The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Amberine remained in her seat long after the other students had filed out of the lecture hall. The weight of Draven's last words hung over her like an oppressive fog.

"This is how you defeat me." Stay tuned for updates on My Virtual Library Empire

It wasn't just some offhand remark. It wasn't even a taunt. Draven never said things without a reason. Every word out of his mouth was deliberate, measured—like a knife slipping through armor in just the right place. The problem was, she didn't know whether it was meant to help them… or remind them how utterly outmatched they still were.

Her fingers curled against the desk, knuckles pressing into the wood.

Across from her, Elara and Maris remained seated as well, neither of them moving to leave. Maris leaned her cheek against her palm, staring at Amberine with that casual smirk of hers, though her bright eyes gave her away. She was thinking, same as Amberine.

"You look like you just saw a ghost," Maris mused.

Amberine exhaled, shaking her head. "Not a ghost."

"A monster, then?" Maris offered, her smirk widening.

Amberine didn't answer.

Elara, always the calmest of the three, watched her in silence, her golden mana faintly coiling around her fingers as if idly channeling her thoughts. Her expression was unreadable, but Amberine had known her long enough to recognize the shift in her posture—the way she slightly tilted her head, the way her fingers curled, just barely.

It was interest.

"If you're still here," Elara finally said, voice steady, "you might as well ask him what you want to know."

Amberine scoffed, dragging a hand through her hair. "And risk getting a cryptic, one-sentence answer that'll just leave me even more confused? No thanks."

But her gaze betrayed her.

Her eyes drifted to the front of the room where Draven remained seated at his desk, flipping through his notes with maddening ease. He hadn't moved, hadn't reacted, as if none of this concerned him in the slightest. As if he hadn't just torn apart their confidence and put them all in their place.

Even now, he wasn't gloating. He wasn't doing anything.

But that was what made it so frustrating.

He was utterly, completely, and infuriatingly unbothered.

Amberine exhaled slowly, forcing herself to lean back. Maybe Elara was right—maybe she should just ask. But Draven wasn't the kind of person you could just ask things. He didn't give explanations. He didn't offer clarity. He simply did whatever he was going to do, and everyone else had to deal with the consequences.

The silence stretched between them, thick and unspoken.

Then, a knock at the door.

Amberine stiffened.

Something in the air shifted.

Draven's gaze flicked up, sharp as a knife. He wasn't surprised—but his focus was instant, precise. He didn't speak immediately, didn't move. For a second, the room itself felt like it had tightened, like the walls were holding their breath.

Then, finally—

"Enter," he said.

The door opened.

Yuli stepped in, her expression unreadable as always. She moved with the same measured grace she always did, posture perfect, her crisp uniform pristine. The presence of Draven's assistant wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the fact that she was carrying something.

A letter.

Amberine's stomach twisted for reasons she couldn't explain.

Yuli stopped a few feet from Draven's desk and extended the letter forward. Her fingers were steady, but there was something in her gaze—something hard, something careful.

Draven took it without a word.

The seal was black.

A heavy wax impression sat upon the parchment, bearing a crest Amberine had seen only a few times in her life. She didn't even need to see the details to recognize it.

The Magic Council.

Her breath hitched.

Maris noticed it, too. Amberine saw the moment her relaxed demeanor stiffened, the way her smirk disappeared just slightly.

Even Elara, unshakable as she was, sat a little straighter.

Amberine tried to reason with herself. It could be anything. The Council sent letters to professors all the time. It could be about research. It could be about a policy change.

But deep down, she knew.

It wasn't.

Draven didn't open the letter.

Instead, he ran his fingers over the seal, thumb and index resting against the wax, but not breaking it. His eyes flickered with something unreadable.

He already knew what it was.

Amberine swallowed.

Yuli didn't elaborate. She stood motionless, her back straight, her voice perfectly composed. "The Council expects a response by tomorrow."

Draven didn't nod. Didn't acknowledge it. He just set the letter down, untouched, atop his notes.

A small, deliberate action.

One that said this wasn't urgent.

One that said this wasn't unexpected.

One that said he already knew.

Yuli didn't press further. She inclined her head, then turned to leave.

Amberine felt something cold creep into her spine.

She exchanged glances with Maris. Elara shifted slightly in her seat, her gaze unreadable.

None of them spoke.

But the same thought passed through their minds.

Something was about to change.

_____

Amberine left the hall, but unease coiled around her like a lingering flame, refusing to die out no matter how many steps she took away from the lecture room. She pressed her books tighter to her chest, her thoughts churning with questions and half-formed suspicions. The memory of Draven casually slipping the letter into his notes, his eyes betraying no emotion, kept flashing through her mind. The way Yuli had stood there—calm, composed, utterly unperturbed by the tension—also unsettled her. Anyone else would've flinched beneath the collective weight of the rumors swirling around Draven, but not Yuli. Not him, either.

