The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 616 : Necromancy’s Hidden Thread (5)

"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!"

Kyrion nodded sharply. "Agreed. The longer we stay, the more reinforcements they'll send."

My heart hammered. Through the swirling steam and the crackling arcs of magical discharge, I spotted an opening where part of a ward had begun to weaken, the barrier shimmering like fractured glass. Without hesitation, I channeled the power of the Devil's Pen, allowing its dark magic to wrap around my arms in a violent, pulsing swirl of negativity. With one hard slash, I sent a wave of concentrated malevolent energy toward the shimmering barrier. It shattered with a high-pitched wail, leaving behind a ragged, crackling gap just wide enough for us to squeeze through.

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The constructs, however, were not about to let us depart unchallenged. One of them, apparently still functional despite Kyrion's earlier assault, raised both arms to unleash a torrent of white-hot arcane fire. I recognized the heat as an advanced Council-produced weapon, likely borrowed from the pyromancy techniques they'd gleaned from Lisanor's research. A fearsome hiss filled the chamber as tongues of flame roiled toward us, painting the walls in a hellish glow.

Kyrion reacted faster than I could, erecting a shield of necromantic essence that funneled the flames off to either side, though sweat now poured down his face. His shield trembled beneath the onslaught. Had we not been in such dire straits, I might've marveled at how he manipulated deathly energies to deflect fire, a magical pairing that normally wouldn't mesh. But we didn't have the luxury of academic curiosity now.

"We go!" I barked, mustering enough force in my voice to pierce the din. Without waiting for agreement, I sprinted toward the jagged breach in the ward, weaving around blasts from the constructs. The pens followed, orbiting me in a protective ring. Kyrion, his expression set in grim determination, flung a last burst of necromantic magic to stall the automata before hurtling forward, hot on my heels.

I could only guess what horrors lay beyond that battered exit. Aetherion's corridors were notoriously labyrinthine, and with the entire complex likely on high alert, we would be facing more guardians, more wards, perhaps Council members themselves if any were stationed nearby. The Council was famously cautious, and they would spare no effort to contain a threat to their stronghold—especially if that threat was Kyrion, the necromancer they believed long dead.

But staying here meant certain capture. It meant giving Lisanor—or whoever that mysterious benefactor was—ample time to corner us. So we threw ourselves into the unknown, adrenaline and desperation fueling our every step.

Behind us, the constructs rallied, clanking after us with single-minded resolve. Their metallic footfalls echoed ominously, each impact reminding me how close they were. My lungs burned with the stale, mana-laden air. The noise of chaotic spells and pummeling footsteps merged into a single tumultuous roar, punctuated by sparks of arcane discharge and the furious hiss of steam.

Still, we pressed on. Through the gap, into the flickering corridor, Kyrion and I half-ran, half-stumbled past collapsed stonework and blazing arcs of residual magic that skittered along the walls. I forced down any flicker of fear that threatened to surface. Fear was pointless, unproductive. Cold logic was what I needed—logic that told me to keep running, keep fighting, and find a way out of this death trap before we were pinned down.

Somewhere behind, I heard the clash of metal-on-stone as the constructs forced their bulk through the breach. That single sound sent a jolt of urgency through me. There would be no time to rest, no time to linger. We had to outrun them or outsmart them, whichever opportunity presented itself first. And we had to keep Lisanor's watchers guessing, keep them from bottling us up in one corner of Aetherion.

At my side, Kyrion shot me a quick, grim look. "We have a small window," he said through ragged breaths. "They'll coordinate with each other soon enough. Let's hope your knowledge of the Council's layout is as thorough as you claim."

I gave him a curt nod, ignoring the personal slight. He was testing my capabilities, obviously, ensuring that our alliance was worth his risk. That was fine. If we survived, we could settle any lingering doubts later. For now, escaping took precedence over all else.

And so we ran, constructs hot on our heels, arcane wards flickering overhead, the entire fortress of Aetherion buzzing like a disturbed hornet's nest. In my peripheral vision, I caught glimpses of scrying crystals embedded in the walls—eyes of the Council, no doubt, meticulously recording our every move. We would have no privacy, no shadow to hide in, not unless we reached a part of the complex that wasn't flooded with these infernal watchers.

We weaved through the passageway, rubble crunching beneath our feet, the stench of ozone thick in the air. Every instinct I had screamed for caution, but there was no time to slow. Each time I glanced over my shoulder, I saw the glint of polished metal or the flicker of arcane lights chasing us. The constructs were relentless, unfeeling. They wouldn't tire, and they wouldn't hesitate to cut us down if we gave them so much as an instant's opportunity.

