The Villain Professor's Second Chance

But Kyrion acted first. "Stand back," he said, voice rough and breathless. I caught a glimpse of the determination in his gaze—steady, unyielding. He raised his hand, shadows beginning to writhe around his forearm like living snakes. "If we don't get through this door, we're done for," he added quietly, almost to himself. A coil of blackness erupted from his palm, slamming into the glowing symbols etched into the stone. Instantly, a backlash of pure magical force exploded, striking Kyrion like a physical blow. He let out a pained gasp, doubling over as arcs of shimmering light slashed at him. But the door shuddered under his necromantic assault, the wards sputtering in protest. I could see the lines of script flickering on the surface, as if they were being forcibly rewritten. The fortress let out a low moan of protest, and another chunk of the corridor behind us gave way with a thunderous crash, shaking the floor so violently that I almost lost my footing. Kyrion hissed as the recoil battered him, but he didn't let go. With a final surge of necromantic energy, he pushed through, and the lock collapsed in on itself, shattering the carefully woven web of centuries-old magic. The door swung inward with a massive rumble, releasing a swirl of stale air from the darkness beyond. Kyrion stumbled. Instinct kicked in, and I darted forward, catching him under the arm before he collapsed completely. He was pale, sweat pouring down his brow. That last act had taken more from him than he would ever admit aloud. "Move," I told him, my own voice trembling with the aftershock of tension. Behind us, I heard the enforcers—closer than before, arcs of energy sizzling against the corridor walls as they advanced. We had no time to linger. We staggered through the doorway just as an explosive force rocked the passage, likely an enforcer's spell aimed to stop our escape. The ground buckled, and a wave of heat washed over my back, bringing with it a searing sensation of near-miss destruction. Bits of rubble clattered around us, but the heavy stone door shielded us from the brunt of the impact as it swung back into place. Darkness enveloped us. It wasn't the soft gloom of a torchlit corridor but an oppressive blackness that seemed to swallow sound and light alike. I fought the urge to panic, forcing a controlled breath in and out. A portion of me remained painfully aware of Kyrion leaning heavily on my shoulder, his body trembling as the necromantic backlash took its toll. My own limbs quivered, the aftereffects of adrenaline and the constant push of combat dragging at my stamina. Slowly, my eyes adjusted, revealing a subterranean chamber carved into the bedrock beneath Aetherion's main structure. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with tomes bound in cracked leather and dusty parchments. A faint hum drifted through the stale air, the residue of long-forgotten magic that clung to this place like cobwebs. If it weren't for our dire situation, I would have found this chamber fascinating—like stepping into a hidden library that held secrets older than the fortress above. Kyrion exhaled a ragged breath, pulling away from my support to slump against a fallen pillar. His clothes were torn, his skin clammy, but there was a fierce light in his eyes that told me he wasn't out of the fight just yet. He stared at the ancient glyphs etched along the walls, forcing himself to steady his breathing. My gaze darted around, searching for immediate threats—a cursed guardian or some leftover security measure—but nothing stirred. The fortress's alarms still blared distantly, muffled by layers of stone. We'd found a pocket of respite, however brief. Tomes and scrolls lay scattered across the floor, coated in a thick layer of dust. Some had cracked spines, suggesting they'd been left untouched for generations. Others looked meticulously preserved, as if someone had come here in secret. I approached one of the shelves, brushing away cobwebs and letting my fingers graze the spine of an unmarked volume. The hush felt almost reverent, a stark contrast to the chaos we'd just fled. It was then that I noticed a single book on a raised pedestal at the far corner, illuminated by a faint glow emanating from a cluster of crystals embedded in the wall. The crystals cast a soft, ghostly light that revealed a cover emblazoned with gold lettering. Something about that stand drew my attention like a magnet, an inexplicable pull at the back of my mind. Perhaps it was some sense of foreboding, or maybe a trace of lingering magic specifically attuned to me. Cautiously, I stepped closer, well aware that books in places like this could harbor lethal enchantments or triggered spells. But no wards stirred. No illusions jumped to life in my face. Kyrion, watching me with parted lips, remained silent, either too exhausted or equally curious. The text itself was large, its leather cover in remarkably good condition despite the centuries that must have passed. My heart pounded as I leaned over to read the name inscribed across it. Initially, my eyes refused to accept what they were seeing, as though my mind was trying to shield me from the implications. Yet there it was—a name that I recognized, a name I should never have encountered here. A name that tied everything together: Kyrion's survival, Lisanor's looming power, the benefactor's cryptic warnings, and my own precarious grasp on this timeline. I felt my stomach twist. Blood drained from my face, leaving me lightheaded. The letters on the cover seemed to blaze with an otherworldly significance, mocking me for all my supposed cleverness and foreknowledge. This single revelation threatened to unravel everything I thought I had control over—my plans, my assumptions, even my identity in this world. I swallowed hard, a bitter taste coating my tongue. Slowly, I lifted the book from its pedestal, half-expecting it to burn me on contact. It didn't. But it carried a weight, both literal and metaphorical, that made my shoulders bow. I gently turned it over in my hands, feeling the ancient leather creak as though it might whisper its secrets at any moment. Behind me, Kyrion pushed away from the pillar, stumbling forward to peer at the text. His eyes widened when he saw the name, and for a fleeting second, I caught a glimpse of genuine fear flickering across his features. If Kyrion was afraid, then we truly were dancing at the edge of something catastrophic. My heart thundered in my chest, each pulse a reminder that we were still in mortal danger. The fortress might have lost track of us for the moment, but it wouldn't remain ignorant forever. Sooner or later, more enforcers would find a way down here, or constructs would smash through the sealed passages. We had to move, to plan, to figure out what this new knowledge meant. But all I could do was stand there, transfixed by the letters scrawled across that ancient cover. The benefactor had a name, and if this book spoke the truth, it was a name that tied past and future into one horrifying, inexorable path. I felt a wave of cold dread seep through me, colder than any frost I'd ever conjured with magic. This changed everything—my place in the conflict, the shape of the entire war that loomed on the horizon. Nothing was as I'd believed. The comfort I'd derived from my "foreknowledge" was now riddled with holes, because that knowledge had never accounted for the one name that lurked here in the shadows. My grip on the tome tightened until my knuckles turned white. I forced myself to breathe, to hold my nerve. Kyrion was watching me, clearly bracing for whatever reaction I might have. I wet my lips, eyes flicking back to the pedestal, then to the swirling dust overhead, and finally to the carved glyphs on the walls. Was everything I had done just part of a greater plan someone else had orchestrated? As the fortress's alarms droned on, as the corridor behind the sealed door continued to quake with distant impacts, I closed my eyes for a single heartbeat. In that darkness, I tried to anchor myself, reminding myself that no matter how bleak the path, I had always found a way to survive. The outlier. That was what the projection had called me. Perhaps I could use that position to break free from whatever snare the benefactor had laid. I snapped my eyes open, inhaling a breath that tasted of dust and decades-old secrets. My voice was lower than a whisper, carried on a tremor of apprehension I couldn't entirely hide. The benefactor had a name. And everything I thought I knew was about to change.