The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"Expected," I said.

Merrick exhaled through his nose, setting his drink down with a soft clink. The dim lantern light flickered over the worn wood of the table, catching in the deep-set lines of his face. He looked older than the last time I had seen him. Or maybe it was just the hour.

"Whatever you stole," he muttered, voice low, "they're desperate to get it back. The Council's already questioning people."

I lifted an eyebrow. "I didn't steal anything," I corrected. "I took something they should have never had."

His smirk was unimpressed, sharp at the edges. "That distinction won't matter when they string you up."

I didn't dignify the comment with a response. Merrick's dramatics were a bad habit of his, one that masked the fact that he cared a little too much for a man in his line of work.

Instead, I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest. "Lorik."

Merrick stilled for half a second. Just long enough for me to notice.

Then he sighed, rubbing at his temple with the weariness of a man who had just realized he was about to be dragged into something unpleasant. "Damn it, Draven." He shook his head, glancing around the tavern, as if reconsidering whether he should be seen speaking to me. "You never ask for simple favors."

I waited.

He tapped a finger against his glass, lips pressed into a thin line. He could refuse me. It was an option. But Merrick and I had an understanding, one built over years of mutual necessity. He provided me with information; I ensured that certain doors remained open for him in places he had no business entering.

Finally, he relented. "There are whispers," he admitted. "Some say he's dead, others say he's hiding beneath the city. The catacombs."

A calculated risk. I had expected as much. The catacombs were ancient, predating the Tower itself, a place where forgotten things lingered. They sprawled beneath Velithor like veins, winding through the underbelly of the city, shifting in ways that no map could properly account for.

And if Lorik had chosen to vanish there, it meant one thing.

He didn't want to be found.

Merrick leaned forward, voice dropping. "You go down there, and you might not come back up."

I considered his words, but they didn't deter me. "Then I'll make sure I don't get lost."

Merrick made a noise low in his throat, something between frustration and reluctant amusement. "Cocky bastard," he muttered, but he reached into his coat, pulling out a folded scrap of parchment. He slid it across the table with two fingers.

"Coordinates," he said. "Old mausoleum entrance. Should still be accessible, but I make no promises. If you end up dead, I'm keeping your books."

I took the parchment without humor, tucking it into my coat. My gaze flickered up to meet his one last time.

"Try not to get yourself questioned," I said.

Merrick scoffed. "Try not to get yourself killed."

I left without another word.

The entrance to the catacombs was exactly where Merrick's directions had led me—a forgotten graveyard on the city's outskirts, overgrown and choked with vines that coiled around crumbling headstones like serpents embracing old bones. The ornate iron gates, once a proud marker of this hallowed place, had long rusted through, their metal pitted and eaten away by time. Weeds sprouted from every crack in the earth, a silent testament to the years of neglect that had allowed nature to reclaim what mortals abandoned.

I paused at the threshold, letting my gaze roam over the disordered field of tilted gravestones. A hush lay thick upon the place, more profound than the quiet of dawn. It was the hush of a locale no longer visited by the living—an eternal stillness haunted by distant memories of funerals and the sobbing of bereaved families. Then I saw the mausoleum in the center, its marble façade split by deep fissures, the once-beautiful carvings worn to near-obscurity. This was no regal crypt anymore; it stood like a relic of a forgotten era, fighting for dignity against encroaching foliage.

My instincts prickled. Even at a distance, something about that structure felt… watchful. Could it be paranoia? Possibly. But I'd learned long ago to heed such instincts, no matter how faint or irrational they might seem. Adjusting the hood of my cloak, I made for the mausoleum with measured steps, listening to the crush of gravel beneath my boots. Despite the overt signs of ruin, I sensed a hidden undercurrent of magic. In a place like this, wards were often layered into the stone, intended to keep out graverobbers or necromancers looking for unholy ingredients.

At the doors, I ran my fingers across a series of faint symbols etched into the stone. They resisted me at first—tingling with old power that still clung to life, as though reluctant to trust a stranger. But after a moment, they yielded to the whisper of my counter-sigil. Stone grated against stone, and stale air washed over me in a gust, thick with the scents of damp earth and moldy linen. It was like the breath of a tomb exhaling, disturbed from ages of slumber.

