The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"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."

His gaze swept the room, stopping on Amberine. "You're too focused on raw force. You don't adapt."

Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

"Elara," he continued. "You hesitate. You calculate, but you don't act fast enough."

Elara's expression didn't change, but Amberine knew the words cut deeper than she let on.

"Maris." Draven tilted his head slightly. "Instinctually, you're the best of the three. But you lack refinement."

Maris shifted awkwardly in her seat, avoiding eye contact. "I—I see. Thank you, Professor."

Amberine frowned slightly. Maris never argued back, never showed frustration. Even now, she accepted the critique with quiet grace, nodding as if she were committing every word to memory. It wasn't timidness—it was just who she was.

Draven ignored her. He flicked his wrist, and pure, condensed mana swirled at his fingertips. "This is magic," he said. "Not fire, not water, not illusions. Pure control."

The energy pulsed, then vanished.

"You don't fight to win. You fight to survive."

With that, the illusions dissipated. The classroom returned to normal.

Not a single breath dared to break the silence. Students remained frozen where they stood, their bodies still locked in the tension of battle even though the enemy had vanished. The sheer intensity of the lesson hung in the air like a lingering storm.

Draven exhaled softly through his nose—then, with a flick of his fingers, the room moved.

Desks scraped against the floor, chairs slid back into perfect alignment, and every displaced object returned to its rightful place. The shattered remnants of armor, scattered notes, and even the faint layer of dust disturbed by their battles—gone. It was as if time itself rewound under his command, leaving not even the smallest trace of disorder.

Amberine barely had time to blink before she was no longer standing—her body lifted effortlessly by an unseen force, deposited neatly into her chair like the rest of the class. Maris gasped slightly as she felt herself being guided back, while Elara merely adjusted her robes, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles.

Not a sliver of dust remained.

It was perfect. Efficient. The very essence of Draven Arcanum von Drakhan.

Then, the door creaked open.

A soft clicking of heels echoed through the hall as Yuli entered, her presence composed, professional. The assistant moved with precise, measured steps, her dark uniform as pristine as ever. In her hands, she carried an orb—a polished sphere, deep violet in hue, pulsating faintly with stored magic.

She approached Draven's desk, inclining her head respectfully before speaking.

"Professor, as requested."

Draven didn't turn. He merely extended his fingers, and the orb lifted from Yuli's hands, floating toward him. It hovered inches above his palm, its glow intensifying.

Then, with a pulse of energy, the orb split open.

A projection burst forth—arcane energy twisting into shape, forming the very battle that had just transpired. The classroom itself became a screen, displaying every moment in perfect detail. The students saw themselves moving, fighting, failing—all from angles they never could have perceived in the moment.

Gasps filled the room.

"Is that... us?" someone muttered.

Draven turned, his gaze sweeping across the class. "Observe," he commanded, his voice sharp, cutting through the murmurs with ease. "This is not just a replay. This is education."

The projection shifted, focusing on Amberine's movements first.

Her fire magic flared bright, but her movements were too aggressive, too linear. She went for power, for destruction, but Draven—his illusion—had danced through it like mist.

"You attacked with force," Draven began, his tone cool, analytical. "But force alone does not win battles. You failed to adapt. Failed to anticipate countermeasures."

Amberine frowned, arms crossed. "I tried to adjust—"

"No. You reacted." Draven's gaze locked onto her, and even through his usual detached demeanor, there was an unmistakable weight behind his words. "There is a difference between adapting and reacting. One is control. The other is survival."

Amberine clenched her jaw, but she didn't argue further.

The projection moved, shifting to Elara.

Her battle had been different. Precision, calculation—every strike aimed for an advantage. She fought with control, but hesitated in execution.

Draven gestured toward a specific moment—when she had forced her illusionary opponent into a corner but didn't capitalize on the opportunity.

"You had control," Draven stated. "But you hesitated. That single moment of uncertainty allowed me to regain ground. Tell me, Elara, what stopped you?"

Elara remained silent for a long moment before she finally spoke. "I wasn't certain if it was a trap."

"It was not," Draven replied flatly. "And even if it were, what would have been the correct action?"

