The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Two.

Not Gravekeepers this time. The insignia on the nearest one's belt marked him as Council. They had moved faster than I expected.

They didn't speak.

Professionals.

I shifted, drawing them into an angle where their numbers meant nothing, using the narrow aisle between sagging shelves to nullify their advantage. The corridor was barely wide enough for two people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, with old wooden bookcases looming on either side. If they wanted to circle around me or flank me, they'd have to move through one another—and that lack of space was exactly what I needed.

The first man lunged without warning. I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the subtle tensing of his right shoulder. He meant to feint high, then dip low to strike at my ribs. A common opening tactic among disciplined fighters, but I recognized it a heartbeat before he committed. My mind took note of every detail: the arc of his blade, the shift of his center of gravity, the angle of his hips.

I sidestepped, letting him overextend. My own blade came up with a practiced smoothness, meeting his attack in a controlled parry that forced his steel away from my torso. Sparks danced where our swords met, sending a faint ringing through the musty air. Even in such a close-quarters fight, I could feel the power behind his strike; he wasn't swinging blindly. This man had trained for years, the precision of his stance and the economy of his movements telling me he was no mere thug.

He let out a ragged breath, trying to recover quickly. Before he could backpedal, I lashed out with my free hand, seizing his wrist. The metal gauntlet he wore was a poor defense against a well-placed grip. I felt the tension in the tendons beneath the leather, his pulse hammering. He tried to yank free, but I pivoted, twisting until I forced him off-balance. Pain flickered in his eyes; a weaker man might have dropped the blade, but he clung to it with stubborn tenacity.

Something flickered in my peripheral vision—the second man. He was coming in from the side, attempting to use his partner as a distraction. I glimpsed the flare of his nostrils, the set of his jaw. Another professional, taking advantage of the opening. I sensed the angle of his approach: a diagonal slash meant to cleave downward through my shoulder.

No time to do anything elaborate. I released the first man's wrist and slid back, avoiding the slash by a hair's breadth. The second man's blade whistled through the air, missing my arm by inches, and clanged against the stone floor. The echo reverberated, sending a sharp ringing through the ancient library corridor.

I countered with a thrust aimed at his thigh, seeking to disable him without expending my magic. We were close enough that, if I truly wanted to, I could have unleashed a wave of force or a slicing arc of sorcery. But I'd promised myself I wouldn't rely on magic unless I had no other choice. Preservation, I reminded myself. My mastery of arcane arts was too recognizable, and the discharge of a single spell could unravel wards, trigger alerts, and bring half the city's watchdogs down on me. Not now. Not yet.

He sidestepped with commendable agility, turning his blade to deflect. Metal screeched against metal in an ugly cry of friction. My arms absorbed the impact, and I shoved back, forcing him to retreat a step. We locked eyes in that moment—his were dark, intent, unwavering. He didn't speak. Neither did I. There was no need for words between us. This was a dance of flesh and steel, each movement a conversation of who would slip first.

The man I'd initially disarmed lunged again. I heard the shuffle of his boots across the dusty floor, saw the shift of his weight from the corner of my eye. He was behind me, blade angled for a kidney strike. One step, then two. He was faster than I expected, recovering quickly from the pain I'd inflicted on his wrist.

I lowered my stance, rolling my shoulders into a controlled turn. My left hand let go of the hilt of my blade just long enough to sweep upward, catching his attacking arm at the elbow. The motion was fluid, something I'd rehearsed countless times in training, forging my body for these exact close-quarter skirmishes. His momentum slammed into my forearm, jarring me, but not enough to break my hold.

In the moment his attack faltered, I drove my elbow into his midsection. The breath left him in a sharp grunt, and I felt his rib cage give slightly beneath the blow. A fraction of a second's advantage—that was all I needed. I pivoted around him, using his bulk to block the second man's line of sight, then twisted his sword arm until he dropped the weapon with a clatter.

He fought to regain balance, swinging a desperate punch at my temple. I leaned back, letting his fist sail past my nose, so close I could feel the air rush against my cheek. My free hand found the dagger strapped at my hip—the same dagger I favored for close kills. But I paused. Killing them outright might be convenient, but it wouldn't give me more insight into why the Council had sent them. Continue your saga on My Virtual Library Empire

Still, his next move gave me no choice: he drew a small, concealed knife from under his cloak and slashed at my throat with lethal intent. No hesitation, no chance he was under orders to simply detain me. My own survival demanded I finish this.

I dropped low, the blade slicing past where my neck had been, and slammed my shoulder into his torso. He staggered back, off-balance. One sharp twist of my arm, and the dagger at my hip opened a crimson line across his side. The wound wouldn't kill him instantly, but it would bleed enough to take him out of the fight.

A snarl tore from his lips, furious pain driving him. He tried to lunge again—admirable tenacity—but I guided him right into a sturdy wooden shelf, toppling a stack of ancient tomes to the floor with a dull thud. He collapsed onto his knees, struggling against the sudden explosion of agony in his ribs, blood beginning to darken his tunic.

I spun around to face the second attacker, letting the first man drop. A single glance showed me he wouldn't be getting up. The second man was more cautious now, eyes narrowed. He'd watched me dispatch his partner with brutal efficiency and realized that a direct approach would end poorly.

