The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The relic sat heavy in my palm, its surface pulsing with an almost imperceptible energy, like the heartbeat of something long dormant but not dead. The runes etched into its surface flickered under the spectral lanterns, their ancient script shifting as if whispering in a tongue only the long-buried could understand.

Lorik's gaze remained fixed on it, his jaw tight, the weight of his thoughts pressing visibly against his expression. He was torn—between the scholar's insatiable thirst for knowledge and the instinctive dread that came with knowing too much.

"That's not something you should be holding, Draven," he murmured, voice taut with caution. "Not unless you're prepared to face what it means."

I tilted the relic slightly, letting the carved inscriptions catch the lantern light. "Then educate me, Lorik. You've had enough time playing the cryptic scholar."

His lips pressed into a thin line. He was calculating. I knew that look well. Weighing the risk of sharing knowledge against the inevitability that I would get it anyway. Finally, he exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before nodding toward the far end of the chamber, where books and loose scrolls lay in a chaotic sprawl.

"The Tapestry," he began, stepping toward the pile, fingers tracing the edge of a tattered manuscript. "It's not a metaphor, not some poetic way to describe fate. It's real. A construct as ancient as magic itself. The world… existence… operates on it, like threads woven into a vast design. Some people, some bloodlines, are foundational threads—pull them, and everything collapses."

He lifted a small, fraying parchment from the pile, the ink barely legible from time's decay. His fingers hovered over the symbols, an almost reverent hesitation before he finally traced a single sigil. It shimmered in response to his touch.

I remained silent, letting him speak, letting him build toward the inevitable conclusion.

"Belisarius Drakhan is one of those threads," he continued. "He wasn't just powerful; he wasn't just a warlord, a kingmaker. He was meant to be here. His death was a mistake, or rather, an anomaly. The Tapestry doesn't allow anomalies to persist. And when a crucial thread is removed… something, or someone, ensures it's put back in place."

"The Gravekeepers."

Lorik nodded, setting the parchment down carefully. "They are more than an organization. They are the balance, the correction. They don't serve kings, councils, or empires. They serve the weave of reality itself." His fingers curled into his palms, a rare sign of unease. "And they have already begun moving to repair what was lost."

I considered his words. The logic was clean, efficient. It explained much—their sudden movements, their precision, their singular focus on Belisarius. But it left questions. Questions I needed answered.

"If this Tapestry is so rigid, why did Belisarius die in the first place?"

Lorik hesitated. That alone was an answer.

"Because something stronger interfered."

The cold silence between Lorik and me stretched, the weight of the conversation pressing down like the walls of the forgotten crypt. The spectral lanterns cast flickering shadows against the runes, and for a moment, it was easy to imagine the ghosts of those buried here watching us, waiting for whatever was about to unfold.

Lorik's breathing had steadied, but his eyes still flickered with a scholar's obsession, a hunger for answers that went beyond survival. He wanted knowledge for knowledge's sake, but I didn't have the luxury of indulging in academic curiosity.

That was enough. I had what I needed. I wasn't here for philosophy or grand theories about existence. I needed tangible leverage. I needed an edge.

I tossed the relic lightly in my palm, feeling its weight, the hum of latent power within it, as if the object itself resented being disturbed. "And this? How does it fit?"

Lorik's throat worked as he swallowed, his fingers twitching slightly as if resisting the urge to snatch the artifact back. "That artifact… it's a key. To a gate. Or rather, a lock."

A lock. That word carried weight, implications. I raised an eyebrow. "A lock?"

"There are places in this world—Resonance Sites—where the Tapestry is at its weakest, where changes can be made. If Belisarius is being pulled back into the weave, then someone, somewhere, is using one."

Resonance Sites. Weak points in reality itself. Places where events could be rewritten, where fate wasn't as immutable as the Council and its laws would like to believe. That was dangerous knowledge in the wrong hands.

More importantly, it meant Belisarius's return wasn't an accident. Someone had made it happen.

A tool. A mechanism. That meant there was still a player behind the move. Not just fate, not just some inevitable correction, but intent. That changed things.

Lorik squared his shoulders, the nervous scholar replaced by something closer to determination. He could sense the shift in my understanding. He knew I was taking him seriously now.

"If you want me to decipher the full inscriptions, I need more than just your patience," he said. "I need your protection."

I exhaled through my nose. "You think I'm a bodyguard now?"

"No. I think you're pragmatic. And you know that if I die before I finish decoding that relic, you lose valuable time."

He wasn't wrong. I had no use for a corpse full of half-explained riddles. But I also had no interest in becoming someone else's shield. People had a habit of dying around me. Lorik would be no different if he made himself a liability.

I held his gaze for a moment longer before speaking. "Fine. But I'm not your shield. If a knife finds your back, that's on you."

Lorik let out a slow breath, shoulders relaxing slightly, but his grip on his own nerves was still tenuous. He wasn't built for this. He was a scholar, not a fighter. The only reason he'd survived this long was because no one had truly come for him yet.

That was about to change.

The chamber's wards pulsed.

A sharp, electric twinge in the air. The lanterns flickered erratically, their spectral glow stuttering like a heartbeat skipping a beat. Then, in the space of a breath, the sigils along the walls blazed bright before snapping dark.

The seals were broken.

It was like a pressure shift in the air—something ancient and unseen exhaling into the space. I moved without thought, instincts overriding rationality. My hand clamped onto Lorik's shoulder, shoving him behind me, my other hand drawing steel in one smooth motion.

The first figure stepped into the chamber's archway.

A dark-cloaked silhouette, the Gravekeeper sigil stitched into their chest.

Behind them, more figures—silent, deliberate.

Lorik barely had time to hiss a curse before the attack began. The first Gravekeeper lunged, a blade glinting in the lanternlight. I moved before thought, instinct driving me. A sidestep, sharp and precise, let his momentum carry him too far. I caught his wrist in a vice grip, twisting. Bone snapped with a sickening crack, the dagger falling from his grasp before he could even process the pain. He barely had time to grunt before I drove an elbow into his throat. The impact silenced him instantly—no air left to scream, no time to resist. He crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.

The next moved faster. A curved sword swept for my ribs. I ducked, pivoting in one fluid motion, letting the momentum guide my own blade free. The clang of steel rang through the chamber as I met the strike head-on. The Gravekeeper was disciplined—stance balanced, grip firm, a lack of hesitation in their movements. Not an amateur. But they weren't used to fighting someone like me.

I shifted my grip mid-parry, dragging their blade outward before stepping in, too close for them to adjust. Their breath hitched as they realized the mistake, but it was too late. My dagger found the soft gap in their armor, slicing into flesh. A strangled exhale. The Gravekeeper staggered, shock flickering through their eyes before they collapsed, fingers twitching in a futile attempt to hold onto their weapon.

Lorik, to his credit, wasn't completely useless. His hands moved in swift, deliberate gestures, glyphs flaring into the air, tracing luminous arcs before lashing out like razor-thin whips of energy. They weren't powerful spells—no grand destructive force—but they were precise. One caught a charging attacker across the thigh, making them stumble. Another slashed at an arm, searing through fabric and skin alike. Enough to distract. Enough to slow.
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But not enough to win.