The Villain Professor's Second Chance

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.

I used an illusionary feint: a faint shimmer that made it seem as though my left hand had conjured a spark of flame aimed at their face. Instinctively, they flinched and shifted their arm up to guard. I caught their wrist mid-strike, twisting the joint just enough to disarm them. Their dagger rattled against the marble floor.

They gasped, a sharp intake of breath as pain flared. I angled my blade against their ribs, the steel pressing into the shadowy fabric with enough force to remind them who had the upper hand.

For a moment, the two of us stood locked in a deadly tableau. Their free hand trembled slightly, fingers curled as if wondering whether to attempt a final, desperate push. My own adrenaline sang, the primal urge to finish this surging beneath my calm. One thrust, one decisive motion, and it would be over.

I hesitated.

Killing them here would yield no information. And the fact that they hadn't spoken meant they were under strict orders—capture me, or eliminate me if capture was impossible. But something about their manner said they preferred not to kill me outright. The soul-binding enchantment was a clue; they wanted me immobilized, not dead. That was worth exploring.

Still pressing my blade against their side, I met their masked gaze. "Who sent you?" I asked quietly.

They didn't reply.

Not surprising. Loyalty or compulsion? Hard to say.

I measured my next move, considering the possibility of incapacitating them and extracting information. But before I could decide, I sensed a shift in their stance—a flicker of will. They were about to break free, willing to accept injury if it meant escape.

They wrenched their arm away, tearing flesh against the metal. A quick spin distanced them from me, and I saw the dark stain of blood seeping through their robe. It wasn't fatal, but it would slow them down if they didn't flee immediately.

They made their choice, turning on their heel in a graceful arc and darting back the way they'd come. I might have pursued if I didn't value the stillness of this place—and the knowledge it contained. An extended chase through the archive was bound to cause destruction, and I'd already set off enough alarms by simply existing where I didn't belong.

So I let them go.

A soft clang drew my attention to the floor. The assassin's enchanted dagger had been left behind, still humming with residual magic. I stooped to retrieve it, holding it carefully by the hilt. The pale glow pulsated, the runes etched into the metal still potent. This was fine craftsmanship, not the crude enchantment used by petty mercenaries. Someone had invested time and resources to arm their operative with a soul-binding blade.

My gaze drifted to the pommel, where a small engraving caught the candlelight. I angled it closer, narrowing my eyes as I made out the symbol—a stylized raven in flight, wings curved into the shape of a crescent.

I knew that mark.

The Gravekeepers.

The implications unfolded quickly. The Gravekeepers had ties to Belisarius's supposed execution, and they'd made certain the Tower's records were carefully expunged, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace for me to find. That single name, Belisarius Drakhan, had already cracked open a series of unsettling questions about my memory and the nature of this world. Now, the involvement of the Gravekeepers raised the stakes even further. Everything I'd uncovered was pointing toward a shadowy design that predated both the Magic Council and the Tower itself. Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised me. Whenever there was something old and dangerous stirring, the Gravekeepers always surfaced in half-forgotten legends.

Still, the knowledge that they were actively watching me added another layer of complexity. The Council believed they held the reins—manipulating events with a black-sealed letter, sending me on a wild chase after necromancers in Valen's Reach. They might have planned to corral me with official orders, ensuring I stayed within the boundaries of their grand design. But while the Council saw me as a problematic piece on their board, the Gravekeepers had already moved into position for a different endgame entirely.

I felt a rare smirk curl my lips. Let them all watch. Let them believe they could contain or outmaneuver me. The mere thought that multiple factions were trying to pull my strings only served to sharpen my focus. The truth was, I'd never been one to dance to someone else's tune, and if they insisted on trying, I'd make them regret it.

I slipped the captured dagger into my coat, the faint hum of its lingering magic a testament to the skill of its enchantment. The runes etched along the blade's edge still glowed softly, as though hungry for a chance to bind another soul. Even if I wasn't entirely sure yet how I'd use it, keeping a weapon forged by one's enemies was never a wasted opportunity. I liked the symbolism of it: turning the assassin's own tool into something I could later exploit.

The corridors outside the archive were silent when I emerged, my footsteps echoing against the polished floors. It was late, too late for the usual bustle of students or faculty members to fill these halls with their ambitions and rivalries. Now the Tower lay mostly dormant, save for a few wandering instructors or night-duty wards. But I remained cautious; the assassin had proven that the Gravekeepers could slip in and out without stirring alarm. There was no guarantee that others weren't lying in wait.

The next corner took me past a set of tall windows overlooking the courtyard. Moonlight poured in, illuminating the mosaic tiles that depicted Regaria's founding myths. In that silvery glow, the arcane runes in the stained glass shimmered faintly, reminiscent of the wards woven into the Tower's architecture. I couldn't help but reflect on how these wards, this entire fortress of magical knowledge, was built to safeguard the realm's arcane might from external threats. And yet, time and again, the real dangers came from within—hidden conspiracies, ancient orders, old grudges that refused to die.

I continued through the labyrinthine corridors, my posture relaxed but my senses keen. My mind was already assembling the puzzle pieces: Belisarius's name reappearing after all these years, his execution records tampered with, the Gravekeeper's sigil carved onto the hilt of a dagger designed to capture me alive. From personal experience, I knew the Gravekeepers rarely made direct moves unless something threatened the secrets they guarded. So, had they intervened back when I first killed Belisarius, or were they simply capitalizing on an opportunity that arose after his so-called death?

