The Villain Professor's Second Chance

He was close, so close, to deciphering the information retrieved by his clone, Dravis, from the cursed town. But something was off—something crucial. The shadow plague was unlike any curse he had encountered before, its patterns unfamiliar and... unsettling. The way the shadows tore themselves from their hosts, the way people vanished without a trace—it was all too chaotic, too unpredictable.

Draven hated unpredictability.

His hand paused mid-stroke, and he stared at the web of symbols he had drawn. Ancient runes intertwined with magical theories, connected by faint lines that represented the possible links between them. The center of the web remained blank, however, mocking him with its emptiness. No matter how hard he tried to piece it together, the core of the curse eluded him.

"Fire," he muttered to himself, his voice low, barely a whisper. "The shadows seem to recoil from it. But why? What is it about fire that makes them vulnerable?"

He jotted down a symbol representing fire in one corner of the board, linking it to the reports Dravis had gathered. According to the villagers, fires had inexplicably gone out before the shadows attacked, almost as if the flames themselves had been snuffed out by some unseen force. Draven tapped his chin, his mind racing.

"Fire... a natural counter to shadows, but not enough to stop them entirely. Could the curse be feeding on the fear it generates? Or is there an artifact, something amplifying the shadows' power?"

He moved to another section of the whiteboard, his hand sketching out a crude map of the cursed town. Dravis had reported strange, unnatural symbols etched into the walls of the cave where the curse was strongest. Symbols that matched some of the ancient runes Draven had just deciphered. His eyes narrowed as he connected the dots between the runes and the geography.

"Something was disturbed in that cave," he mused. "An ancient seal, perhaps? But what kind of power could be strong enough to manipulate shadows like this?"

The room was silent, save for the faint scratching of the quill on the board. Draven was lost in thought, the rest of the world fading away as he delved deeper into his analysis. His mind was sharp, cutting through layers of magical theory like a blade through cloth. He visualized the way the shadows moved, how they separated from their hosts, how they attacked. There had to be a pattern.

There was always a pattern.

But the memories from the quest—the ones he knew from the game—were foggy. Like a distant dream he couldn't quite recall. Draven despised that feeling. He prided himself on his near-perfect memory, his ability to recall every detail of his plans and strategies. And yet, this time, something eluded him. He rubbed his temples, pushing away the frustration that threatened to cloud his thoughts.

Outside his study, Amberine paced back and forth, her boots clicking loudly on the stone floor. Two hours. She had been waiting for two hours, and her patience had long since worn thin. Her temper, already volatile, simmered dangerously close to boiling over.

"Typical," she muttered under her breath, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "He's always like this. Doesn't even have the decency to keep track of time when people need him."

She glanced at the large wooden door separating her from Draven's study, half tempted to burst in and demand his attention. But then she thought better of it. She had done that once before, and the look Draven had given her could have frozen a volcano.

Still, she was annoyed. She had an idea for her thesis—a brilliant one, if she did say so herself—but of course, she had to run it by Draven first. And, as usual, he was too wrapped up in whatever ancient mystery he was unraveling to spare her a moment.

"Why can't he be more... human?" she grumbled, tugging on the edge of her robe in frustration. The weight of the ancient book Draven had handed her earlier felt like a dead weight in her hands.

"Shut up and just do it," a voice whispered from within her robe.

Amberine scowled, glancing down at the small flame flickering just beneath the fabric. "Easy for you to say, Ifrit. You're not the one stuck doing busywork while that arrogant, icy bastard gets to play with his ancient runes."

Ifrit's voice crackled, the fire spirit unimpressed. "You complain too much. You should be learning. This knowledge is important."

Amberine rolled her eyes, flipping open the ancient tome with a sigh. "I swear, if he makes me wait another minute, I'll—"

"You'll what?" Ifrit asked, his voice laced with amusement. "Burn his precious runes?"

Amberine gritted her teeth. "Don't tempt me."

