The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The air around me was still thick with the residual scent of dark mana, though it was fading, dissipating into the quiet that now filled the dungeon. The chaotic hum of energy that had once crackled through the walls was gone, leaving only the silence of aftermath. My mind was still clouded from the strain, but as I focused, I realized something was missing. No, someone was missing.

I turned my head, wincing at the sharp pain shooting down my neck. There, lying motionless not too far from me, was Elandris.

Her usual vibrant energy had vanished. Her face, which often carried a smug smile or an amused smirk, was now still and pale, a faint line of blood tracing her lip. For a terrifying moment, I thought the worst, but then I saw it—her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The slightest trace of life. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived.

I tried to reach out with what little magic I had left, only to feel a void where my mana should be. No spark, no power. Not even enough to flicker the pens back to life. My body was in ruins, and my reserves were completely drained. I was nothing more than a man in that moment. No magic, no tools—just a body and its breaking limits.

Still, there was no time to rest. I struggled to my feet, ignoring the pain in my limbs, and walked over to Elandris. She looked worse up close—sweat slicked her brow, and her body was unnaturally limp. I knelt beside her, listening closely to the faint rhythm of her breathing. That was enough. She wasn't gone yet.

But then I felt it—a subtle tug, a thread of connection in the air. Even without magic, I could sense the faint link between her and something else. Something deeper, higher. Her true form, her doll, locked away in another chamber of the tower. It wasn't much, but it meant she was still fighting, still holding on in her own way.

Without magic, I was left with one option. I leaned down and, with some effort, lifted her into my arms. She was surprisingly light for someone with her forceful presence. I carried her to a nearby corner where the stone was smoother and safer, propping her against the wall before kneeling beside her once again. My limbs ached with every movement, but I couldn't leave her like this.

Reaching for my water pen, the one etched with ancient elven runes, I prayed that it had just enough life left for what I needed. Slowly, I let my hands hover above Elandris, drawing from the very faint residue of magic that lingered within the pen. It flickered, dim but present, and I summoned a rejuvenation spell.

The water formed a soft, glowing mist that wrapped itself around her, sinking into her skin, her wounds. The healing was slow but steady, and I watched as the tension in her face eased. Her breathing became deeper, more relaxed. She looked… peaceful now, as if the pain had faded.

There was something about the way the magic worked on her—a resonance. Perhaps it was the elven blood in her veins, the part of her that was tied to the ancient magics of nature. Whatever it was, the spell seemed more effective than I had expected, and I was grateful for it.

"Ah..." She suddenly let out a sigh, before followed by a giggle. "Hehehe, that's my body, you're such a pervert Draven..."

This girl.

Perhaps being grateful for my magic healing her quicker is a mistake.

No, perhaps healing her in the first place is a mistake.

As I sat back, catching my breath, I glanced around the chamber. The battlefield we had fought on was now a graveyard of broken stone and lingering darkness. Shattered remains of Armandra's demonic creations littered the floor, and cracks still lined the walls, though the core's light had dimmed to a dull glow. It was eerie—quiet in a way that almost made the battle feel like a distant nightmare.

But it wasn't. The ache in my bones was a constant reminder that this had been all too real.

My gaze swept across the floor once more, searching for any signs of danger, when I noticed something small lying near the far end of the chamber. At first, I didn't believe it, but as I looked closer, I realized what it was.

A girl.

A very small one, barely the size of a child. She was curled up on the cold stone floor, her tiny body trembling as she slowly opened her eyes. Her hair, a dark and tangled mess, framed her pale face, and as her gaze met mine, I saw it—the unmistakable spark of hatred.

Armandra.

She had survived, though barely. Her once commanding, powerful presence had been reduced to this—a miniature version of herself, stripped of all the power she had so desperately clung to. As I approached her, she glared up at me, her lips twisting in a snarl. For all her fury, though, she was helpless now, and she knew it.

"How… dare you…" she spat, her voice hoarse and weak, but still filled with venom. "You… you bastard…"

I said nothing, staring down at her with cold detachment. She could barely move, let alone fight. It was over. She knew it. I knew it. But the hatred in her eyes hadn't dimmed.

If anything, it burned brighter.

"You… used elven magic…" she hissed, her words dripping with contempt. "You… murderer… traitor… You're just like the rest of them, the killers of my people, the enemy… the—"

"Enough," I said quietly, cutting off her rambling. Her words, her accusations—they meant nothing to me now. I had no magic left, no energy to argue or explain. All that mattered was what had to be done.

Her small body trembled with rage, but she was powerless. She knew what was coming, and for the first time, I saw fear flicker across her face.

"You… you can't…" she whispered, her voice cracking as her bravado faltered. "You wouldn't… kill a helpless—"

"Helpless?" I repeated, my voice cold as ice. "You think that matters?"

She fell silent, staring up at me with wide eyes as I knelt down, placing a hand on her small, trembling form. Her body was fragile, weak—nothing like the towering, commanding presence she had once been. But the memories were there, flooding back to me in a torrent.

I remembered her—the tall, beautiful, and cunning senate professor, always ready with a condescending remark or a cruel smile, through the memories of the original Draven. She had stood at the center of every opposition I had faced in my rise through the ranks, always a part of the faction that loved to hinder my progress.

She had made my life in the tower a living hell, and not because of personal grudges, but simply because it amused her.

Perhaps, she was also part of the reason of Draven turning into a villain.

But there was more.

I remembered the game, Trials of Heroes, and the NPC called Armandra. She had been dangerous, always aligning herself with the evil forces no matter what route the player took. Her hatred for humanity had driven her to betray her own kind, and she had fueled the rise of the great evil that would bring ruin to the world.

This wasn't just personal. This was necessary.

She was too dangerous to live. Even now, in this weakened state, I could feel the darkness that clung to her like a shadow. If I let her go, she would only rise again, finding some way to align herself with the forces of chaos and destruction. Her hatred, her rage—it was too deep, too consuming.

She had to die.

I could see it in her eyes now—the fear. She knew, finally, that there would be no escape, no last-minute reprieve. The game had ended, and there was no reset, no second chance.

My hand moved to her neck, the cold, final gesture of what needed to be done. Her body froze under my touch, her breath hitching as the weight of her fate settled in.

She didn't beg. She didn't plead. All that remained was silence.

The memories flooded me once more—her taunts, her manipulations, her role in the rise of the evil that had brought so much suffering. And then, there was my own memory, Dravis Granger's, knowing all too well what she would become if left unchecked. I couldn't afford to be merciful.

I tightened my grip.