The question led me back to the notion that Belisarius might have been resurrected—or never truly killed in the first place. My memory told me I'd ended him, but those memories came with the same sense of detachment I'd always struggled to explain. I remembered Draven's experiences, but they weren't intrinsically mine. They were glimpses, vantage points that felt half-coded into my mind. Could it be that I'd misunderstood something? If the Gravekeepers had intervened at the moment of his death, they might have prevented the fatal blow from truly claiming him, leaving me to believe that I'd succeeded in a final strike. It wouldn't be the first time forbidden arts warped the boundaries of life and death.

I mulled over the possibility as I descended a spiral staircase leading toward the Tower's main exit. The air grew progressively colder, the raw chill of the night pressing through the stone. My coat wasn't thick, but I scarcely felt the temperature. My mind was too occupied. The Gravekeepers. Belisarius. The single most troubling fact: this presence in my world that I never recalled from the game's script, if this was indeed some script at all.

An unwelcome flicker of doubt crept through me—what if none of my knowledge about how things were "supposed" to proceed was accurate any longer? If events were diverging from the path I knew, then my advantage might be slipping away. It was a sobering thought. In every confrontation so far, I'd leveraged that knowledge to anticipate outcomes, yet the reappearance of Belisarius undermined that entire premise. I forced the doubt aside. Regardless of whether the world still followed those scripted lines, the only real option was to adapt.

When I finally reached the Tower's grand foyer, I found it deserted. Rows of pillars stretched into the darkness, the faint glow of the floating sconces throwing elongated shadows across the marble floor. A single guard might patrol this area at night, a senior apprentice wearing the Tower's emblem. Perhaps they were on rounds elsewhere, or asleep at their post. A common lapse. This place was seldom threatened from without; the real dangers were always locked inside.

I paused near the massive double doors leading out into the courtyard, letting my gaze sweep the area a final time. No sign of watchers. No hidden footsteps echoing in the gloom. Satisfied, I pushed the doors open.
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A rush of cold air greeted me as I stepped outside. The sky was a deep, inky black, threaded with stars that seemed unnaturally bright against the darkness. Beyond the Tower's courtyard walls, I caught a glimpse of the city's distant lights. Velithor, the capital of Regaria, was still alive even at this hour, torches and lanterns marking the roads and alleyways. Somewhere among those winding streets lay the path to my next step. My feet crunched over gravel as I crossed the courtyard, mind churning over everything I'd learned.

If the Gravekeepers were truly behind Belisarius's disappearance, then there was only one person who might offer a clearer perspective on their motives: Lorik the Unbound. The man had earned his moniker by severing all ties to the formal magical communities decades ago, delving deep into the underbelly of arcane knowledge until the Council declared him an enemy of the realm. Yet they'd never quite managed to catch him. Now he existed in the murky shadows of the kingdom, drifting from one clandestine haunt to another, selling scraps of forgotten lore to the highest bidder.

Most would call him untrustworthy at best, a snake who'd slip poison into your cup if he thought he could profit from it. But Lorik owed me. The details of our arrangement were something I preferred not to recall often—too many moral compromises, too many nights spent covering my tracks. Still, a debt was a debt, and I was counting on that to pry the truth from his lips. Whether or not he liked me was irrelevant. He would not refuse me.

But locating him would be a challenge. His whereabouts were never fixed, rumor placing him in a half-dozen cities at once. Some said he hid among the crime syndicates of the port towns, others insisted he haunted the labyrinthine catacombs beneath the desert fortress of Aradia. A man like Lorik thrived on rumor and obfuscation. Yet I possessed resources beyond rumor. Connections in the capital's underworld, old contacts among disillusioned scholars who'd parted ways with the Tower. More importantly, I had patience. And I doubted Lorik would remain hidden for long, not once he sensed the Gravekeepers' interest. He had a habit of showing up wherever old secrets threatened to resurface.

A stray gust of wind tugged at my coat, and I glanced over my shoulder at the looming silhouette of the Magic Tower University. It stood like a silent monolith against the starlit sky, its spires reaching upward as though grasping for cosmic knowledge. Somewhere in those spires, professors and students slept, dreaming of lesser ambitions—research grants, new spells, academic accolades. They had no inkling of the deeper currents swirling beneath the surface of Regaria's politics, nor did they realize how close those hidden currents were to dragging the entire kingdom into chaos. For them, the night would pass uneventfully. But for me, it marked a turning point.

The fight in the archive, the infiltration of the Shadow Archive, the revelation of Belisarius's redacted death—none of that would remain secret for long. In the morning, someone would discover the traces of combat. Word would spread. Perhaps the Gravekeepers would try another approach to silence me, or the Council might catch wind of my incursion and decide it was time to tighten their grip. No matter which way events unfolded, I planned on staying three steps ahead.

A wry smile touched my lips again, though this one lacked real warmth. Once, I might have been content to let the Tower and the Council play their games of control, so long as I kept my freedom. But this was personal. Belisarius should have been gone for good. The Gravekeepers had meddled, or twisted fate, or done something that allowed him to remain in this world. Now I needed answers. If that meant tearing open the old pacts and rummaging through the darkest corners of Regaria's underbelly, so be it.

Let the game begin.