The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"The Gravekeeper's Pact: Some deaths are not meant to be eternal."

The words settled into me like a blade slipping between ribs, slow and deliberate. Experience new tales on My Virtual Library Empire

I had read about the Gravekeepers once, long ago. A secretive order. A faction that had existed before Regaria's founding, before the Magic Tower had been built, before the Council had ever held power. Their purpose had never been fully understood, only whispered about in old texts. Some believed they were assassins, others that they were custodians of lost knowledge.

But one thing had always remained consistent.

They did not believe in permanent death.

My fingers hovered over the inscription, thoughts racing through every implication. If the Gravekeepers had been involved in Belisarius's execution—if they had tampered with his death—then it meant two things.

One, his survival had not been accidental.

Two, someone had deliberately ensured that I would not remember the truth.

A cold, calculating part of me settled into place. The weight of uncertainty had gnawed at me for too long, but now I had something tangible. A direction. A lead.

I closed the book, the worn leather cool against my fingertips.

The world had changed. Or maybe, it had always been this way, and I had simply refused to see it.

Either way, it didn't matter.

Because now, I was going to find out the truth.

A quiet hum of realization settled in my chest, the kind that made every sense feel suddenly heightened. The ledger I held—its worn leather binding etched with the Drakhan sigil—contained just enough evidence to confirm I wasn't chasing illusions. Someone had interfered with Belisarius's execution record, and not just any random scribe. The craftsmanship of those redactions was far too deliberate, meticulously wiping away everything but the barest mention of his name. Whoever did this wanted me to find a trail, but not the entire truth.

I should have been more concerned about the significance of that phrase—"The Gravekeeper's Pact: Some deaths are not meant to be eternal"—but my immediate attention snapped elsewhere. The air itself shifted, going still as though it were holding its breath. To most, that subtle quiver might have gone unnoticed. But I had spent far too many nights honing my awareness of unseen threats to miss it.

Someone was here.

I didn't turn around immediately. Instead, I let my free hand rest on the book, keeping my posture relaxed—disinterested, even. Indifference had always been my shield, a deliberate calm that masked the coil of tension ready to unspool in an instant. My heart rate didn't spike, nor did I feel the rush of panic. There was only calculation, a distant curiosity about who would be foolish enough to confront me in this place.

My fingers tightened imperceptibly on the ledger. Magic gently pricked at the edges of my consciousness, a small surge of energy coiled within my core, ready for release if I needed it. Some might call it overkill to prepare a spell before knowing the threat, but I had learned the hard way that waiting for clarity could be a lethal mistake.

I closed the ledger softly, as if concluding my research, feigning that I was oblivious to the presence behind me. In my peripheral vision, I caught a hint of movement—a shift in shadow, perhaps a stirring of cloth against stone. The subtlest reflection of candlelight against metal flickered in the corner of my eye.

A weapon, angled at my neck.

My opponent moved with impressive speed, crossing the short distance before an ordinary man could even gasp. But I was no ordinary man. The instant they lunged, I pivoted on the ball of my foot, letting the blade whistle past my throat. The assassin's momentum carried them forward, a silent blur of black robes woven with enchantments that dampened sound. Even so, I heard the faintest rasp of steel slicing empty air.

I dropped the ledger, freeing both hands. My coat fanned out behind me, the motion a deliberate flourish to obscure the lower half of my body. While that swirl of fabric briefly filled their field of vision, I read their stance—balanced on the balls of their feet, left hand extended, a short dagger in their right. The blade glowed with a sickly, pale light, the telltale sign of a soul-binding enchantment designed to lock a target in place, paralyze them with a single cut.

I recognized the aura instantly. If that dagger so much as grazed my skin, my limbs would seize. That alone told me this wasn't a simple killer or a mindless hired blade. This was precision work. They wanted me subdued, not necessarily dead—at least not yet.

My own blade found its way into my hand, a fluid motion born of countless repetitions. The steel glimmered under the faint torchlight, and I stepped back, forcing the assassin to readjust their angle of attack. They responded instantly, sweeping forward with a low strike aimed at my ribs. I deflected it with a downward parry, the clash of metal reverberating through the silent archive. Sparks flew, momentarily illuminating the assassin's mask—smooth, featureless save for two narrow eye slits.

No words, no demands. They were here for one purpose.

I gauged their height and build in the fleeting flashes of steel. Slender, perhaps slightly shorter than me. Shoulders tense, but posture well-trained. The mask revealed nothing of their face, only a glint of unwavering focus in their eyes. The way they moved told me they weren't new to this dance. Every attack was swift, precise—no wasted motion, no second-guessing. They were every inch the professional.

They lunged again, this time aiming for my shoulder. I pivoted, letting the blade pass harmlessly, and attempted a quick slash at their exposed back. They twisted away with unnerving agility, using a half-turn that spoke of years of practice.

My mind raced, analyzing the fight as it unfolded. They seemed more inclined toward swift, continuous strikes than a single finishing blow. That meant they likely relied on the soul-binding enchantment. One nick, one shallow cut, would end me. But there was a cost to that tactic: it forced them to stay close, to keep up the pressure, hoping I'd slip eventually.

I had no intention of slipping.

I feinted left, letting the tip of my blade faintly glimmer with illusion magic. The assassin reacted, raising their dagger to block a strike that didn't exist. With that split-second opening, I aimed a kick at their midsection, intending to knock them off balance. They saw it coming, turning their body at an angle that minimized impact. It still connected, pushing them back a few steps, but not enough to create a decisive advantage.

They recovered with a deft roll, and I used the moment to gather a thread of mana between my fingers. I toyed with the idea of unleashing a direct offensive spell—a small blast of concussive force to send them sprawling. But the archive was lined with fragile tomes, centuries-old histories and knowledge that could be destroyed by careless magic. I couldn't risk that.

So I measured my energy use, spinning the thread of mana into something more subtle. An illusion. A wisp of deceptive light flickered at the corner of the assassin's vision, drawing their gaze for just an instant. They hesitated—enough for me to close the distance, blade at the ready.

They noticed too late, raising the dagger in a desperate defense. Metal sang against metal as I forced their arm to the side. It was then I caught a clearer glimpse of their eyes behind the mask: a steady, unwavering calm, tinged with something like grim determination. They weren't panicking. They were calculating, the same way I was.

My eyes flicked to their mouth—though mostly hidden by the mask, I noticed a slight parting of the lips. Shallow breathing, either from exertion or a hint of nerves. The posture of their shoulders told me they were planning another offensive surge. Their weight shifted subtly, preparing for a forward lunge.

They came at me again. This time, the dagger's glow intensified, that enchantment's hum sending a tingle across the nape of my neck. I recognized the strategy: aim a near miss at my arm, force me to evade, then clip me in the movement. It was a skilled approach, but I'd seen similar tactics in other soul-binding assassinations.

I turned sideways, letting the blade graze the air inches from my sleeve, then swept my own blade toward their elbow. They pulled back, allowing me to see a small overextension in the rotation of their wrist. A fraction of a second too slow.

That was all I needed.