The Villain Professor's Second Chance

He gave the smallest tilt of his head, a sign to begin. Aurelia inhaled, tasting the electric tang of magic on her tongue. She could sense Draven's calm stare, cataloging every nuance of her posture, every subtle flicker of her mana. She told herself she didn't care, that she'd simply do what she always did—push through. Yet a flutter of excitement churned in her gut. She refused to analyze why.

She stepped forward, and the first barrier coalesced at once: a shimmering swirl of silvery aura that mirrored her own reflection back at her, distorting her fiery locks into an almost mocking swirl. She reached out with a basic spark of magic, intending to cut through it. Instead, the barrier flared, reflecting her burst like a perfect mirror. She jerked her hand back in surprise.

"Mirror Barrier," Draven said in a neutral tone. "You can't force your magic through brute strength. It'll come back at you."

She cursed under her breath. Of course. It was typical of him to start with something requiring subtlety. She braced herself, let her mana shift from raw aggression to a fine, more subdued frequency. It wasn't the style she liked—she preferred big, loud fireworks. But Draven had hammered the concept of "tuning" into her skull enough times for her to know what was needed. Slowly, she shaped a ripple in her mana, matching it to the faint hum of the barrier. Then she pressed forward again.

This time, her strike sank in as though the surface parted for her. It was a satisfying feeling, almost like slipping a lockpick into a tough keyhole. The Mirror Barrier shimmered, then popped out of existence. She smirked, hearing Draven's faint hum of approval. The first hurdle cleared.

Before she could savor the victory, the second barrier unfurled—a wave of invisible force that caught her at the ankles, slowing her motion to a glacial crawl. She glanced down, fighting the sudden drag on her muscles.

"Stasis Field," Draven commented. "Move with rhythm, or remain stuck."

She growled. Her instinct was to push harder, break the hold by brute force. But that approach would only sink her deeper in the stasis. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to adopt a measured pace, a deliberate step. In her mind, she conjured a mental beat—eight counts, repeated. One foot, second foot, pivot, another foot. Her movements synchronized, and the barrier gave way bit by bit. She half-expected Draven to smirk, but he only watched quietly, arms folded. She found that unwavering composure maddening.

The haze around her parted, revealing a swirling mist for the third barrier. Instantly, she felt her senses dull—like stepping into a dark pond without a guide. The Mana Fog had arrived. She swallowed, lips pressing into a firm line. She tried to sense Draven's presence, but it was lost in the swirling murk that shut down magical detection. She'd have to rely on pure, raw instinct to navigate. Her heart pounded faster. She hated losing her magical edge. But if Draven had taught her anything, it was not to rely on a single skill. So she shut her eyes, letting her body remain loose and reactive, and moved carefully, feeling out every subtle shift in the air.

A minute later, she emerged, blinking away the fog that clung to her eyelashes. Her breath came harsher now. Sweat traced a line down her temple. She shot Draven a glare, though his face remained impassive. Maybe a fraction of a second's flicker passed over his features—recognition of her success. She hoped so.

But the fourth barrier slammed into her bones like a tidal wave. Her knees nearly buckled under the sudden increase in gravitational force. Weighted Field, she realized, clenching her teeth as her muscles strained. Every step felt like she was hauling an anchor. She spat a curse, a savage snarl escaping her throat. Draven might as well have stacked stone blocks on her back. She wanted to just lunge forward. Instead, she tempered her actions, took one grudging step after another, never once letting her knees collapse fully. The pain was real, but so was her fury. She refused to let him see her crumble, not after all that bravado.

And then came the last barrier.

Everything went quiet and cold. The runes flickered into shadows that wrapped around her, conjuring illusions far too personal to be random. She saw herself as a child, fists bloodied from hours of solitary training. She saw scornful eyes, heard mocking voices—whispers about the "uncontrollable little queen," remarks that she was all flash and no substance. A wave of old hurt washed over her, memories she'd long buried. Her chest tightened, and for a dangerous heartbeat, her resolve wavered.

The illusions converged into a single figure: a smaller Aurelia, hair tangled and tearstained, glaring up with resentment. "They'll never really respect you," the child said. "They fear your temper. Laugh at your failures. You can break a thousand training dummies, but you can't break them."

She gripped her blade, hands shaking. She could almost smell the dusty courtyard where she'd first learned to hold a practice sword. Then, as the illusions pressed closer, ridiculing her, she snarled. A primal sound, one that held a raw mix of shame and fury.

"Shut up," she growled. "You're not me. Not anymore."

With a burst of motion, she sliced through the illusions, swirling her blade in a dual-arc technique Draven had once shown her. Light scattered. Shadows dissolved. The illusions fell away like broken glass, leaving only the echo of her ragged breathing. Her heart pounded, her arms quivering, but the barrier was gone.

She stumbled out of that final space, knees hitting the marble. Draven watched from near the center of the ring, neither applauding nor criticizing. His presence, calm and unwavering, almost comforted her in a way she would never admit. Her chest rose and fell with each breath as she tried to gather her composure.

No illusions now. No haze. She was free of the five trials, though her mind still reeled. She forced herself to look up, chest heaving with exhaustion. Draven offered a hand, silent, no trace of pity on his face—only that same dispassionate acceptance that she both despised and needed.

She slapped his hand aside on instinct, refusing to be helped. Instead, she exhaled a shaky breath and sat upright against the nearest pillar, trying to slow her hammering pulse. The echo of that last illusion stung worse than any physical blow.

"You always plan lessons that feel like declarations of war," she muttered at length, half-lidded eyes glaring up at him.

"Would you attend otherwise?" he asked, voice perfectly level.

She wanted to snarl a retort, but found her anger drifting. He was right, damn him. She thrived on confrontation, on battles that left her breathless and her enemies trembling. Without that relentless push, she'd never sharpen her talents. Still, she would never say so out loud. She sniffed, turning her head away.

Draven calmly lowered himself to sit beside her. The chamber was quiet now, the hum of mana subdued. For a moment, they simply breathed the same charged air, an unspoken camaraderie woven through the tension.

"What's the point of being the strongest if I'm always doubting it?" Aurelia asked, her voice unexpectedly hushed. The question escaped before she could clamp her teeth around it.

He responded as though he'd been waiting: "Strength is never a constant. It's a challenge you meet every day—especially alone."

She weighed those words, her gaze flicking to the faint scorch marks on the floor. Images of the illusions haunted her periphery. She'd felt alone so many times, even as a queen, even with knights and courtiers at her beck and call. She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

"Why do you push me this hard, bastard?" she whispered, dropping the usual bravado. A question that had gnawed at her for weeks, months—maybe longer. Her voice, drained of its customary derision, carried a tremor of genuine uncertainty. The admission itself made her insides twist with conflict. She hated appearing unsure, hated letting any crack in her pride show. Yet here she was, knees half-bent from the strain of the recent trial, her breath coming in uneven pulls, and staring straight into the cold, unyielding calm that was Draven.

His answer was immediate, as though the truth were obvious. "Because if I don't, no one else can. And one day, you'll need that strength to stand when I'm not here."