The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 698: The Elven Beast Quest (End)
Velthiri's jaw remained sculpted ice. "Tame," she repeated, each syllable crisp enough to chip stone. "Not command. Share breath, not bridle. If you can."
Light seeped into the treetops long before sun-discs pierced the canopy. It came pale and thin at first—silver threads beading on every leaf—then unfurled into mellow gold that painted the high bridges. Sylara woke to that glow, arms folded tight around her quiver like a child clutching a doll. Her moss-bed reeked of pine sap, and tiny white blossoms had opened on the pillow of greenery overnight. She brushed them away, still groggy, and rolled her shoulders until each joint popped.
Nearby, Draven stood with the serenity of a sundial. He had gathered every stray fold of cloak, dusted bark flecks from the hems, and tied his dark hair in a short tail that left the nape of his neck exposed to the chill. His blades—unsheathed the previous night for wiping—were already re-belted. Anyone arriving now would assume he had been awake for hours, perhaps never slept at all.
He glanced over, eyes hooded. "You're slow today."
"I'm human," she grumbled, yanking on her boot lacings. "We sleep."
"Try less," he advised, then flicked two fingers in the universal 'follow' gesture and strode toward the outer walkway without a backward glance.
Bossy stone statue. She tugged her goggles into place and padded after him. As soon as her foot hit the first branch-bridge, the hush struck—so complete she could hear her own pulse thump against the leather strap of her quiver. High above, sentry platforms were already manned, bowstrings taut, but the elves said nothing, only tracked the pair with eyes that glimmered like facets of moonstone.
Lower walkways were busier. Lorekeepers hauled crates of glowing chalk, wardancers flexed through slow blade forms, and spellbinders traced practice sigils in the air that vanished like frost when the sun visits. Yet conversation, if it happened, was sub-vocal—small huffs of breath, finger taps, a tilt of head
Every tree they passed seemed to notice them. Bark eyes—natural knots polished by centuries of rain—caught the light in ways Sylara found unsettlingly alive. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her split skirt, whispering, "Feels like a parade without music."
Draven didn't slow. "Observation is free. Judgment, expensive."
"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "You like being audited by knife-eared academics."
That earned her a fractional lift of his shoulder—his version of a chuckle. "Correct data is never a burden."
They emerged onto a wider bough that curved downward into open space. The moment Draven's boots reached the lower knuckle of root, the forest reacted. Trunks groaned—deep whale notes traveling through the earth—then twisted. Vast roots uncurled like serpents waking from torpor, withdrawing from the soil to reveal stepped seating. Branches wove together overhead, forming natural canopies that shaded makeshift galleries. Within breaths, a full amphitheater took shape where only random undergrowth had stood.
Sylara gaped. "Show-off trees."
"Efficient," Draven corrected, though his gaze tracked the architecture with keen interest. Sections were designed for line-of-sight; she could see him noting vantage points, funnel zones, escape vectors. To him even living artistry was just battlefield geometry.
The arena floor—flat and bare as a temple flagstone despite being raw earth—bristled with runes carved in concentric rings. Some glowed soft amber, others midnight blue, each pulse tied to the murmured cadence of the spellcasters forming a loose circle at the perimeter. Their robes fanned out behind them, pinned by invisible currents of magic; their mouths moved in perfect unison, weaving a sonic net Sylara could almost taste—tin on the tongue, the flavor of raw mana.
A tremor rolled through the ground.
Gasps scattered among the elven audience, but no one panicked. Instead, more scribes arrived, laying scrolls into recesses that opened in the dirt like mouths receiving communion.
Between two ancient trunks, the air shimmered. Something vast shifted just beyond sight, bending light around its mass. Then the cage eased forward—if ease could describe a structure the height of a three-story house. It seemed grown rather than built: ribbed walls of interlocking bark, laced with living vines that hummed with power. Guiding it were spirit-constructs—stag forms made of whorled starlight, serpents whose translucent bodies shed scales of slow-falling sparks. They bore the load as effortlessly as dandelion fluff.
