The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 615 : Necromancy’s Hidden Thread (4)

"There's an upcoming Symposium," I added, my voice colder than I intended. "If she truly plans to unveil her work in front of the Council, that's where we need to strike. We can't wait until the last second—if we give her time to consolidate her supporters, we'll be crushed before we make a move."

Kyrion glanced at me, his youthful face devoid of any lightness he'd shown before. "The Symposium. Of course." His tone dipped, and I couldn't tell if it was from concern or quiet frustration. "But there's one unknown factor we need to consider first." He paused, taking in a slow breath, as though weighing how much he dared reveal. "I suspect Lisanor has backing—someone powerful enough to support her from the shadows, shielding her from the usual scrutiny."

That remark lit a spark of unease in my chest. "You're certain?"

"As certain as I can be, given the evidence." He let his gaze drift to the leyline-bound crystal. A flicker of agitation crossed his features. "She's a pyromancer, yes, but this goes beyond her personal gifts. She's too well-positioned, too carefully defended. She's biding her time for a reason. Pyromancers typically move quickly, strike while the fire's hot. But she's chosen patience. That's not her style unless she knows someone or something will protect her interests."

I opened my mouth to press for details, but an instant later, the chamber shuddered with a violent ripple of mana. The floor beneath us lurched like a living beast awakening from slumber. My pens—the Devil's Pen and the rest—flared, each of them thrumming with a surge of energy as if they felt the sudden shift in the leyline's harmony.

"Something just disrupted the flow," I muttered, narrowing my eyes. "Is it Lisanor?"

Kyrion drew his hand back as if from an unseen flame. "It might be, or someone acting on her behalf. Either way, it's trouble."

The walls shook again, dust falling from the ceiling in thin streams. I could sense an unnatural spike of necromantic power vibrating in the crystal, as though it were trying to repel an invasive force. The artifacts humming within the chamber, wards layered upon wards, now groaned under the strain of an external push. My instincts screamed that we were running out of time.

Suddenly, an electric crackle rippled through the air, stinging like a thousand tiny needles against my skin. Magical distortion swirled at the center of the room, forging a vortex of swirling energy and half-formed images. I found myself bracing for whatever horror might come through that anomaly. My mind flicked through possible illusions, illusions that might be used to mislead us—or perhaps a scrying spell intended to confirm Kyrion's presence.

Kyrion's voice was tight. "Damn it."

Before either of us could react further, the distortion solidified into a projection—a flickering silhouette, human-like in shape, though the details were blurred. My eyes darted to Kyrion, but he offered no explanation. Instead, tension coiled in his shoulders as he watched the apparition take form.

A moment later, a voice cut through the chaos like a keen-edged blade. "I see now. You still live, Kyrion."

I sucked in a sharp breath. That voice. There was a quality to it—refined, calm, carrying a faint echo of smug satisfaction. And underneath the polished veneer, I could detect an icy malice. Something about it struck a chord of uneasy familiarity in me, as though I'd heard it whisper in a half-forgotten dream. Yet, try as I might, the answer to why it was so familiar still dangled out of reach.

The figure stood tall within the projected vortex, features indistinct. Even so, I sensed the raw magical force behind that presence. Whoever it was, they were no trifling mage. Kyrion's entire posture confirmed as much. He made no sudden moves, but the set of his jaw and the narrowed slant of his eyes told me everything: we were in imminent danger, even from a simple projection.

"We've been found," Kyrion said, his tone hushed but furious. In a fluid movement, he raised his hand, and the runes engraved across the chamber walls responded. Brilliant lines of pale light flared to life, forging intricate latticeworks across the stones as defensive protocols activated. The air thickened, pressing in like a tidal wave of energy.

At once, arcane barriers slammed down over the exits, flickering into existence as slabs of ethereal force. I recognized them as advanced wards designed to seal intruders inside—a double-edged measure. If you were an unwanted invader, you'd be trapped. But if you were the occupant, you'd also be trapped if you couldn't override them. My stomach sank at the realization that these defensive measures were keyed to a Council override, ensuring that no one, not even Kyrion, could simply stroll out without a fight.

A flash of alarm tore through me as I heard an echoing clang. It came from behind one of the chamber's sealed doors, sounding like the approach of heavy footfalls. Then came another clang, closer this time, more methodical. A memory surfaced unbidden: the Council's security constructs, mechanical guardians that patrolled Aetherion's depths, each powered by the ambient magic of the leylines. Though I had never personally fought them, I knew they were formidable—designed to defend the Council's secrets with lethal efficiency.

Kyrion scowled. "They've set the facility on lockdown. The wards must have recognized an unauthorized presence—the moment that projection appeared, it triggered an alarm. If they so much as suspect my identity, they'll seal every corridor in Aetherion to contain us."

