The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 453: Prison and The Clone’s Worry

Arcadia sprawled across the mountain range like a city caught between the heavens and the earth, its architecture a blend of timeless elegance and meticulous function. Towering spires pierced the sky, each crowned with intricate arcane symbols that shimmered faintly under the light of enchanted lanterns. The streets below were wide and meticulously paved, their surfaces etched with runic patterns that pulsed faintly, channeling mana throughout the town. Merchants with carts brimming with rare tomes and enchanted trinkets lined the cobblestone avenues, their wares gleaming with faintly glowing sigils. Groups of robed scholars walked in clusters, their conversations a mixture of heated debates and excited whispers.

The heart of Arcadia was the Grand Library Hub, a massive edifice of white stone that radiated authority and knowledge. Its walls were inscribed with ancient wards that glowed faintly, a testament to centuries of enchantment. The building rose in layered terraces, each level housing archives of arcane knowledge and guarded by sentinel statues whose eyes followed every passerby. Inside, the corridors were a labyrinth of towering bookshelves, their contents spanning subjects from the mundane to the forbidden.

Arcadia was untouched by politics, a sanctuary for academics and scholars who sought refuge from the world’s chaos. Here, the Continental Magic Council held sway, governing the arcane laws that bound the continent. It was a place of discourse and discovery, where knowledge reigned supreme and the trivialities of kingdoms were left behind.

Within the Grand Library Hub, Draven Arcanum von Drakhan occupied what could only loosely be described as a prison. The room was lavish, far removed from the cold confines one might expect. Polished wooden floors reflected the light of a softly glowing chandelier, and plush seating surrounded a low table set with untouched food and drink. A grand bed, adorned with silk sheets, sat against one wall, its headboard carved with intricate patterns of stars and constellations.

Draven sat in the living area, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled as he stared into the distance. His pens hovered idly in the air, their faint glow the only sign of movement. His face was a mask of calm, betraying no hint of frustration or anger. The guards who occasionally glanced through the enchanted viewing window found themselves unnerved by his composure. They whispered theories: exhaustion from the battle against the Devil Coffin, a calculated strategy, or perhaps an indifference that bordered on inhuman.

But Draven’s thoughts were far from still. His mind circled around a singular issue, one that gnawed at the edges of his meticulous control: the Holy Scriptures. As Dravis Granger, a mechanical engineering professor and the designer of this world—a game turned reality—he had known every facet of the scriptures. Yet what he had seen during the Devil Coffin’s attack was fundamentally different.

He recalled skimming the other scriptures in the prison dimension, their pages filled with words that diverged from the original design. The prophecy, the targets, the routes—all altered. Most troubling was the shift in focus. The Devil Coffin had been meant to target Aurelia Thalassia Arctaris Regaria, the Daughter of the Golden Flame and Queen of Regaria. Now, their aim had shifted to Amberine Polime, a scholar of middling renown. It was a divergence he hadn’t anticipated.

Draven leaned back, his sharp gaze fixing on the faintly glowing chandelier above him. The weight of the discrepancies bore down on him. Had his actions—the deviations from Draven’s original path—caused ripples in the timeline? He considered the deaths he had avoided, the lives spared or manipulated for his purposes. Each choice, seemingly minor, could have compounded into this.

But there was another possibility, one that unsettled him even more: the prophecy itself might be mutable, a dynamic force reacting to his interference. The implications were dangerous. If the prophecy could shift, then every plan he had constructed based on his knowledge of this world’s mechanics was suspect. The certainty he had relied upon was fracturing.

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The larger picture loomed. The timeline for the rise of the Dark Lord—an event meticulously scripted in the game—could also be affected. If even the prophecies were changing, then the emergence of that ultimate threat might follow an entirely new course. Draven’s expression tightened, his eyes narrowing as he muttered to himself.

"This is dangerous."

The faint hum of the magic wards surrounding the room was his only companion as he contemplated the ramifications. The Holy Scriptures, the prophecies, the shifting targets—each piece demanded analysis, demanded a response. Yet the answers eluded him. For the first time in a long time, he found himself at a loss.

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While at the distant capital of Regaria, where Sophie von Icevern sat alone in her chamber. Clad in her royal knight’s attire, her ice-blue eyes widened in shock as she read the letter trembling in her hands. The words blurred as tears filled her vision. Sharon Blackthorn, her loyal adjutant, was dead—killed during the chaos of the Devil Coffin’s attack.

