The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"We doing this?" I answered by adjusting my sword's grip, stepping onto the swirling glyph lines. They flared under my boots, illusions hissing up in ephemeral arcs. No monstrous guardians lunged, though. The meltdown apparently wanted to spring its ambush deeper in. Fine by me. Better to sever illusions before they organized.

We marched. The dryness stung at my eyes now, but I blinked through it, refusing to let something as trivial as discomfort break my stride. Overhead, illusions coalesced into floating runic shapes that vanished the instant you focused on them, like ephemeral sentinels scuttling across the ceiling. The entire temple felt alive, each breath an extension of the meltdown's presence.

A heavy silence clung to the air, occasionally punctuated by distant chanting—maybe cultists in some side chamber, maybe illusions simulating the sound of voices to lure us off course. I wouldn't be baited. I locked onto the biggest cluster of swirling energy in the middle distance, where I sensed an anchor's presence. Shadows rippled across the walls, half-skeletal forms of old servants or guardians that might once have roamed Kael'Thorne in its prime. They seemed more memory than threat, so we pressed on.

At length, we found it: a half-collapsed arch leading into a chamber flickering with ephemeral lights. Even from outside, I spotted the altar, a squat monolith carved with twisting lines reminiscent of everything we'd seen, only thicker, more pronounced. The meltdown must have poured more juice into these runes, determined to keep illusions stable. Fine. We'd unmake them, stone by stone if needed.

Asterion stepped in first, scanning the corners. I followed, sword ready. Another swirl of dryness crawled down my throat, forcing me to swallow. This was the moment illusions might swarm. But to my surprise, the chamber lay empty—no robed defenders, no watchers, just the anchor's ominous glow. That told me we were nearing the meltdown's central nexus. The cult might have retreated or consolidated where they believed our approach was inevitable.

I advanced on the altar. The dryness in my mouth felt like a scorching desert wind, each breath scorching my lungs. My vision pinned on the runes, focusing on weak points. A single precise strike might unravel the illusions laced into the stone. Another blow or two, and the meltdown's hold on this corridor would weaken. Find adventures on My Virtual Library Empire

I delivered the first strike, and the stone rung like a gong. Lines of violet fractals flared across the surface, illusions resisting for a heartbeat. Then Asterion moved in with a thrust of his dagger at a wedge in the monolith's side. Together, we drove the illusions back, forcing the meltdown's energy to flicker. The dryness in the air spiked as the runes crackled—like the meltdown recognized we were severing one of its lifelines. My arms burned, each muscle fiber rebelling against the punishing routine of so many illusions shattered, so many anchors destroyed. But I refused to relent. The second strike fractured the monolith with a deep, resonant crack. The illusions clinging to it sputtered, then tore free like old cloth caught in a gale.

A bright flash seared my vision. I coughed on the dryness, feeling it scrape inside my throat. The swirl of ephemeral dust settled, revealing a battered altar reduced to rubble. The illusions in the chamber died in a hush, leaving behind plain, if not decaying, stone. Another anchor gone. One less avenue for illusions to reconstitute behind us.

Asterion half-collapsed against the nearest wall, gasping for air. "Gods, it's like ripping out the city's arteries, one by one."

I said nothing, just let the hush fill the space. My mind hammered with each beat of my heart, telling me we were close to something bigger—a final confrontation that would either end the meltdown or see us undone. The dryness in my throat no longer felt incidental; it was a symptom of the meltdown's presence, of illusions draining reality. We had to keep going. We had no choice.

Stepping back into the corridor, I noticed how the illusions parted around us, no longer swirling as thickly in this area. They retreated further in, toward the temple's deepest sanctum, where presumably the meltdown's epicenter thrummed. That told me all I needed to know. We had inflicted real damage. The meltdown would regroup, illusions would rally, but we'd hammered another crack in its defenses.

Asterion wiped sweat from his brow, inhaling unsteadily. "All right. We keep pushing, but if this meltdown intensifies… I don't know how much more you or I can take."

I gave him a single, curt nod. He wasn't wrong, but voicing the fear gained us nothing. "We've come this far. We don't turn around."

He hesitated. "What if the illusions loop us back?"

I let a thin smile slip, cold and sure. "They won't keep up with us."

A short silence. He read the finality in my eyes and didn't press. Maybe he knew I was running on fumes, but he also understood that any sign of weakness could unravel our entire offensive. Better to keep forging ahead, letting the meltdown realize too late we'd hammered a wedge right into its heart.

Somewhere deeper in the temple, I could almost sense movement—a swirl of chanting, or illusions bridging themselves into a final bulwark. We'd meet them soon, but for now, I stepped further down the corridor, ignoring the dryness, ignoring the heaviness in my arms. If illusions expected me to falter, they would be disappointed.

We continued, each footstep echoing softly off the half-solid walls. Another overhead arch flickered, illusions attempting to form a barrier. I swiped my blade in a lazy arc, dispersing them before they could take shape. The meltdown was losing ground here, each anchor we destroyed crippling its ability to spontaneously rebuild illusions. Soon enough, we'd face the meltdown's last fortress. I relished the chance to carve it free from Kael'Thorne once and for all.

Asterion brushed against my shoulder, drawing my attention. He gestured at the swirling patterns a few yards ahead, a place where runes interlocked in dangerously complex designs. "This must be a vital node. If we break it—"

My gaze followed his indication. The illusions there looked denser, the dryness in the air intensifying around them, the meltdown's aura throbbing. "Yes," I said, voice cold and unshakable. "Then we break them at the source."

I found the first of the minor altars in a side chamber, its surface carved with tightly wound spirals of magic that pulsed with the same energy binding the temple's illusions. The air around it tasted of old copper and charred ozone, like a forge that had long since gone cold but still smoldered under the surface. I wasted no time, gripping my sword hilt until my knuckles hurt and driving the blade down. The runes on the altar screeched, a banshee-like wail that vibrated through my arms and into my chest. For an instant, I felt as if I'd struck a living creature rather than stone—something that hissed at the intrusion. Sparks flared, and the magic splintered into formless light before vanishing into the gloom. My heart hammered at the sudden, jarring feedback, but I kept my focus pinned on dismantling illusions, piece by piece.

Behind us, the corridor trembled, columns and overhead arches rattling in staccato waves that set loose bits of debris. In the distance, I sensed a recoil in the temple. Not a physical presence, precisely, but an angry gasp of consciousness from the meltdown that fueled these illusions. We'd wounded it. Every anchor or shrine we destroyed hurt the meltdown's hold on reality. Each blow might also provoke a savage backlash.

We pressed onward through the narrow corridor, its walls seething with swirling lines of ephemeral color. My temples throbbed, the dryness in my mouth intensifying as I swallowed. If the meltdown had a presence here, it wasn't content to let us just walk out. It would fight back in the only language illusions knew—warping reality until it snapped.

We barely made it twenty steps before we ran into the second altar, this one half-subsumed into a recess in the wall. Instead of lying exposed, it was woven into a thick nest of illusions, arcs of shimmering violet crossing from floor to ceiling like tangled webs. The stone glowed in pulses—thump, thump, like a heartbeat. The dryness in my throat felt like a desert wind, scalding each breath. This altar obviously commanded more significance.