The Villain Professor's Second Chance

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

There was no arrogance in his tone. No bravado. No unnecessary embellishment.

Just a fact.

Amberine clenched her fists. This was going to be a disaster.

She could feel it in the tension coiling around her muscles, in the steady drumbeat of her heart thrumming faster and faster against her rib cage. The air was already electric from Draven's presence alone, but now, as she watched him stand at the head of the lecture hall, she sensed something more. It wasn't just authority. It was certainty—a cold, metallic aura that declared he expected nothing but obedience.

Draven's gaze swept over them again, razor-sharp, capturing every tremor of fear in the room. It settled, momentarily, on Amberine, but she refused to avert her eyes, determined to keep her composure. The tension in the hall mounted, thick and suffocating, like a coil of serpents twisting around their throats.

"Who teaches you 'Battle for Mages'?" he asked, finally breaking the silence.

The question seemed innocuous, but Amberine had learned enough about Draven to know better. His words carried an implicit challenge. People shifted in their seats. A single name was muttered from somewhere near the back—Professor Helmont, a middle-aged mage whose specialty was theoretical warfare and counters.

Draven's lip curled, a faint, contemptuous movement that barely qualified as a scoff. But Amberine felt the insult hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. He didn't so much as grace the name with a direct comment. He simply tilted his head, as if bored, as if the mention of another instructor was irrelevant.

He swept his gaze across the rows of students again, and for a heartbeat, Amberine thought she heard him exhale, as though in faint disappointment. The lecture hall remained still. Many of the students refused to lift their eyes, even though she could see their curiosity flaring beneath pale, nervous faces. They were caught between the desire to learn whatever dark or dangerous secrets he possessed and the instinctive fear of his lethal reputation.

"This class lasts two hours," Draven said at last, his voice smooth as polished steel. "Pay attention, and you might learn something."

That statement felt like a promise and a threat, wrapped in the same velvet covering. Amberine's pulse pounded. Beside her, Maris took a careful breath, her lips pressed into a tight line. She had a habit of wearing her heart on her sleeve, and Amberine could practically see her emotions swirling just beneath the surface. Even Elara, usually so composed, had her eyes fixed on Draven, her golden mana swirling subtly at her fingertips—ready, watchful, unsettled.

Then, Draven clapped his hands.

The sound was crisp, echoing through the grand hall. It reverberated off the high, vaulted ceiling and rippled across the shelves of floating tomes. Candlelight flickered in response, like hundreds of tiny flames dancing to an unheard command.

Amberine felt the force of his magic expand outward. It was like a sudden shift in the atmosphere, as though the room itself was inhaling, bracing for something monumental. A tremor pulsed through the space; she could feel it at the base of her skull, traveling down her spine, settling in the pit of her stomach.

Reality warped.

The very air seemed to bend, like waves of heat rising from a blacksmith's forge. A low hum resonated, and around Draven—at first faint, then sharper, brighter—hundreds of his images materialized. They appeared out of thin air, each reflection as crisp and lifelike as the original. No hazy outlines. No transparent illusions. Every version of Draven stood with the same posture, the same lethal calm exuding from dark eyes and a confident stance.

The effect was immediate—and overwhelming.

Students gasped in unison. A tremor of raw astonishment rippled through the room. Even Amberine, who had known Draven longer than most, felt a surge of disbelief knot in her chest. She had witnessed illusions before—many illusions, in fact. But this? The scale was horrifying. The illusions breathed. They blinked. They moved with an eerily synchronized precision, as though connected by one mind. And perhaps they were.

"Amberine's breath hitched.

She swallowed, her throat painfully dry. "You've got to be kidding."

Maris, typically quick to crack a joke, was dead silent except for a whispered oath that slipped under her breath. Elara's jaw tightened, a flicker of gold mana sparking around her fingertips in preparation for a spell. Amberine could sense the rising panic in the other students, some of whom looked ready to bolt for the doors. The illusions just kept multiplying in the corners of her vision, crowding the lecture hall until there was barely any visible space that wasn't occupied by a Draven.

The illusions were perfect replicas down to the subtlest detail—amber eyes that shone with chilling composure, the faint line of a scar just beneath the left brow, the unwavering strength in each posture. They radiated the same aura, that same swirling potency of mana that Draven himself possessed. As far as illusions went, they were flawless. If Draven wanted to obliterate every shred of the class's confidence, he'd done it. The atmosphere was thick with dread.

Yet Draven, or rather the original Draven—if that figure even still stood at the center—appeared utterly calm, as though teaching illusions on this scale was mere child's play. One by one, the illusions shifted, each of them taking an identical stance. A stance that promised confrontation. A stance that said come at me, if you dare.

Maris's whispered curses grew louder. She was rarely caught off guard, yet here she was, stammering half-formed spells under her breath as though she couldn't decide which form of magic would even be effective. In the meantime, Elara's eyes narrowed, scanning the illusions for some faint clue. Amberine wondered if Elara was trying to discern which of them was the real Draven—or if that even mattered.

A beat passed, and Draven made no move to clarify which was which. He didn't give an explanation, didn't detail what kind of exercise this was. He simply let them see—let them feel—the weight of facing an opponent who could outnumber and overwhelm them by will alone.

Amberine gritted her teeth. Part of her wanted to shout at him, to demand context, to insist that the students were not ready, that their illusions and wards and spells wouldn't stand a chance against something on this magnitude. But she knew Draven well enough by now. He wouldn't listen. He taught by demonstration, by near-brutal confrontation. To him, terror was a teaching tool.

And so, each replica of Draven took a step forward. One step, uniform and echoing through the hall like a wave of thunder. The students flinched. Some hastily tried to stand, while others dropped their gazes to the floor or attempted to raise a protective barrier. Amberine could see mana flaring in sporadic bursts around the room—electric arcs, swirling motes of light, shimmering illusions, defensive wards. Panic-fueled magic, unrefined and uncertain.

She heard Draven's voice—or one of the Dravens' voices—cut through the tension, cold and commanding: Stay tuned for updates on My Virtual Library Empire

"Ready yourselves. We begin now."

Maris managed a ragged breath. "Begin what exactly?" she muttered, half to herself. But there was no time for an answer.

The illusions lunged.

Amberine's instincts kicked in. She raised her left hand, conjuring a flicker of flame that curled upward, bright and hot. Her other hand braced at her side, feeding the fire with a steady stream of mana. She was well-trained, practiced in battle magic—but she had never faced this. The illusions moved faster than she'd anticipated. They circled like wolves, silent and sure.

She saw a swirl of golden light to her right. Elara had conjured a barrier of shimmering water-like mana, attempting to push back a cluster of Dravens that closed in on her side. It bent the illusions back for a moment, but only just. Across the rows, students stumbled out of their chairs, desks crashing in their panicked attempts to put space between themselves and the illusions.

"Stop panicking!" someone yelled, but it was futile. The illusions pressed relentlessly forward, forcing the students into a chaotic scramble.

Amberine clenched her jaw. "We can't just stand here," she hissed to Maris. "We have to fight back."

"Fight back? Against how many Dravens?"