The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"Rellios... taken... North." He coughed, a wet, gurgling sound, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His breathing was labored, his body trembling with the effort to speak. "They... knew you'd come."

Kael stiffened, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger. The weight of those words settled in his chest like lead.

They knew.

A sudden hush fell over the ruins of the watchtower, pressing down on them like an unseen force. The distant rustling of leaves ceased, the air growing unnaturally still. A prickling sensation crawled up Kael's spine, the kind that came right before an ambush. Instinct screamed at him—move.

Then, the air shifted.

The mist thickened, swirling unnaturally at the edges of his vision. Shadows stretched and twisted, shapes forming where there had been nothing but empty space before. Liora was already moving, his blade flashing as he spun, his sharp eyes scanning the darkness.

Kael barely had time to react before the figures emerged.

They moved without sound, their dark cloaks blending seamlessly into the night. Their faces were hidden beneath deep hoods, but their presence was undeniable. They weren't just assassins—they were hunters. The way they carried themselves, the measured precision of their steps, the effortless way they adjusted to the terrain… These were professionals.

And they came to kill.

Kael's dagger was in his hand before he even registered drawing it. The first assassin lunged, their blade gleaming with an unnatural sheen, the edge lined with faint, flickering blue runes. A cursed weapon.

Kael twisted, dodging the strike by a hair's breadth. The air where the blade had passed crackled with cold, a sharp contrast to the night's usual damp chill. He countered with a sharp, upward slash, his blade meeting resistance as it scraped against reinforced leather armor.

His attacker barely flinched.

Kael didn't hesitate. He kicked out, slamming his boot into the assassin's midsection, forcing them back a step. But they recovered unnervingly fast, their next strike aimed directly at his throat.

Liora was a blur beside him, his twin daggers flashing as he met another opponent. Sparks flew as steel met steel, their weapons clashing in a flurry of rapid strikes. Liora fought like a predator—fluid, deliberate, every movement designed to kill or mislead. He twisted around a downward slash, one blade deflecting while the other drove toward the assassin's ribs.

Blocked.

The enemy was fast.

Liora clicked his tongue in irritation but adapted immediately, shifting his weight, changing his approach. Continue reading at My Virtual Library Empire

Kael barely had a moment to breathe before another assassin joined the fray, their curved blade whispering through the air. He ducked, narrowly avoiding decapitation, rolling to the side before springing to his feet.

Too many.

The assassins fought in eerie silence. No shouts, no curses, no battle cries—just the whisper of blades cutting through air, the crunch of boots against stone, the occasional sharp intake of breath when an attack landed.

Then the raven screamed.

The sound split the air, high-pitched and unnatural, an echo that carried far beyond the confines of the ruined watchtower. It wasn't the cry of a normal bird—it was something deeper, something older.

Kael felt the chill of it settle in his bones.

The assassins faltered. Just for a fraction of a second.

But a fraction of a second was all he and Liora needed.

Kael struck fast, catching his attacker off-guard, his dagger finding flesh. The assassin jerked back, a sharp intake of breath their only acknowledgment of pain.

Liora wasn't any slower. His blade flashed, catching his opponent across the thigh. A crippling blow, if only the bastard had the decency to fall.

They didn't.

They were trained to withstand pain, to keep fighting despite wounds that would cripple lesser warriors.

Kael readjusted his stance, readying himself for the next attack—but before he could move, something dropped from above.

A figure.

They landed in a crouch between them and the assassins, moving with impossible fluidity. Their cloak barely stirred despite the impact, their movements so controlled it was as if they had simply materialized from the air itself.

The assassins hesitated.

Kael barely caught a glimpse of the newcomer before they moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

They weaved through the assassins like a shadow given form, their strikes precise, almost surgical. One assassin fell before they could react, their throat slit in a single, effortless motion. Another tried to counter, but the figure sidestepped easily, twisting their opponent's weapon arm at an unnatural angle before driving a blade into their back.

