The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 454: The Rage of The Frost

The chill that radiated from Sophie von Icevern was palpable, an icy tide sweeping into the lavish room. Her frost magic seeped into every corner, coiling around the delicate furniture, frosting the untouched goblets of wine, and biting at the edges of the polished floor. The room, adorned with all the comforts of an esteemed guest rather than a prisoner, seemed to shrink under the weight of her presence. Draven Arcanum von Drakhan, seated casually on a plush chair, appeared entirely unaffected by the cold. His pens hovered lazily in the air, etching invisible designs in the stillness, their faint glows the only movement in the room.

Sophie stepped closer, her boots clicking sharply against the frost-slicked floor. Her icy blue eyes burned with fury as she stared him down.

"Is this your new game, Draven?" Her voice cut through the silence like a shard of ice.

"Is Sharon’s death a part of your grand plan?"

Draven didn’t reply immediately. He let her words hang in the air, his gaze lifting to meet hers with unflinching calm. His eyes, sharp and piercing, scanned her face, her trembling hands, and finally her stance.

"You rushed here." His words were low, detached, and carried a subtle weight of observation rather than accusation.

"You didn’t even take the time to stabilize your mana."

The comment struck like a slap, fueling Sophie’s rage further. The frost crackled and spread faster across the room, her magic flaring dangerously. She took another step forward, her grip tightening on the hilt of Frostfang, the blade shimmering faintly at her side.

"You have no right to speak of stability," she hissed, her voice trembling with anger.

"You orchestrated all of this! You killed her! You and your cursed schemes!"

Draven’s pens spun faster, tracing arcs in the air. He remained silent, his expression betraying nothing. The lack of response only pushed Sophie further. Her frost magic intensified, causing even the sturdy enchantments of the room to groan under the pressure. The guards standing outside the cell’s barrier retreated, their protective barriers cracking as the cold seeped through.

Finally, Draven leaned back in his chair. He let out a quiet sigh, his pens halting mid-spin. His gaze sharpened, locking onto Sophie’s with a precision that made her falter for a moment.

"I don’t have time for baseless accusations," he said evenly.

"If you’re going to throw around blame, at least cross-check your evidence first."

The bluntness of his words was like a dousing of cold water on her already frozen fury. For a brief second, Sophie’s grip loosened on Frostfang, but she quickly regained her resolve, stepping closer until only the magic bars of the cell separated them.

"Don’t you dare lecture me about evidence," she snapped.

"You always think you’re above consequence, don’t you? That you can manipulate everyone around you like pieces on your board."

Draven tilted his head slightly, a faint trace of amusement flickering across his otherwise stoic face.

"Do you truly believe I’d waste my effort on something as petty as this?" he asked.

"Or is it easier to lash out at me because your grief has clouded your judgment?"

The words hit their mark. Sophie’s magic flared violently, a spike of frost erupting near the cell bars. Her blade appeared in her hand, its icy surface radiating a dangerous energy. The guards outside scrambled further back, their fear palpable.

"You’ve taken everything, Draven," Sophie said, her voice rising.

"Sharon was all I had left! It’s time you paid for what you’ve done!"

Draven didn’t move. He didn’t summon his pens to form any kind of shield or counterattack. He simply sat there, unflinching, as the frost began to creep along the edges of his collar and sleeves. The icy tendrils licked at his neck, forming faint trails of frost on his skin. The chill grew more intense, frosting the chair’s armrests and spreading thin crystalline webs along the polished floor. Despite the encroaching cold, Draven remained as still as stone, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

Sophie’s breaths came faster, her rage fueling the frost that now crackled and hissed with each movement she made. Her fingers clenched Frostfang tightly, the icy blade humming in resonance with her magic. She prepared to strike, her form trembling with the force of her emotions, but then she noticed something that gave her pause.

Draven’s hands rested lightly on the armrests of his chair, unmoving, almost relaxed. His head tilted slightly, his gaze unyielding, but it was no longer just cold calculation that she saw. There was something deeper—an unmistakable stillness that spoke of resignation. Acceptance. He wasn’t resisting her attack. He was letting her magic do its work, allowing the frost to encase him without a flicker of defense.

"What are you doing?" Sophie demanded, her voice wavering despite her anger. The sight of frost inching up his neck and forming delicate crystals along his jawline should have been satisfying, but instead, it unsettled her. The unspoken challenge in his eyes gnawed at her resolve.

Draven didn’t answer. The frost continued its advance, clinging to his arms and collar like a creeping shroud. The silence was deafening, each second stretching like an eternity. Sophie’s grip on Frostfang faltered as her magic surged unchecked, filling the air with a biting cold that froze even her own breath midair. She had expected defiance or anger—anything but this.

His silence was deafening, and for the first time, doubt crept into Sophie’s mind. Her grip on Frostfang wavered as she watched him sit there, as if waiting for her to decide his fate.

Before the tension could snap, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. A messenger mage appeared, clutching a sealed missive bearing the emblem of the Continental Magic Council. The mage hesitated at the threshold, visibly unnerved by the frost-laden atmosphere. Sophie turned her head slightly, her anger simmering but no longer boiling over.

"This is for Earl Draven Arcanum von Drakhan," the mage stammered, holding out the letter. Draven gestured with a subtle motion, and one of his pens darted forward, slicing through the seal with surgical precision. As he read the letter, his pens’ movements became erratic, their once-fluid patterns breaking into disjointed flicks. His face remained unreadable, but Sophie caught the faintest shift in his aura—a tension that wasn’t there before.