The tunnel descended at a sharp angle, rough-hewn walls dripping with moisture that formed tiny rivulets of slime. My breath condensed in the chill, and every step I took seemed to echo too loudly in the claustrophobic space. In my mind, I pictured how easily this corridor could become a trap: a dead end, sealed at both sides by ancient runes, leaving me entombed alongside the restless dead. I'd seen it happen to less prepared souls.

But I wasn't them.

Moving deeper, I kept my blade half-drawn, fingertips brushing the hilt with the comfort of a practiced gesture. The catacombs sprawled in winding passages and intersecting chambers, carved long before the city's founding lords decided to build their new graveyards on more consecrated ground. The faint illumination of my lantern outlined old arches and half-collapsed pillars, hinting at a once purposeful architecture—perhaps these halls had been grand and ceremonial centuries ago.

Then came the moment I expected: a flicker of movement at the periphery of my vision. I stilled at once, letting my senses sharpen. The air felt thicker somehow, charged with a malignant presence. A gentle clatter of bones, a rasp that might have been a ragged breath—or perhaps the rustle of decaying cloth. I tensed, every sense on alert.

In the half-light, I caught sight of it—a hunched form, its exposed flesh stretched over a skeletal frame, reeking of rot. Whatever it had been in life, it was a twisted mockery now. Undead. Its eyes, sunken into a corpse's face, locked onto me with an eerie silence. No moan, no hiss—just emptiness.

It lunged. Its movements were abrupt, tendons jerking with unnatural strength, but I was faster. I pivoted, letting it lunge into empty air while I brought my sword up in a clean, practiced arc. The steel bit into its skull with a dull crack, and the creature crumpled against my blade in a silent spasm. I jerked the weapon free, sending bits of bone scattering.

Silence returned, but it wasn't the comforting kind. It was the hush of something waiting. My blood pulsed with adrenaline, and in that heightened focus, I sensed others lurking just beyond the lantern's glow. My assumption proved correct when a pair of glistening eyes reflected in the darkness. Then another shape, and another. Four in total. Or was it five?

Not mindless. They were waiting, measuring, communicating in some wordless fashion that said they were far from the usual sluggish undead. Necromantic craft had shaped them more keenly, infusing them with purpose. The tension in the narrow corridor made every hair on my neck prickle.

"I don't have time for this," I muttered under my breath.

Then they charged—together.

They were faster than the first one, their steps in sync as though guided by a single will. My heart hammered, but my mind remained cold, calculating. I feinted to the left, letting one rush past while my sword found the throat of another. Black ichor spattered the wall. The second one tried to rake its claws across my back, but I slid beneath its swing. Then I cut upward, feeling the jarring sensation of blade splitting through muscle and vertebra. It collapsed with a faint hiss of escaping air.

Two more left. Their moans became a twisted harmony of stench and hate. One lunged low, the other high, coordinating in an attempt to trap me. I kicked the low one hard in the jaw, the impact driving it backward, bones snapping. At the same instant, I met the high attacker's clawed arms with my sword, parrying its frantic blows. I gained a fraction of a second's advantage, using it to slam my fist into the side of its skull. Not quite enough to kill, but it reeled, giving me the opening to bring my blade around in a lethal arc.

The final creature, the one I'd kicked, tried to scramble back onto its disjointed legs. It managed a half-snarl, half-rattle, but its unsteady posture gave it away. One precise thrust through the chest cavity, and it toppled, decaying limbs twitching.

Then silence again, deeper this time. The reek of rot and spilled fluids made my stomach clench, but I kept my composure. Breathing hard, I wiped my sword clean on a strip of tattered cloth hanging from one corpse's shoulder. The designs on that cloth hinted at an old house sigil, but I couldn't quite discern which noble line. No matter; they were just unfortunate souls turned into puppets.

A quick glance around confirmed I was alone—at least for the moment. I moved on, stepping gingerly over the scattered remains. A faint film of sweat clung to my brow despite the chill. In the catacombs' stillness, my footsteps sounded unnaturally loud, each soft scuff echoing off the damp walls. Further along, the passage began to slope downward, the walls showing ancient sigils etched into the stone. They glowed faintly under my lantern's light, as though resonating with the presence of someone who could interpret them. Not many in the city could read those runes, but I was not most people.

