The Villain Professor's Second Chance

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

Amberine froze, entire body tensing. Slowly, she turned to see the man stepping back into view, his figure half in the shadows of the archway. But something was off. His posture was different, his features shifting in subtle ways that defied logic—like melting wax, rearranging itself. She gasped, stumbling a step back, the old tome clutched to her chest.

In an instant, the man's face contorted, the shape of him changing, reforming, until the Archive Keeper was gone—replaced by Draven.

She stared, heart hammering in her throat. Ifrit hissed, flickering with heated alarm. Draven regarded her with a single, cold glance. His usual immaculate attire, the same unreadable expression, the same sharp eyes that seemed to peer into her very soul. She couldn't even form words for a second, caught between shock and a bizarre sense of betrayal. He'd been here the whole time, letting her walk into her own snooping.

His gaze drifted to the tome in her arms, then to the letter still in his grasp, its seal unbroken. A slow, almost inaudible exhale escaped his lips.

"I suppose it's time to go."

_____

The chamber was cold, illuminated by the soft glow of arcane runes that pulsed along the marble walls with a steady, throbbing rhythm. Each rune had been etched by masters of old—painstaking work that left a faint trace of history in every line. Even now, I could almost feel the echoes of the magic they once contained, an undercurrent that hummed against my senses. Sometimes I wondered how many secret gatherings these walls had witnessed, how many deals and betrayals had played out under this exact lighting. But I suppose I'd grown indifferent to such thoughts over time. When you deal with people who believe themselves omnipotent, you stop marveling at their stage settings.

Five figures sat at a circular table in the center, arranged like the points of a star. Each wore the ceremonial robes of their station, though the subtle variations in cut and color betrayed their regional allegiances. They regarded me with caution, yes, and calculation—plenty of that. Their eyes flicked over my coat, my hands, my posture, trying to discern hints of my mood or intentions. I recognized every shade of tension in the lines of their shoulders, the tightness in their lips. It was the same expression people wore when confronted with a storm they believed they couldn't outrun.

I had expected the summons. The letter, with its black wax seal, was never going to be a mere courtesy note. If the Magic Council bothered to make it formal, it meant they had decided something needed to be done about me. Or at least about the rumors swirling in the wake of Sharon's death. But I'd played this game before, and I wasn't concerned.

They let me stand. Fine. I preferred not to pretend deference.

As always, Chancellor Lisanor spoke first. A tall woman, regal in bearing, with hair bound in a neat coil at the nape of her neck. The violet sash draped across her front marked her as a pyromancer from Aradia, a land of searing deserts and blazing suns. I could see the edge of tension in her stance—she held her shoulders unnaturally stiff, as though preparing for conflict. The subtle glint in her bronze eyes told me she wasn't convinced of my innocence. She believed every rumor, every whisper that pinned Sharon's death on me. Her hostility was almost palpable, radiating from her in silent waves.

"Your actions have created ripples across the continent," Lisanor said, her voice carrying that unmistakable note of righteous disapproval. She was the kind of person who wore her moral code like armor, thick and shining. She placed her manicured hands on the table, leaning forward just enough to appear in control.

I leaned back slightly, unbothered. "Have they?" I let a faint hint of amusement creep into my tone. It always unnerved them when I sounded so calm.

"Sophie von Icevern has formally demanded justice," she continued. It was clear she wanted a reaction from me—some flicker of guilt, perhaps, or a sign that I cared. She wouldn't get it.

Justice. The word held little meaning to me, especially in a room where real power was measured in how effectively one could maneuver, not in how righteously one could claim the moral high ground.

"And what does the Council intend to do?" I asked. My voice echoed slightly in the cold chamber, brushing against the swirling runes. I studied them in return: Balthus, the historian from Andria, short and stout with a face etched by decades of wading through dusty archives. Elysior, an enigmatic chronomancer whose eyes always seemed faraway, like he was tracking events that hadn't happened yet. Two others, less prominent—junior members or stand-ins for absent councilors, perhaps. They watched me with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

Lisanor's gaze narrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face, though she mastered it quickly. The lines around her mouth tightened, revealing that my indifference grated on her. "You are an asset to the Magic Tower University… but assets must be managed."

A thinly veiled threat. Of course. They wanted me to know that while they appreciated my talents, I was stepping out of bounds. Perhaps it was Lady Sharon's death, or perhaps it was the bigger puzzle they suspected I was piecing together behind their backs. Or maybe they thought I was becoming too visible, too uncontrollable.

Another council member, Balthus, shifted in his seat. He was an older man, graying at the temples, with a soft voice that belied the steel in his eyes. He cleared his throat. "We have reason to believe forces beyond our kingdom are watching you." He was more diplomatic than Lisanor, yet the weight behind his words was no less potent.

I remained silent. Let them speak. Silence was an advantage, sometimes more cutting than any retort.

"Your presence at Aetherion was… noted," said Elysior. He was younger than the rest, her hair pulled into tight braids, and her gaze flickered with a subtle glow that suggested her chronomancy was always active. He stared at me like I was a knot in time, something that shouldn't be there. Or perhaps something fated to happen. I didn't care for either possibility.

