The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"Fight back? Against how many Dravens?" Maris shot back, her voice trembling. Despite her fear, she was already weaving illusions of her own—a swirling kaleidoscope of images designed to confuse the enemy. Her illusions weren't nearly as large in scale, but they were creative, fracturing the space around her into mirrored segments that made it difficult to pinpoint her location.

Amberine's eyes darted around. If she looked closely, she could distinguish a slight difference among a handful of Dravens—some tiny variance in the way their hair moved, or the angle of their stance. But just as soon as she thought she saw a pattern, the illusions shifted, changing formation, rendering her observation useless.

Across the aisle, Elara's face was set in a mask of determination. Where Maris relied on illusions and Amberine used flame, Elara was the embodiment of precision. She moved with practiced elegance, summoning sheets of hardened mana shaped like thin, sweeping blades of water. Her magic sliced through the illusions, only for the severed figures to melt away like smoke and reappear elsewhere. It was endless, like some monstrous game of whack-a-mole—but infinitely more lethal.

Other students, less composed, hurled raw magic in panicked blasts. Lightning careened wildly around the lecture hall, scorching the walls and sizzling the air. Acrid smoke rose as wooden desks splintered under errant spells. Books tumbled from shelves when pockets of force exploded overhead. Shouts rang out in all directions—startled screams, curses, pleas for help. And amidst it all, the illusions glided on, stepping easily around the blasts or vanishing before impact.

Amberine called upon her fire magic again, weaving a more refined incantation this time. Flames roared to life in her palm, twisting in serpentine coils that lunged at the cluster of Dravens advancing on her. The illusions flickered and dodged, her flames skimming empty air. She growled in frustration, feeling the weight of Draven's earlier lesson about control.

She glanced across the room, catching a glimpse of a student failing to shield themselves, only to be tossed into the nearest bookshelf by a phantom Draven's psychic force. A thunderous crash rattled through the hall, sending books raining down in an avalanche of paper and parchment. For a moment, Amberine feared for the student's life. But Draven—the real one, or perhaps an illusion with enough semblance of intelligence—had made it clear his lesson was not to kill them. Not today. This was about dismantling their weaknesses. She suspected he would not allow any truly lethal outcome. But that didn't quell the rush of terror.

Nearby, Maris was holding her own in a precarious dance with two illusions. She'd conjured shimmering illusions of her own form—three, then four, then five clones of herself sprang into being around her. Each mimicked her movements flawlessly, adding to the confusion. The Dravens pursued them, lashing out with swift strokes of conjured blades or subtle pulses of psychokinesis that shattered desks and cracked the marble flooring. Maris, hidden among her clones, managed to dodge the brunt of each attack, but the sweat beading on her forehead told Amberine she couldn't keep it up for long.

Amberine's eyes flicked to Elara, searching for a sign of how to proceed. Elara's face was lit by the glow of her own magic, the swirling lines of golden mana forming delicate spirals around her arms. She was controlling the battlefield better than most, methodically cutting through illusions. But with every slash of her conjured blades, two more illusions seemed to take the place of each one she dispelled.

"We need a new approach," Amberine shouted to anyone who might hear. Her voice was partially drowned out by the roar of spells and the crashes of fleeing students. "Attacking blindly isn't going to work!"

She caught a glimpse of a Draven stepping calmly through a haze of smoke, unhurried, regal in his bearing. Or maybe it was just another illusion. Regardless, it raised an eyebrow at her, as if mocking her attempts to find a strategy.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered under her breath, but she refused to yield. There had to be a pattern, a singular thread that linked all these illusions together—some anchor or root in Draven's mana. If she could just identify a breach in the illusions' movements, maybe she could find the real Draven. But the illusions were so perfectly orchestrated that she suspected even that tactic might fail.

A sudden flash of white lightning from a panicked student in the back row crackled overhead, illuminating the entire hall in a stark, blinding glow. The light revealed a glimpse of the illusions shifting in unison, and for an instant, Amberine thought she saw their eyes flare red. It was as though Draven was pouring more mana into them, fueling them with unstoppable momentum.

She swallowed hard. There was no question—if this were a real battlefield, if Draven had intended to kill them, they'd be decimated. He was showing them exactly how powerless they were in the face of someone who merged lethal combat skill and high-level magic. He was showing them why fear alone wasn't enough to survive, why illusions and wards and fancy conjurations were useless if you had no real strategy or composure.

Everything he'd said before—about them relying too much on raw power, on theory—resounded in her head. She recalled the stories: Draven rumored to have killed Lady Sharon with a single dagger, Draven rumored to be an Executioner. She'd scoffed at some of it, at the more ridiculous exaggerations. But now, seeing this display of illusions so lifelike they might as well be clones, she doubted any rumor was too far-fetched.

All around her, mana flared in staccato bursts. The illusions advanced. Students tried to defend themselves, tried to form squads or pair up. Some spelled out protective runes on the floor. Others invoked spirits, only to watch them vanish in Draven's illusions as if they'd never existed.

Amberine felt her limbs grow tense and heavy, adrenaline coursing through her veins. The heat of her fire magic was making the air around her shimmer. Through the haze, she locked eyes with one of the Dravens. His lips quirked in a cold half-smile, as if daring her to strike.