They were markers—old arcane guidance for the living, or perhaps for the dead, guiding travelers deeper into forbidden realms. My gaze flicked from one symbol to the next, piecing together a rough map in my mind. Each sign represented a choice: left or right, deeper or shallower. Based on Lorik's rumored hideout, I took the route that led farther underground.

The air tightened with every step. A sense of latent power thrummed against my skull, pulsing in the stone. Centuries of buried secrets pressed in, a quiet testament to how magic and death had converged in these depths. My breath felt oddly thick. I forced myself to ignore the discomfort. Lorik wouldn't be easy to find, and that alone told me he'd chosen this spot for the same reasons I found it unsettling—privacy, obscurity, protection.

Eventually, the narrow corridor opened into a wide chamber whose ceiling arched overhead in a graceful dome. Spirals of glyphs adorned the walls, set in concentric patterns that formed a labyrinth of etched designs. Old tomes lay scattered on stone pedestals, their leather covers dried and cracked with age. A half-dozen spectral lanterns floated in the air, emitting cold, bluish light, casting dancing shadows across the uneven floor.

I'd found it: Lorik's hideout.

And Lorik himself—tall and rail-thin, cloaked in threadbare robes embroidered with arcane symbols. He stood at the chamber's center, amidst a circle of runes carefully drawn on the floor. His gaze snapped to mine, and I caught the flicker of recognition there. But what worried me more was the twitch of his fingers—already weaving the first lines of a defensive ward.

I lunged sideways, hand darting to the dagger at my belt. No time for polite introductions. With a flick of my wrist, I sent the dagger spinning through the air, embedding itself in the floor mere inches from his foot. Lorik jerked back with a grimace, his half-formed spell unraveling as his concentration broke.

"You could've knocked," he snapped, voice tight with irritation. The tremor in his tone betrayed a hint of fear.

I stepped toward him, blade still in hand. "No time."

He let out a short, derisive laugh, but he didn't renew his attempt at a spell. "Impatient as ever, Draven." His eyes flicked over me, taking in the stains on my cloak and the slight rise and fall of my chest from exertion. "You're here for answers, obviously."

"Yes."

He paused, measuring me, maybe gauging how far I was willing to go to get what I wanted. Then he let out a sigh, gesturing around at the numerous tomes and scrolls strewn about the floor. "The Gravekeepers. The Tapestry. Your dear Belisarius." His tone dripped with a weary cynicism, as though these names were links in a chain he'd grown tired of examining. "You've stepped into something older than any of us, you realize that, don't you?"

I said nothing, just leveled a flat stare at him. Of course I realized it. Nothing about this day had been ordinary, from the Council's interference to the undead that shouldn't have been wandering these catacombs so strategically. Ancient powers were stirring, and I had no interest in letting them manipulate me or anyone else.

He shrugged, stepping away from his circle of runes. "Fine. You want me to explain. I will… for a price."

His lips quirked in a sardonic smile, betraying his hope that I might not be prepared to meet his demands. But I was ready. Without hesitation, I reached into my coat and withdrew the artifact I had claimed from the library. A subtle shift of power emanated from it, enough to draw Lorik's attention like a moth to a flame. The amusement vanished from his features, replaced by a flash of hunger in his eyes—hungry for knowledge, for secrets. That was Lorik's weakness.

"You play a dangerous game," he murmured, voice turning low and almost reverent. "You have no idea how many have died trying to keep that hidden."

I kept my grip firm on the relic, making sure he understood it was mine to give—or withhold. "Then tell me why it matters. Tell me what I need to know."
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He exhaled, the tension in his posture growing more pronounced. "Draven," he said quietly, "the rules you seek aren't just lines on a board. They're engravings on the fabric of reality itself. The Gravekeepers understand that. They're custodians of this… cosmic arrangement. And your friend—Belisarius—is at the heart of it."

I kept my voice cold, unyielding. "Then tell me the rules."