Magic Academy's Bastard Instructor - Chapter 249

Capítulo 249: No Such Thing as Salvation [1]

Fyodor Dragunov.

No one among the general public recognized the name. Even within the cult, only those who held true authority understood who he really was. To the lower ranks, he existed only as mere words.

But within Araxys’s inner circle, Fyodor was delegated as the prophet, the chosen voice of their god, the figure at the center of every clandestine prayer.

There was a reason the world knew nothing of him. Anyone trying to uncover information, anyone who searched through public records or official archives, would come up with almost nothing.

A man without a history.

“Young Master, are you really joining the clergy?”

“…Yes. I don’t have a choice. If it’s to keep the family afloat, I must do what is expected of me.”

Young Fyodor of the Dragunov Barony had never imagined his life turning in this direction. But with his family facing growing financial troubles, the offer from the church had become the only option to save them.

If Fyodor joined the clergy, the church would provide the Dragunov household with the support they desperately needed. His father, the Lord of the barony, had made the decision quickly, appointing Fyodor to shoulder the responsibility.

“I… see. But that means… you won’t be living here anymore, right…?”

The hesitation in the young maid’s voice made him pause. Her eyes wavered as though she already feared the answer. Fyodor gently pulled her into his arms, holding her close against his chest.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Mary… However, if things start to improve, I’ll consider leaving the church. It’s only a ten-year service…”

Just like that, Fyodor’s path into the clergy began. To say he held no expectations would have been untrue. Despite his reluctance, both he and the Dragunov household were deeply devout. Faith had always been a part of their lives.

So when he entered the church for the first time as an initiate, Fyodor held the belief that perhaps things would turn out well. That if he served with sincerity, if he trusted in the teachings he had grown up with, ten years would pass without resentment.

And maybe, just maybe, he would return home stronger, wiser, and able to lift his family out of their circumstances.

The first four years of his servitude were rather mundane, the typical routine expected of a low-ranking clergy member. Fyodor spent his days cleaning prayer halls, copying scripture, assisting senior priests during ceremonies, and studying doctrine late into the night.

He wrote to his family often. Letters filled with reassurances that he was adjusting well, that the church treated him fairly, that the Dragunov household would be all right. He believed those words when he wrote them. The church was strict, but it had given him stability and hope.

It wasn’t until the fifth year that everything began to change.

“Delegate the funds? But the allocations for the northern orphanages haven’t even reached half the required amount. Shouldn’t we finish supplying them first?”

“Brother Dragunov, you need to understand that the church has priorities.”

Fyodor frowned. “I understand that, but these funds were specifically raised for the children. If we redirect them—”

“Those children will survive,” another priest cut in. “But our political alliances will not. The Baron of Estmere requested support, and we must answer in kind if we want his continued patronage.”

Fyodor’s fingers twitched. “So… we’re using donations meant for the orphanages to pay a noble?”

“To invest,” the priest corrected. “To strengthen ties. You must learn to see beyond surface morality. The church cannot function on charity alone.”

Another priest chimed in, “If we support Estmere, he supports us. And if he supports us, the church expands. That is how we bring faith to the people.”

Fyodor frowned. “But isn’t this deceit?”

A soft snort came from the far end of the table. “Idealistic child. This is how the world works. If you cannot stomach it, then perhaps the clergy was a mistake for you.”

Fyodor opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no answer.

“Well?” the senior priest asked. “Will you carry out the delegation?”

Fyodor lowered his head slightly. “…Yes.”

He didn’t have much of a choice. Refusing would only drag his family deeper into debt, and the church had made it clear that obedience was the price of their continued support.

So he carried out the order, knowing full well that it went against everything he believed in.

A year later, news reached him from the north.

The orphanage had never recovered from the missing funds. Winter had been harsher than expected, and without proper supplies, medicine, or heating, illness plagued the orphanage.

By the time a wandering priest found them, most of the orphans had already died from pneumonia and exposure

“….”

Another year passed.

“Brother Dragunov, a local convent in the countryside has reported… unauthorized teachings. Their Mother Superior insists they are guiding the villagers using doctrine that does not align with the central Scripture.”

Fyodor blinked. “Mother Yulenna’s convent? They teach reading and herbal medicine. I’ve visited them before. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

“That is exactly the problem,” the priest said. “They are gaining influence outside official supervision. We’re losing influence since people are listening to them too easily.”

“So, what should I do about that?”

“Break down the convent, relocate the nuns to separate dioceses, and confiscate their archives. Their service is no longer beneficial to the church.”

