The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"I was supposed to stop chains," he corrected, tone flat.

Her jaw tensed, but relief softened the rebuke. "Next time, whistle or something."

He flicked rain from one blade, sheathing it. "Next time, shoot earlier." The faintest ghost of a smirk tugged one corner of his mouth before it vanished.

She allowed herself a breath of laughter—barely a puff, but it eased knots in her ribs. Raëdrithar rumbled approval, sparks dying down.

Draven surveyed the carnage, calculating disposal, salvage, next move. He paused, sensing Sylvanna's eyes. For a heartbeat he met her gaze—storm-blue reflecting pale grey. Something unspoken passed: worry acknowledged, resolve shared.

He broke contact, motioning to captives. "North trail leads to Vaelira's camp. Go."

They stumbled off, guided by Raëdrithar's shadow until swallowed by fog.

Draven crouched, wiping blades on a fallen cloak. "More patrols will come," he murmured.

Sylvanna nodded. "Then we stay two steps ahead."

His next targets fell with brutal efficiency. The second scout's eyes widened, realizing his fate only as Draven's left blade neatly severed his throat. The third collapsed as Draven punctured his spine with surgical precision. The fourth scout had no chance to react before Draven's blade found his heart. He was a ghost, his movements fluid and merciless, each strike calculated and final.

The enemy commander jerked her head up so sharply the iron threads of her braid snapped free of their tie. "Form up! Shields high!" Her barked order shattered the lull that always follows the first few deaths. Soldiers reacted on reflex, plates grinding, tower-locks sliding into place—but discipline arrived moments too late. Draven had already slipped into their midst like water finding cracks in stone.

Steel hissed. His left blade flicked out in a line so clean it was almost invisible; an arm hit the mud before its owner understood he was maimed. Blood sprayed in a bright fan across a dented shield, the droplets hissing as they met the lingering acid of corrupted sap on the ground.

A younger conscript lunged, eyes wide with the manic courage of fresh panic. Draven's right sword met the man's upswing a finger-breadth from his own ribs. He let the clash carry through, redirected the conscript's momentum with a half-turn of the wrist, then reversed the edge and slid the point between mail links just left of the sternum. The conscript's face froze in surprise—no scream, only a wet exhale—before he toppled.

Around them the line tried to close like a wounded mouth, but Draven flowed into the gaps. Cloak flaring, he ducked beneath a hammer's downward sweep. The head of the weapon smashed into a half-burned root exactly where his skull had been. Sparks fountained. He rose inside the attacker's reach, drove one sword up beneath raised rib-plates, then pivoted out of the way as the dying man staggered backward, folding around the wound as if trying to hug it closed.

On the perimeter, three spell-chanters braced together, hands flaring sickly green. Their voices braided into a rasping chord that sent ripples through the fog. Sigils stitched themselves mid-air, weaving toward Draven like a cage. His left hand flicked forward; a slim throwing knife parted the mist, punching through the lead caster's throat. The chant fractured into coughing gurgles, the half-formed lattice collapsing into sparks that fizzled against damp earth. The remaining two recoiled, one clutching his colleague's robe as if he could hold the spell together by force of will.

"Ghost-Hunter!" someone breathed—a mix of awe and revulsion.

Draven didn't slow. He capped the distance to a shield-wall in three silent strides. Mail rings chimed nervously as soldiers realized he was inside their formation, not outside. Panic widened their stance; panic ruined their defense. He kicked the rim of one shield, driving it back into the bearer's face, then used the rebound to vault clear of a spear thrust aimed at his spine.

The commander roared and broke formation, charging. Steel-shod boots chewed mud; her pole-axe whistled a brutal arc, the curved blade eager to cleave. Draven raised one sword, catching the haft just below the axe head. Wood shrieked against tempered steel. He stepped in, locking her weapon downward while his free blade darted, a striking snake, toward her throat. She managed a desperate deflection—sparks crackled between edges—yet she over-committed. His cloak brushed her helm; static stored in rune-thread snapped across the iron. The woman's muscles spasmed, armor plates ringing together.

"Predictable," Draven murmured, voice soft enough the commander blinked, wondering if she'd imagined it. Then his sword slid beneath her guard, angled up, piercing lung. Breath left her in a whistling bubble. Her eyes, bright with fury a heartbeat earlier, dimmed as she sank, mail skirts folding like wilted petals.