She unleashed a torrent of flame, a tightly controlled beam that tore through the space between them. The Draven illusion moved at the last second, vanishing like a ghost, letting her flames scorch the stone wall behind. She snarled in frustration. "Damn it—"

Another Draven lunged from her blind spot, forcing her to swerve. She barely managed to raise a hasty shield of fire around herself. The shield flared hot, burning bright for a moment, enough to repel the strike. But the Draven illusions kept coming, each blow methodical, unrelenting. It felt more like a lesson in panic than in battle—and that was precisely Draven's point, she realized. He wanted them to feel the terror, the confusion, the sinking sense of helplessness that overcame so many mages on the battlefield.

"In a war," Draven had once said in passing, "there is no such thing as a fair fight. You either survive or you die."

The memory of his words pulled her back to the moment. Survive or die. That was the essence of his instruction: adapt quickly or fail.

She braced herself, ignoring the bruises forming along her arms and the burn in her lungs. She had to find a rhythm, a way to be calm within the storm. Fighting illusions on this scale was overwhelming, but maybe if she synced her breathing, steadied her mind...

Her next fire spell was smaller, more controlled, a precise lance of flame aimed at the illusions' legs. One of them dodged with ease, but another had to jump awkwardly, and for just a second, it flickered. Amberine's heart soared. A weakness? She forced her mind to focus, analyzing the illusions' patterns. If she could get them to overlap or force them into a single spot, maybe she could pick out the real Draven—if indeed he was among them. She'd need Maris's illusions, Elara's refined attacks, maybe even help from the other students who still had enough clarity to coordinate.

But before she could shout her plan, her attention was ripped away by the thunderous crash of a half-collapsed bookshelf behind her. The air filled with swirling pages, a blizzard of parchment. Spells crackled in the distance, and the students' cries rang out once more, fueling the chaos. Draven's illusions pressed in. Amberine knew she had only seconds to react, to think, to move—

But Draven, or all the Dravens at once, stepped forward, their presence swallowing her senses. Every student braced as the illusions raised their hands, swirling with lethal mana, forging intangible blades and crackling arcs of energy. It felt like time slowed, hearts pounding in unison under the weight of unstoppable force.

And then—

Chaos erupted.

Amberine twisted, launching fire at the Draven before her. It moved too fast. A step, a dodge, then a flick of its wrist. Her fireball dispersed like smoke against a hurricane. She grit her teeth, adjusting her stance, launching again, faster this time. Still, nothing. Every move she made, he countered with effortless precision. Every angle she tried, he anticipated. It was infuriating.

Her frustration boiled over. She shifted her weight, calling on Ifrit's power without meaning to. The flames in her palm roared brighter, hotter. She knew it was reckless, knew she was burning through her reserves faster than she should—but damn it, if she could just land one hit.

She feinted left, then shot a spiral of fire at his side.

Draven stepped through it as if it were nothing. A flicker of movement, and suddenly he was behind her. She had no time to react before she felt the cold steel of his dagger pressed lightly against the back of her neck.

"You're dead."

Amberine barely had time to turn before her Draven vanished into smoke, the illusion dispersing. She cursed under her breath, dragging a hand down her face.

Across the room, Elara was faring better. Her movements were clean, her water magic precise. She controlled the battlefield well, forcing her Draven into narrow spaces where his movements should have been limited. But even she couldn't land a single blow. Every attack met an effortless block. Draven wasn't just dodging. He was teaching through complete and utter domination.
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Amberine could see the flicker of frustration cross Elara's usually unreadable expression. Her golden mana flared briefly as she adjusted her stance, trying again. She had lasted longer than anyone else so far, but it didn't matter. The outcome was inevitable.

Elara thrust her palm forward, a spear of water forming in an instant. Draven deflected it with a lazy motion of his wrist, dispersing it into harmless mist. He stepped into her space—too close, too fast—and with a single, deliberate motion, he struck the base of her wrist with the blunt end of his dagger.

Elara's grip faltered.

Before she could recover, his palm pressed against her shoulder, and she was forced back, landing hard on her knees.

"You hesitate," he murmured. "Even when you have the upper hand."

Elara clenched her jaw, inhaling sharply through her nose. She didn't argue, didn't scowl, didn't show even a flicker of emotion. But Amberine could tell she hated that more than anything.

On the other side of the room, Maris struggled but didn't back down. She summoned illusions, layers of false images flickering across the battlefield in an attempt to confuse her opponent. It didn't work. Draven cut through the deception as if it were mist, his movements precise and utterly unimpressed.

Maris exhaled shakily, recalibrating. She shifted to a different strategy, weaving her illusions to obscure her actual position rather than creating false opponents. She moved between the shadows, trying to get behind him, her daggers drawn.

Amberine held her breath. That was clever. Maybe—

Draven twisted, catching her wrist before she could land a hit. His grip was firm, unmoving.

Maris's breath hitched. She knew she had lost.

For a moment, Draven simply stared at her, his cold gaze analyzing every mistake she had made. Then, to everyone's shock, he said, "Good effort."

Maris blinked. "Wait. Did you just—"

Before she could finish her sentence, he shoved her back effortlessly, sending her skidding a few feet across the floor.

"Don't get comfortable," he said, his tone as unreadable as ever.

Amberine couldn't help but smirk. That was probably the closest thing to a compliment anyone had gotten from him.

By the time the lesson ended, Amberine's chest was heaving, her body sore from repeated failures. Elara looked less affected but no less frustrated. Maris simply collapsed onto her desk, groaning into her arms.

Draven, untouched, unbothered, stood at the front of the class once more.

"This is why mages die on the battlefield," he said, voice clipped, precise. "You rely too much on power. On theory. Magic is nothing without control."