Fyodor felt something sink inside him. “They’ve helped their entire village survive three winters. If we remove them—”

“They will adapt. Your task is simple. Ensure Mother Yulenna relinquishes her position peacefully. Use whatever authority is necessary.”

“…And if she refuses?”

“Brother Dragunov,” the priest said, leaning closer. “You have grown obedient these past years. Do not start questioning now.”

“…Yes.”

Two weeks later, the convent became empty. The nuns were scattered across distant provinces. Their clinic was shuttered under the church’s orders. Without their care, a fever outbreak struck the village several months later. It spread quickly, and the death toll rose faster than the church could respond.

Another life lost because of him.

Another place he had broken.

Another sin carved into his heart.

Task after task, Fyodor felt his heart growing hollow. Each year broke another piece from him, until by the ninth year, there was almost nothing left.

The church he had once respected had become a place he could no longer stand to serve.

“Your Holiness, I can’t do this anymore.”

Fyodor stood face-to-face with the Pope of that era.

“You do not get to choose when your duty ends,” the Pope replied. “The Dragunov family still receives support from us. Do you intend to abandon them? If I recall correctly, your service is set to end next year. Are you truly willing to walk away now?”

“….”

As much as he hated to admit it, the Pope had a point. If he left now, everything his family depended on would crumble. And with only one year left, his departure would create more harm than good.

So he stayed.

He forced himself through that final year, carrying out his task with no resistance, only resignation.

When the tenth year finally came to an end, Fyodor packed his belongings. He imagined taking a long breath outside the cathedral gates, feeling the sunlight on his face, and going home to see Mary and his family.

But the world rarely gave him what he expected.

On the morning of his departure, a letter awaited him at his door, bearing the church’s seal.

Inside was a single sentence.

‘Your term of service has been extended indefinitely.’

“….”

‘Your family requested it.’

He read the sentence again, then again, as if it would change.

They hadn’t requested anything. He knew that. He knew his father would never bind him longer than necessary. Which meant the church had forged the request. Which meant they had no intention of letting him leave.

Which meant he was trapped.

Nevertheless, Fyodor left anyway.

He didn’t wait for permission or further orders. He walked out at dawn and didn’t look back.

When he finally reached the Dragunov estate, his bags fell from his hands and hit the floor with a thud.

“….”

The Dragunov estate was a bloodshed.

The courtyard was drenched in dried scarlet. Broken lanterns littered the path. The stone walls were charred as though scorched by magic.

“…Father.”

Fyodor took one step forward, then another. He pushed the front doors open with trembling hands.

“…Mother.”

Inside, the sight was no different. Chairs were overturned, furniture was shattered, and portraits were slashed. The hearth was cold, and the floor was stained dark.

“Father! Mother!”

He found his father in the dining hall, slumped against the wall with his eyes half-open as if he had died waiting for someone to arrive. His mother lay across his lap while her fingers curled around the edge of his clothes. A single stab wound marked her chest.

He dropped to his knees beside them, reaching out with a shaking hand before pulling it back. For a moment, he didn’t breathe at all.

Every door he opened revealed more bodies. They were servants he’d known since childhood, knights who had sworn loyalty to the family, even distant relatives who must have been visiting.

Not a single survivor.

His steps grew heavier as he made his way toward the servants’ quarters. A small hope still grounded him. A hope he knew was foolish yet held onto desperately.

He opened the door.

“…Mary.”

The young maid who cried the day he left for the clergy lay motionless on the cold floor. Her hands were pressed against a fatal wound on her stomach, as if she had tried to hold onto life until the very last second, waiting for someone who never came.

“Mary!”

Fyodor sank to his knees beside her. His trembling fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face.

He stayed like that for a long while, kneeling in the silence of a home that no longer existed.

When he finally stood, there was nothing left of the young man who had left for the clergy ten years ago.

His next task was already decided.

Fyodor stormed the clergy halls. He cut through priest after priest with a rage that bordered on despair. The bells never even rang. By the time the paladins realized what was happening, half the sanctum was already drenched in blood.

Fyodor fought until his body gave out, until the last of his strength burned away.

He killed as many as he could.

And when they finally overwhelmed him, when the blades pierced his chest, and the spells tore through his flesh, Fyodor didn’t beg or curse or even let out as much as a scream.

He simply fell.

In the aftermath, his blood-soaked and broken body fell off the riverbank and into the black water below, dragging him down into the depths where no one would find him.

To the world, Fyodor Dragunov died that night.

But to Fyodor, it was the day he had been reborn.