Miles away, Sylvanna stumbled mid-stride, fingers sparking with lightning she hadn't summoned. The jolt was alien—sharp, precise, unmistakably his. "Draven…" she whispered, more prayer than name. Crackling current danced across the rune on her collarbone, echoing the clean cuts he delivered far ahead.

Raëdrithar halted so abruptly wet leaves gusted around his paws. The guardian's antlers glowed, silver filaments crawling across the tines. A deep root stirs beneath. He cuts cleanly, but the wound will bleed, his thunder-voice resonated in Sylvanna's mind.

She swallowed hard. Rain-heavy branches dripped against her shoulders, but the chill came from memory: nights at campfire margins when Draven's silence felt heavier than armor, moments when he dismissed praise with a blink, as if triumph were only another equation solved. She remembered, too, the almost gentle way he'd splinted a scout's fractured arm, or set a bowl of broth beside a feverish scribe without a word. That flicker of warmth made the cold precision harder to bear. You can't drown in shadows forever, she muttered, then felt doubt coil tight. Is it already too late?

Back in the clearing, the last three slavers tried to rally near a broken standard. Their boots slipped in mud greased with blood; their eyes darted like cornered rabbits. Draven approached at an unhurried walk, swords angled toward the earth. The nearest fell to his knees, dropping helm and mace. "Mercy… please—" Words tumbled over each other, high and thin.

"Mercy?" Draven echoed, tilting his head. No judgment touched his tone, only study. "You trade lives like coins. Tell me—how many must you sell before the market demands yours?" The slaver's sob turned shrill. Draven's blade flashed, ending fear mid-breath. Warm blood seeped around his boots, steaming in night air.

One of the remaining men spun and bolted, panic overriding training. The second tried, tripped on a half-buried root, and crashed into brambles. Thorns tore cloth and skin as he clawed away, whimpering. Draven watched, the faint lift of one eyebrow indicating calculation. No threat. No pursuit required. He turned instead, scanning the trees.

The forest stirred—roots underfoot beating slow, rhythmic pulses, like a heart buried too close to the surface. Sap oozed along bark fissures, glowing a bruised violet before dripping to the ground. Draven sheathed both blades in a single fluid motion, adjusting cloak weight across his shoulders. Mist rolled in to claim him; he let it, breathing deep the metal-tainted damp.

"Deeper," he murmured, looking beyond the black trunks. "Show me your heart."

Far behind, Sylvanna felt the words like winter rain. She tightened her grip on her bowstaff and urged Raëdrithar forward. Lightning knitted itself along her forearm, illuminating veins beneath pale skin. "He nears the source," the guardian growled, paws punching shallow craters in the soft soil. "But shadows thicken."

"Then we carve," Sylvanna answered. She sprinted, currents of power leaping from palm to palm, burning fog to silver steam. Every few strides she loosed a shard of lightning into the underbrush, cauterizing grotesque fungal bulges before they could burst. Branches overhead sagged under corruption; her sparks seared them clean, leaving smoking stumps.

The forest's pain vibrated through her boots—an ache older than any grove she'd walked. It moaned at each cut she made, grateful yet grieving. Deeper still, a colder hunger answered every shrieked root with purring satisfaction. Sylvanna swallowed. It watches. It waits.

Draven reached the ravine—a jagged tear where earth had collapsed under its own rot. Moonlight barely reached the bottom; what light did filter down shimmered on black sap that seeped from severed roots like arterial bleed. He stepped to the edge, eyes tracking the angles. The opposite wall offered a natural ramp splintered by fallen limbs; the floor lay two body-lengths below, coated in a mulch of spores so thick it breathed.

He leapt.

Boots struck soft ground, sank half an inch. The air down here tasted stale, thick with fungal dust. Things scuttled away—pale insects sporting too many jointed legs, eyes shining like damp beads. Draven ignored them. He pivoted, drawing again as shapes uncurled from hollow roots.

They looked almost humanoid at first glance—limbs, heads—but their joints bent wrong, torsos hollowed into ribbed husks. Mushrooms sprouted along their spines, caps pulsing. They shuffled forward, eager, silent. Draven moved faster. The first fell with a diagonal slice that parted torso from hip. The second tried to grapple; he stabbed upward through its throat, severing the fungal stalk that replaced a tongue. Spores belched out, clouding the air. He ducked low, cloak shielding his inhale, then sliced a tight circle that beheaded three shambling figures in one breath.

