The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 649: Teaching at The Orphanage (2)

"You can do that?" Amberine said, half-impressed. "Illusions that trick taste buds?"

Maris shrugged, stirring the stew in slow circles. "Taste illusions don't last, but they might get us through breakfast. Don't blame me if you find out it's actually soggy lumps of old bread once the illusion wears off."

Elara, setting the chalk aside, walked over to the pot with measured steps. She took the ladle from Maris, tested a spoonful, and swallowed. Her expression remained unchanged, offering no clues. "It's fine," she announced, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "Considering the alternatives, we can let illusions handle the flavor."

Amberine let out a short laugh, a sense of camaraderie flowing among them. It felt good, being on the same wavelength even if they quarreled. This place had done that to them, forced them to unite in the face of chaos. The children would stream in soon, like a boisterous army of mismatched little magic users, each wielding their own brand of wonder or trouble. And they, the teachers, had to be ready to guide them with equal parts patience, wit, and acceptance.

She reached for a chipped bowl, ladling some stew. "Well then, let's test the illusions. If I'm going to endure stale bread, might as well do it with some illusion of gravy." She took a spoonful, braced for disappointment—then blinked in genuine surprise. "Huh. Tastes like... herbed cream?" She peered at Maris with grudging admiration.

Maris flicked her hair in a mock haughty gesture. "I have a refined imagination."

"And a refined sense of trickery," Elara added, a hint of a smirk.

Amberine was about to snipe back a playful insult when the main door groaned open. Small footsteps echoed in, voices rising excitedly as the earliest kids arrived. She caught glimpses of wide eyes and carefully combed hair. Some children wore mismatched shoes, some no shoes at all, but all carried that quiet resilience that never failed to touch Amberine's heart.

Time to get to work.

The orphanage, dusty morning light, illusions, leftover bread stew—these had become a routine, a tapestry of small, imperfect details that Amberine now found oddly comforting. She set her bowl aside, squared her shoulders, and inhaled, letting the aromas of cheap illusions, too-early dawn, and the kids' unfiltered excitement fill her senses.

She was ready. Even if a part of her still insisted that no mage should be forced to exist at such an hour.

She turned, scanning the room, eyes narrowing in comedic challenge. The children were about to find new ways to amuse and exasperate her. She'd answer them with both scolding and affection, as was the new norm. Every piece of her morning grumpiness was overshadowed by that spark of life that glowed here, amid the battered furniture and musty smell of old spellbooks.

Nico approached cautiously, illusions still swirling around his curly head. Amberine glared at him, though not truly angrily. "You better not be planning another seasonal theme."

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He showed her an absurd grin, adjusting the wisps of leftover leaves stuck on his own collar. "You look good in the autumn, Teacher. Promise."

She rolled her eyes. "You keep telling me how good I look, and I'll feed you to your illusions. Mark my words, we're not done."

Maris, finishing up with the stew, just sighed in that half-exasperated, half-amused way. "And that," Maris said sweetly, "is why we don't prank our teachers before breakfast."

They were still laughing when the children began trickling in, drawn by the promise of lessons, a hot meal, or just the warmth that radiated from the hodgepodge walls of this makeshift school. Some wore dusty sandals with frayed straps; others had bare feet that scraped the rough floor. Each face bore subtle marks of resilience, the kind that the slums tended to etch into young souls far too early. Yet there was also hope. The way they looked around—eyes brightening at the sight of familiar benches, scribbled chalk runes, and half-finished illusions—hinted that this place offered them something more precious than a simple classroom. A semblance of belonging.

Amberine's heart squeezed a bit as she caught sight of the first arrivals. Fifteen children in total, but she knew exactly which five mattered most in her mental roll call. Not that the others were unimportant, but these five had a unique spark—an aura that demanded extra watchfulness.

