The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 452: Return and The Arrest

The aftermath of the battle was a stillness that rang louder than any chaos. The chamber, once a haven of arcane grandeur, now lay in shambles. Shelves that had stood like ancient sentinels were broken and splintered, their contents scattered and burnt. The ley line conduits, once shimmering with vibrant energy, sputtered weakly, their fractured surfaces oozing faint traces of mana. The air was thick with the scent of ash, mingling with the faint metallic tang of spilled blood.

Amberine sat slumped against a toppled shelf, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Ifrit, nestled weakly in her hands, glimmered faintly, his usual radiance dimmed by their shared exhaustion. Her eyes followed Draven as he moved through the ruins with a calm precision, his presence somehow untouched by the destruction. He walked with purpose, each step deliberate, as if the devastation was merely a backdrop to his thoughts. His sharp gaze landed on a scorched tome lying amidst the wreckage. Without hesitation, he bent to retrieve it, brushing off the ash with an almost indifferent flick of his hand.

Amberine watched as he flipped through the pages with practiced ease. His expression was neutral, his lips pulling into the faintest semblance of a scoff. "So, this is their holy book," he murmured, his voice cold and edged with disdain. The comment seemed more to himself than to anyone else, but it carried enough weight to echo faintly in the ruined chamber. He continued skimming, his fingers dancing over the brittle pages with an efficiency that spoke of years spent sifting through countless tomes.

As he read, something shifted. His earlier contempt faded, replaced by a growing solemnity. His jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed as they lingered on a particular passage. The change was subtle, but Amberine caught it—a rare crack in his unshakable demeanor. He paused, his fingers hovering over the page, and muttered in a tone that bordered on unease, "This is different..."

She felt a pang of unease herself, watching as his expression grew distant. His gaze seemed to pierce through the physical pages, his mind clearly racing beyond the confines of the room. It was as if he were calculating something—something important, something dangerous. For a moment, he looked as though he might speak, but the words never came.

"Professor?" Amberine’s voice was hesitant, tinged with fatigue. She shifted against the shelf, the effort to sit upright making her wince. Her voice pulled Draven from his thoughts. He blinked once, sharply, before turning his gaze to her. Whatever had held him was gone, his expression smoothing back into its usual mask of cool detachment.

He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, his Water Elvish Pen floated toward her, its azure glow cutting through the dim light. With a precise flick, a gentle blue magic circle enveloped her. Amberine gasped softly as the circle’s energy washed over her, soothing the aches that wracked her body and banishing the lingering traces of pain. The warmth was almost maternal, cradling her in a way that left her momentarily speechless.

"Better?" Draven’s tone was neutral, devoid of concern but carrying an efficiency that demanded a response.

She nodded, unsure how to express her gratitude without sounding foolish. "Yes. Thank you," she managed, her voice quieter than she intended.

Draven’s gaze shifted back to the chamber, his eyes scanning the patterns etched into the crumbling walls and the fading glow of the ley lines. "We’re still inside a prison dimension," he stated, his tone flat, as though discussing something as mundane as the weather.

Amberine’s brow furrowed. "This… isn’t the Devil Coffin’s base?"

Draven shook his head, his movements precise. "No. This is an artificial construct. One of the countless dimensions spawned within Aetherion’s underwater fortress. A contained space, designed either to trap or to test."

His explanation came effortlessly, as though the truth were as obvious to him as the air they breathed. He gestured toward the fractured ley lines. "Note the unstable mana flow. These patterns are recursive, looping back on themselves. And the lack of any true exit is a hallmark of such constructs."

Amberine tried to process his words, but the weight of their ordeal made her thoughts sluggish. Before she could ask for clarification, Draven’s expression shifted again. His sharp eyes flicked to the edges of the room, where the faint hum of magic began to build.

"They’re shutting the dimension," he said abruptly, his voice cutting through her rising panic. "We need to leave."

Amberine’s breaths quickened, the walls seeming to press in on her. "Leave? How? We’re trapped—"

Draven’s calm voice interrupted her spiral. "It’s fine. Follow me."

He strode toward the heavy, sealed door at the chamber’s edge, his every step deliberate and commanding. With a sharp motion, his Devil Pen materialized in his hand, its sinister red glow casting eerie shadows against the ruined walls. Draven raised it high, and with a flick of his wrist, the air exploded with energy. Intricate crimson magic circles burst forth, their designs impossibly complex, pulsating with raw power that seemed to reverberate through the very stones of the chamber.

The air grew thick, vibrating as the magic circles expanded and interlocked, their light consuming the dim remnants of energy in the room. A low hum escalated into a resonant thrum as the door’s surface began to shift, its ancient carvings melting away into a seamless, pitch-black void. The tension peaked with a final, forceful motion of his pen, and the door shattered open, revealing a swirling vortex of dark blue energy, its depths alive with flickering arcs of light. It was a portal forged not with elegance, but with the sheer dominance of his will.

"Let’s go," Draven said, stepping aside to let Amberine pass.

She hesitated, her fear rooting her in place. She glanced down at Ifrit, now sleeping peacefully in her hands, his glow steadier than before. Her gaze shifted to Draven, and for the first time, she noticed the slight imperfections in his appearance. A single strand of hair was out of place, and his pristine coat bore faint scuffs. It wasn’t much, but it told her everything.

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He had fought for her. Fought and saved her, despite his aloofness. Swallowing her fear, she whispered, "Yes, Professor," and stepped into the portal.

The sensation was disorienting, but when the world settled, they were back in the heart of Aetherion. The grand chamber hummed with activity. Figures moved with purpose, their voices echoing as they relayed reports and commands. Amidst the crowd stood Duke Icevern, Duchess Blackthorn, Earl Falken, and Count Valen.

Valen’s face lit up as he spotted Amberine. "Ah! You’re Elara’s friend!" he exclaimed, his voice warm and jovial. "She told me about you. Said she couldn’t come herself because of her reputation but entrusted someone she trusted. That’s you, isn’t it?"

Amberine stammered, unsure how to respond. Valen laughed, his gaze shifting to Draven. "Well, it makes sense now. She only trusts fools who can handle themselves."

Icevern and Falken exchanged glances, their expressions softening as they took in Amberine’s state. They looked at Draven with faint approval, though neither spoke. Blackthorn, however, was less restrained. Her gaze locked onto Draven, her expression darkening.

"You," she said, her voice sharp and cold. "Are you trying to make her your next toy?"

Draven’s gaze met hers, unflinching and silent. The tension between them was palpable, but he refused to dignify her accusation with a response. The silence was heavier than any retort could have been.

Chancellor Lisanor stepped forward, her tone measured. "The Devil Coffin forces are routed. Ninety percent of their members are dead, and the rest fled through unstable portals. For now, we can call this a victory."

The relief was almost tangible, but before anyone could celebrate, a contingent of mages dressed in Aetherion’s guardian robes surrounded them, their stances tense and prepared for confrontation. Icevern’s voice sharpened. "What is the meaning of this?"

Lisanor’s gaze was steady, unyielding. "We’ve faced peril and won, but that does not absolve certain sins." Her eyes locked on Draven, her voice gaining an edge.

"Draven Arcanum von Drakhan, you are under arrest for the death of an invited guest of this symposium technical meeting: Sharon Blackthorn, nephew of Duchess Malesya Nortuis von Blackthorn."