A Villain's Guide to Saving the World-Chapter 58: The Great Villain! Teaching by Beating...?

Time passed for a few more minutes in the training grounds—filled with constant nagging, sharp insults, and the occasional controlled beating. Each strike, each rebuke, was calculated. Lucian moved through them like a storm in human form, not even breaking a sweat.

By now, every soldier lay sprawled on the ground, bodies aching and covered in light bruises, most panting for breath like drowning men. Their uniforms were rumpled, their magic drained, and their pride nowhere to be found.

Lucian stood amidst the carnage, arms crossed, expression carved from ice and iron.

"Is that really what all of you have to show me...?"

His voice rang clear—disappointed, unyielding.

With a tired exhale, he stomped the ground. A pulse of dominion magic rippled beneath his feet, and the earth responded like a tamed beast. The stone shifted, rising and folding itself into a sleek throne of rough granite and jagged edges. He sat down lazily, legs spread, elbows resting on the armrests, his face a portrait of disdain.

"Three days, people!"

His words cracked across the yard like a whip.

"Why even bother swearing fealty to someone when you can’t even take care of yourselves?"

Before his tirade could continue, a soldier—young, wiry, maybe seventeen—slowly raised his hand, his fingers trembling as he pushed himself off the ground. A low grunt escaped him, his legs quaking beneath his weight, but his eyes... they burned with something stronger than pain.

"We didn’t just join for powe—"

A bronze coin blinked into existence on Lucian’s palm. With a flick of his thumb, it shot through the air and pinged against the boy’s forehead. The impact was soft, but the humiliation stung sharper than steel.

"And do you think that’s an excuse?"

Lucian cut him off without hesitation, his tone flat and merciless.

"Even if you did join for a good cause..."

He paused for just a heartbeat, scanning their faces like a predator measuring prey.

"What’s the point if none of you can even do anything good?"

Another soldier tried to speak—this one older, with the look of a scholar more than a warrior. He raised his hand and forced himself upright, breath catching in his throat.

"We’re doing our best, traini—"

Another coin. Another dull thwack to the forehead. The man winced, stumbled back, and fell to one knee.

"Then your best is clearly not enough."

Lucian’s voice darkened. He rose from his throne slowly, the air tightening as he did. A shadow passed over his face—not literal, but something in the energy he exuded.

"I know every single one of you is a noble," he said, voice dropping lower. "Not just a random footsoldier."

His gaze narrowed, eyes glinting violet with something between cruelty and bitter truth.

"You’ve all been raised too softly."

He paced before them now, his steps deliberate, the very ground seeming to shiver under his boots.

"This isn’t some rite-of-passage where failure earns you pity and a do-over."

"The future of this kingdom relies on the royal selection."

Something shifted. A subtle pressure, like a storm cloud descending. The air grew heavier, harder to breathe. Invisible tendrils of smoke coiled outward from Lucian’s form—not literal mist, but a projection of his will. His dominion stirred without conscious effort, cloaking him in a mantle of fear.

Some of the soldiers clutched their chests. One stumbled back, coughing. Another whispered a warding charm under her breath. It didn’t help.

"None of you have the power for it," Lucian continued coldly. "Which is fine."

"But even your mindset—your entire way of thinking—isn’t fitting."

He spat to the side, violet eyes burning with disdain, his tone poisonous.

From behind the sharp mask, a thought flickered, unspoken but heavy.

I might sound cruel, he admitted to himself, but we only have three days. If we had more, then maybe I’d be softer. But I can’t risk it—not with this time limit.

His inner voice was calm. Cold. Focused.

He didn’t enjoy this.

But he would not allow weakness to cost them the throne.

Then, the girl with cropped hair rose as well. Her legs trembled faintly from exhaustion, but her posture was steady. One hand clutched the hilt of her sword—tight, white-knuckled, like letting go would mean surrender. Her face was set in stone, fierce and proud, eyes blazing with unbridled defiance.

Lucian’s gaze snapped to her, and something close to satisfaction flickered across his features.

Looks like I finally found what I wanted.

"Oh...?" he said, the edge of amusement in his voice unmistakable. "You look like you want to kill me."

He chuckled lowly, and with a flick of his wrist, a halo of bronze coins shimmered into existence behind him. They rotated slowly, ominously, catching the light like blades about to be loosed—each one pulsing faintly with magic, deadly in their potential.

"At least one of you looks fierce enough to probably serve the third prince well," Lucian added with deliberate venom, his tone sharp and mocking.

The insult wasn’t meant for her. It was aimed at the rest.

A ripple of shame passed through the formation. The others lowered their heads, their pride buckling beneath the weight of his words. Their bodies bore bruises, but it was their spirits that cracked. Anger stirred from the pieces—quiet at first, but growing.

Slowly, one by one, they rose.

