The Villain Professor's Second Chance

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.

He staggered back, illusions sputtering around him. For a heartbeat, his body flickered, turned half-transparent with a swirl of fractal lines. Had I not adapted so often to illusions' tricks, I might have missed my opening. Instead, I twisted my grip, fracturing the illusions with a slice so quick it left an afterimage. The cultist gasped—part shock, part agony—as the illusions shredded away, leaving him fully exposed. My blade followed through, cutting into the man himself. He let out a rattling breath that dissolved into a choking cough before slumping to the floor, illusions fading into useless threads of broken magic.

A short, ragged exhale escaped my lips. The dryness in the air felt sharper now, a saw rasp against the back of my throat. Three cultists down, each undone by skill and the reality of steel over illusions. Yet I couldn't ignore how my limbs felt heavier with each movement, how the meltdown's aura ate at my stamina, gnawing at my body as if hungry for every scrap of vitality. But I refused to let it show—only the faintest clench of my jaw betrayed the tension behind my eyes. If illusions sensed weakness, they would exploit it.

The last remaining zealot stumbled back, eyes wide beneath his hood. A faint illumination crawled around the edges of his cowl, illusions trying desperately to shield him. He gritted his teeth, face a contortion of hatred and triumph. "The Harbinger knows you're here," he wheezed, voice thick with something that was almost laughter. "He awaits your final folly."

I offered no retort—words were meaningless at this stage. Instead, I drove my sword through his throat, ending whatever illusions his mind might still conjure. The spark of ephemeral energy flickered in his eyes, then snuffed out along with the rest of him. He dropped like a stone, leaving only bloodstains on the battered floor and a few drifting motes of shattered illusions that dissolved into the temple's gloom.

Beside me, Asterion rolled his shoulder, exhaling in a way that betrayed relief more than calm. Sweat streaked the dust on his face, but his eyes remained sharp. "Well," he said, voice edged with dry humor, "that was warm and welcoming."

I flicked the blood off my sword with a practiced snap of my wrist, maintaining that stoic front. "Keep moving."

The corridors beyond proved even less inviting: narrow, twisting passages that refused to remain still. Some angled upward in gentle ramps, only to invert abruptly into sloping descents that felt like gravity itself had given up on consistency. Every time I thought I'd mapped a short stretch of hallway, illusions reset the geometry, or the meltdown's pulse rumbled through the walls, shifting them like malleable clay. Flickers of purple and green light strobed along the cracked stone, as if the temple were riddled with ephemeral veins carrying raw magic. Each pulse that radiated under my boots made me feel a fraction heavier, as if the meltdown insisted on pressing me down, reminding me I had no place here.

Asterion placed a hand against the wall, brow furrowing. "Illusions layered over illusions," he muttered, watching how the stone rippled under his touch. "They're reinforcing each other, building up a nest of traps."

"Then we break them at the source."

He glanced over at me, lips parted as though about to say something else, perhaps a suggestion of caution. But one look at the set of my jaw, the tension around my eyes, and he nodded in silent agreement. We advanced, each footstep a deliberate challenge to the illusions that tried to swirl around us in ephemeral forms. Shadows flickered from corners that shouldn't exist, shapes half-chiseled from the meltdown's influence. I could sense them waiting, searching for a slip.

The dryness in my mouth grew more acute, making my tongue feel like leather. The meltdown's aura seeped into the air, draining normal moisture and warping it into a stale, acrid taste. I forced my breathing to remain steady—short, controlled exhales. Fear fed illusions, or so I'd learned in the Ashen Expanse. The meltdown thrived on mental cracks, prying them open with illusions that mirrored your worst doubts. I had none to offer. My mind was locked on a single objective: cut through the illusions, reach the temple's heart, and tear the meltdown from within.

We took a turn, passing under a low arch that glimmered with runic inscriptions. I recognized some shapes as anchor glyphs, the same brand of magic that hammered illusions into stable forms. My eyes scanned them quickly, analyzing their patterns. They weren't unique—similar runes had anchored illusions in the city outside. We'd destroyed them by targeting shrines or lesser altars. But here, they felt more potent, as if the meltdown's direct line to the leyline flooded them with exponential power. It wouldn't matter once I found their focal point. If illusions were the ropes binding reality here, cutting them at the biggest knot would collapse the entire net.

Behind me, Asterion took a slow breath, wincing as illusions shifted the corridor beneath him. "They're shifting the floor again," he muttered, stepping quickly to avoid a dip that hadn't existed a moment prior. "I'd guess we're nearing one of their central nodes."

I nodded once. My foot caught a slight jolt—a ripple that threatened to buckle the ground. My stance was too solid, though, too set in the muscle memory of countless fights, to let illusions trip me easily. Adjusting my weight, I held steady, refusing to give that swirl of ephemeral energy even a second of advantage. Let the meltdown contort the temple's hallways all it wanted. I'd outlast it, or carve it to bits trying.

We pressed down another corridor lined with half-collapsed statuary. Figures carved from old stone now riddled with illusions that gave them a shimmering veneer. Some looked like grand warriors from Kael'Thorne's past, others like robed scholars—perhaps the city had been a place of learning before the meltdown, before illusions swallowed its legacy. One statue's face flickered, illusions dancing across its features, giving it an expression of silent, endless grief. Another appeared to watch us, stone eyes morphing into ephemeral lenses. I ignored them. If they meant to strike, I'd feel it a second before their illusions took form. If they remained watchers, they were inconsequential to my blade.

A flicker in the gloom made Asterion raise his dagger. A swirl of ephemeral shapes slithered overhead, merging into twisted lumps that resembled beasts or watchers. They never fully formed, and after a tense moment, they drifted away—like the meltdown was gauging our progress, saving its real assault for the moment we were exhausted or pinned. That told me enough about the temple's design: illusions wanted us corralled, battered, uncertain. They wanted us to fear the next step more than the last. I refused to oblige.

I could feel each cell in my body thrumming with tension, the dryness in my throat intensifying. The meltdown's resonance hammered in my ears, a dull throb that threatened to drown out even my heartbeat. I fed that tension back into my focus, forging a blade of will that cut through the illusions. We were close—too close for comfort. The meltdown wouldn't let us march to the heart without a fight.
Your adventure continues at My Virtual Library Empire

We turned a final bend, and the corridor widened into a broader hall. The floor was etched with spiraling lines that glowed in a faint, sickly hue. If I had to guess, another anchor or shrine lay nearby—some focal point ensuring illusions remained thick in this wing of the temple. That meant we'd have to tear it down, or risk illusions re-forming behind us, trapping us from retreat or pushing us into a labyrinth of unending corridors.

Asterion gave me a tight nod, raising one brow as though to say, "We doing this?"