"That means Lisanor's people will be on the move too," I added, a grim note slipping into my voice. "Or it could be that unknown benefactor you mentioned. Either way, we can't afford to stay."

He shot me a dark look. "We don't have time to stand here talking about it."

Energy crackled across the ceiling, and a deep hum reverberated through the room. In the corners, sconces flared and spat sparks, overcharged by the intense magical interplay. I had to shield my eyes for a moment from the sudden bursts of light dancing off the wards. Then I saw the first wave of constructs entering through a partial gap in one ward, their gleaming metallic frames reflecting the violet glow of the necromantic crystal.

Constructs could vary in design and function, but these were tall, humanoid-shaped automata, each bearing the emblem of the Council on their chest plates. Their eyes glowed with an artificial luminescence, the color shifting in tandem with the wards pulsing overhead. This was no accidental intrusion; they had been deployed with precise orders.

"We move now!" Kyrion's voice was a hiss of urgency, punctuated by a flurry of motion.

I didn't need to be told twice. My pens—Devil's, Fire, Water Elven, and Psychokinesis—sprang to life around me. They hummed with a violent eagerness, each one straining at my control. In the heavy hush of the sealed chamber, I could practically feel their individual personalities. The Devil's Pen pulsed with dark desire, eager to unleash curses. The Fire Pen glowed with a restless, searing heat, while the Water Elven Pen shimmered with fluid lethality. My Psychokinesis Pen hung at the periphery, invisible waves of force radiating from its tip.

The first construct leveled an arm at me, and I heard the distinct whir of mechanical gears within. A moment later, a thin beam of arcane energy lanced out, scorching a path through the stone floor. I sidestepped neatly, flicking my wrist to direct the Fire Pen in response. A plume of flame roared out, engulfing the automaton's metallic torso. The magic sizzled against its arcane shielding, sparks flying as it tried to adapt to the sudden heat.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Kyrion weaving necromantic streams with one hand. The shadows at his feet coalesced into the shape of a writhing, half-skeletal creature that lunged forward to ensnare the second construct. Tendrils of negative energy lashed out, corroding the automaton's plating with unnatural speed.

Before either of us could finish off our targets, three more constructs stomped into the chamber. Their footfalls thundered against the floor. Despite the tension, a part of me recognized the skillful craftsmanship behind them. The Council spared no expense. Every inch of these guardians was carved with runic inscriptions, enabling them to resist a variety of magical attacks.

Kyrion dashed forward, chanting under his breath. Ribbons of necromantic power spiraled around his arms, though I noted how carefully he controlled the radius, as if hesitant to let the wards detect the full brunt of his abilities. He slashed the air, and an explosion of greyish energy lashed out, striking one of the constructs in the legs. It stumbled, momentarily confused, its sensors blinded by the overload of necromantic residue.

A second automaton zeroed in on me. Its mechanical face was expressionless, but the glow of its crystalline eyes seemed to intensify. A panel slid open in its arm, revealing something akin to a small crossbow carved from metal. In less than a heartbeat, multiple bolts of arcane energy fired in rapid succession. I whirled, calling upon the Psychokinesis Pen. Invisible forces seized the bolts midair, halting their deadly advance, and then sent them hurtling back at the construct. They struck its torso, forcing it to stagger, cracks spiderwebbing across its arcane plating.

We needed an exit. My brain was already analyzing the doorways and wards while simultaneously tracking the positions of the constructs. The Council's defenses, ironically enough, had become our prison. My eyes darted to Kyrion, whose brow was furrowed, sweat beading at his temple. Even with his mastery, the necromantic wards were working against him. The place was effectively rejecting his presence, as if it recognized him as the single greatest threat. It probably did.

With a swift gesture, I pointed the Water Elven Pen at the smoldering corridor behind us. Water-based mana coalesced into serpentine shapes that smashed into the battered construct. The water hissed violently as it met the heated metal, causing an explosion of steam that briefly shrouded the chamber in thick fog. Figures became silhouettes, flickering in and out of sight behind the swirling vapor.

Kyrion took advantage of the moment. He lunged, channeling necromantic power into the floor. Another shape—this time like a monstrous skeletal serpent—emerged from the cracks, rearing up to slam two of the constructs aside. Gears screeched in protest as they collided with the far wall.

I heard the hiss of wards reacting to the heavy impact. Runes along the ceiling began to flicker, maybe even destabilizing from the sheer clash of conflicting energies. Another bolt of arcane energy sizzled past my shoulder, missing me by less than an inch. The blasts were coming in so fast that I barely had time to register each one.

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"We can't keep this up!" I snarled, voice echoing through the haze. "We need to break through to the next chamber—maybe we can force a manual override on the wards there!"