The cell’s magic bars shimmered and dissolved. Draven rose to his feet with the same deliberate grace that had infuriated Sophie since the moment she’d arrived. He stepped toward her, stopping just short of the doorway. Leaning slightly closer, he spoke in a low, almost inaudible whisper.

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"If you want the truth," he said.

"be strong enough to kill me."

The words sent a shiver down Sophie’s spine, but before she could respond, Draven walked past her, his pens trailing behind him like silent sentinels. She turned sharply to the messenger, her voice trembling.

"What’s going on?"

The mage hesitated, then said, "The Earl is to be released immediately. The Chancellors have received a formal decree from Queen Aurelia of Regaria. She has sworn by her name that Earl Draven is to be returned to the kingdom and not judged by the council. The letter… strongly suggests that Regaria will not hesitate to… retrieve him by force if necessary."

Sophie’s hand tightened around Frostfang, her frost magic momentarily spiking before fading.

"So he even has the Queen within his grasp," she muttered, her voice filled with bitterness and disbelief.

Outside the prison, Draven’s pace was steady, his expression a mask of cold detachment. The guards flanked him on either side, their steps cautious, as though they were escorting not a prisoner but a predator temporarily caged. The cool mountain air that greeted him was brisk, carrying with it the faint scent of parchment and mana that permeated Arcadia. The streets beyond the prison walls were quiet, the usual hustle of scholars muted, as though the entire city sensed the gravity of his release.

At the entrance to the Grand Library Hub, Chancellor Lisanor stood waiting, her fiery red hair shimmering faintly under the glow of enchanted lanterns. The light caught the edges of her robes, lending her an almost ethereal appearance that belied the tension in her stance. She held the letter in her hands, her fingers betraying a slight tremor as they gripped the parchment. Her expression was carefully neutral, but her eyes burned with a mixture of curiosity and guarded caution.

Draven’s approach was unhurried, his pens orbiting around him with a precision that mirrored his calculated steps. He stopped a few paces away from her, his gaze steady and unreadable. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions.

"Draven Arcanum von Drakhan," Lisanor began, her tone formal, though there was an edge to her voice that hinted at restrained emotion. She lifted the letter slightly, as though its presence alone carried the weight of her authority. "By the decree of Queen Aurelia Thalassia Arctaris Regaria, you are to return to Regaria immediately. The Queen’s words were explicit: ’The Earl’s presence is a necessity for the kingdom, and his absence would be… unacceptable.’" Her voice lingered on the final word, as though tasting its implications.

Draven’s pens paused for a fraction of a second, a barely perceptible hitch in their movement before resuming their orbit. His expression didn’t change, but the slight shift in the atmosphere around him was enough to make the guards step back instinctively.

Lisanor’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "I’ll ask you plainly, Draven. Whose side are you truly on?"

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Draven’s pens froze mid-air, their glow dimming slightly as though in anticipation. The air around him grew heavier, a subtle pressure that pressed against the senses like the calm before a storm. Lisanor tensed, her fingers twitching as she began to channel her mana, ready to react to any sudden movement.

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Draven’s reply, when it came, was steady and unyielding. "I am on the side of the world," he said, his voice low but carrying an undeniable weight. Each word was deliberate, imbued with a conviction that resonated through the space between them. "Regaria. Humanity. That’s where my loyalty lies."

The certainty in his tone was like a blade cutting through the tension, leaving no room for doubt. His words were not an explanation, nor an apology, but a declaration. They hung in the air, heavy and unassailable, the kind of truth that could not be refuted.

Lisanor held his gaze for a long moment, her own resolve flickering as she searched his face for any sign of deceit. Finding none, she exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing. She stepped aside, her voice softer now. "Then don’t let the world regret that loyalty."

Draven inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgment that was neither humble nor arrogant. As he stepped past her, his pens resumed their orbit, their movements fluid and precise. The air around him seemed to settle, the oppressive weight lifting as he strode forward. But just as he was about to pass entirely, he stopped, his gaze turning back to Lisanor, sharp and calculating.

"Lisanor," he began, his voice cutting through the tension like the edge of a blade. "The Dark Lord is returning. The tragedy of a thousand years ago will happen again."

Lisanor stiffened, her expression flickering with disbelief. "Impossible!" she exclaimed, her tone a mix of shock and denial. But as her eyes met Draven’s, she saw something that made her breath catch. His gaze was unyielding, carrying the weight of certainty, the kind that only came from someone who had seen the threads of fate unravel firsthand. Those were not the eyes of a liar, nor of a madman.

And then there was his reputation—the man who had just authored four groundbreaking papers, that about to be presented in the symposium with a precision that had shaken the foundations of the magical society. A figure long absent from the realm of magic, now returned with a force that left no room for doubt.

Lisanor’s hands trembled slightly, the letter crinkling between her fingers. Her fiery resolve dimmed under the weight of his declaration, leaving her standing there, her words stolen by the gravity of his claim. Draven turned away again, his pens gliding in tight, deliberate patterns as he moved forward. The faint tremor in the air dissipated, leaving her with only his ominous words and the undeniable truth that they carried.

The world outside waited, its complexities and conflicts swirling like the currents of a vast ocean. But Draven’s mind was already ahead, piecing together the next steps in the ever-shifting game, his sharp eyes seeing moves yet to be made.