The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Asterion shot me a grim nod, acknowledging the danger. He stepped forward first, releasing a short flick of arcane energy from his dagger. It cut through the illusions in a ragged slash, but the meltdown responded with a vicious snap of tendrils that lashed out, crackling with enough force to burn. I lunged between him and the altar, absorbing the brunt of the energy with my coat, though it left a scorching line across my forearm. Pain flared white-hot. I bit back a hiss—pain was a distraction, a wedge illusions could use. Instead, I swung my blade in a savage downward arc, shattering the illusions that tried to re-form around me. Sparks flew, coalescing into fractal shards that pelted my shoulder and stung like dozens of tiny needles.

Somewhere in the swirl of ephemeral noise, I heard the meltdown's breath again—a deep, ragged exhale that rattled the air. My heart pounded in time with it, the dryness in my mouth intensifying to the point I half-expected dust to trickle from my lips. Asterion hurled another burst of illusions to counter the meltdown's efforts at regenerating the altar's protective shell. That gave me a moment's window.

I thrust my blade straight into the runes. Their screeching clashed with the meltdown's roar, a cacophony of twisted sound that threatened to shatter my concentration. Summoning the last bits of resilience, I forced the blade deeper. The stone cracked, lines radiating outward in fractal patterns. A jolt of power lashed up my arm, burning my muscles with an almost electric surge. I refused to yield. Another savage strike finished the job, severing the runes with a final crack that reverberated through the corridor. The illusions tethered to that altar flickered, then tore away, leaving the chamber stripped of ephemeral defenses for a few precious seconds.

My breath came shallow, each inhale scraping against the dryness in my throat like a dull blade. Asterion half-slumped against the wall, sweat slicking his brow. His eyes locked onto me, searching for signs of collapse. I offered him nothing but the same cold resolve, though inside, I felt the meltdown's presence gnawing at my lungs and sapping my strength.

A heartbeat later, the air thickened as though the temple itself were drawing breath, preparing to push back. A low groan echoed in the corridor, stone grinding against stone. My grip on the sword tightened. I'd felt something like this before, in the Ashen Expanse, when illusions realized how close I was to unraveling them. The meltdown wasn't a mind, but it had a will of sorts, a reactive cunning that turned illusions into living defenders.

That was when the specters arrived.

They drifted out from the walls, or maybe they formed from them. Faceless figures of fractured light and shadow, silhouettes so wrong they hurt my eyes. And they felt different—denser, harder to break. Not illusions, or at least not mere illusions. These were echoes of the city's former people, half-manifested through the leyline's instability, as if the meltdown had rummaged through Kael'Thorne's dead memories and given them shape. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with fear—more like a jolt of disgust. The meltdown was forcibly twisting souls, or pieces of them, into partial existence.

The first specter struck fast. Its elongated fingers, sharpened into ephemeral claws, sliced past my shoulder. I pivoted too late to avoid a shallow graze. Even that slight contact sent a chilling jolt through me, illusions scraping across my nerves as though trying to latch on. I snarled under my breath, batting the specter's arm away with my forearm and swiping my sword in a diagonal arc. The blade cut through the specter's torso with moderate resistance, as if slicing a thick slime rather than air. It howled, a static-laced wail that rattled my skull, but it didn't die. My sword passed through empty air as it re-formed behind me.

Meanwhile, Asterion flicked his wrist at another specter, sending a burst of arcane energy that battered ephemeral limbs aside. The specter rippled, absorbing the impact, then snapped back as if regenerated by the meltdown's stored magic. Asterion cursed under his breath, stepping back to avoid another slash. "They don't break like the others," he muttered, flicking me a glance laced with tension. "Figures."

I adjusted, no wasted motion. The dryness in my mouth had reached a stage where each swallow felt like shards of glass, but I had no time to dwell. My mind raced: illusions re-formed quickly if not destroyed at the heart. So I struck at the seams where their forms flickered, the points that might anchor them to the meltdown's power. Each well-placed attack forced them to stutter, losing coherence for a second or two. Asterion caught on, shifting tactics. Instead of raw blasts, he conjured illusions of his own—simple shapes or flickers of movement that tangled with the specters' ephemeral composition, throwing them off balance. That gave me the opening I needed to thrust my sword into their unstable cores, unmaking them from within.

It was brutal, exhausting work. We repeated the pattern: break them, exploit the confusion, drive a final blow. But the meltdown spat forth more specters from the walls. Each time I felled one, another flickered into existence. My breath turned shallow, limbs heavy as though lead weighed them down. The dryness seared, a constant rasp that set a dull headache behind my eyes. Asterion's movements grew sluggish, spells taking longer to form, illusions from his side less crisp. Still, we fought. Another specter lunged, I cut it off mid-scream. Another tried to coil around Asterion's leg; he stunned it with a crackle of illusions that reversed its form for an instant, letting me slash it to pieces.

"Pace yourself," he warned at one point, voice hoarse from the dryness and effort.

"I don't have that luxury." And it was true. Each moment spent parrying specters was a moment the meltdown could entrench itself further. If we wasted time, illusions would mount a new wave, perhaps more monstrous. If we advanced too slowly, Belisarius or this so-called Harbinger might find a way to finalize the meltdown's grip on Kael'Thorne. This city was a tinderbox about to explode with cosmic flame. Better to burn my stamina now than die slowly in illusions' jaws.