Her hands trembled, the letter falling to the floor as her breath came in ragged gasps. Frost spread across the room, creeping along the walls and floor as her magic responded to her grief and fury.

"Is it not enough for him?" she whispered, her voice breaking.

"After everything, he still wants to take from me!?"

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Her younger sister, Anastasia, stood in the doorway, her expression torn between concern and fear.

"Sister, please," she said, stepping cautiously into the frost-laden room.

"You need to stay rational."

Sophie’s fists clenched, her voice hardening.

"He’s taken too much already. Sharon… She was more than an adjutant... She was family. And now, he will answer for this."

The frost thickened, the air growing frigid as Sophie’s anger boiled over. Anastasia hesitated, then reached out, her voice soft but firm.

"Big sis, please don’t let this consume you. Sharon wouldn’t want this."

Sophie’s gaze softened for a moment, but her resolve remained unshaken. She turned abruptly, striding toward the door.

"I’m going to Arcadia."

Anastasia’s eyes widened.

"You can’t! That place… It’s not safe for you."

Sophie ignored her sister’s protests, her steps purposeful as she navigated the labyrinthine halls of their ancestral estate. Every sound of her boots against the cold marble seemed to echo her resolve, each step carrying the weight of her grief and fury. When she reached the grand study, the room’s heavy double doors swung open with a push that silenced the ongoing discussions within. Advisors, dressed in finely tailored robes, turned their gazes toward her, startled by her sudden entrance. Her elder brother, Lancefroz von Icevern, sat at the head of the room, his composed demeanor unwavering even in the face of her interruption.

"I need your permission to go to Arcadia," Sophie declared, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of barely restrained emotion. Her ice-blue eyes locked onto Lancefroz’s, her posture rigid with determination. She made no apologies for the disruption, the gravity of her request evident in every word.

Lancefroz dismissed his advisors with a subtle wave, the men filing out quietly, their curiosity palpable but unvoiced. Once they were alone, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded her with a calm, penetrating gaze.

"Is there meaning in going, Sophie?" His question was simple, but his tone was layered with both curiosity and caution. It was as though he sought to measure her resolve before offering a response.

She took a step closer, her fists clenched at her sides.

"There is a lot. Brother. Sharon was not just my adjutant—she was family. And now, she is gone. I need answers, and I need to see this through. I will go with or without your permission." Her voice grew firmer with each word, her determination carving through the room’s stillness like a blade through frost.

For a moment, silence hung between them, charged with the unspoken weight of their shared loss. Anastasia, peeking cautiously from the doorway, watched with wide eyes, witnessing a strength in her sister she had never fully grasped before. Sophie, who had once struggled to meet Lancefroz’s gaze for more than a fleeting moment, now stood tall, her unwavering stare matching his with a fierce intensity.

Lancefroz’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his otherwise stoic face. Finally, he exhaled a quiet sigh, the tension in the room softening just a fraction.

"Fine," he said at last, his voice measured.

"But be careful."

Sophie inclined her head, her expression hardening with resolve.

"There’s nothing to be careful of. The most dangerous man is already confined." Without another word, she turned on her heel and left the study, her determination blazing like frost under moonlight. Anastasia lingered a moment longer, her heart swelling with both worry and admiration as she watched her sister stride away, a force of nature unto herself.

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Back in Arcadia, Draven remained seated in the center of the lavish room, his pens hovering in precise, calculated orbits around him. Alongside them, ethereal papers shimmered faintly, suspended in the air as if waiting to be inscribed with the weight of his thoughts. Each pen occasionally flicked, as though mirroring the rhythm of his contemplations, sketching half-formed diagrams and fragmented notes into the empty space before vanishing. The untouched food and cold tea on the table were testament to his unwavering focus. This particular Draven, a clone tasked with mastering necromancy, had assumed the mantle of dealing with Aetherion’s crisis while the real Draven pursued other objectives. The plans, meticulously detailed and carefully constructed, now seemed vulnerable to the anomalies he could not yet explain. The thought gave him pause. Was every piece moving in alignment, or were unforeseen forces pulling the strings of fate?

The tension broke as the sound of heavy boots echoed through the corridor. The door to Draven’s suite burst open, and Sophie stood there, her aura radiating frost and authority. She stepped across the threshold, stopping just short of the cell bars. Her icy eyes locked onto Draven, her emotions a whirlwind of anger and grief.

Draven, unperturbed, met her gaze with a calm stare. His voice was cold and steady.

"What are you doing here?"