The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 469: The Secret Chamber (2) The Secret Ritual
My eyes narrowed as I reviewed the Magic Council’s plans. Five days. Five days to prepare for a Symposium that would gather every major arcane figure in one place. It was both an opportunity and a risk. This was the moment in the game where heroes and key characters—players of fate—would begin to realize the gravity of their world’s peril. But they needed a push. They needed to see the danger.
I stood and approached the center table where another map lay sprawled—a topographical rendering of the continent with key regions highlighted.
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"The first signs of the orc invasion," I murmured, tapping a location to the far north. "It will begin here. And the Devil Coffin…"
My fingers brushed against another point—a darkened forest marked by swirling runes I had added weeks ago. Their hideouts were still numerous and scattered, but they were mobilizing.
I turned, focusing on a smaller section of the chamber. This part of the room led to a narrow passage—a door masked by the appearance of an ordinary stone wall. A subtle flick of my hand activated the mechanism, and the wall slid aside soundlessly, revealing a hidden alcove.
The chamber beyond was smaller, quieter. My private quarters.
Inside, the air was cooler, more subdued, as if even time slowed within these walls. A single, minimalist bed lay against one corner, its linens dark and untouched. Beside it was a narrow table holding a faintly glowing hourglass, its sands falling at a rate that allowed me to measure my power naps to the second. Power napping, I had learned, was essential in maintaining focus across such exhaustive efforts.
I lowered myself onto the bed, my muscles relaxing briefly for the first time in what felt like hours. With a sigh, I allowed my mind to rest—if only for moments.
Time passed quickly in this place, yet it felt infinite. This was my retreat when the weight of the world became too heavy to bear. No noise, no interruptions. Only me and my thoughts.
After a few minutes, I rose again, my energy restored to razor-sharp clarity. With another flick of my hand, I summoned the pen and all the maps, notes, and references needed. They realigned themselves in perfect order.
There was much to prepare. Every faction, every major figure, and every moving piece needed to be orchestrated precisely. I would ensure the Symposium revealed the danger, pushed the players of fate toward their roles—but not beyond repair. Breaking them now would serve no purpose. They needed to be tempered, not shattered.
Slowly, a dark smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
"Everything will fall into place."
But today, my focus was the undead army—500 skeletal goblins, now transformed into an industrious workforce, laboring with silent purpose.
I took a parchment floats before me, one that is very important for the necromancy ritual. Then left the chamber, to the training ground that is empty, entering the chamber’s heart.
"It’s time," I said quietly.
The parchment floated before me, a culmination of countless hours of theory, refinement, and meticulous testing—an intricate sequence of magic that pushed the boundaries of what was possible. Each symbol etched on its surface carried meaning, layers of intention buried beneath strokes of arcane perfection. I held it aloft with my psychokinesis, letting the faint, ethereal glow pulse as though the parchment itself breathed. The runes shimmered faintly, alive yet dormant, as though aware of what was to come.
I exhaled sharply, steadying my thoughts. This was not mere magic; this was orchestration. A spell of such complexity required more than precision—it required absolute control. There was no room for doubt or miscalculation. I sent the parchment floating toward the center of the chamber, watching as its delicate paper moved with the grace of a feather, yet carried the weight of impending transformation.
The moment it touched the cold stone floor, the air in the chamber thickened. A ripple of power swept outward from the parchment, like the first tremor before an avalanche. Blue light erupted, swallowing the ground beneath it. Runes carved themselves into the stone, one by one, each stroke precise and deliberate as though an unseen hand etched the magic into reality. The symbols spread outward, consuming the chamber in brilliant luminescence.
For a moment, the spell faltered, as though testing me—daring me to lose focus.
"Begin," I commanded softly, my voice cutting through the charged air.
The runes flared, blazing brighter than before. The energy coalesced, pulling together in a symphony of magic. The ground vibrated, resonating with the sheer power condensing within the circle. The Undead Goblin King appeared first—its massive skeletal form shrouded in thick shadows that pulsed like a heartbeat. Behind it, the 500 goblin undead emerged in a synchronized march, their hollow eye sockets aglow with faint, greenish light.
The parchment blackened as its ink ignited, burning in blue fire that defied logic. Smoke curled upward, taking on twisted, shifting shapes as it rose—a chaotic mirror of the order I imposed upon this magic. The Undead Goblin King groaned, the sound deep and resonant, vibrating through the walls like a drum heralding an unseen army. The goblins twitched, their bones creaking as the spellwork began its assault upon them.
The runes sharpened, slashing across the ground in patterns too intricate for mortal minds to comprehend. A blinding pulse of light flared outward as the symbols erupted like living chains of energy. Each sigil wove itself into a lattice of brilliance, spiraling into the air like spectral serpents before descending with cruel precision upon the goblins. The symbols latched onto them, crawling up their legs, spiraling along their spines, and searing into their skeletal forms as though branding their very existence.
It was not kind. It was not gentle.
The chains of symbols tightened, binding them from head to toe. Each rune flickered and burned as if alive, shifting in chaotic patterns that morphed too quickly for the eye to follow. The goblins trembled violently, their bones rattling under the strain. Symbols coiled like shackles around their limbs, weaving deeper into their structure—down to marrow, down to essence—etching power where there had only been hollow stagnation before.