She tried to shrug it off, but it clung to her like a stubborn ember. Lady Sharon's death, the rumors of Draven's involvement, the sealed missive from the Magic Council—none of it felt normal. Amberine clenched her fists, forcing down a groan of frustration. She hated not knowing. She hated feeling like an outsider to events that might upend everything she understood about the Magic Tower, about Draven, and possibly about the entire kingdom.

Elara and Maris had gone their separate ways, each weighed by their own thoughts. Maris had offered a sympathetic look and a pat on the shoulder, while Elara had given a curt nod before disappearing down another corridor. Amberine found herself wandering aimlessly until her feet guided her to the archives. It wasn't entirely surprising; if there were answers to be found, it would be in those dusty shelves of restricted knowledge.

The restricted archives loomed before her, a pair of heavy oak doors carved with intricate runes. She paused, considering her options. She could wait, try to pry the truth directly from Draven's lips—but that was an exercise in futility. He was a master of half-truths, of saying just enough to twist your thoughts in a knot. Or… she could rely on something that didn't lie: records, documents, and official reports.

She pushed open the door and came face-to-face with the Archive Keeper. He was tall, gaunt, with narrow eyes peering out from behind half-moon spectacles. His presence was nearly as intimidating as any of the tower's professors—a silent guardian of secrets. She tried not to flinch under his scrutinizing stare.

"Restricted section," he said flatly. "No entry without faculty authorization."

Amberine forced a disarming smile, clearing her throat. "Professor Draven sent me," she lied, or half-lied. She was, after all, Draven's student—maybe that was enough. "Said I needed to do some research on advanced necromantic theory."

The old man's stare didn't waver. She could almost feel him weighing her words, dissecting her expression. Time stretched uncomfortably, her heart drumming in her chest. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose and stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter.

"I see," he murmured. "Then you have limited time."

She didn't wait for him to change his mind, slipping past him and into the musty corridors of towering shelves. The smell of old parchment, mildew, and candle wax was overpowering, and dust motes danced in the dim light of arcane sconces set high in the stone walls. She coughed softly, moving deeper, scanning the spines of ancient tomes for anything that might hint at the Magic Council's interest in Draven.

She found an entire section dedicated to noble families, meticulously cataloged. Her gaze flicked over names, some of which she recognized—Aradia, Andria, the lesser houses. And there, near the end of the shelf: Drakhan. Her pulse quickened, and she slid the volume free.

It was old, the leather cover cracked with age, but the crest—an imposing raven set against a swirling storm—was unmistakable. She turned the pages carefully, fingers trembling a bit. Mentions of Draven's father—unconfirmed sightings, rumors of involvement in clandestine affairs—jumped out immediately. Then, a few pages later, a cryptic reference to "The Last Executioner." Amberine's heart lurched. She had heard that phrase whispered once in hushed tones by older students. Some sort of title within the Drakhan family, a mantle passed down through blood. She wasn't sure how it tied in, but it gave her a cold feeling, as though the ghost of something dreadful hovered just beyond her comprehension.

She read on, flipping carefully through the fragile pages. Then she saw it: The Gravekeepers of Regaria. The text was sparse, the lines fragmented as though someone had tried to erase them from history. But enough remained to paint a picture: a secretive order rumored to guard forbidden knowledge. Some accounts described them as silent assassins; others called them caretakers of the kingdom's darkest secrets. The Drakhan family, it seemed, had some tie to them—an alliance or a membership, it wasn't entirely clear.

She was so engrossed she barely noticed the soft glow that pulsed at her side until it spoke.

"You're going to get yourself killed, you know," came a small, sardonic voice.

Amberine jerked, nearly dropping the book. She turned to see Ifrit, her fire spirit companion, floating beside her. A swirl of embers formed his barely humanoid outline, flickering gold and red. His tone was wry, tinged with a hint of reproach.

"You always say that," she snapped, though not unkindly. Ifrit had a habit of scolding her whenever she edged into dangerous territory, which was often.

"If I say it enough, maybe you'll listen," Ifrit replied. "These are Draven's secrets. Do you really think he won't notice you prying?"

Amberine hesitated, closing the old tome with careful hands. "I have to know," she murmured, glancing around as if the shadows might be listening. "This letter, the rumors about Lady Sharon, the Council… It's all connected, I can feel it." She swallowed hard, recalling Draven's calm, indifferent face as he'd taken the Council's sealed message in the lecture hall. "And I can't just wait around for him to drop answers on my lap."

Ifrit's eyes, such as they were, flickered with embers of doubt. "He's not going to thank you for this."

She shrugged, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm not doing it for him." Her voice dropped lower. "I'm doing it because something's wrong here. Something big."

Before Ifrit could respond, a voice echoed across the archive entrance—a single statement that cut the air like a blade.

"As expected," the Archive Keeper murmured. "She came here."