She turned her head just in time to see Tamryn slip in through the door. Eleven years old, quiet as a whisper. He brushed a piece of lint from his threadbare sleeve, glancing around as though mentally cataloging any new changes. He paused by a chipped windowsill, nodding once at Amberine, polite and almost formal. His eyes flickered with that same shy warmth she'd come to appreciate—like he wanted to speak but couldn't quite gather the nerve. When she offered him a small wave, he quickly averted his gaze, the corners of his mouth curling in a faint, self-conscious smile. He had the careful posture of someone who'd grown up needing to make himself smaller, but the flicker in his mana told Amberine he contained so much more.

No sooner had Tamryn taken his seat near the window than a burst of energy blew in behind him—Vera, all braided hair and half-tucked blouse, shoulders pitched with practiced confidence. She looked like a tiny general forced to escort two younger kids, both of whom clung to her elbows. One had a snotty nose, the other was half-dozing on her arm, but Vera steered them with the air of a commander. She wore that scowl of teenage superiority, turning it on Elara with a kind of mocking respect that said, I dare you to question me.

"Morning, Teach," she declared, lifting her chin. The way she said it sounded less like a greeting and more like she was granting an audience.

Elara, poised at her chalkboard, glanced over her shoulder. "You still haven't returned my grammar glyph scroll."

Vera shrugged, attempting an air of nonchalance. "I might've borrowed it permanently. I mean, you've got like, a million."

A tiny flicker of amusement crossed Elara's features—so brief it might have been imagined. She never wasted energy scolding. She simply gave a level stare that hinted Vera had best bring it back if she didn't want a silent war of stares in the future. Vera sniffed and led the two younger kids to a battered table, telling them not to drop their grubby fists on it or something similarly bossy. Amberine smothered a laugh. Vera had spirit, even if it manifested like a protective older sister who insisted she was too cool to care about magic.

Then came Nico, theatrical tears still glistening in his eyes, though Amberine suspected half of that was leftover illusions. He flung himself into Maris's arms as if his entire worldview had been shattered. "Miss Maris, my masculinity was compromised," he whined.

Maris's face was the perfect picture of unimpressed. "Good," she said flatly, unrolling a set of practice scrolls. The rest of the chaos crew—kids who thrived on pranks and illusions—hovered around Nico, giggling and egging him on, but Maris swiftly herded them toward the far side of the room, where a scorch mark from last week's fiasco still marred the floorboards. They would definitely keep her hands full.

A slight figure flitted in behind them, so silently it was a wonder her footsteps made any sound. Lina, all of eight years old, but with a gaze so sharp she might as well have been a tiny hawk. She slipped through the door, assessed the room in a breath, then moved straight for Amberine. The worn hem of her dress brushed the floor, revealing small ankles dotted with faint bruises from who-knew-what hardships. She tugged lightly at Amberine's sleeve, eyes shining with curiosity.

"You still owe me that trick with the dual ignition glyph," she whispered, as though it were a carefully guarded secret.

Amberine blinked, struggling to recall. "Didn't we cover that last week?"

Lina's dark brows arched almost imperiously. "You stopped halfway to yell at Nico because he set his hair on fire."

Amberine's memory snapped into place: that day's fiasco, Nico's hair smoldering like a mini bonfire, Lina standing by with arms crossed in silent disappointment that her lesson had been interrupted. "...Right. Okay, got it," she said with a sigh. "This time, fewer fire hazards. Maybe."

Lina's lips twitched in a shadow of a grin—triumph for a child who rarely showed emotion—and she hurried off to deposit her tattered satchel by the nearest desk. The girl was just as precise and methodical as Elara, minus the calm outward demeanor; she had a simmering spark that occasionally erupted in scathing wit, to the amusement (or horror) of her classmates.

Finally, Fennel appeared, half-hidden behind the door. Ten years old, hair flopping over his forehead, eyes flicking between chalkboard and floor. He gripped a satchel so tightly that his knuckles showed white, as if he feared letting go of it would result in some catastrophic release of magic he couldn't control. Amberine's chest tightened just seeing him. Fennel was the type to question every step he took, afraid his own spells might lash out. She'd watched him flinch at a harmless gust of wind once. He had talent, but it was buried under layers of anxiety. She resolved—once again—to try building his confidence today.