The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The moment we descended from that fractured rooftop, I felt the shift instantly, as though Kael'Thorne itself had decided we were now a real threat. If the city had seemed hostile before, it now radiated a cold, predatory intent. The illusions that remained—those that hadn't collapsed with the first anchor's destruction—swirled in disorganized turbulence, as if they couldn't decide whether to form walls, beasts, or intangible traps. Each new attempt to corral us flickered with a sort of cosmic desperation, but if anything, that made them more dangerous. Few things are more lethal than a cornered monster.

The deeper we moved, the more the city resisted. Where once broken alleyways would lead us a few dozen paces, illusions now reshaped them in half a dozen steps, twisting them into corridors that looped back in on themselves. Walls sprang up as ephemeral barricades; entire blocks would unravel just long enough to let us glimpse a path forward, then snap back into false solidity. A trick. A living labyrinth. I braced for the next confrontation, each breath controlled, my boots striking the ground with deliberate surety.

Asterion's concern was evident in the slight hitch of his movements. He paused at intervals, scanning the half-ruined skyline for shrines or lurking cultists. His dagger glinted in the dull, colorless light—a reassuring presence, though I knew illusions could slip past if we lapsed in focus.

Sometimes, only the hiss of shifting illusions broke the hush. No robed figures appeared to challenge us, but I sensed watchers—eyes that studied us from beyond ephemeral walls or perched on spires overhead. Maybe illusions were drawing them away, or maybe they wanted to see how we'd navigate the meltdown. Part of me suspected the Cult was content to let the city itself chew us up, so they wouldn't have to expend more manpower. It was a telling sign that these zealots considered us dangerous enough to ration their forces.

I felt the leyline's pulse, raw and unchained, vibrating through the city like a wounded beast. Each vibration tugged at my bones, a grim reminder that time was short. The meltdown wouldn't hold until I fully recovered. Either we pressed on to dismantle enough shrines and sabotage their illusions, or we'd find ourselves so deep in warped reality that not even steel and cunning could save us.

Yet, for all the sense of imminent doom, we advanced methodically. It was the only way. Rushing blindly into illusions was akin to stepping into a swirling tide of broken glass. With each anchor undone, the illusions lost a fraction of their cohesion, giving us a foothold to push further in.

We paused near a shattered plaza, perhaps once a meeting ground or a marketplace. Now it lay like a crater in the city's heart. The ground had caved in, revealing lower levels that flickered between rubble and swirling, half-manifest illusions. Twisted stalls, broken timbers, and stray illusions of phantom merchants, their voices trailing off in half-syllables, gave the area a macabre, half-alive quality. Wind, or something mimicking wind, rustled across the broken stones.

Asterion scanned the edges. "Think we can go around it?" Read latest stories on My Virtual Library Empire

I shook my head. "Time. If we skirt every hazard, we'll give the Cult room to entrench further."

He let out a soft exhale of agreement, though not without a trace of resignation. "After you, then."

We slid down into the plaza's bowl. Immediately, illusions sprang up in the corners of our vision: skeletal frames of old stalls reassembling, half-formed illusions stumbling around in a pantomime of daily life. They paid no attention to us. That was the unnerving part—like watching reflections in a mirror that hadn't realized we were even there. Then, in unison, the illusions turned, gazes zeroing in, faces glitching between blank masks and skull-like grimaces.

Asterion tensed. "You had to say it was safe, right?"

He didn't wait for a reply, flinging a short arc of magic at the nearest figure. The illusions parted, swirling in fractal patterns, then re-formed, each shape flickering with an almost human moan that made my skin crawl.

They lurched forward, illusions stretching to lengthen their limbs. One swung its elongated arm at me, the blow ephemeral in the last fraction of a second—thankfully. I sidestepped, my sword slicing cleanly through the illusions' chest. No blood, just an electric sputter that crackled and vanished, leaving behind the faint echo of an anguished cry.

Two more illusions advanced on Asterion's flank. He slashed at one, but the other lunged for his legs, ephemeral claws raking the air. I stepped in, cutting it down before it could latch on. Through it all, the illusions made not a single coherent word—only stuttering moans or half-laughs that resonated like static.

"Time is short," I reminded him, voice taut. "We can't play with their illusions. We break them, or we risk letting them reconstitute."

He nodded, slashing another ephemeral shape apart in a swirl of phosphorescent motes. "I'm open to suggestions if you have a quicker way."

I didn't, not without draining what little mana flickered inside me. My mind drifted, unbidden, to that memory of the Ashen Expanse, how illusions there had almost devoured me when I tried to carve a path back to reality. But I'd survived by forcing them to break, piece by piece. Here, the principle remained the same, only we faced more cunning illusions anchored by shrines across multiple zones.

A violent quake jolted the plaza, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the ground. It was no normal tremor; illusions wove in, warping the fractures in the earth so they might open or close at whim. We steadied ourselves, retreating a few paces to avoid a fresh sinkhole that threatened to swallow half the plaza. Distorted echoes of chanting drifted in, carried on the hot breath of warping air.