When he opened his eyes, he gasped for air, coughing again and again as river water spilled from his throat. His entire body trembled. For a moment, he lay still, expecting to feel the pain that had consumed him in his final moments.

“….”

But there was nothing. There were no injuries, scars, or even as much as a bruise.

He pushed himself upright and stared at his palms. Dark magic pulsed from his skin, rising in like black wisps that dissolved into the air.

And in that moment, Fyodor understood.

He knew exactly what had saved him.

It was the very thing the clergy had preached against for centuries.

The Black Dragon, Araxys.

From that day forward, Fyodor lived among the shadows. He did not return to the world he once knew. He did not seek forgiveness, nor did he search for what remained of his past.

Instead, he walked a different path.

Nations fell. Empires rose from their ashes. Dynasties changed hands, and kingdoms crumbled under the concept of time. The world changed again and again as each era rewrote the one before it.

Through it all, Fyodor continued to wander, untouched by age and unbound by mortal limits, while preaching faith and whispering the name of Araxys to those desperate enough to listen, creating miracles and sowing seeds of belief in forgotten places.

Sometimes he appeared as a healer. Sometimes a hermit. Sometimes nothing more than a passing traveler with eyes too old for his face.

Centuries passed.

And everywhere he went, the faith of Araxys followed.

So when the time finally came for him to act, Fyodor moved without the slightest trace of restraint. He seized the Saintess at once, Selena, the one praised across the continent as the most gifted and powerful Saintess in history.

“What?”

The moment his soul attempted to devour hers, something went wrong.

Instead of yielding, Selena fought back.

Instead of weakening, she surged.

Instead of being overtaken, she consumed him.

Her will pressed against his, swallowing the very power that had allowed him to manipulate nations and move empires from the shadows. Fyodor felt his strength draining in a way he had never experienced.

“I’m… losing?”

The thought staggered him. His faith had never wavered. He had been chosen by Araxys. He was the living proof of Araxys’s existence. How could someone like him be pushed back by a girl who worshipped a false god?

But that wasn’t it.

It wasn’t that Selena’s god was stronger.

It was that Selena, the Saintess who had been hailed as blessed, had never worshipped the god the world claimed she did.

Her power didn’t come from holiness.

It came from something else entirely.

“A-Araxys?!”

Fyodor’s eyes widened as the truth hit him. The power pushing him back, the force swallowing his own, wasn’t divine in the way the world believed.

It was Araxys.

Just like him, Selena’s power originated from Araxys itself. A purer strand, a more refined version, far more potent than what had been granted to him. Where his had been crude and forceful, hers was stable and scarily overwhelming, like comparing a dying ember to a roaring flame.

She was chosen at a level he had never been.

So, Fyodor did the only thing left to him. If possession was impossible, then overwriting was the only choice.

He crushed his own soul piece by piece, forcing fragments of his memories into Selena’s mind, embedding himself in every corner he could reach.

But even so, Selena pushed back. Her resistance was overwhelming. Her will refused to break as she shoved the very fabric of his being into the farthest edges of her consciousness.

What remained was a Saintess on the verge of corruption, with a parasite latched onto her, feeding off her power little by little. He waited, consuming the scattered embers of Araxys’s essence that lingered within her.

And in moments when Selena was vulnerable, Fyodor could crawl to the surface. He created gaps in her memory. He manipulated her actions, allowing himself to be comfortable in her body. He mimicked the tone of her thoughts until even she couldn’t tell when she was herself and when she wasn’t.

“I was… exercising.”

He fooled Friedrich Glade, who had sensed something was wrong.

“M-Marquess…”

He fooled Vanitas Astrea, allowing Selena’s personality to overwrite him whenever the two interacted, maintaining the illusion of normalcy.

“Saintess, what are you doing?”

He even managed to siphon off the lingering power Vanitas had left in the Lily of the Valley, granting Fyodor greater strength in the overwriting battle.

Each time Selena weakened, his hold grew stronger. Each time she tried to reclaim her mind, he dug in deeper.

It was not a battle she could win.

No, in truth, there had never been a true Selena since the moment Fyodor embedded himself into her neurons like a parasite.

What walked, spoke, prayed, and smiled was merely Selena’s memories holding shape, while the soul inside had long been broken and rewritten bit by bit.

And when the Pope finally died, the last barrier that trapped him dissolved as he consumed the Pope’s powers. Fyodor rose to the surface completely, finishing the overwrite.

The final remnants of Selena faded like dust behind him.

“Will you join me, Vanitas Astrea?”