The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The night was thick with darkness, shadows crowding every corner of the narrow alleys as Amberine and Maris followed closely behind Alfred. The cobblestones beneath their feet seemed to absorb the little light from the stars above, giving the whole journey an eerie, almost dreamlike quality. Alfred moved with such purpose that it almost felt deliberate, like he was leading them through a labyrinth where only he knew the path. The route was winding, confusing, full of tight turns that left Amberine feeling disoriented. She couldn't tell if they were still heading west, or if Alfred had circled back on purpose.

Amberine exchanged a nervous glance with Maris, who returned it with an equally uncertain look. Both of them were trying to figure out what exactly they had gotten themselves into. Alfred's silent demeanor only added to their unease. The tension between them was almost palpable as the silence stretched on, broken only by the soft sound of their footsteps.

"Where is he taking us?" Amberine finally whispered, her voice barely loud enough for Maris to hear.

"I have no idea," Maris replied, her brow furrowing. "But it's like he doesn't want anyone following."

Amberine nodded, her eyes darting around, catching glimpses of shadows moving in the dim light. They passed through an abandoned courtyard, its ground overgrown with weeds that brushed against their ankles. A fountain, cracked and dry, stood in the middle like a forgotten relic of a better time. The air here felt different, quieter, as though the rest of the city had been left behind.

The further they went, the more Amberine noticed the difference in their surroundings. The slums were a vast part of the capital, sprawling and filled with despair. The disparity between the lives of nobles and commoners was on full display here, with decrepit homes leaning against each other as if trying to stay upright through sheer willpower. The narrow streets twisted and turned, and the houses became fewer and farther between, giving way to small, secluded alleys. Here, signs of life were everywhere—people huddled around makeshift fires, their faces hollow and tired. Children in tattered clothes ran barefoot through the streets, their laughter tinged with a sense of resilience despite their circumstances.

The air smelled of smoke, grime, and something faintly metallic, a constant reminder of the struggle that permeated this part of the city. They passed by an old woman sitting by the side of the road, her eyes weary but kind as she watched over a small basket of herbs she was trying to sell. A man with a patchy beard leaned against a wall, his eyes darting around with suspicion, one hand clutching the hilt of a rusted knife. The deeper they went, the more Amberine could see the harsh reality of life here—families crammed into shacks that barely held together, makeshift roofs patched with whatever materials could be scavenged, and the ever-present hunger that lingered in the eyes of the people they passed. Amberine could feel the gradual shift—as if they were crossing an invisible boundary that separated the chaos from a part of the city that seemed to exist outside of time.

After what felt like an eternity of walking, they finally stopped in front of an unassuming building. Alfred turned to them, his expression unchanged, and gestured for them to halt. Amberine eyed the building skeptically. It was old, the stone walls cracked and weathered, but there was something else about it—a sense of calm that didn't fit in with the rest of the slums.

"Is this it?" Maris asked, her voice uncertain as she tried to make out the faded sign above the door. Amberine squinted, barely able to make out the letters in the dim light.

"It's an orphanage," Amberine said, her tone colored with confusion. "What are we doing here?"

Alfred didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward and opened the door, holding it open for them. His expression gave away nothing, but the way he gestured for them to enter was polite, yet firm. There was no room for argument.

Amberine and Maris exchanged a look. Maris shrugged slightly before stepping inside, and Amberine followed, her curiosity piqued despite the uncertainty curling in her chest.

The interior of the orphanage was surprisingly well-kept. The floors were clean, and though the walls bore signs of age, they were free of dirt and grime. The place had a strange sense of order and peace, so unlike the world outside. Amberine found herself glancing around, noting the small touches that spoke of care—a vase of fresh flowers on a table, a stack of neatly folded blankets, and toys arranged with careful precision.

As they moved further in, a familiar voice reached them. It was cold and detached, echoing through the narrow hallway with an air of authority that was unmistakable. Amberine's steps faltered, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"Is that…?" she began, looking at Maris, who appeared just as stunned. Enjoy new chapters from empire

"Professor Draven..." Maris whispered, her voice barely audible.

Alfred led them down the hallway, his posture unchanging, and stopped before a door that was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, revealing a scene that neither of them had expected.

There, standing before a large magical whiteboard, was Professor Draven. His presence commanded the room, as always, his sharp gaze focused on the children in front of him. He was dressed impeccably, his dark suit tailored to perfection, his demeanor cold and distant as he explained complex magical concepts to the group gathered around him.

The children were cleaner than Amberine had expected for slum dwellers, their clothes neat, their faces bright with curiosity. They were watching Draven with rapt attention, hanging onto his every word as he spoke about elemental magic with a precision that seemed almost surgical.

