The Villain Professor's Second Chance

My lungs felt scorched as I closed in, each breath scraping my throat like sandpaper. The air carried a metallic tang, mingling with the lingering aftertaste of illusions that had just burned away. Every muscle in my body ached from the constant demands of chasing the meltdown through Kael'Thorne's shattered corridors, and I could feel the dryness tighten in my chest, an invisible noose of exhaustion. But the chamber wouldn't allow me to hesitate—wouldn't give me a single heartbeat to reflect. Not while the Harbinger stood there in the swirling fractal haze, calmly drawing on the leyline's power as though it were his birthright.

I kept my sword angled out, the blade reflecting slivers of violet-green light that pulsed along the walls. Asterion moved at my flank, his dagger still flickering with the last residue of illusions he'd dispelled. We'd endured wave after wave of ephemeral constructs, half-manifested zealots, and monstrous chimera-like beasts that snapped at our limbs. But behind each challenge, I sensed the meltdown's true will—a presence that prowled the edges of awareness, guiding illusions like a conductor commanding a frenzied orchestra. The Harbinger was just its voice, its human vessel.

He was neither old nor young. His face defied easy categorization, flickering in angular lines one moment and soft curves the next. Illusions ran across his robes like serpents slithering beneath the fabric, changing color with every pulse of the leyline. He wore no hood, revealing hair that was half intangible, each strand shifting in fractal patterns. Yet his eyes, or what passed for them, stared at me with a focus both mocking and curious—a gaze that saw further than any mortal eyes had a right to see.

His lips curved in that thin echo of a smile. "Impressive," he repeated, and the dryness in my throat made me want to spit out a retort. But I withheld it. "You adapt quickly," he said, letting his voice resonate across the chamber as if the meltdown itself were speaking.

Behind him, the dais glowed with runic lines that danced on the brink of chaos, drawing arcs of raw magic out of the open wound that was the leyline. Each swirl fed illusions into the swirling dome overhead, fueling them, shaping them. The meltdown's every exhale had become the temple's heartbeat, throbbing with a relentless thrum. I felt that weight settle on my shoulders—like bearing an ocean's pressure on my back.

I forced a slow, steady breath, ignoring how it dragged like razors down my windpipe. "You talk too much," I said, each word meticulously cold. The dryness threatened to crack my voice, but I forced it to hold that steely edge. I saw him notice, the way he tracked my short exhale, and for an instant, illusions around his head flared in amusement. A moment later, he lifted his staff, leveling it at me in a gesture that spoke of calm confidence.

"You already know how this ends," he said, voice smooth as silk. It echoed through illusions that twisted in geometric shapes around his shoulders, giving him the appearance of wearing a living mantle. "You've seen it. You've felt it." His words resonated across the dais, seeping into the dryness of the chamber as though trying to merge with the hush.

A pulse rippled from the vortex above, arcs of meltdown lightning skittering along the ceiling. In that flicker of brightness, I caught a glimpse of a silhouette forming, high overhead—tall, broad-shouldered, no doubt forged from illusions but carrying a weight that defied simple ephemeral shapes. The dryness in my throat flared again. Belisarius. Or the echo of him. I recognized the sense of cosmic significance that clung to that silhouette, the same tang I'd tasted in the Ashen Expanse: unstoppable fate, forcibly rewriting reality. My pulse hammered in my ears, but my stance never wavered.

Asterion seized the moment, conjuring a short burst of illusions that lashed out toward the Harbinger, hoping to disrupt him before he could finalize that monstrous shape overhead. But illusions parted around the staff, as if the meltdown parted a curtain. Sparks flew, violent and bright. The dryness in the air felt stifling now, heat saturating every breath. The meltdown recognized the challenge in Asterion's attempt and roiled in protest, illusions flaring at the chamber's edges.

"Bravery," the Harbinger murmured, stepping aside with fluid grace. "But misguided."

I lunged, capitalizing on that second of distraction. My blade cut through illusions that sprang up in a fractal swirl, a protective barrier the meltdown had thrown between us. The dryness in my mouth made me want to cough, but I swallowed the urge, forcing my will into each stroke. Sparks showered me, illusions shrieking as they tore, and I felt the meltdown's raw fury recoil momentarily. The Harbinger raised his staff to block my final slash, and steel collided with ephemeral metal that flickered. A dull clang resonated, making illusions jolt and fracture in a spasm of color.

He retaliated with a twist of his wrist, illusions coiling around the staff's tip, condensing into a blade of crackling energy. It slashed forward, forcing me to pivot left, just out of reach of the meltdown's scorching current. Even so, I felt the dryness intensify in my lungs, the meltdown's aura gnawing at my body with each near miss. I hammered my sword at the staff again, using the angle to force his illusions to recoil, but the Harbinger's expression was one of calm, as though I'd done exactly what he expected.

Asterion came in from the side, dagger aimed for the Harbinger's ribs. The meltdown flared. A swirling net of illusions materialized, tangling with his blade mid-thrust, stalling him. For an instant, my heart pounded, certain Asterion would be pinned. But he jerked back, illusions snapping with a static whine, freeing him. We regrouped in a heartbeat, each standing at an angle that forced the Harbinger to face us both. The dryness bit at my throat, but a trace of satisfaction flickered in my chest. We wouldn't be cornered so easily.