At last, I cut down the last specter, forcing it into a jittery half-existence before scattering it into sparks. A hush fell, if only for a breath. I turned toward the single passage leading deeper. My mind buzzed with adrenaline and the meltdown's unrelenting presence—like trying to swim through a mire of thick illusions. But the leyline's pulse thundered beyond, stronger now, calling me forward. The meltdown seemed to have a center, a vortex where everything converged. That was the only place to sever it all.

We stepped into a chamber that dwarfed the corridors we'd been in. It had a towering ceiling, reaching so high it vanished into swirling illusions at the top. The air was hot, thick, a heat that didn't come from flames but from raw, untamed power. At the heart of the chamber churned a vortex: violet-green energy spiraling upward in a storm of fractal patterns and broken reality. It was mesmerizing, in a horrific sort of way, like staring into a wound in the fabric of existence. The dryness in my throat became a furnace, each breath forging cracks in my lungs.

Encircling that vortex stood a ring of cultists, their hoods drawn, their stances unwavering. They didn't bother turning to see us. They could sense us, or more likely, they were so consumed by their ritual that facing us would be redundant—illusions might do the job. But the meltdown had reached a critical mass here, the illusions swirling so thickly that entire sections of the chamber flickered in and out. My gaze picked out columns that half-dissolved whenever the vortex flared, then reassembled an instant later. I braced for a direct assault.

Then came the high-ranking ones. Three stepped forward, each gripping a runic staff that crackled with energy, illusions weaving around them like serpents tasting the air. They wore more elaborate robes, layered in swirling designs that pulsed with the meltdown's heartbeat. If the lesser cultists outside the temple had proven formidable, these were the meltdown's elite—conduits for power drawn straight from the leyline.

"Three of them," Asterion muttered, tension dripping from his words. "Let's hope that's all."

My gaze flicked over their stances, analyzing. Each staff was a focal point, directing illusions outward to shape them into ephemeral weapons or barriers. If we tried to slash illusions directly, they'd just re-form, channeling from those staves. "They're channels," I murmured. "Break the focus, collapse the illusions." Read latest stories on My Virtual Library Empire

We moved in unison, barely exchanging a glance. Asterion took the lead, illusions swirling around his dagger as he conjured a brief, disorienting wave that hammered the first cultist's vision. The man staggered, illusions around his staff shimmering in confusion. I drove my sword through his defenses, metal meeting ephemeral resistance. For a moment, I saw the meltdown flicker in his eyes—a swirling sheen that turned them almost serpentine. Then he crumpled, illusions unraveling along with his final breath.

The second retaliated with a surge of fractal energy. I felt the air sizzle, the dryness in my throat intensifying as though it would choke me. Heat scorched past my face, singing a few strands of hair. I sidestepped, adjusting low, letting the bolt strike a chunk of rubble behind me. The stone crackled, illusions bursting from it like dust devils. Without pausing, I cut through the glyphs engraved on his staff. Each blow chipped away at the illusions' binding. He roared, or perhaps illusions roared for him, but the meltdown's power couldn't outrun the reality of a well-placed blade. In seconds, the staff shattered. Magic sputtered. The illusions turned on their master, devouring him from within in a pulse of raw light that left nothing but a charred husk.

The third attempted to retreat, but Asterion darted in, slashing at the staff's base. A crack formed, illusions flickered. The cultist tried to mend it, chanting in a low monotone that vibrated the air, but it was too late. One swift final strike severed his focus. The illusions flared and popped, and the staff fell in useless pieces to the ground. The meltdown swallowed him in an anguished swirl.

As the last cultist fell, the entire chamber shifted. The illusions stilled, as though the meltdown recognized it had lost key defenders. The vortex turned—no better way to phrase it. That swirling funnel of violet-green energy pivoted like an eye tracking us, acknowledging our presence. My stomach clenched, dryness punishing each swallow. We had the meltdown's full attention.

Then came the voice.

It resonated through the walls, through the vortex, through the leyline itself, a slow peel of thunder that shaped words. "You continue to persist. Admirable, if foolish."

Asterion hissed under his breath. "Wonderful."

I said nothing. My chest felt tight, the dryness scouring my lungs with each breath. Something about that voice hit deeper than illusions alone—like the meltdown found a mortal champion to speak for it, or maybe it was Belisarius's looming presence filtered through a new vessel. But the tone reminded me of the visions, of unstoppable flames and swirling cosmic doom. My knuckles tightened on the sword hilt.

The Harbinger.

Before we could respond, a doorway formed against the far end of the chamber. Massive, half-real, illusions weaving across it in fractal lines. My heart thumped once, a heavy pulse that matched the meltdown's, as I realized the path deeper in had just opened. That was the meltdown's dare: come closer, or turn back and watch the city burn.

Asterion exhaled sharply, sweat glistening at his temple. "It's inviting us in."

I tightened my grip on my sword. The dryness in my throat was nearly unbearable, but adrenaline and willpower forced me to ignore it. Then I stepped forward, forging the final step from caution to confrontation. The meltdown might think I was near collapse, but illusions or not, I wouldn't yield an inch.

The door slammed behind us with a burst of fractal light, sealing off retreat.

And the confrontation began.