Some collapsed to their knees, their hands clawing at invisible restraints, though there was nothing to grasp. Others screamed silently, their jaws hanging open as light erupted from their mouths and eyes, a torrent of magical energy being forcibly rewritten. The air around them darkened, as if the ritual itself drank the light, leaving only the unnatural glow of the runes to mark its presence. The Goblin King, standing at the center, fared only slightly better—its armored frame buckling as the chains of symbols wrapped tighter still. Its great sword crashed to the floor with a deafening clang, its fingers flexing and twitching as if trying to resist the overwhelming force.
I watched impassively, my gaze steady. The power I had unleashed was merciless by design. Magic of this scale demanded no half-measures. I saw the runes shifting again, growing more complex as additional layers folded over the original chains, reinforcing their hold. Symbols like ancient glyphs spiraled in elegant circles around the goblins’ forms, glowing now with dark crimson undertones—power rippling outward with each pulse.
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"Resist the pain," I commanded, my voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. "Take all of it."
The Goblin King shuddered violently, its form writhing as the runes pulsed faster, their rhythm resembling the beat of a heart about to rupture. I saw cracks appear along its armor, but they weren’t signs of breaking—they were signs of rebirth. The runes pushed deeper, forging it anew. Its cape flared behind it, snapping like a banner caught in a storm. Chains of symbols began to spiral outward, reaching to the other goblins, pulling their agony together into a singular, shared torrent of power.
The air itself became heavy. I could feel it pressing against my skin, vibrating with a resonance that threatened to split reality apart. The symbols twisted further, binding not just flesh and bone but what lay beneath—their very spirits being reforged into something greater. One by one, the goblins’ skeletal frames began to change. The chains of symbols shattered like glass, but where they broke, they left marks—tattoos of power etched across their bodies. Fractures sealed instantly, glowing with a faint aura as new, dark armor appeared across their frames—sleek, jagged, and riddled with shifting runes.
Their reactions varied. Some writhed, their skeletal frames shaking violently as if to break free, while others stood rigid, their jaws creaking open in silent screams. The Undead Goblin King fared better—its strength was undeniable—but even it trembled, its greatsword crashing to the ground as its armor groaned under the weight of the ritual.
A black orb hovered above the circle, pulsing faintly like a second heart. This was the core—the condensed necromantic essence refined over months of tireless effort. I had siphoned it from my clone’s endless cultivation, distilled mana that had been too volatile for my physical form to absorb. Now, it would become the keystone of my army’s rebirth.
I released the orb.
Then the orb, got absorbed, as if being a fuel towards the glowing magic circle beneath them.
The chamber trembled. The air shattered like glass, rippling outward with waves of invisible force. The orb descended into the center of the ritual and burst into pure energy—a black inferno of power that cascaded over the undead like a tide of dark flame.
The goblins screamed, though no sound escaped their hollow throats. Symbols blazed across their bodies, burning so brightly that they left trails of afterimages in the air. Their forms twisted, breaking and reforming as the power consumed them. Armor manifested out of the void, dark plates fusing to their bones like second skin. Weapons emerged in their hands—swords crackling with shadow, shields etched with grim designs.The Goblin King was first to rise, its body now massive and imposing. It radiated power, its armor transformed into a blackened plate that seemed to drink the light. Symbols continued to glow faintly across its pauldrons, chestplate, and gauntlets, and a magnificent crimson cape unfurled behind it, snapping in the magical wind. Its great sword had transformed, too—its jagged edge now crackling with streaks of blue and red energy, an unnatural glow emanating from the runes carved into its length.
The goblins followed, one by one. Each stood taller, their skeletal frames no longer brittle but reinforced. Their weapons had appeared—swords and axes glowing faintly with necrotic energy, shields adorned with dark patterns that twisted if stared at for too long. Two among them pulsed with a separate kind of power—their forms straighter, their aura undeniable. As the symbols fell away, they emerged with staffs clutched in skeletal hands, black flames spiraling around the crystal orbs affixed at the top.
Liches.
I tilted my head, allowing a small smirk to cross my lips. The transformation had exceeded even my expectations. Where once there had been a disjointed mass of crumbling undead, there now stood a unified force of destruction—refined, formidable, and wholly under my command.
The Goblin King lowered itself to one knee, its massive great sword sinking into the stone floor with a satisfying thunk. The other goblins followed, kneeling in silent obedience, their green flames flickering softly in the dim chamber. The two liches dipped their heads, their staffs still crackling with residual energy.
I stepped forward, my boots echoing against the now-silent chamber. The faint hum of magic lingered in the air, a sign of the power that had been reborn here.
"This," I said softly, my voice carrying through the vast chamber, "is perfect."
The words hung in the air, carrying with them a sense of finality. I had seen armies crumble and nations fall in the face of disorganized power. This? This was something different. Order born from chaos. Strength drawn from the bones of death itself. I turned, the dark smile tugging at my lips as I gazed at the army before me.
It was only the beginning.
Of a long, long, long battle that will unfold in the future.