She turned her attention to the book, trying to focus on the complex magical theory laid out on the pages. But her mind kept wandering back to Draven. How could someone so brilliant be so infuriatingly cold and dismissive? He never seemed to care about anything outside of his own work.

The more she thought about it, the more her frustration grew. Draven had been her supervisor for months now, and every interaction with him left her feeling like she was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He never praised her work, never acknowledged her talent. It was as if he didn't even see her, like she was just another student to be brushed aside.

Amberine's fingers twitched, a small spark of flame dancing at her fingertips. Ifrit hummed approvingly. "Careful, girl. Your temper is showing."

"Shut it," she muttered, snapping the book shut and standing up abruptly. "I've had enough of this."

Inside his study, Draven remained utterly focused, unaware of Amberine's growing impatience. His eyes flickered across the whiteboard, processing the flow of information he was receiving through his clone's link. Dravis was currently leading Sophie's squad through the mountains, edging closer to the cursed cave.

Through the connection, Draven felt the chill of the wind, the unease in the air. The shadows were thick here, clinging to the trees and rocks like a living entity. Dravis had noted the way the shadows moved—sluggish during the day, but more active at dusk.

Draven's mind processed this detail, adding it to the ever-growing web on the board. "The curse grows stronger at night... shadows more active in low light... could it be feeding off fear? Or something else entirely?"

He paused, considering the possibilities. The curse could be a living spell, designed to trap people in their own fear, using the shadows as weapons. But if that was the case, what was its source? An artifact? A demon?

His hand moved quickly across the board, writing out possible countermeasures, strategies to weaken the shadows' influence. Fire magic was effective, but only temporarily. They needed something more—something to break the curse at its source.

Suddenly, the door to his study flew open with a loud bang.

"I can't wait any longer!" Amberine stormed in, her eyes blazing with fury. She strode up to his desk, slamming the ancient tome down in front of him. "You've made me wait for two hours, and I'm done with it! I need a consultation, now!"n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

Draven blinked, momentarily startled by the intrusion. He turned slowly, his gaze locking onto Amberine's fiery expression.

"Amberine," he said calmly, his voice as cold as ever. "I'm in the middle of something important. Surely, your thesis can wait."

Amberine glared at him, her fists clenched at her sides. "No, it can't wait. I've been patient, but I'm done being ignored. You're my supervisor, and I need your input. Now."

Draven studied her for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in the anger in her stance, the fire in her eyes. For a brief second, he considered dismissing her again—he had more pressing matters to attend to. But something about the way she stood there, defiant and unyielding, made him pause.

Draven remained silent for a long moment, his cold eyes never leaving Amberine. The weight of his gaze was like ice, cutting through her fiery anger and leaving her feeling exposed. She had stormed in with all the force of a hurricane, but now, standing under his intense scrutiny, her confidence wavered.

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, and the defiance in her chest flickered, like a flame struggling against the wind.

"Amberine," Draven said finally, his voice chilling in its calmness. The sound of her name, spoken so coldly, made her stomach twist in regret. She had pushed too far. For the first time, she realized just how much power he held—not just in his intellect, but in his presence. The room felt smaller, darker, as if his very being had consumed all the space around them.

She opened her mouth to say something, perhaps an apology, but the words wouldn't come. Her heart raced, her mind scrambling for an excuse, a way to take back her outburst. She was about to lower her head, retreat into the quiet shame of her mistake, when Draven's voice cut through the silence once more.

"Then assist me in deciphering this."

Amberine blinked, startled. She hadn't expected that. His tone was still cold, his face as unreadable as ever, but there was no scorn in his words—just a direct, simple command. Her fear began to ease, replaced by confusion and, oddly, relief. He was giving her a task, an opportunity to prove herself.

Swallowing her pride, she nodded and stepped closer to the whiteboard, her eyes scanning the intricate patterns and symbols that filled the space.