My mind spun scenario after scenario, searching for the best path. I realized it might take everything Kyrion and I had just to fight our way out—assuming we could fight our way out at all. A part of me, despite the chaos, noted wryly that we were living proof of our own cunning: If we survived this, it would be a testament to the necessity that bound us together in the first place.

Another violent tremor rocked the corridor. Behind us, I heard an explosion of stone, followed by a deafening shriek of twisting metal. Even without looking, I could picture the scene: spells colliding, wards fracturing, the entire structure threatening to collapse under the strain. For one brief second, I dared to hope that maybe the corridor had caved in on the constructs, buying us precious time. But that hope was short-lived. The whine of mechanical servos grew clearer, echoing as they advanced with unstoppable determination.

Clenching my jaw, I let my pens surge with renewed vigor, ready to unleash another onslaught at the next threat. The adrenaline coursing through me was both exhilarating and sobering, a stark reminder of the dangerous path I had chosen. And yet I couldn't deny a certain thrill: a savage satisfaction that no matter how the game had shifted, I was still here, fighting with everything I had.

I risked one last glance at Kyrion. His expression was set in stone, eyes fixed ahead. The tension radiating from him was palpable, but I recognized in it a dark resolve. For all his secrets and manipulations, he shared my desperation to escape. He, too, was trapped in this unholy labyrinth, hunted by the Council whose fortress was never meant to be breached.

A scalding wave of heat grazed the back of my neck, some arcane projectile missing me by mere inches. I hissed, reflexively twisting to hurl a psychic barrier behind us, hoping to slow our pursuers. Then I focused on the twisting corridor ahead. If we could reach the next junction—and if my memory served me right—there should be a side passage that might lead us to a lesser-known exit. It was a fragile plan, but a plan nonetheless.

One step at a time, we barreled onward, ignoring the alarms shrieking through the corridors. Every part of me was alive with the push for survival, a clarity that only mortal peril can bring. Kyrion and I moved in unison by some unspoken agreement, neither one of us daring to lag behind or break formation. The alliance, fleeting though it might be, was our only hope in this gauntlet of constructs, wards, and watchers.

Then, in the midst of the thunderous chase, I caught sight of another large metal shape barreling around the bend ahead—reinforcements. The Council really hadn't held back. They were throwing everything to contain us. My heart clenched. We were now caught between two waves of automata. Either we fought past one group or tried to vanish down a side corridor that might not even exist. And with each second that passed, Lisanor's unknown benefactor—perhaps even Lisanor herself—could be closing in.

A savage grin curved my lips despite the fear in my gut. So be it. This was the path we had chosen. Better to fight with every ounce of cunning than to surrender to the machinations of those who would see us destroyed. Kyrion caught that grin and gave a curt nod, his own grim acceptance reflecting in his eyes.

We pushed harder, bracing ourselves for the coming clash, steps echoing in the hallway like war drums. Somewhere far behind, the rest of Aetherion teemed with Council members scrambling to contain this breach. And above us, magic crackled and thundered, rattling the foundations as if the fortress itself were outraged by our defiance.

Yet even beneath the roar of battle and the pounding of our hearts, a single thought reverberated in my mind: If we managed to survive, we might just discover the truth of who was backing Lisanor, unravel her web of influence from within, and bend the entire scenario to our will. If we failed, none of it would matter. The Council would claim our lives—if Lisanor didn't stake her claim first.

With that realization driving me forward, I drew the Fire Pen to my side, forging a fresh wave of molten fury that illuminated the corridor in a searing glow. Kyrion summoned another skeletal construct from the ground, his necromantic aura rippling with malevolent intent. We were ready to carve a path through whatever stood in our way.

Behind, the Council's guardians advanced in relentless unison. Ahead, more emerged from the flickering gloom. And still, the fortress shuddered, an entire world of wards and watchful eyes turned upon us.

And so we sprinted straight into the heart of chaos, pens blazing, necromancy swirling, refusing to yield even an inch. The air smelled of ozone and desperation. My pulse thundered in my ears, every muscle tensed in anticipation of the next collision. I was cold, calm, utterly focused—a predator backed into a corner, with only one chance to break free.

We would escape. We had to.

The first wave of constructs and Council guards descended upon us.

And the battle to escape Aetherion had begun.