The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The library was silent, save for the ragged breathing of the wounded. Dust still hung in the air, caught in the dim glow of the lanterns lining the cracked stone walls. The scent of old parchment and iron filled my lungs, the remnants of the fight still lingering in the air like a fading storm. My blade remained steady in my grip, its edge slick with blood, but my work here was already finished.

Two bodies lay before me—one slumped against the base of a toppled bookshelf, the other kneeling, gripping his side. The first was unconscious, chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. He wouldn't last long. The second, however, was still aware, though only barely. His right arm clutched at the deep gash along his ribs, fingers pressing against the torn fabric of his uniform. His other hand, trembling from exertion, gripped the remains of his shattered sword. A useless instinct. The blade was broken at the hilt, its jagged edge glinting under the flickering lanterns.

I studied him for a moment, my gaze dissecting every detail. The stiff set of his shoulders, the shallow breaths, the way his fingers twitched around the broken weapon—not out of an intention to strike but out of sheer defiance. A trained fighter, but not a killer. Too measured, too restrained. The Council had sent him expecting a clean capture, not a deathmatch.

A miscalculation on their part.

"You're bleeding too much," I noted, my voice flat. "You'll be unconscious within minutes."

His glare was sharp, burning with something between hatred and grim determination. He was testing himself, trying to gauge whether I was bluffing, whether he still had a chance to act. I could already see the answer forming in his eyes—he knew he had lost.

I crouched in front of him, resting my blade lightly against my knee, my movements deliberate. His breathing hitched as I drew closer, though he masked it well. The pain was getting to him. I gave him a moment, watching, waiting. If he were smart, he'd recognize that silence wouldn't save him.

"The Council sent you," I stated. It wasn't a question.

He exhaled sharply, but he didn't speak. That, too, was expected. He was still weighing his options, still hoping for an outcome that would allow him to hold onto whatever dignity remained.

I tilted my head, scanning his uniform more closely now that I had the time. His attire was standard-issue for field operatives—lightly armored leather reinforced with hidden enchantments, a fine weave of silver-threaded fabric beneath to offer minimal resistance against spells. Practical, but not top-tier. If the Council had truly wanted me captured, they would've sent someone better equipped.

This was a test, then. A probe.

That made sense.

I reached forward, my hand moving with a practiced efficiency as I patted down the folds of his coat. He flinched, a feeble attempt at resistance, but I didn't bother acknowledging it. My fingers brushed against cold metal—a small insignia hidden beneath the fabric. I pulled it free, turning it over between my fingers. Silver, etched with the Council's emblem.

Unsurprising.

More interesting was the slip of parchment tucked inside his belt, folded hastily, the edges worn from handling. I plucked it free, ignoring the way his body tensed as I unfolded it. Coordinates.

A location.

Now that was something.

I scanned the numbers, committing them to memory. The handwriting was rushed, not the precise penmanship of an official order but something scribbled in urgency, possibly on the field. That meant it was fresh intel. Recent.

I glanced at him. "You should've burned this."

His jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to the note, then back to me. A flicker of something crossed his face—not quite regret, but something close. A realization, perhaps. That whatever orders he had been given, whatever protocols he had been trained to follow, had not accounted for this moment.

I tucked the parchment into my coat, keeping my expression unreadable. I had enough pieces now to make the next move, enough threads to pull. The Council was making their play, but their execution was sloppy. Or maybe they had underestimated how quickly I would dismantle their plans.

A faint sound echoed down the corridor—distant footsteps, controlled and measured.

Reinforcements.

I exhaled slowly, my mind running through the possibilities. If I had been the one organizing a retrieval team, I would have sent three more agents at minimum, possibly five. No mages. Too much risk of collateral damage. More swordsmen, maybe one tracker. If they were experienced, they'd approach cautiously, aware that whoever had taken down their men was still in the area.

I had a few minutes at most before they reached this point.