Inside the cage a low growl rolled, followed by a scrape like stone dragged across slate. Storm-blue fur bristled against the bars. Six-clawed paws the size of barrels struck the floor, kicking up shavings of splintered root. Antlers spiked the air, crooked and crackling with residual lightning that flashed white every few seconds. One eye caught Sylara's stare through the bars—an orb of molten silver ringed by night-sky black. Her breath hitched despite herself.
It roared. The sound punched the clearing, rattling leaves loose from branches. The rune network flashed as if wincing, but the spells held.
Sylara's hand found her bow almost on reflex. Fingers sought the comfort of familiar nicks in the grip. She drew one slow breath, another. No shaking. Good. Thanks, Draven. She did not say it aloud.
Speaking of the professor—
He brushed an imaginary speck from his sleeve and turned to her with a composure that bordered on insulting. "I'll be leaving this to you."
Sylara nearly swallowed her tongue. "To… me?" freёweɓnovel.com
His head inclined a millimeter. Confirmation.
Her voice pitched upward. "Are you insane? That thing has horns sharper than your entire personality!"
"Exaggeration," he murmured, unconcerned. "My personality is honed to molecular edges." His lips quirked—the faintest amusement—before settling back into calm.
The elves around them listened like statues pretending to breathe. Even Velthiri, posted near a line of chanting wardens, tilted her head fractionally, curiosity edging past stoic veneer.
Draven's gaze fixed on Sylara, cool and unwavering. "You. Remember. Before you were a chimera master… you were a beasttamer."
The words landed heavy. Memory leapt: her at fourteen, coaxing a crippled manticore cub to drink; her at twenty, calming a four-headed basilisk by humming lullabies while everyone else readied crossbows. The rush of old competence straightened her spine.
She swallowed, nodding more to herself than him. "Alright."
Draven stepped back, boots scraping softly on rootwood. Not abandonment—confidence. He folded arms and joined the silent ring of observers, just another shadow in their sea of watchful silhouettes.
A hush fell. Elven attendants lifted their palms; the rune circles brightened. A pair of wardancers moved to the cage's binding seam, each planting a blade—half weapon, half key—into designated slots. They rotated the hilts. Living bark slid away noiselessly, vines recoiling into the ground like retreating eels. A gap opened, wide enough for doom.
The Guardian stepped through, muscles rippling like thunderclouds under fur. Static danced along the arch of its back; every exhale shed sparks that popped in the charged air. It surveyed the arena, antlers sweeping, tail flicking like a branch in high wind. The runes flared—containment, not aggression—and the beast's lips peeled over fangs long as sickles. One paw sank into the dirt and left a smoking print.
Silence cascaded across the terraces. Even the breeze died.
Sylara drew a last deep breath, tasting ozone and sap. "This is so stupid," she muttered, loud enough for only herself and maybe Draven to hear. "I'm going to die stupid."
She stepped beyond the ward line.
The world seemed to narrow, all peripheral motion smeared into meaningless color. Only the Guardian filled her focus now—every flicker of ear tuft, every twitch of nostril sampling her scent. She flushed her lungs with air, filling from belly to collarbones the way training demanded, then let half out, grounding herself in the rhythm.
The creature's gaze pinned her—curious, wary, insulted that a mortal dared meet its eye straight on. Electricity rippled along its flank, discharging into little blue tongues that licked at the rune-etched earth.
She noted posture: weight balanced evenly, tail high, ears forward. Not predatory yet, but not curious either. A challenge posture—raw tension looking for narrative. Good. Narratives could be rewritten.
She took three measured steps, boots sinking slightly but never stumbling—letting it see her height, her gait, hear the slow cadence of breath. She kept her bow down, hands open.
The beast tensed. Lightning snapped between its antlers with a crack like breaking ice.
Sylara squared her stance, rolling shoulders back to open her ribcage, making her breathing intentional, audible—an old taming trick: let the pulse of lungs become music. She pictured her aura—Draven's term, though she'd always called it spirit-posture—extending like calm water, lapping gently against a storm tide.
Her heart kicked. She answered with a smile—crooked, half mad, exactly the grin Draven always wore when a problem looked insurmountable and therefore interesting.
"Alright then, big guy." Her voice rang across the glade, soft but clear. "Let's dance."
