The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 628: The Missed Point (1)
I advanced across the cavern floor with deliberate steps, my gaze narrowing on the three choices hovering in the air—Sealing, Breaking, Rewriting. Each pulsed with its own rhythm, as if trying to lure me in with promises of power, victory, or the illusion of safety. The hum in my ears grew, a constant drone that set my teeth on edge. I felt the weight of the monoliths pressing against my awareness, each carved stone acting like a silent witness to the unfolding of a momentous decision.
The Guardian remained utterly motionless, its featureless visage turned in my direction. Even without eyes, I sensed its scrutiny. It gave no hint of preference, no silent urging one way or another. It was simply… waiting. The knowledge that it had observed countless souls before me—souls who had made a choice here, in this very place—hung like a haze in the back of my mind. Yet I refused to consider myself simply another pilgrim. If the voices in this place were correct, everyone else had failed. I had no intention of joining their ranks.
Kyrion, standing a few steps behind, said nothing. But I could hear his breathing, shallow and uneven, as though each inhale cost him a piece of his composure. I didn't blame him. Even I could feel my body protesting the raw magical pressure saturating the air. It was like being surrounded by an invisible current that pried at every pore, every strand of muscle, seeking weakness, demanding either submission or defiance. We had come too far to submit. My decision was made.
Rewriting. That single word carried such dangerous implications. I could practically hear the outraged howling of the Council if they ever discovered what I was about to do. To rewrite the leyline meant rejecting centuries of established magical theory. The wise would call it arrogance; the fearful would call it madness. In truth, maybe it was both. But what of it? My entire second life had been a testament to finding the improbable path and forcing it to yield.
The Devil's Pen throbbed in my hand, hot pulses that traveled up my arm in waves, like a feverish heartbeat. It craved a decisive act. I'd always known it was a conduit for curses and corruption, but ever since I'd laid eyes on it, I had harnessed its destructive tendencies to my own ends. Now, with the possibility of a leyline rewriting, the Pen's ambition melded with mine, forging an unspoken accord: together, we would not merely serve the status quo or demolish it, but sculpt it anew.
With each breath, I assessed the potential consequences. Breaking the leyline would unleash chaos—no question about that. I might revel in chaos from time to time, but not blind chaos that threatened everything in existence. Sealing it again would only delay the inevitable, letting some future generation be devoured by the Cycle of Decay. I found that notion disgustingly complacent. None of those choices satisfied my need for dominance over my destiny.
Rewriting. I repeated the word silently, as though testing it for cracks. Could the new leyline collapse? Possibly. Could I be consumed by it? Certainly. Could it fling me somewhere beyond even the Guardian's sight? Also possible. But victory would grant me a grip on power that no Council, no Lisanor, no hidden conspiracy could ever wrest from me. It was a gamble, but the only one that truly belonged to me.
The Guardian lifted its massive hand, and the faint outline of the three choices glowed in response. My mind darted through every scenario one last time, then I fixed my gaze on the Rewriting sigil, bright and enticing, swirling with an undercurrent of promise. I exhaled slowly, my voice slicing through the quiet:
"We will rewrite the leyline."
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The Guardian's arm dropped in a stately motion, as if acknowledging my words. In an instant, the three shimmering sigils dissolved, their lights scattering into specks that vanished against the cavern walls. I caught Kyrion's subtle intake of breath. He hadn't moved or spoken yet, but I knew him well enough to detect the flicker of alarm in his posture. He was a man who understood the delicate balance of necromancy and how easily the boundaries between life and death could unravel. What I intended to do was far bolder than any necromantic experiment.
The ground shook as ancient engravings ignited at my feet. They spread outward in a grand spiral, lines meeting geometric shapes, forming an impossibly complex diagram across the entire chamber floor. It was like the blueprint of creation unfolding beneath me, each symbol a key to a different law of magic. I felt my pulse quicken at the sight. This was the battlefield of willpower the Guardian would impose. If I faltered, the rewriting would fail, or worse, devour me whole.
Almost immediately, I was assaulted by the core of the leyline—a raw surge of energy that slammed my chest and nearly knocked me over. I staggered, teeth clenched. The air was torn from my lungs in a whoosh, as if the atmosphere itself was rejecting my attempt at rewriting. I recognized this as the first trial: The leyline testing my resolve, seeing if I could anchor myself in the storm it unleashed.
A thousand needle-like pinpricks of power battered my skin, each threatening to tear me into scraps of mana. The ground beneath me cracked open, releasing scarlet-hued strands of magic that snapped and coiled like living whips. It was a terrifying dance of potential destruction—one slip, and I would be dissolved.
The Devil's Pen hissed in my grip. Yes, the damn thing hissed, as though hungry, wanting to devour the swirling forces around it. Its surface grew scalding, and I felt its chaotic hunger spike, nearly overwhelming my own intentions. If I let it feed, I might create an unstoppable beast, a corruption overshadowing any rewrite. My jaw tightened. Absolutely not. This was my operation, my design. The Pen was my weapon, not the other way around.
"You will obey," I commanded through gritted teeth, leveling the Pen so it pointed at the vortex of energy swirling overhead. My words came out clipped and ice-cold, brimming with controlled fury.
The Pen bucked once, rebellious, but I forced it down with a surge of mental discipline. The only advantage I had in controlling that cursed object was my own iron will. My second life had taught me to endure extremes, to outthink every opponent, to wrestle advantage from the jaws of certain doom. This was no different.
I could feel the Pen's wrath simmering, but it yielded. I sensed a subtle shift within my grip, as if the Pen understood that resisting me now would lead to mutual annihilation. My hold never wavered, not for a second. I had expected a battle, and I waged it with the precise coldness that had kept me alive through countless lesser perils.
The leyline shrieked, its raw power cascading around me in waves meant to unbalance. The pressure against my chest felt like it could rip my heart from my ribcage. Sparks of brilliant turquoise and emerald flared across the engraved lines on the ground, forming arcs that collided overhead. Their glow reflected in my eyes, painting the world in swirling phosphorescence. I refused to look away, forging my focus into a blade honed on the abyss.
Steadying myself, I drew on every lesson from battles past—how to keep calm under a hail of spells, how to channel precise magic in a frantic environment, how to see a dozen steps ahead while standing on the brink of destruction. My mind refused to bend. The energy that wanted to unmake me found no purchase.
Bit by bit, I felt that savage aura around me shift, drawn by the command I imposed. It was a slow process, akin to taming a feral beast. The more the leyline roared and fought, the tighter I pulled the chains of my will. The cracks in the stone no longer threatened to swallow me but instead glowed with harnessed potential. The currents of mana were no longer random arcs seeking to obliterate me but swirling tides converging around the pattern I enforced.
A taut ring of sweat edged my brow, and my muscles felt aflame with exertion, but I never eased my grip. My stance remained certain, boots planted on the trembling floor, refusing to yield a single inch. If the leyline was a tempest, then I was the unbreakable mast that anchored the ship. My lungs burned, half from the intensity of the situation and half from the supercharged air that crackled with arcane discharge.
At one point, a particularly vicious surge hammered against my left side, threatening to fling me into a jagged spike of mana that jutted upward from the ground. I twisted my torso, pivoting on one foot, my reflexes borderline inhuman at this stage. I narrowly avoided being skewered. The faint scent of singed fabric reached my nostrils. So it had nearly gotten me, but still missed.