"...Press forward," Elara admitted, her voice calm, though Amberine could see the tension in her fingers as she curled them slightly in thought.

"Precisely."

The projection shifted again, this time highlighting Maris.

Illusions flickered, layers of deception cascading around her opponent. It was an impressive display of magic—but ultimately, futile.

Draven pointed toward the moment he had caught her wrist, effortlessly breaking through her illusions.
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"You relied too heavily on misdirection," he said. "An effective tactic against the undisciplined. But against a skilled opponent—"

Maris winced as she watched herself fail. "They'll see right through it."

"Correct." Draven nodded. "However, you possess something the others lack."

Maris blinked in surprise. "...I do?"

Draven's expression didn't change. "Instinct."

The class murmured softly at that, but he continued, undeterred.

"You are not the strongest," he said, "nor the most precise. But you move naturally, without overthinking. That instinct can be sharpened into something lethal."

Maris looked stunned for a moment, then nodded slowly.

Amberine exhaled, leaning back slightly in her seat. It was strange, hearing Draven actually explain something rather than just demonstrating his dominance. But the analysis was undeniably valuable.

Then, the projection froze.

Draven stepped forward.

"We have discussed your weaknesses," he said, "but now, I will teach you something more important."

The projection changed, zooming in on his illusion. The way it moved—every step precise, every action deliberate.

"This is how a surprise battle between mages should unfold."

The class fell deathly silent.

Draven gestured, and the image of himself moved, slowing down, highlighting specific moments. The opening movements of a fight. The critical seconds where positioning dictated victory.

"Control the battlefield," he instructed. "Do not let your opponent dictate the flow. The first moments of combat determine everything."

The image shifted again, showing Amberine's battle. The way she had launched fire without adjusting to his movements.

"An opening move should never be your strongest attack," Draven continued. "If you reveal your greatest strength at the beginning, you will never land another strike."

Amberine huffed. "So what? Just keep throwing weak attacks?"

"No," Draven said, voice edged with something dangerous. "You create expectation. You make them believe they understand your rhythm. Then, when they think they have adapted—"

The projection replayed the moment he had suddenly appeared behind Amberine, blade to her throat.

"—you break it."

Amberine felt a chill crawl up her spine.

Draven's eyes swept the class. "This applies to all magic. Water, fire, illusions—it does not matter. The principles remain the same."

Another shift. The image of Elara hesitating.

"Decisiveness wins battles," Draven said. "Hesitation kills. If you are uncertain, your opponent will exploit it."

The students absorbed the lesson, their gazes fixed on the shifting images, on the brutal efficiency of Draven's methods.

Then, the projection stilled one last time.

Draven exhaled, his tone taking on a finality. "And now," he said, "the most important lesson."

The image zoomed in on him. The illusion of himself—the one none of them could land a single hit on. The figure that had defeated all of them without breaking a sweat.

Draven turned to face the class.

"This is how you defeat me."

A heavy silence followed.

Amberine felt her heart skip a beat.

Draven lifted a hand, the orb still hovering beside him, glowing faintly. "It is not through power," he said. "Nor through speed. Nor through overwhelming numbers."

He gestured toward the image of himself moving—never stopping, never giving them an opening.

"You cannot overpower someone who controls the pace of battle. You cannot chase an opponent who refuses to be caught."

Amberine swallowed. "Then how—"

Draven's lips curved slightly—not a smirk, not amusement, but something colder.

"You force them into a position where they must fight on your terms."

The projection shifted one last time. A hypothetical scenario unfolded—one where Amberine had forced him into a confined space, where Elara had capitalized on an opening, where Maris had disrupted his flow.

A battle where, theoretically, he could be defeated.

"It is not impossible," Draven said, as if the very notion was foreign to him. "But improbable."

He let the thought linger in the air, then closed his fingers.

The projection disappeared.

The classroom remained silent, every student lost in thought.

Draven turned away, retrieving his notes with casual efficiency.

"Class dismissed."

Amberine barely registered the words before Maris let out a quiet groan. "That was... insane."

Elara, still staring at where the projection had been, merely nodded.

Amberine exhaled, her thoughts a storm of calculations and lingering awe.

One day, she would land a hit on him.

But for now—she had a lot to learn.