Minor obstacles, he assessed, wiping spores off a blade with two fingers. The path sloped deeper, illuminated now by a distant red pulse. He advanced in that direction, senses extending, puzzle pieces arranging.

Nearly half a mile on, the ravine widened into a cavern lying beneath the roots of ancient oaks. The walls pulsed, red veins throbbing with thick sap. In the center loomed a twisted heart-root, bulbous and wet, each beat sending tremors through the ground. Six Soul-Reapers knelt around it, bound by tendrils that plugged into their spines like parasitic umbilicals. Their eyes rolled white, tongues chanting broken syllables that made even the rot shiver.

Draven catalogued positions, distances, the swing radius of each kneeling body if they rose. He noticed uneven pressure where sap pooled—slippery footing that could serve as pivot or hazard. He exhaled once, feeling the familiar hush before confrontation—thoughts narrowing to formulas and edges.

A step later he was inside, mist parting like curtains on a stage. First cut angled, severing tendon and tendril alike. The victim toppled, sap geysering from the ruptured hose where a spine should be. Second strike decapitated its neighbor before the corpse could slump fully. Two Reapers on the far side jolted awake, screeching, hands spitting viridian sigils. Draven slid, letting one spell skim his cloak, felt fabric hiss but hold. He returned a blade throw: straight line, minimal spin, plunging through a sternum rune. The glow winked out; the body sagged.

The remaining casters hesitated, fear fighting indoctrination. Draven advanced without hurry, forcing their nerves to choose. One broke, scrambling back, tendril ripping out with a wet snap—he collapsed, convulsing. The last hurled a cloud of shards made of condensed mana. Draven slashed twice, cracking the cluster apart before it could explode. His final thrust ended the resistance, blade cleansing green from corrupted blood.

The heart-root throbbed harder, sensing the severed conduits. Roots lashed out in frenzied defense. They struck like pythons, sap sizzling where droplets landed. Draven's cloak smoked where one lash grazed it, but rune-thread dispersed the acid. He worked rhythmically—parry, cut, sidestep, slice—clearing a path to the core. Each severed root bled less sap, weakening the whole.

Just as he reached striking distance, the heart convulsed. Spectral claws burst from its surface, hooking for his throat. He pivoted, letting momentum carry him around the slash. Bark beneath his boot crumbled; he transferred weight to his rear foot, lunged inside the claws' reach, and drove both swords into the pulsing mass. Flesh—if it was flesh—split around the steel. A scream like torn metal reverberated.

Lightning flared from above. Sylvanna burst into the cavern mouth, Raëdrithar crashing through decayed roots behind her. Silver-blue arcs forked, searing away flailing tendrils that threatened Draven's flank. Spores roasted in midair, popping like embers in a forge.

Vaelira followed moments later, leaf-steel burning emerald as she funneled razor wind down the tunnel. The gust fed Sylvanna's lightning, turning each spark into a blade of storm that carved through rot.

"Together," Vaelira called, planting herself opposite Draven. Winds spiraled, ripping smaller strands from the heart.

Draven met her eye—a flash of calculation, acceptance. "Sever the mains," he ordered. His swords traced crossing lines, slicing the thickest roots anchoring the organ. Sylvanna hammered the breach with a lance of pure current; Vaelira's wind bored channels through churning sap.

The heart convulsed one final time. Black mist erupted, mixing with silver light. Roots shrieked, curling inward as the core ruptured. A geyser of shadow billowed up the ravine shaft, carrying with it wailing motes—freed or damned, none could tell.

When the clamor faded, Draven stood alone at the epicenter, cloak in tatters, shoulders rising with measured breaths. Vaelira approached first, sword low, eyes searching. "You can't keep doing this," she said, voice raw. "Not alone."

"Better me than you," Draven answered, tone devoid of heat, as if stating weight or distance.

Sylvanna stepped closer, lightning still flickering at her fingertips. "Not alone," she insisted, defiance sparking in storm-lit eyes. "Never alone. Even if you try."

Behind them, the cavern walls wept sap like black rain, but the root lay silent, split and dying. Somewhere high above, the forest exhaled.

He merged effortlessly into darkness, blades whispering as he carved a path through the corruption, deeper toward the heart of the rot.