The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The moment Belisarius opened his eyes, the chamber shuddered as if reality itself recoiled.

A ripple of sheer force expanded from the dais, rolling outward like an aftershock of something far older than the temple itself. The violet-green arcs of meltdown energy crackled through the air, slithering up his half-formed limbs, knitting muscle and shadow together with every pulsing heartbeat. His existence flickered—one second, he was a spectral mirage, the next, flesh and bone. And in that instant, I knew that face. I knew that smirk.

My uncle.

Belisarius Drakhan. A criminal I had already cut down with my own hands.

The dryness in my throat sharpened, searing as if the meltdown itself coiled tighter, strangling the very air I breathed. But I didn't falter. Shock had no place here. Not when my body had already started calculating the new battlefield conditions, not when the meltdown's chaotic energy bent the space around us, forming something far more dangerous than a mere resurrection.

I barely glanced at the Harbinger, whose body was failing him, mortal wounds carving deep into his frame. He sagged against the fractured stone, but his eyes still glowed with something vile. Triumph. A man who had nothing left to live for, yet everything left to gloat about.

Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips as he exhaled a ragged, rasping whisper. "He's here… Draven… you can't stop his blood."

My grip tightened around my sword. A cold weight settled in my chest—not hesitation, but grim recognition.

The Drakhan bloodline. A legacy of power, corruption, and ruthlessness.

A legacy I had already cut from the Tapestry once before.

Belisarius's body continued to reform, each passing second drawing more of the meltdown's energy into himself. The temple responded in kind. Cracks formed along the chamber walls, swallowing the old runes, their light flaring desperately before vanishing into the abyss. Illusions twisted through the air, bridging the fractures in reality like a spider's web—one that was still spinning, still growing, still waiting for prey.

And then the floor split.

A deep, bone-shaking groan resonated through the temple as fissures erupted across the dais. The meltdown energy bled into the cracks, widening them into gaping voids where raw leyline power churned below, shifting in patterns that made my vision blur if I focused too long.

Asterion tensed beside me, weight shifting automatically to adjust for the changing terrain. I mirrored him instinctively. There was no time to think, only to move.

The temple wasn't breaking apart—it was rebuilding itself.

Illusions wove new pathways in midair, twisting staircases and jagged bridges of ephemeral stone that connected nothing and everything at once. The meltdown was shaping the battlefield, adapting. Clawed, spindly structures stretched from the edges of the chamber like skeletal hands, waiting to grasp at anything foolish enough to step incorrectly. There would be no retreat. The only path forward was through Belisarius.

A slow exhale from above.

Belisarius.

The name echoed in my skull, laced with memories I had long buried under steel and necessity. I had killed him. Watched him die. Felt the final tremor of life leave his body as my blade had carved through it.

But the meltdown didn't care for permanence.

The moment his mouth curled into that knowing smirk, a sick weight twisted in my stomach—not from fear, but from sheer hatred.

"Nephew." His voice coiled through the air, a layered distortion between flesh and illusion. It was deep, yet hollow, laced with an amusement that grated against my bones. "You dare defy your own bloodline's fate?"

The words slithered, pressing at old scars, ones I had carved out of my own soul a long time ago.

I clicked my tongue. "You talk like someone who wasn't already cut down once."

His smirk widened. "And yet, here I stand."

Not quite.

His body was still stabilizing, still locked in the push and pull between illusion and flesh. But he was getting there. Fast. Each pulse of meltdown energy surged through his form, reinforcing his presence in this world, twisting reality to accommodate his existence.

I could feel it.

The leyline wasn't just reviving him—it was rewriting him.

My body tensed, and I rolled my shoulders, letting exhaustion settle into my muscles like an old, familiar weight. My mana reserves were spent. The teleportation, the relentless battle, the illusions gnawing at every ounce of magic left in this space—it had drained me down to the dregs.

Recovery was out of the question. The meltdown had corrupted the leyline, choking it with its influence. Trying to draw from it now would be like drinking poison.

That left only my body.

[Herculean Physique.] My raw strength. The battle instincts I had honed into perfection.

Not ideal. But not insurmountable.

I exhaled through my nose, slow and measured, and raised my sword into position. Every cell in my body burned, but my grip was steady. My stance, unwavering.

If Belisarius was coming back, I would send him to his grave again.

The temple groaned in response to his growing presence. The energy of the meltdown thrived on him, drawn to him like a storm feeding itself. The illusions grew stronger, more defined. The floor that had once been solid beneath us now rippled, distorting into something between reality and shifting mirage.

Asterion was watching, his eyes flicking between me and the figure above. He wasn't just waiting for an order. He was calculating. He knew what this meant.

Belisarius wasn't a simple construct of illusions. He was something more.

I felt my throat tighten, the dryness burning worse than before. The meltdown's presence pressed against my skin, sinking into every breath I took.

Belisarius exhaled, and the chamber bowed to his presence.

The violet-green arcs of the meltdown flared brighter, bending around his form, reshaping him into something more than flesh—something inhuman, something inevitable.

I wasn't going to let him take another breath.

My foot shifted forward, muscles coiling, eyes locking on every weak point, every opening, every single frame of movement he made. I had already calculated my first strike, the second, the third.

But before I could move, Asterion's voice cut through the haze.

"We need to move."

He was right. The battlefield was shifting too quickly, the meltdown shaping it with every breath. Waiting would only let Belisarius cement himself further into this world. Every second, the leyline twisted tighter around him, its energy wrapping around his form like vines consuming a dying monument. If he stabilized completely, this fight would be over before it began.

I moved first.

Steel sang as I swung at the nearest illusion-bound pillar. The impact sent cracks through its structure, shattering the flow of energy feeding into Belisarius. A ripple of distortion flared outward, disrupting the pattern of the leyline threads that anchored his form. He didn't react—yet.

Then he raised his hand.

The space between us twisted.

Fractal arcs of energy coalesced into blades—dozens of them, hovering in the air like specters of war. Claymores forged from pure meltdown energy, jagged, unstable, crackling with hunger. Their forms flickered between existence and mirage, unbound by weight or gravity. He had conjured a phalanx around himself, a personal arsenal of executioners.

His smirk remained as he flicked his fingers. The first blade came down like a guillotine.

I sidestepped, muscles snapping into action just as the air itself hissed with the friction of its descent. The weapon slammed into the ground where I had stood a breath ago, searing through the stone as if it were paper. Not illusions, I realized. Not entirely. The meltdown had solidified them beyond mere tricks of the eye.

Another blade lashed from my flank.

I twisted, narrowly avoiding the arc that could have split me in two. My sword lashed out in response, cutting through its ephemeral core. It resisted—the weight of the meltdown's will pressing against my strike—but it wasn't invincible. A final twist of my wrist shattered it into fractal sparks.

Asterion was already moving. His dagger traced sharp, efficient arcs through the air, targeting the unformed constructs before they could take full shape. He wove between their strikes, dismantling them with precise, calculated motions. His breath came in measured bursts, the exhaustion creeping into his frame, but he didn't slow. We had fought together long enough to move like twin shadows—two parts of the same blade cutting through the battlefield.

Belisarius tilted his head slightly, watching. He hadn't moved from his position atop the shifting dais, the leyline's energy feeding into his form. His presence pulsed with each heartbeat of the meltdown, a growing weight that pressed against the chamber like a coming storm. Enjoy more content from My Virtual Library Empire

And then, with a slow, deliberate gesture, he pushed.

A tidal wave of force erupted from his body.

The leyline itself roared.