We circled each other, the corridor feeling tighter than ever. The flickering lantern on the far wall cast shifting shadows that danced across our blades, giving the impression of a dozen moving silhouettes. My breathing was measured, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. Every fiber of me screamed to cut him down before he had the chance to retaliate, but I knew better than to charge blindly.

His stance was that of a trained swordsman—feet braced, blade angled forward, chin tucked. He feinted a lunge, testing my reaction. I waited, offering only a slight shift of my weight. He feinted again, but this time I saw a subtle tightening at the corner of his jaw—he intended to commit.

His blade slashed downward in an arc meant to cleave through my shoulder, a powerful overhead strike. I sidestepped, letting him put all that momentum into empty air. In the same instant, I angled my sword upward at his exposed side, capitalizing on his overextension. Yet he anticipated the counter; at the last second, he twisted his body, minimizing the wound. My blade tore into fabric and flesh, but not deeply enough to incapacitate.

A hiss of pain escaped him, more startled than truly wounded. His eyes darted to the slash in his tunic, verifying how bad it was. That single moment of distraction was enough. I lunged low, aiming to strike a finishing blow across his midsection. He recovered faster than expected, parrying with a downward sweep, forcing our blades to clash again in a violent shriek of steel.

I felt a jolt in my wrist. The shock of impact traveled up my arm, telling me he was no stranger to brute force. But I let that energy roll through me, sinking into a half-crouch, maintaining my balance. I refused to waver, my posture unyielding. If he knocked me off my feet, even for an instant, it could reverse the entire flow of the fight.

He tried to pivot around me, hoping to get at my back. I stepped in, close enough to smell the sweat rolling off him. This was a range too tight for wide swings. Here, technique and pure reflex would decide the victor. Our blades locked, the crossguards grinding against each other as each of us tried to gain leverage.

In that fleeting standoff, I noticed the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his breath came in strained bursts. He was older than he first appeared, possibly a veteran in the Council's service. A flicker of respect passed through my mind. A shame we were on opposing sides.

His knee jerked upward suddenly, trying to catch me in the ribs. I twisted slightly, his strike grazing my hip. Pain flared, but it was tolerable—no cracking of bone, no immediate debilitation. My free hand darted out, seizing a handful of his cloak and pulling him off-balance. He stumbled, and I slammed the hilt of my sword into his jaw with a bone-jarring crunch.

He reeled, arms flailing as he tried to maintain his footing. I pressed the advantage. Two steps forward, a slight shift of my blade, and I thrust upward. He jerked away, but not far enough. My sword sliced across his arm, disarming him. The clang of his weapon hitting the floor echoed in the cramped space.

Blood oozed from his wounds, dripping onto the dusty floorboards. The corridor fell eerily silent but for our ragged breathing. He glared at me, hatred burning in his eyes. I could see he was weighing his odds—continue a losing fight or cut his losses and flee.

In another place, or another time, I might have pressed him for information. But I could sense the darkness creeping into his gaze. He was resigned. If I let him live, he'd find a way to come at me again. If I tried to detain him, I'd be risking a drawn-out struggle. The library, with its labyrinth of shelves, was hardly a prime spot for interrogation.

He made a low, guttural sound, as if preparing to spring. I saw the tension coil in his legs. Before he could hurl himself at me, I flicked my blade out in a brutal arc, slashing across the back of his knee. He collapsed with a strangled shout, blood staining his leggings. Mercifully quick, but enough to ensure he'd be in no condition to follow.

His partner, the one I'd left by the toppled shelf, was making weak sounds of protest, trying to gather the strength to stand. A glance told me he wouldn't be a threat anytime soon. I approached, sword at the ready, and nudged his weapon away with my foot. He glared, eyes shining with a mixture of fury and fear. I understood that mix well—I'd seen it in many men who'd learned too late that they were not as prepared as they believed.

In two breaths, it was over.

I surveyed the scene, my pulse still elevated, though I forced my breathing to steady. One man lay gasping near a pile of ancient tomes, the other slumped against the wall, clutching his wounded leg. The corridor smelled of metal and old paper, a mingling of blood and dust that hung in the air.

I knelt, picking up the second man's fallen blade. The craftsmanship was standard, no unique enchantments or markings beyond the Council's insignia near the hilt. A quick inspection told me nothing I didn't already know: they were professionals, but not elite. Possibly specialized enforcers assigned to track me after the Shadow Archive alarm.

I tossed the blade aside, wiping a trace of sweat from my brow. My hip throbbed where the man's knee had glanced off my side. It would bruise, no doubt, but it was a small price to pay for walking out of this in one piece.

The library itself was eerily quiet now. My ears still rang with the echoes of steel on steel, but no reinforcements rushed in. If the Council had backup, they weren't close. Yet. This confrontation had ended swiftly—less than a minute, though it felt far longer. Time in a fight always warped, each second packed with potential ends.

I glanced at the first man, now barely conscious, and considered finishing him. But that was unnecessary bloodshed. He would live, though likely in pain. By the time either of them reported back to their superiors, I would be gone. Besides, a whisper of caution told me not to linger. Even if they couldn't see me, the Council might have ways of scrying the battle's outcome. Loitering here would be foolish.

I stood in the silence of the library, the weight of the moment settling. The Council was watching. The Gravekeepers were moving. And I was standing in the center of a web that was beginning to tighten.

It was time to find Lorik.