Their heads still bowed, but hands found weapons—swords slid half-free from scabbards, fingers brushed against spell-bound codices, bows flexed, and dominion sigils lit faintly beneath sleeves. Their silence now spoke louder than defiance.

Lucian watched them, his expression unreadable but eyes sharp.

"As expected," he said coldly, "you all only act when your pride gets shattered."

He let the silence stretch just long enough for the insult to cut deep.

"Just like the spoiled noble brats you are."

A grin curled across his face—not one of warmth, but of provocation. The halo of coins pulsed with magic, each one charged, poised to fire at the slightest signal. The air around him crackled with pressure, taut with anticipation.

Good, he thought, watching them with calculated satisfaction. Just a bit more... and I’ll finally get them to act. Sure, they might hate me—but it’s for the better.

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming like cold fire.

"Now what? You all just gonna stand there and let me insult you?!"

His voice thundered across the training yard, daring them—demanding something more.

For a moment, silence held—pregnant, volatile.

Then it snapped.

A warcry, hoarse and desperate, tore from the throat of the girl with the cropped hair. Her feet slammed forward as she charged at Lucian, sword raised, raw mana flaring from her blade. Others followed. Not in formation. Not in unison. But like dammed water finding cracks in the wall, they surged forward—rage and pride mixing into a furious chorus of movement.

Lucian’s grin deepened.

The coins hanging behind him blurred. One, two, three—then five—launched in precise, looping arcs. They weren’t meant to kill. They weren’t even meant to wound. They were teaching tools. Warnings. Probes.

The girl ducked the first, rolled beneath the second, and batted aside the third with a shout, her blade sparking as it deflected the charged bronze.

Behind her, a would-be battlemage unleashed a pulse of dominion magic aimed to stagger. Lucian shifted his weight, caught the spell mid-air with a snap of his fingers, and twisted—rerouting the burst to slam into the ground beside a second group, scattering them like dice.

"You’re still too slow," he called, his voice clear, cruel, and maddeningly amused. "You think reacting is enough? You think rage makes you dangerous?"

A shieldbearer moved in with surprising speed, trying to flank him, but Lucian was already gone—flickering a few feet to the side, as if the world itself had given him space to maneuver.

He caught the soldier’s shield-hand mid-swing, used the momentum to spin him into the dirt, and stepped over his fallen form like an afterthought.

"Good instincts," Lucian said to him, almost conversational. "Bad follow-through."

Another spell flared—flame this time—and he let it explode against a sigil he snapped into place at his side. The impact burst outward harmlessly in a flare of light. His coat fluttered slightly, nothing more.

"I could kill you all right now," he said as he walked among them, unbothered by the scattered chaos of training blades and half-formed spells. "And do you want to know why I don’t?"

He stopped in the center of the yard.

The soldiers, exhausted and frayed to their limits, finally began to fall back. Not retreating—just breathing. Gasping. Eyes still blazing, some with fury, others with newfound clarity.

Lucian looked over them—not as enemies, not as students—but as pieces of something he still wasn’t sure could be shaped into a weapon sharp enough.

Then he said it.

"Because you’re mine."

The words landed harder than any of the coins.

"You were entrusted to me by the one person in this kingdom who has more to lose than anyone. And if you die, it’s not just your failure—it’s mine."

He let that sink in. No magic behind the words now. Just truth.

"And I," Lucian added, voice softer now, "do not intend to lose."

The girl with the cropped hair had stayed standing. She looked at him now with something different than before. Not respect. Not reverence.

Understanding.

He turned to her. "What’s your name?"

She blinked. "Syrna."

Lucian nodded once. "Good. Syrna—you’re squad lead, starting now."

A few murmurs flared in the group, some of them surprised, others incredulous. One soldier, a lean boy with ink-stained fingers and a cut across his cheek, spoke up from where he still knelt.

"But she’s not—she didn’t even pass the—"

"She stood up," Lucian interrupted. "She moved. She made a choice. That’s more than the rest of you did for the last hour."

He looked across the formation, gaze challenging.

"Anyone who thinks they deserve command more than her, step forward."

Silence.

Lucian turned back to Syrna. "You’ve got two days to organize these flailing nobles into something that can survive contact with an enemy. I’ll give you drills. I’ll give you tools. But the discipline? The fire? That has to come from you."

Syrna nodded. Her expression didn’t soften, but her posture straightened, shoulders squaring.

"I won’t disappoint."

Lucian smirked. "Good. Because if you do, I’ll make sure your squad knows exactly who to blame."

He turned back toward the palace. A few paces ahead, the ground still bore the mark where he’d conjured the stone throne. The jagged granite now cracked at its base, a symbol of the strain and upheaval he’d brought.

"I’ll return before dusk," he called without turning. "I expect improvement. Or blood."

With that, he vanished—more a shadow slipping through light than a man walking away.