. ****