The Villain Professor's Second Chance

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The temple loomed before us, a twisted, half-illusory thing, its vast gate pulsing in and out of existence like a mirage on the verge of breaking. Each time it shimmered, the outlines blurred, revealing glimpses of towering silhouettes behind it—columns, statues, possibly even archways that might not exist when we actually stepped through. Yet the overall impression remained consistent: an edifice born of fractured magic and raw malice, carved from the same meltdown that roiled through Kael'Thorne's decaying streets.

The runes etched into the stone flared with every beat of the leyline's power, a deep hum that permeated the air. It felt like the restless exhalation of something ancient and hungry, stirring from centuries of slumber and growing impatient for the next sacrifice. Each glow from those runes briefly illuminated the swirling fractals that formed the gate, letting us catch sight of interior corridors, shifting illusions, and possibly shapes moving behind them—though it was difficult to determine which shapes were real and which were ephemeral guardians waiting to lash out.

Beside me, Asterion inhaled sharply. I didn't need to look his way to sense the tension in his stance. He was well-seasoned by now—he'd proven that—but this place could reduce even the hardiest soul to trembling if you contemplated its depth for too long. The dryness in my own throat was a familiar ache, a sign that the meltdown's corruption was draining the environment of normalcy and moisture alike. I forced that discomfort aside, tightening my fingers around the sword hilt. I had no time to indulge basic human needs or fleeting dreads. Either we pressed on, or we gave in. And giving in was never an option.

No movement beyond the swirling patterns, no visible guards—an observation that should have pricked the hair on the back of any warrior's neck. I studied the wide, half-translucent gate and picked out at least six distinct runic motifs, each one anchored to a deeper pattern woven through the temple walls. The lines felt tense, vibrating with potential, as if they might lash out the moment an intruder ventured too close. And we were very close indeed.

Asterion whispered, "Are you sure we should attempt a direct entry? There's no telling if the illusions can fold entire sections of the temple on us the moment we cross that threshold."

I maintained my cold silence a beat longer, letting him feel the hush that saturated this place—like the temple itself was holding its breath, waiting for a reason to pounce. "If we circle around, we'd give it more time to adapt," I said, gesturing at the fractal barrier. "The illusions are feeding off something deeper within, so every second we waste out here is a gift to them."

He exhaled through his nose, resignation coloring his tone. "Don't guess we can talk it into letting us pass."

"Talking seldom helps with illusions." My voice was clipped, each syllable carefully placed. "Or with the meltdown fueling them."

He shifted, glancing at the ground under his feet. Even outside the gate, the stones were etched with swirling arcs that pulsed faintly, illusions threatening to take shape under any sign of hesitation. "More complex than the ones in the city," he murmured. "Which means they'll be harder to dismantle."

"They'll also be deadlier," I added, cutting to the heart of it. "We can't slip through half-blind. We either carve or be devoured."

Asterion's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Right. Straightforward enough, then."

I drew my sword with a smooth, practiced motion. The dryness in the air made the steel glint in a harsh, almost sickly light. Each breath seared my lungs, as if the meltdown had leached away any trace of humidity, leaving behind a faint chemical burn that coated my tongue. I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the dull ache in my arms that insisted I'd been fighting illusions for too many hours already. This was no place for fatigue to hold me back.

Asterion let out a short huff, more exasperation than humor. "Of course," he muttered. "We walk in blade-first. Wouldn't have it any other way, right, Draven?"

At least he knew me well enough by now. "Words rarely persuade illusions," I said, stepping forward until I was near enough to sense the raw hum of the runes in the stone. Each pulse felt like a small quake, rattling my bones and vibrating through the hilt of my sword. "Steel does."

The first strike I delivered was angled, a test blow. If illusions had fused with the rock in the ways I suspected, I needed to see how robust that anchoring was. My blade impacted with a crack, like a sharp exhalation of thunder. A hairline fracture branched out, causing the swirling illusions to pulse in agitation, flickering between intangible color and near-solid mass. Runes flared in protest, a deep purple that threatened to arc up my sword's length. I wrested control with a twist of my wrist, severing the link before it could recoil into me.

Asterion didn't hesitate. He stepped alongside me, striking at the illusions themselves. The ephemeral patterns parted as his blade traced their seams, forcing them to waver, unsure if they should remain illusions or revert to stone. Each blow he landed rippled outward, the barrier flickering in irregular pulses. I pressed forward, ignoring the dryness that grated at my throat, ignoring the sweat stinging my eyes. This needed to be swift and ruthless.

Finally, the illusions buckled, collapsing in on themselves as though a central support had snapped. A shattering sound—almost like distant glass or crystals fracturing—echoed through the hush. In front of us, the swirling fractal gate caved inward, peeling away like torn fabric. The runes guttered, leaving behind a narrow passage of genuine stone. Not exactly inviting, but real enough that my boots would land on something tangible.

I stepped in first, sword at the ready. Asterion followed, tension lining his features. We entered what seemed like a wide foyer or antechamber. The ceiling was high, the walls lined with decaying carvings of what might once have been heroic figures. Now they were twisted, illusions lacing through them in thin, luminous veins. The hush intensified, and the dryness in the air felt thicker, if such a thing were possible.

No posturing, no grand speeches. Just a small cluster of robed figures waiting at the far end of the chamber. They parted slightly, enough for me to see that illusions clung to their limbs like writhing serpents. Each step they took caused their forms to flicker—one instant, I saw a half-dozen arms, the next, only two. Their faces were hidden by hoods, but I sensed no fear in them. They exuded that same lethal calm I'd tasted in earlier confrontations, the assurance of zealots who believed illusions could devour us if their blades didn't do the job first.

Asterion eyed me. I gave him a single curt nod. My sword was already raised.

They unsheathed their weapons, each blade reflecting the meltdown's aura. Some were more ephemeral than real, shimmering between states, like the illusions themselves. One cultist glided forward, something akin to a mocking bow, as if ridiculing the idea of a formal greeting.

No posturing. No preamble. We fought.

I moved first, cutting low, forcing the nearest cultist to stumble back. The illusion shrouding him split apart from the impact, his real form momentarily exposed—a gaunt visage, cheeks hollow with hunger and fanaticism, eyes rimmed with the desperate gleam of someone who had surrendered their very soul to illusions. Yet I didn't linger on pity or revulsion; there was no time. The swirl of half-seen glyphs around his body told me he was anchored to the temple's energy, strengthened by the meltdown that ran through these walls like venom in a beast's veins. I gritted my teeth and thrust the blade deeper, severing the ephemeral tether before he could muster a counterstrike. He lurched to the side, illusions fraying as if an invisible wind ripped them free. A second later, he collapsed face-first on the stone, unmoving.

Asterion slipped in from the side with fluid precision, dispatching another robed figure before that cultist's blade could even begin to swing. A dull hiss escaped the dying man's lips, a sound that might have been a half-finished incantation or a final oath. Either way, illusions flickered around him, trying to re-form, but Asterion's slash had done its job. He crumpled without a sound, illusions dissolving into idle sparks that scattered across the floor.

I heard a pulse of energy zip through the air behind me—a weak attempt to disorient and stun. My nerves flared with warning, the dryness in my throat intensifying at the faint tang of ozone. Spinning on my heel, I caught another blade with my own, steel ringing in a discordant clash as ephemeral sparks shot out where illusions vied to reinforce the cultist's weapon. He was strong, or at least, the meltdown had made him so. But illusions rarely matched real skill. I pivoted my hips, forcing my sword against his in a locking angle, then drove my foot into his chest with a brutal snap of motion.