I looked down at the kneeling agent one last time. He was watching me carefully now, trying to read me the same way I had been reading him. Trying to predict what I would do next. Your journey continues with My Virtual Library Empire

"You'll live," I said simply.

His eyes narrowed.

"Be grateful."

And then I turned and walked away.

The library's lower levels were a maze of forgotten hallways and abandoned reading chambers, built long before the current Tower had risen to power. The air here was different—older, stagnant, carrying the scent of dust and ink long since faded from forgotten tomes. Few used these corridors, and that worked to my advantage.

My steps were soundless against the cold stone, my pace deliberate but unhurried. A man running invited suspicion. A man walking with purpose did not.

I kept my posture controlled, shoulders loose, my breathing even. Despite the silence settling behind me, the memory of the fight lingered, playing through my mind like a sequence of well-rehearsed movements. The way the agent's fingers had twitched on the hilt of his broken sword, the subtle tremor in his breath as he realized the outcome had already been decided.

He would live. That much I had ensured. But when he awoke, when he reported back to his superiors—what then? Would they see the encounter for what it was? A warning? A shift in the game?

I had no illusions about what came next. The Council wouldn't back off. If anything, they would move faster. But their mistake had already been made: they believed they were ahead in this, that I was simply reacting to the moves they set in place.

They were wrong.

A narrow staircase led up to a crumbling courtyard, overgrown with ivy and long abandoned by any who cared for its upkeep. The roots had wormed their way through the cracked stone, splitting what had once been a carefully maintained path into uneven fragments.

As I stepped out, the first hints of dawn stretched pale fingers across the city's skyline. The light bled into the horizon, soft and cold, the kind that spoke of a morning yet to fully wake. It painted Velithor in muted shades—stone towers bathed in silver, rooftops dusted with the dying remnants of night's shadows.

The city was stirring.

Traders hauled their carts into the streets, their voices murmuring in the still air. A blacksmith's hammer rang out somewhere in the distance, rhythmic, steady. The clatter of hooves on cobblestone marked the early patrols making their rounds, unaware of the blood spilled in the library below.

I pulled my coat tighter and stepped into the flow of early risers, my movements natural, unhurried.

The first rule of disappearing was understanding how people saw the world. A city guard looking for a fugitive didn't focus on the unremarkable. He looked for hesitation, for erratic movement, for the telltale glance over the shoulder that spoke of guilt.

So I gave them nothing.

I moved with ease, taking paths where shadows stretched long and eyes didn't linger. A turn here, an adjustment there—small shifts in trajectory that made sure no one gaze lingered too long. By the time I reached the lower districts, I had abandoned my coat entirely, folding it neatly and leaving it draped over a bench outside a small bakery where the morning rush had just begun.

Within moments, it would be lost in the shuffle of daily life. A discarded garment. Unimportant.

The cloak I procured wasn't stolen outright—though the vendor had been inattentive enough that the difference was negligible. A simple exchange, a flick of the wrist, a quiet step away.

The disguise wasn't perfect, but perfection wasn't necessary—only believability.

The Starlit Quay.

The tavern was quieter than usual, the hour too early for its usual clientele. The lanterns within cast a dim glow, flickering against the old wooden beams. The scent of aged liquor clung to the air, mixing with the faint traces of sea salt carried in from the nearby docks.

Merrick sat at his usual table near the back, nursing a glass of dark liquor despite the morning light. His posture was relaxed, but I knew better. The way his fingers drummed absently against the rim of his glass, the flicker of his gaze as I approached—Merrick was many things, but careless wasn't one of them.

He had already taken me in—my presence, my lack of injury, the absence of my usual coat.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You made a mess," he muttered, swirling his drink. "The Tower's buzzing."

I slid into the seat across from him, my movements deliberate. Merrick didn't flinch, but I saw the subtle shift in his posture—the way his fingers briefly tensed around his glass before he forced himself to relax. He had learned, over the years, that conversations with me rarely came without weight.

"Expected," I said.