Ah. There it is. Aetherion had been an unfortunate necessity. My involvement had been quiet, or so I believed, but clearly, these people had eyes everywhere. They weren't concerned about Sharon. They were concerned about me. They were worried about what I did at Aetherion, about the potential ramifications if my name got attached to certain events. Possibly something about the artifacts retrieved, or the old secrets that might have surfaced. I could speculate for hours, but speculation was a waste of time.

I met Lisanor's gaze. She didn't flinch. I admired that, grudgingly. "If you have a request, make it. Otherwise, I have better things to do."

The tension in the room thickened. A breathless pause. The council exchanged glances. They'd expected me to be more contrite, perhaps to justify my presence at Aetherion or to plead my case regarding Lady Sharon. They didn't know me well enough. I had no intention of wasting breath on needless defense.

Finally, Lisanor shifted in her seat. She placed her hands together. "The Council is ordering you to investigate a rising faction within the northern territories."

A direct order, then. So that was it: they wanted my cooperation in exchange for quietly ignoring the turmoil around Sharon. The Magic Council might posture, but they were neither foolish nor merciful. They recognized a threat they couldn't face alone, and they needed me—someone capable of dealing with dirty business without leaving too many traces. They needed a scapegoat, or a tool, or perhaps both.

I tilted my head, letting a hint of curiosity show. "A faction?"

"Rumors suggest necromancers are gathering in the ruins of Valen's Reach," Balthus supplied, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. He opened a leather-bound folder in front of him, producing a set of documents that looked well-handled, corners dog-eared from repeated perusal. He pushed them across the table. "We have incomplete information, but the threat is… concerning."

Necromancers? Or something else entirely? I reached out, flipping the folder open. Immediately, I recognized a few names: known dabblers in forbidden magic, petty criminals, rogue sorcerers who'd vanished from official rosters. But then there were names I'd never encountered, which suggested a hidden network. Addresses, safe houses, possible meeting points. Marked hideouts scattered across the northern territories, connected by cryptic references to a group with more significant reach than your usual necromancer coven.

And then—

A familiar name.

My grip on the paper tightened just slightly, an involuntary reaction I hoped none of them caught. But Lisanor was perceptive, and her gaze flicked to my knuckles, noticing the tension. I didn't care. My mind was racing with the implications. This name. They shouldn't be alive. That part of my life was supposed to be buried. Sensing my brief reaction, Lisanor's eyes narrowed in curiosity and faint triumph, as if she'd found a crack in my armor.

I forced my expression back to neutral and exhaled slowly, closing the file. "Fine." Explore more at My Virtual Library Empire

"Fine?" repeated Lisanor. Her lips parted slightly, almost in surprise. She had expected more resistance, more negotiation, perhaps an argument. "You accept?"

I met her gaze, letting my voice remain cold and calculated. "But I choose my own methods." I made it clear I wasn't a servant to the Council's whims. They could outline the mission, but the how belonged to me.

She didn't protest. Maybe she knew better than to press that issue. The others watched in silence. Balthus was stone-faced, Elysior was unreadable but for that faint hum of chronomantic energy swirling behind his eyes. The junior councilors looked tense, shifting in their seats like uncertain cadets. They'd heard the rumors; they knew I was no friend to pointless bureaucracy.

I stood, the weight of the mission pressing against my mind. My mind replayed that single name from the dossier, the one that should've been lost to memory. A swirl of half-buried regrets and old resentments stirred in my chest, but I clamped down on them immediately. There was no place for emotion in this. If the Council expected me to handle a necromancer uprising, I would do so. If it required dealing with ghosts from my past, well, I'd handle that, too. Efficiency was everything.

Lisanor remained seated, watching me with thinly veiled suspicion. She still believed I'd murdered Sharon for no reason. She'd probably love to see me dragged before some tribunal, forced to justify myself. She might even imagine that this assignment was the perfect opportunity to rid herself of me if I happened to fail. I saw it in the set of her jaw, the way her nails tapped against the table in barely-contained frustration. But outwardly, she kept her composure.

I gave her a small incline of my head—mock politeness—and turned away. My footsteps echoed in the hush, the runes on the walls pulsing in the corners of my vision, as if alive and curious about my next move. The council members parted their gazes, some returning to their notes, others still tracking my exit, presumably to see if I might reveal any last-second vulnerability.

I spared them nothing. Because there was nothing to spare.

The heavy doors loomed before me. As I pulled one open, I felt the swirl of magical wards brushing past, acknowledging my identity. This was a high-security chamber, after all—only the Council and a few others had the right to be here. Outside, the corridor was just as cold, the air tinted with the faint smell of ozone typical of high-level enchantments. My heart was steady, my breathing controlled. I was already planning my next steps.

They wanted me to handle a necromancer threat. So be it. I would leave soon, gather what I needed. The mention of that name, though, the one that shouldn't be alive—it simmered in my thoughts. A piece of me almost welcomed the confrontation. Answers, resolution, or perhaps just tying up loose ends I thought had been cut long ago.

A storm was coming. The Council's directives, Sophie's demand for justice, the rumors that refused to die—factors converging toward a single point in time. Usually, I was the one orchestrating events from behind the scenes. Usually, I held the strings. But now, I sensed something bigger at play. Something that threatened to shift the delicate balance I had so carefully maintained.

And for once, I might not be the one controlling it.