The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The cloaked man's laughter echoed across the chamber, a sound that made the hair on Amberine's neck stand on end. It wasn't just mocking—it was sinister, resonating with dark amusement. He stepped forward from the smoldering remains of Amberine's attack, emerging from the haze of blue flames and scorched air, untouched and undeterred. The fire she'd put her entire being into, the power she'd summoned alongside Ifrit, had done nothing. Nothing but entertain him.

Amberine's legs gave out beneath her, her knees hitting the hard stone floor with a painful thud. The last of her mana had drained, and now even Ifrit's presence was flickering within her, his once strong, steady warmth reduced to faint embers. "I'm getting tired too, Amberine," his voice whispered, weak and thin, a mere breath against the roaring dread that filled her. "The mana here is twisted… I can't restore myself…" Continue reading at empire

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. Every part of her body felt heavy, as if each muscle had turned to lead, and she could feel the malice in the air like a poison, sapping away her strength. The mana in this room—the dark, twisted energy—was suffocating, toxic. It actively worked against her, drained her until she had nothing left. She felt helpless, the realization settling over her like a cold shroud. They were on the verge of collapse, and there was no saving grace in sight.

Amberine looked up, her blurry vision catching the silhouette of the cloaked man. His head tilted, as though amused by the sight of her on the ground. "This is what you call power?" he mocked, his voice dripping with disdain. He stepped closer, his boots barely making a sound against the cold stone floor.

"It's pathetic, really," he continued, his voice carrying through the chamber, each word laced with venom. "Your father—Polime—he was at least entertaining before he broke. But you? You're just a flicker. A spark that's already gone out."

Amberine's hands trembled, her fingers curling into fists. The mention of her father cut through her exhaustion like a blade, a flash of rage momentarily pushing away the darkness that was threatening to pull her under. She wanted to fight, to get up, to burn him with everything she had—but there was nothing left. The fire inside her was gone, reduced to nothing more than embers, and Ifrit… she could feel his exhaustion too, his presence fading.

"You're done," the cloaked man said, his smile widening, his eyes glinting beneath the hood. He raised his hand, dark mana swirling around his fingers, the air crackling with twisted energy.

But before he could unleash his next spell, a voice rang out—sharp, cold, and filled with authority.

"She needs to be killed."

Amberine turned her head, her gaze shifting towards the source of the voice. One of the other cloaked figures stepped forward, her voice echoing across the chamber with an icy finality. "The girl is a threat to the Lord. She should be dealt with now."

The man in front of Amberine—her tormentor—straightened, his smile fading into a scowl as he turned to face the woman. "Don't interfere," he growled, stepping protectively in front of Amberine. "She is my prey. I'll be the one to finish this."

The woman's eyes narrowed, her presence exuding a cold malice that matched the man's own. "You fool, you're playing with fire!" she hissed, her voice dripping with frustration. "She could become a threat to everything the Lord plans. She's that Draven's disciple! Didn't you see her magic just now? It's only a matter of time before she grows beyond your reach!"

The man clenched his fists, his dark mana swirling more aggressively around him. "I said don't interfere," he repeated, his voice a low snarl, each word filled with barely restrained fury. "She is mine."

The woman didn't back down, her glare locked onto the man's. The air around them grew colder, the pressure in the chamber intensifying until it felt like the walls themselves were closing in. The other cloaked figures shifted slightly, their attention fixed on the confrontation, their dark forms tense as the argument escalated.

"You're a fool," the woman spat, her voice sharp. "Your arrogance will be the end of you. She's already proven her potential—her strength. She's a disciple of Draven! You can't possibly think you can handle this on your own!"

The man's eyes glinted with fury, his jaw clenched as he took a step closer to the woman, his dark mana swirling more violently, almost as if it was responding to his anger. "I will handle her," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "And I don't need you—or anyone else—telling me what to do."

The magical energy that radiated from their confrontation was suffocating, the atmosphere in the chamber growing more oppressive with every passing moment. The air itself felt like it was charged with malice, with power that threatened to crush anything caught in its path. It was terrifying—and it was exactly the opportunity Maris needed.

