The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The fortress of Aetherion was in full lockdown, and every second felt like a knife pressed against my throat. Alarms screamed through the corridors, bouncing off the polished stone walls, creating a cacophony that seeped into my bones. Each shrill note was a grim reminder that we were deep in enemy territory with no friendly faces to call upon. The air itself pulsed with magic, as if the entire fortress were a living creature determined to crush intruders. Every surge and recoil of power in the corridors made my skin prickle and my muscles tighten, always poised for the next attack. I inhaled slowly, tasting the sharp tang of ozone and feeling the weight of the wards pressing down. These wards weren't just decorative spells scribbled by amateurs; they were centuries old, reinforced by some of the best minds the Council had ever nurtured. After all, Aetherion was their pride, their impenetrable stronghold. Now, as the fortress recognized us as threats, I could almost sense the wards shifting in response to our presence—like a predator adjusting its stance before the pounce. Kyrion and I had no time to pause. I could feel his tension radiating off him, not just the strain of the magic but also the psychological pressure. Even so, neither of us wasted breath on unnecessary words. Both of us knew exactly how dire our circumstances were. An entire fortress mobilized against us, and any attempt at a direct confrontation would be suicide. The corridor we were in felt far too narrow for comfort, its high arched ceiling funneling the alarm sirens into a shrieking echo. The polished floors reflected the glowing sigils etched into the constructs' bodies as they marched steadily closer. Their helmets and pauldrons bore the Council's emblem: a stylized sun encircled by runic script. Under normal circumstances, that emblem represented order and safety for those loyal to the Council. Now it symbolized a threat so potent it sent adrenaline spiking through my veins. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed what I already suspected: there was no escape route behind us. Reinforcements were pouring in, their silhouettes flickering against the dancing lights of active wards. The fortress was sealing itself, cutting off any corridor that might allow us to slip away. Even the flickering shadows seemed to conspire against us, shifting and dancing with each new ward that sparked to life. I was acutely aware that the Council scriers were watching. Every inch of Aetherion was laced with scrying crystals and magical nodes, each capable of recording images and sounds, each feeding into a central system that allowed the Council to see every intruder's move. My mind raced: how to use that knowledge to our advantage, how to feed them false leads or exploit their blind spots. But at the moment, survival had to come first. If we didn't live through the next few minutes, it wouldn't matter how many clever feints we'd planned. I could almost hear Kyrion's thoughts mirroring mine, though his face was a portrait of cold concentration. He was good at hiding the toll this place was taking on him. Necromantic wards were especially vicious to someone like Kyrion, who wielded death as his currency. He seemed to sense my gaze because he shook his head, as though telling me not to bother with concern. "Tch." The sound escaped my lips as I scanned our immediate surroundings. Five constructs blocked the passage in front of us, forming a well-coordinated line. One guard hovered in the center, evidently the primary attacker, with two more on each flank covering the sides and rear. Each had a core crystal embedded in the center of their chest plate, and from the way they pulsed, I could tell these were no standard fodder. They were advanced models—capable of adjusting tactics on the fly, analyzing enemies, and capitalizing on weaknesses the instant they appeared. They reminded me uncomfortably of a hive mind, each construct supplementing the others with data gleaned from their shared arcane network. My advantage was the unpredictability of my Pens, especially if I used them in unorthodox ways. But the constructs didn't care about style or showy technique. Their only objective was to neutralize us—quickly and efficiently. "Kyrion," I said, my voice just loud enough for him to hear over the clamor. "We don't have the mana to fight them all head-on. I need you to weaken the side corridor wards while I buy time." He cocked an eyebrow, an expression of faint amusement flitting across his otherwise stoic features. "Buying time against Council constructs? You don't lack ambition, I'll give you that." I didn't bother with a verbal retort, but inside my chest, I felt a surge of cold resolve. Ambition? No, I'd left blind ambition behind. This was survival. It was risk management, strategy, and a willingness to confront any foe who threatened me. I was used to it—rational decisions forged under fire. "I don't need ambition," I countered, my tone as frosty as the wards pressing down around us. With a subtle flick of my fingers, I summoned forth my Pens—my silent companions in this life. Their presence calmed me, reminded me that I was never unarmed, never without recourse. "I just need them to follow my lead." The smallest hum of excitement fluttered through me as my Pens responded. I felt each one stirring: the Devil's Pen with its dark, pulsing energy that seemed to yearn for destruction; the Fire Pen, eager to burn through opposition; the Water Elven Pen, elegant and fluid, waiting for its chance; the Psychokinesis Pen, always humming at the edge of perception, molding the intangible forces around me. Right now, the Psychokinesis Pen felt like the most critical tool in my arsenal. In that heartbeat of focus, I noted the subtle shift in the constructs' posture. Their glowing eyes flickered, and a pair of them advanced in unison, the others hanging back to provide ranged support. I recognized this pattern: they wanted to hem us in, force close combat where their physical attributes would dominate. We had seconds, maybe less, before their first real strike. If Kyrion didn't accomplish his part—weakening the wards in the side corridor—then we'd never get out of this trap. My mind raced through possible ways to break their formation. The direct approach might be simplest: I'd take the brunt of their assault, using illusions and misdirection to stall them, while Kyrion undermined the fortress's defenses from the flank. I exhaled, letting my heartbeat settle into a steady rhythm. There was no room for hesitation. In an instant, I dashed forward, the Psychokinesis Pen guiding a subtle telekinetic push against the foremost construct's foot. It was a small shift, but the results were immediate. The construct staggered a half-step, nearly imperceptible but enough to disrupt its perfectly timed approach. The next second, I flicked my wrist, and the Fire Pen scorched a swath of the floor. Flames roared up, forming a line of searing heat that forced the constructs behind it to reconsider their path. The loud roar of the flames merged with the howl of the alarms, amplifying the confusion. Even so, these constructs were far from mindless. I could see them calculating alternate routes, scanning for vantage points not obstructed by my sudden barrier of fire. The ones in the rear started edging to the left, presumably to circle around. Already, they were adapting, which was precisely why I had to remain two steps ahead. While the constructs' attention fixated on the threat I posed, I glimpsed Kyrion out of the corner of my eye. He pressed his palm against one of the stone walls, dark tendrils of necromantic energy leaking out from his fingertips. The wards flickered in protest. Faint spirals of white-gold script spooled down from the ceiling, as though the fortress itself was trying to repel his corruption. Yet he kept at it, sweat beading on his brow, a silent testament to just how taxing this was for him. Simultaneously, illusions of specters slithered across the corridor, each shaped in murky half-forms that hissed and spat at the constructs. I knew these were Kyrion's doing—eerie manifestations of necromantic might, designed to bait the constructs into attacking shadows instead of us. Even if the illusions only worked for a few precious seconds, that might be enough to tip the balance. I stayed focused on the two constructs forging ahead. One of them activated a wrist-mounted weapon: a blade of crackling force that extended with a snap-hiss of arcane energy. I recognized the design—cumbersome, but devastating in close quarters. The Psychokinesis Pen thrummed, responding to my intent. I aimed a subtle push against the construct's center of gravity the moment it lunged. Its strike went wide, the blade carving a smoking line in the air a few inches from my face instead of plunging into my chest. With a swift pivot, I brought the Fire Pen in an upward slash, sending a jet of flame licking at the enemy's side.