It was over in seconds.

The final assassin staggered, realizing too late that they were the last one standing. The masked figure tilted their head slightly, almost as if assessing them.

Then they moved.

The assassin barely had time to react before a blade found their heart. A quiet, clean kill.

Silence.

Kael stood frozen, his breath coming in sharp, controlled inhales.

Liora, to his credit, didn't immediately attack the newcomer. He stood at ease, but his grip on his daggers remained tight.

The masked figure straightened, their face hidden beneath a dark hood. They did not speak. Did not linger.

They simply turned, raising a single hand.

And pointed north.

Then, without a word, they vanished.

Kael let out a slow breath. His pulse still hammered in his chest, his body taut with the remnants of adrenaline.

"What the hell was that?" he muttered, not expecting an answer.

Liora exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Well," he said, smirking, though there was no humor in it. "You're getting used to it."

The raven cawed again, circling overhead before taking off once more.

The old monastery was forgotten, swallowed by time and nature. Vines crept along the crumbling stone, and faded sigils marred the weathered walls. Kael traced a finger along the carvings, feeling the residual magic pulsing faintly beneath his touch.

"This isn't Seyrik's work," Liora said, his eyes narrowing as he traced the sigils covering the ancient walls. His fingers hovered just above the markings, careful not to make contact, as if the very air around them carried a weight. "It's older."

The dim light flickered, casting shifting shadows across the ruined monastery. Dust clung to the cracks between the stone, disturbed only by their presence. The eerie silence that filled the place was almost suffocating, a pressure that weighed on Kael's chest.

Then, a voice—calm, measured, but undeniably present—broke the silence.

"Seyrik is a blade," it said. "You need to find the hand wielding it."

Kael and Liora moved instantly, weapons drawn, their bodies tensed and ready for an unseen threat. The voice hadn't come from the echoes of the monastery—it was close. Real.

From the darkness of the ruined hallway, a figure emerged.

A scholar.

Or at least, what was left of one.

His robes were once pristine, embroidered with sigils Kael didn't recognize, but now they hung in tatters, frayed at the edges and streaked with dirt and dried blood. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken, yet there was something unsettlingly calm about his expression. Like he had already accepted whatever fate had befallen him.

Kael exchanged a quick glance with Liora, whose stance had tightened—ready, poised. They weren't about to be caught off guard.

"Who are you?" Kael demanded, his grip on his blade tightening.

The scholar didn't answer the question. Instead, he continued as if Kael hadn't spoken, his voice unwavering.

"You are chasing the wrong enemy," he said. "The door has been opened. You cannot stop what is already in motion."

Kael felt the weight behind those words, the finality of them. The way they settled into his bones like a foregone conclusion.

"What door?" Liora's voice was sharp, controlled. "What's already in motion?"

The scholar exhaled slowly, his gaze turning to the sigils on the wall. "The strings have been pulled. The pieces set in place. Seyrik is not your true adversary. He is merely an instrument."

Kael took a step closer, frustration clawing at the edges of his control. "Then tell us who is."

The scholar met Kael's gaze, and for a moment—just a fleeting second—there was something almost human in his eyes. A flicker of regret.

But then, before Kael could move, before he could demand the answers he knew were slipping away, the scholar's form began to disintegrate.

Kael's breath caught in his throat as he watched the transformation unfold before him. It wasn't like a body falling apart, not like decay or dust scattering naturally. It was deliberate, unnatural—his skin breaking into fine ash, his robes unraveling into nothingness, his features vanishing as if they had never truly been there.

Within seconds, there was nothing left.

Not even footprints in the dust.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Kael let out a sharp breath, his grip still tight around his blade, his mind racing. That wasn't an illusion. It wasn't a trick of the monastery or a remnant of magic gone wrong. The scholar had been real. And now, he was gone.

Liora stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he stared at the empty space where the scholar had stood. "Well," he muttered after a moment. "That's unsettling."