Maris's heart pounded in her chest, her eyes darting between the two cloaked figures. They were distracted, their attention entirely on each other, and that gave her the chance she'd been waiting for. She'd been working quietly, gathering her mana, trying to recover from the strain of the earlier battle.

She reached into her cloak, her fingers brushing against the small vial that she'd kept hidden there—a mana potion she'd received during her internship with the Royal Knights. She had saved it for emergencies, and now, there was no doubt that this was the emergency she'd hoped to never face.

With trembling hands, she uncorked the vial and drank it in one quick gulp. The mana surged through her, bringing clarity and strength, her exhaustion fading slightly as the energy filled her veins. It wasn't much—enough to replenish her magic halfway—but it was enough.

She could feel her strength returning, her focus sharpening. Her eyes narrowed, her grip tightening around her wand. She knew what she had to do.

Please! Help us!

Maris slammed her wand against the stone floor, the impact sending a shockwave of energy through the chamber. Her voice rang out, filled with both authority and desperation. "Illusio: Persona Draven!" she shouted, her words reverberating through the room.

Professor!

The air shimmered, the magic taking hold, and suddenly, the space was filled with copies of Professor Draven. Each illusion was as imposing and cold as the real Draven, each one radiating that same aura of power and authority that she remembered from her days at the academy.

The reaction from the cloaked figures was immediate. They flinched, their attention snapping away from each other, their eyes widening in shock and—for the first time—fear. Their once-confident demeanor cracked, their hands raising defensively as they looked around, their gazes darting between the illusions.

"Now!" Maris shouted, her voice filled with urgency. She didn't waste a second. She lunged forward, grabbing Amberine's arm, yanking her to her feet. "We have to go!"

Amberine, barely conscious, allowed herself to be pulled along, her legs weak and unsteady. The fireplace at the far end of the room still flickered, the flames burning with an eerie, unnatural light. It had to be a gate—a portal, their only chance at escape.

The cloaked figures regained their composure quickly. One of them—the woman—snarled, her eyes narrowing as she focused on Maris and Amberine. "Stop them!" she shouted, her voice filled with fury.

The cloaked man who had fought Amberine turned towards them, his dark mana swirling once more, his eyes glinting with malice. He began to cast a spell, the dark energy gathering in his hands, the air crackling with power.

But before he could release his magic, a voice rang out—cold, calculating, and oh-so-familiar.

Chilly and precise.

"Cheeky of you to ignore me," the voice said, and the cloaked figures froze.

The illusions—all of the Draven figures—began to merge into one, their forms combining, becoming a singular entity that stood at the center of the chamber. The presence that radiated from the illusion was overwhelming, an aura of authority and power that seemed almost real.

Maris felt her breath catch in her throat, her eyes widening in shock. It was the same—the same cold, suffocating presence that she remembered from her time at the academy, from the lectures and the training sessions. She'd created the illusion on a whim, a desperate attempt to distract their enemies—but somehow, it had worked. It had become more than an illusion. It had become something real, something that even these powerful beings seemed to fear.

It's a phenomenon that even she herself don't understand.

But.

"You really always save me, don't you, professor?" Maris whispered, her voice barely audible, a shaky smile tugging at her lips.

She's grateful of it.

The Draven illusion raised one hand, the gesture commanding, his eyes—so cold, so calculating—fixed on the cloaked figures. He spoke, his voice low, filled with authority.

"

Fear me.

"

Dark flames erupted around the chamber, the fire roaring to life, forming a blazing wall that separated Maris and Amberine from the cloaked figures. The flames burned with an intensity that seemed to defy reality, the heat almost unbearable, the light blinding.

The barrier formed an infernal fence between the girls and their pursuers, the dark fire flickering, roaring, a wall of protection that seemed to pulse with Draven's power.

Maris didn't hesitate. She pulled Amberine towards the fireplace, the flames flickering, the light growing in intensity. The portal was their only chance—their only hope of escape.

Just before they leaped into the flames, Maris caught sight of Draven's clone looking directly at her. His eyes—sharp, cold, calculating—met hers, and she heard him speak.

"Good job, Neophyte Maris,"