"Why fight it?" the Harbinger asked, illusions swirling around his ankles with each word. "What's done here isn't destruction. It's correction. The meltdown is the rightful path. Belisarius will awaken, and the Tapestry will restore itself."
Continue reading on My Virtual Library Empire

I forced a wry scoff, ignoring the dryness. "Your meltdown kills everything, but you call it restoration." Each syllable rasped more than I liked, but I refused to let that show. "Spoken like a fanatic."

He tilted his head. "And you, Draven, you're so certain you're the hero here?"

I didn't dignify the question with an answer. My stance shifted, preparing to strike. The meltdown overhead churned, illusions thickening. In that swirl, the silhouette grew more defined—a chest, an arm, a half-formed face that gleaned with cosmic significance. I felt a wave of dryness surge in my mouth at the mere sight, as if each second that presence formed, the meltdown siphoned realness from the chamber, leaving only a vacuum for illusions to flood in. If that figure—Belisarius—stepped fully into existence, the meltdown's meltdown would be unstoppable.

Asterion hurled illusions at the Harbinger again, but the meltdown parted them with a single wave of ephemeral spines. The Harbinger then thrust his staff forward, arcs of fractal lightning lancing across the dais. I jumped aside, but not before a stray bolt clipped my shoulder. Pain flared, illusions crackling around the fabric of my coat. I hissed, ignoring the dryness that made my throat prickle and my eyes water. One step backward, then two steps forward, forcing illusions to accept my momentum. If I paused, they'd congeal around me, turning me to dust.

Steel rang out as I clashed with the staff again. The meltdown roared. The dais shook, illusions peeling from the stone like layers of old paint. My arms trembled under the strain of each collision, but I let no sign of wavering seep into my stance. Asterion slipped behind the Harbinger, dagger aimed for a clean blow. Illusions swarmed, a swirling barrier that manifested in fractal spikes. He backed off, cursing under his breath, scanning for a different angle. Meanwhile, the dryness thickened in the air, oppressive enough that each breath felt like inhaling coarse ash. My lungs burned, but I advanced, refusing to yield.

The meltdown spun illusions into lethal shapes, fractal spears raining from overhead. I batted one aside with my sword, each impact jarring my bones. Another spear slammed near Asterion's feet, biting into the stone and erupting in ephemeral sparks. He evaded, but a line of arcs snaked after him, illusions like fanged serpents. Gritting his teeth, he conjured a swift swirl of his own illusions, forcing them to collide midair. The dryness in the chamber soared, the meltdown raging at the defiance, but Asterion pressed on. I saw how each move cost him. He was near his limit. So was I.

In a final, savage motion, I swung at the Harbinger's staff from an angle he didn't anticipate. Illusions tried to intercept, wrapping around my blade like living bands of fractal light, but I poured my last reserves of strength into cutting free. The dryness in my throat reached a crescendo of pain, as if each breath were tearing me open, but I refused to let it break my focus. The staff chipped, illusions squealing in protest. The Harbinger staggered half a step, illusions swirling to shield him from the next blow. That was enough. Asterion lunged in, hooking his dagger behind the staff's midpoint, yanking it downward. The meltdown shrieked, illusions convulsing.

We found ourselves locked in a violent dance, our weapons tangling with illusions that curled around the Harbinger's robed form. He blocked and twisted, illusions shifting his position unpredictably. One second he was to my left, the next behind Asterion, striking with ephemeral blades that grew from his free hand. Each near miss sizzled the air, dryness intensifying as if the meltdown burned away normal humidity. My sword carved a path through illusions that tried to grab me, each swing forcing them to recoil in flares of fractal color.

Then we saw it. Above us, the silhouette finished coalescing—a half-formed figure with broad shoulders, a face half-lit by the meltdown's power. Belisarius. The dryness in my mouth felt so absolute I thought I might cough out dust, but I shoved that aside. If the meltdown's champion stepped fully into existence, we'd lose everything we fought for. Asterion and I exchanged a single glance, wordless yet weighted with finality. We had to finish this. Now.

I launched into a final clash, pushing the Harbinger toward the swirling dais. Our blades collided in a burst of ephemeral sparks. Asterion harried him from the flank, illusions crashing like short arcs of lightning. The meltdown roared overhead, illusions stretching from pillar to pillar, trying to reinforce the Harbinger's footing. He raised the staff in a last ditch defense. I hammered it with relentless strikes, ignoring the dryness that flayed my throat, ignoring the leaden ache in my arms. The meltdown thrummed, illusions flickering. Another slash. The staff cracked. Another—and illusions gave way under my steel.

He stumbled, illusions peeling off him in a ragged wave. For an instant, I saw his real form: hollow-eyed, gaunt, half-wrapped in swirling runes that had carved themselves into his flesh. The meltdown raged, the dais trembling, arcs of color lashing from the vortex. Then a grin tugged at his lips, chilling in its emptiness.

"You already know how this ends," he whispered, illusions scraping across every syllable. "You can't stop him from stepping through."

The meltdown howled, illusions building into a crescendo overhead. A flash of movement behind the Harbinger—a flicker of an arm, a half-turned face, something bridging illusions and reality, forming lips, eyes, and the promise of unstoppable might.

We clashed.

And somewhere in the chaos, Belisarius opened his eyes.