Amberine blinked, taken aback. She had never imagined Draven involving himself in something like this. He was an earl, someone who held himself above others, arrogant and dismissive, and yet—here he was, teaching children magic in an orphanage in the slums. The disparity between what she thought she knew about the man and what she was witnessing left her stunned.

Maris glanced at Amberine, her own eyes wide with shock. She had been saved by Draven once before, but this—this was different. This wasn't a tactical decision or an act of necessity. It was deliberate. Purposeful.

"Is he… Always been this noble?" Amberine whispered, her confusion evident.

Maris shook her head slightly. "I don't know. Maybe… maybe there's more to him than we thought."

Before Amberine could respond, Draven's gaze shifted, his eyes locking onto them. His cold, piercing stare seemed to strip away every layer of pretense, leaving them feeling vulnerable. The room seemed to grow colder, the warmth that had been present seconds ago replaced by an icy detachment.

And suddenly.

"You are not invited," Draven said, his tone as frigid as the look in his eyes.

Amberine felt her knees weaken, the authority in his voice cutting through her like a blade. She tried to stammer an explanation, but her voice failed her, her throat suddenly dry. Maris, too, seemed unable to find the words to respond.

Before they could collect themselves, one of Draven's pens, which had been lying on the desk beside him, suddenly lifted into the air. It moved with such speed that neither of them had time to react as it flew past them and out the door. A moment later, a flash of light illuminated the hallway, followed by an earth-shaking explosion from outside. The force of the blast rattled the windows, and the sound reverberated through the walls, making Amberine's heart skip a beat. Dust shook loose from the ceiling, and for a second, it felt as though the entire building had trembled in the wake of the explosion.

Amberine and Maris spun around, their eyes wide with shock. Through the open doorway, they could see the remains of a creature—a grotesque, zombie-like figure that had been lurking just outside. The pen, now glowing with a faint magical aura, slowly floated back inside, returning to Draven's hand as if it had a will of its own.

Draven caught the pen without so much as glancing at it, his eyes still fixed on Amberine and Maris. He seemed utterly unfazed by the attack, his expression as calm and detached as ever. He simply said, "Well done surviving, Neophyte Maris, Neophyte Amberine."

His tone was almost dismissive, as though their survival had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience—a test that they had barely managed to pass. Amberine swallowed hard, her heart still pounding in her chest. She glanced at Maris, who looked just as shaken, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Maris opened her mouth to say something, but no words came. She could only stare at Draven, her mind racing with questions. Why was he here? What was he doing with these children? And more importantly—what had they just gotten themselves into?

Draven turned his attention back to the children, his focus shifting effortlessly away from Amberine and Maris as if they were no longer worth his time. He continued his lecture, his voice cold and authoritative, the children watching him with awe and respect.

"Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The fundamental properties of fire magic," Draven said, his eyes scanning the attentive faces. "Fire, unlike water or earth, is an element of pure energy. It requires control, precision, and, above all, a clear intent. If your intent falters, the flames will consume not only your target but also yourself."

One of the children, a young boy with a shock of dark hair, raised his hand timidly. "Professor, what if... what if the intent changes halfway? Will the spell backfire?"

Draven paused for a moment, his gaze sharp as he considered the question. "If your intent changes halfway, you risk losing control entirely. Fire magic is not forgiving. It demands unwavering focus." He gestured toward the magical whiteboard, where an intricate diagram of elemental symbols appeared. "That is why we start with simple exercises. To build discipline. Without discipline, magic is chaos."

Another child, a girl with bright eyes, leaned forward. "But Professor, you make it look so easy. How do you stay focused all the time?"

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Draven's lips, though it held no warmth. "Practice. Relentless practice. You see only the result, not the countless hours spent perfecting control." He tapped the board, and the symbols shifted, forming a diagram of a flame surrounded by a circle. "You must become the master of your own magic. If you cannot do that, you are better off not attempting it at all."

The children nodded, their expressions serious. There was a silence that hung heavy in the air, as if each word Draven spoke carried the weight of an unbreakable truth. Amberine found herself unable to look away, the intensity of his teaching captivating in its own right.

Draven continued, his tone unyielding. "Now, each of you will attempt to summon a controlled flame, no larger than this," he said, holding up his hand to indicate a small size. "Focus your intent, channel your mana, and remember—control is everything."

Amberine felt a shiver run down her spine. This man—this cold, calculating man—was far more than he seemed everytime she thought she almost grasp the full extent of him. And as she stood there, trying to make sense of what she had just witnessed, she couldn't shake the feeling that they had only scratched the surface of the mystery that was Professor Draven.