The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 622: The Unexpected Name (1)
The book felt heavier than it should have, its weight pressing into my palm as though gravity itself conspired against me. My grip tightened involuntarily, fingers pressing against the leather-bound edges hard enough to turn my knuckles white. Each letter carved into its cover was etched with a precision bordering on obsession, every line and curve speaking of deliberate intent. The air around me grew dense, a physical manifestation of the unease gnawing at my gut. My chest tightened painfully as realization sank deeper into my bones like iron chains binding my resolve.
This name—this presence—wasn't supposed to exist. It was an impossibility, an aberration that shouldn't have emerged from the shadows of history. My mind raced, piecing together fragments of memories, theories, and plans I had painstakingly constructed. This revelation wasn't simply a disruption; it shattered the very foundations of my carefully laid schemes.
My foreknowledge was worthless now.
Kyrion stood rigid beside me, his breathing shallow and uneven, hands curled into fists that trembled slightly. His normally steady demeanor had cracked, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath. He wasn't merely surprised—he was afraid. The realization sent a sharp jolt through my already tense nerves. If Kyrion, a man who had stared down death itself countless times without flinching, was shaken, then our situation was far worse than even my darkest calculations.
I turned to him sharply, my voice as cold and unforgiving as the ancient stone surrounding us. "You recognize the name."
His eyes flicked toward me, wide and unsettled, reflecting the eerie glow of the shifting runes on the walls. He didn't answer immediately, his gaze instead darting to the book again, as though expecting the carved letters to vanish like some cruel illusion. When he finally looked back at me, the dread etched into his expression confirmed my suspicions.
"If they're involved… then we've been playing the wrong game entirely." His voice was low, controlled, but beneath it was a barely suppressed tremor, betraying his inner turmoil.
Frustration flared in my chest, mingling dangerously with the growing tension. "That's not good enough," I snapped, stepping closer, my voice edged with menace. "What do you know?"
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Kyrion hesitated visibly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. For the first time since we met, I could see genuine conflict play openly across his features—uncertainty, fear, and regret blending into a painful tapestry. He was weighing something—whether to tell me, whether the truth was even something I could handle. His reluctance made my pulse quicken. Whatever information he held was far worse than I'd initially suspected.
Before he could speak, the walls around us trembled violently.
It wasn't the force of the Council's enforcers breaking through. It wasn't the distant battle raging overhead. This tremor was different—older, deeper, almost primal.
The chamber itself was reacting.
Runes etched into the ancient stone shifted suddenly, rearranging themselves as if driven by a will of their own. They flared brightly, casting the room into stark relief and revealing every tiny fissure and shadow that lurked along the walls. The air became charged, humming steadily with a deep, pulsing surge of mana that rippled through the room. It was not simply magic—it was something sentient, something aware. Something had been awakened by the name written in this book.
A chill raced down my spine as the fortress around us seemed to hold its collective breath.
The hum deepened, evolving into a resonant chant. It wasn't words—not exactly—but the raw sound pulsed rhythmically through my bones, pressing painfully against my skull like an ancient warning whispered from the shadows of history.
Behind us, the sealed door emitted a sharp crack, sending hairline fractures racing across its once impenetrable surface. The Council's enforcers and constructs were forcing their way through, their relentless magic clawing at the barrier with desperate urgency. Time was slipping rapidly from our grasp.
But the chamber itself was resisting our presence as well.
Energy surged violently around us, cascading in erratic waves that lashed out like an unrestrained storm. The air crackled with static, prickling my skin, and strands of my hair rose as though charged by invisible lightning. The chamber around us, previously imposing and coldly indifferent, now felt ferociously alive, as though some ancient guardian had awakened, furious at our intrusion.
The Devil's Pen flared in my grasp, vibrating so fiercely that my bones hummed with its force. It radiated heat—an aggressive, pulsing warmth—as though resonating with something buried deep beneath the earth. It wasn't merely reacting; it was communicating, yearning towards some hidden core of energy beneath us. A subtle sensation stirred in the back of my mind, almost like a whisper, a magnetic pull guiding my attention downward, deeper into the earth, deeper into secrets that had been sealed for good reason.
Yet before I could dwell on the implications of the Pen's strange behavior, a fresh wave of disturbance shattered my focus. The Psychokinesis Pen, normally obedient and precise, now quivered uncontrollably in the air beside me, emitting distortions that rippled outward like heat haze. Gravity itself seemed to fracture, leaving me disoriented as the room twisted and bent impossibly around us. For a surreal moment, my feet left the stone floor, my body suspended weightlessly, untethered to the physical world. Panic shot through me, sharp and foreign. I'd always been grounded in reason, in calculation—this uncontrolled chaos stripped away the certainty I relied on. My pulse hammered in my throat, breath catching sharply as adrenaline surged, forcing me into immediate action.
Instinctively, I tightened my grip on both Pens, exerting a mental command born from practiced discipline. Slowly, painstakingly, I willed the Psychokinesis Pen back under control, each second of effort draining me as though the Pen itself were fighting back, resisting my attempts to contain its sudden wildness. My jaw clenched, sweat breaking out across my brow as I forced it into submission. Finally, gravity snapped sharply back into place, jarring my body painfully back onto solid ground, sending shocks of pain up my ankles and spine.
Chest heaving, I barely had a moment to regain equilibrium before the book in my other hand erupted into motion. It snapped violently open, nearly wrenching itself from my fingers. Its pages flipped wildly—frantic, possessed—as if some unseen force were desperately searching for a particular passage. I could hear Kyrion gasp faintly beside me, sharing my astonishment. Neither of us spoke, rooted in stunned fascination as the ancient tome came to a sudden halt, settling abruptly on a single page.
I leaned closer, heart racing, urgency and curiosity battling within me. The page revealed a complex, intricately detailed diagram composed of swirling lines and interconnected symbols. Every marking had been painstakingly drawn by a hand far older than any living mage, yet they pulsed now as if freshly inked, glowing softly with a bluish hue that intensified as my eyes traced the patterns. Surrounding the diagram was dense, cryptic text—characters from a language I recognized yet rarely encountered, a dialect preserved by scholars who delved too deeply into forbidden histories.
My eyes darted across the lines, swiftly decoding their meaning, linking symbols to known magical theories. Breath caught sharply in my throat as realization dawned, bringing with it a chilling clarity. It was a leyline rupture—an intentional fracture carefully designed to trigger a controlled surge of energy beneath Aetherion itself. The instructions weren't merely theoretical; each step had been meticulously documented, each rune carefully chosen, each sequence painstakingly precise. This wasn't mere academic speculation. This was a tool—crafted deliberately, carefully, and with devastating purpose.
I felt Kyrion move closer, peering over my shoulder, breath ragged and uneven. I spared him a quick glance, and my stomach tightened at what I saw. Kyrion's usually composed face was deathly pale, his eyes wide and haunted as he stared down at the pages. His lips parted slowly, moving silently at first, as if fighting through disbelief. Finally, his voice emerged, cracked and trembling with undisguised horror.
"This isn't a history book," he whispered, the words strained, as though every syllable physically hurt him. "It's a manual."