It was a stark reminder: The meltdown continued. The leyline was no mere object lying dormant beneath the city. It was an artery pumping raw, mutated magic into Kael'Thorne's very bones.

As if in answer to that silent confession, illusions flickered at the plaza's far edge, revealing half of a shrine. Its top half was intangible—someone or something had anchored illusions to the bottom half, letting the rest manifest only if we approached. A faint swirl of color radiated from it, hooking onto the illusions still prowling in the plaza.

My eyes narrowed. Another anchor. Destroying it might free the illusions in this zone from the Cult's stranglehold. Or, if we left it intact, we risked letting illusions chase us deeper into the city. I jerked my head in that direction. "Next anchor's over there."

Asterion's gaze darted to the half-seen structure. He pressed his lips into a thin line. "If it's as active as it looks, we'll have cultists. Possibly illusions of them too."

I flexed my fingers on my sword hilt. "We've done this before. We do it again."

We moved, each step carefully chosen. Asterion conjured a minor swirl of dust, hoping to cloak our approach, but illusions parted it, trying to show us a false clearing that didn't exist. I ignored the illusions' suggestion, forging ahead on the real path I could feel underfoot. A subdued hush settled, as though the illusions themselves were gathering for a final stand.

We were halfway across the plaza when they attacked in earnest—this time not ephemeral watchers, but human forms. Robed cultists stepped from behind illusions, each brandishing a blade or staff that flickered with partial existence. At the same time, the illusions themselves rained shards of fractal shapes upon us, each slice capable of cutting flesh if we let it land.

Asterion cursed under his breath, rolling aside to avoid a flurry of shardlike illusions. I saw him slash upward, arcs of azure light fending off a robed cultist's staff blow. The staff, though half-illusory, sparked with raw power that hissed on contact, searing the air.

I met my opponent with ruthless efficiency—steel over illusions. The first cultist lunged, his blade extending in a swirl of ephemeral shards. I swayed left, letting it pass, then drove my sword into his torso. He sputtered, illusions flickering around him as if trying to protect him, but it was too late; real steel had already done its work. He collapsed, illusions guttering out like a doused flame.

Another cultist tried to flank me, staff raised high. An arc of violet heat cracked across the plaza floor. I sidestepped the crack, ignoring the wave of dryness that rattled in my lungs, and hammered my sword against the staff. The illusions around him fizzled, revealing a gaunt man with wide, terror-bright eyes. My second strike found his ribs, cutting through the ephemeral swirl. He collapsed, illusions retreating as if in fear.

Meanwhile, Asterion wrestled with a third, the swirl of illusions intensifying around them. For a moment, I saw the robed figure's form flicker, as though he was half-unraveled—limbs glitching, head splitting into fractal duplicates. Asterion grunted, hooking a boot behind the cultist's knee, sending him tumbling. He angled his dagger for a killing blow, finishing it with grim efficiency.

He looked up, breathing hard. "The anchor's right behind them."

Indeed it was. A cluster of twisted stone sprouting from the plaza's broken earth, lines carved in spirals that glowed a sickly mix of purple and green. Pulses of raw magic flared with each breath the city took, fueling illusions that still skittered at the edges of sight.

I raised my blade, stepping forward. Each muscle in my body felt like it had been dragged through glass, but I forced them to obey. The anchor pulsed, seemingly aware of its impending doom, illusions flaring around its base. A half-lost shape of yet another cultist reeled out from behind it, mouth twisted in silent fury. I dispatched him before he could fully manifest. With his ephemeral form gone, the illusions parted, revealing the anchor's central glyph.

I drove my sword in, the metal vibrating upon impact. A hairline fracture crawled across the anchor's surface, lines of shimmering energy trying to weld it shut. I slammed my pommel against the crack, each blow jarring my arms up to the shoulders, each blow forging more fractures until the runes parted with a resounding snap.

A deafening hush followed, as though the city drew a collective gasp. Then illusions around us wailed, fragments tearing away like cloth caught in a gale. Another anchor destroyed.

I caught my breath, forcing down the dryness that constricted my throat. Asterion rubbed the sweat off his forehead, offering me a small, weary smile. We were battered, yes—but this was progress. The illusions receded, at least in this sector, leaving behind rubble and broken shapes that might once have been illusions or living men. It gave us a small clearing to continue forward, forced the city to adapt rather than simply corral us.

I turned my gaze toward the shimmering haze that lay beyond, deeper into Kael'Thorne's core, where more anchors awaited. My mind strayed to the figure I'd seen in the fleeting vision—flames, unstoppable power, and the cold sense that time was almost up. Each anchor we broke chipped away at the Cult's advantage, and each moment we spent hammered my body one step closer to collapse.

But no illusions or meltdown would stop me. I had severed illusions in the Ashen Expanse, halting Belisarius's forced reemergence once. I would do it again here, in this battered city, or I would die trying.

And we were one step closer.