The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Draven stood at the front of the class, arms folded, his sharp gaze scanning the students before him. The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to be cut with a blade. No one spoke. No one dared to. The weight of the rumors had settled over the room like a suffocating fog. Draven, ever composed, ever unbothered, let the silence linger, stretching it until the unease ripened into something tangible.

Amberine shifted in her seat, letting her gaze flicker around the grand lecture hall. The vast room, with its towering shelves lined with arcane tomes and floating candlelight that danced between the chandeliers, felt suffocating in its stillness. Faces ranged from wary to outright fearful. Some students stared at their desks, others whispered in hushed tones, but none had the courage to meet Draven's eyes. Even Maris, usually lighthearted, was gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles white. Only Elara remained composed, impassive as always, her golden mana subtly coiling at her fingertips, ready for whatever was coming.

For weeks, the halls of the Magic Tower University had been filled with whispers about him. Draven Arcanum von Drakhan. Professor. Noble. Executioner. The rumors spread like wildfire, each iteration growing more exaggerated than the last.

"Did he really kill her?"

"Lady Sharon wasn't weak, but she didn't stand a chance against him."

"I heard he didn't even use magic. Just a dagger."

The gossip slithered through corridors, sneaking into lecture halls, murmured between conjuration circles and written hastily in magical notes. No one dared to voice it too loudly. No one had the spine to confront him.

And now, he stood before them, giving them no choice but to face the weight of his presence.

Draven exhaled slowly, breaking the silence with nothing more than the weight of his presence. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he smirked.

"Attention, let's begin."

His voice, crisp and edged with absolute control, cut through the thick air. The way he said it, so effortlessly, as though nothing had changed, as though the storm of whispers held no bearing on him, sent another wave of unease rolling through the hall.

Amberine heard someone inhale sharply. Her gaze flicked toward the source—a young noble near the front of the class, hands clenched together, a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead. Even the stronger students, those from noble families with prestigious lineages, looked hesitant. The weight of Draven's presence was suffocating, his words laced with something sharp and unreadable.

A breath passed. Then another.

Then he added, "I hear you've all been talking about me."

Amberine felt the shift in the room immediately. Some students sucked in sharp breaths. Others went rigid in their seats. He was addressing it. The rumors. The murder. The supposed killing of Lady Sharon. The fact that he wasn't ignoring it sent a wave of discomfort through the hall. He wasn't denying it. He wasn't defending himself. He was just acknowledging it, as though it were nothing more than a trivial piece of news.

Amberine's fingers twitched. He had done the same thing when she had confronted him about it. She had stormed into his office, demanding answers, expecting some kind of justification. And all she got was that same effortless, indifferent response.

"Yes. I killed her."

She had left feeling like she had been struck by a spell, dazed, her mind unable to wrap around the sheer finality of his words. No guilt. No remorse. Just cold, efficient truth.

Now, as she sat in the lecture hall, she could see that same effect rippling through the students.

Maris was tense beside her, eyes flicking between Draven and the students as if expecting someone to challenge him. Elara, as always, betrayed nothing. She sat straight, hands folded over her lap, her expression unreadable—but Amberine knew her well enough to catch the way her fingers flexed slightly, a subtle readiness.

But no one spoke.

Draven, of course, was unfazed. The smirk faded, replaced by something calmer. Something detached.

Then he moved.

With a flick of his fingers, metal plates in the corner of the room lifted into the air. Psychokinesis. The pieces hovered, smooth and controlled, gliding effortlessly toward each desk before landing with a soft metallic thud.

Armor.

Sleek, simple, but reinforced with a runic glow pulsing beneath the surface.

The murmurs started again, hesitant and laced with confusion.

"What is this?"

"Armor?"

"We're mages. Why would we need—?"

Draven cut them off before the whispers could grow into something more.

"Wear them."

There was no room for argument. No explanation. Just a command.

The hesitation in the air was immediate. A murmur rippled through the students, uncertain and questioning. Your next chapter awaits on My Virtual Library Empire

Amberine could feel the weight of unease pressing against the room, pressing against her own spine like an iron rod that was getting heavier by the second. The anticipation in the air was thick, suffocating. She could hear the shift of robes, the barely audible gulp of a student behind her, the rustle of papers being clutched too tightly.

Then someone spoke.

"Why armor? We're mages."

The question hung in the air like a challenge.

Amberine didn't need to turn to see who had spoken. She could sense the ripple of agreement moving through the room, the unspoken doubt in everyone's minds. They had been trained to believe in magic, in spellcraft, in the superiority of intellect and incantation over brute force. So why armor? Why this?

She glanced toward Elara first. As expected, her expression remained unreadable, carved from ice. Not a single flicker of doubt in her golden eyes. Then she turned to Maris, whose brow was raised in curiosity rather than fear. Maris's fingers drummed against the desk, her expression thoughtful. The difference was clear—Elara already accepted the lesson, whatever it was. Maris, on the other hand, was still trying to piece together the logic behind it.

Amberine herself? She was somewhere in between.

Still, none of them hesitated.

She reached for the armor before her, fingers grazing the cold metal. It was lighter than it looked, yet firm, reinforced with something beyond just steel. A subtle hum of magic pulsed through it. Protection. Not a shield, but a test.

She strapped it on, securing it over her robes, feeling the weight settle over her shoulders and arms. The clasps fastened automatically, clicking into place. The enchantments within the armor activated, the faintest glow running along the seams.

Maris adjusted hers, flexing her arms experimentally. "Huh. Feels... sturdier than I thought."

Elara said nothing, simply securing her own with practiced efficiency.

Not everyone followed so easily.

"This is ridiculous," a student muttered, the words cutting through the tense silence.

Amberine didn't recognize the voice, but she recognized the mistake.

She didn't have time to turn—no one did.

One moment, the student was seated at their desk. The next, they were airborne.

A flick of Draven's wrist. A rush of force. A sharp gasp. Then the unmistakable sound of impact.

The student crashed into the far wall with a resounding crack, the sound echoing through the hall. Every head turned in an instant. Gasps erupted across the room. A girl in the front row let out a startled yelp, covering her mouth with her hands.

The armor shattered.

The pieces clattered to the ground in a heap of broken metal.

But the student remained alive.

Dazed, but breathing.

Amberine felt her heartbeat quicken for just a second. Not in fear—no, she wasn't afraid of Draven. She had known him long enough to understand what this was. But the sheer ruthlessness in his approach, the way he moved without hesitation, without care for the aftermath—it sent a chill through her.

Draven strode forward, his boots clicking against the polished floor, the sound sharp, deliberate, filling the space in a way that left no room for anything else.

He crouched slightly, peering down at the stunned student with the same level of interest one might give an insect pinned under glass. Cold. Detached. Analytical.

"Now tell me," he said, his voice devoid of sympathy, "was that ridiculous?"

Silence.

Amberine could see the student trying to form words, their mouth opening and closing uselessly. But nothing came out. Whether from pain, shock, or sheer fear, it didn't matter.

Draven had made his point.

He straightened without another word, turning his back on the fallen student as if they were nothing more than an afterthought. His movements were smooth, unhurried.

His gaze swept over the class once more, sharp as a blade.

"Today," he announced, voice unwavering, "you will learn what to do when you face an opponent like me."