Kael exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "No kidding."

Liora turned, his gaze settling on the wall where the scholar's attention had last lingered.

The sigil.

It hadn't been there before.

And it was fresh.

Still burning.

Kael's chest tightened. The markings were the same twisted, jagged runes they had encountered before, but there was something different about this one. It was precise. Deliberate.

Kael clenched his jaw. "Someone wanted us to see this."

Liora muttered, "This isn't over."

As they stepped outside, Liora felt it.

A shift.

A silence before impact.

His instincts screamed at him, but they came a second too late. The air tensed, thickening as if the very night held its breath. It was the smallest of warnings—the flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, the whisper of fabric against the wind.

He turned—too slow.

A blade moved for his throat.

Steel met steel with a sharp clang as Liora intercepted the strike. The sheer force sent both of them skidding back, boots scraping against the cobblestones as they fought to steady themselves. The impact vibrated through Kael's arms, a shock that made his grip tighten instinctively on his dagger.

A figure stood before them, motionless yet poised, their form wrapped in black. A hood concealed most of their face, and a half-mask covered their mouth. The moonlight barely touched them, their presence a shadow against the night, but their stance—

It was familiar.

Too familiar.

Liora narrowed his eyes, adjusting his grip. His pulse quickened, but not out of fear. No, this was something else. Something colder.

"Who are you?" His voice was steady, controlled, but beneath the surface, questions burned.

The assassin didn't answer.

No words. No hesitation.

They lunged.

Liora barely had time to raise his knife before the figure was on him, the clash of steel ringing through the empty street. Their movements were fast—too fast. Not just speed, but precision, an efficiency that cut away all wasted effort. Every strike came with intention, forcing Liora to counter with all the skill he had.

Kael moved to flank, but the assassin twisted away, forcing Liora to be the sole focus of their attacks. He met them head-on, their blades clashing in a rapid exchange that left sparks trailing through the air.

There was no wild aggression, no reckless force—only sharp, methodical execution. Every attack aimed to incapacitate. Every counter smooth, almost rehearsed.

And that's when it hit him.

The realization struck like a punch to the gut.

She was mirroring his movements.

His exact techniques.

The way she pivoted, the way she feinted before striking, the precise shifts in footwork—it was like fighting a reflection, one honed by experience rather than instinct.

Liora's muscles tensed, his mind racing to process what was happening even as his body reacted on pure reflex. Then he saw Kael stopping on his tracks. Perhaps due to fear.

Liora barked from the side, "Kael, focus!"

But focus was the problem.

He adjusted his stance, shifting strategies mid-fight, testing her reactions. She didn't falter. She kept up, adapting with an almost unnatural ease. If he pressed forward, she pivoted just as he would. If he baited a trap, she sidestepped as if she had set the same one a hundred times herself.

Who the hell was she?

Liora couldn't get that out of his mind.

Frustration gnawed at him, but he buried it, forced it down. He needed an opening. Something to break the flow, to throw her off her rhythm.

He forced a mistake.

A deliberate overextension, a feint meant to look like desperation. She took the bait, pressing forward to capitalize on the supposed weakness.

Liora moved faster.

He twisted, dodging her counter by a hair's breadth, his knife slicing toward her face.

The edge of his dagger nicked the mask.

The fabric tore.

Time slowed.

Golden eyes locked onto his.

His breath hitched. His blade stilled mid-motion.

Recognition slammed into him, raw and visceral, like being thrown into a past he thought he had buried.

The world tilted.

A sharp inhale.

A memory surfacing with brutal clarity.

Those eyes.

He had once known those eyes.

Had once memorized the way they burned, the way they softened, the way they held him in ways words never could.

No.

It wasn't possible.

And yet, here she was, standing before him, her weapon still raised, her breath steady.

His fingers clenched around the hilt of his dagger. His chest tightened with something between disbelief and something far more dangerous.

His voice barely escaped his lips.

"Impossible…"