The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 467: The Chilly Guest

Clara’s breath hitched. She leaned closer to Tiara, whispering frantically. "Look at her face."

Sophie’s expression was as neutral as a seasoned knight’s should be, but her eyes burned with unmistakable hatred. Every word she spoke seemed to carry a barely restrained bitterness.

Tiara nodded, her eyes wide. "She… hates him. Why?"

"Didn’t he obsess over her before?" Clara whispered back. "Pulled all kinds of strings to get engaged to her. Then broke it off."

Tiara shook her head. "I thought we were going to have a war with the Iceverns over that. But somehow, Draven’s still in good graces with the Duke."

Below, Draven took the envelopes without a word, his cold gaze flicking over them dismissively, the movement so precise it felt almost mechanical. His fingers brushed the parchment lightly, as though testing its weight for significance, but his expression remained unreadable, an icy mask that gave nothing away. He stood there for a beat longer than necessary, letting the tension hang in the air like a sharpened blade before releasing a scoff—a sound so sharp and derisive it cut through the silence.

It wasn’t just the sound itself that carried weight; it was the deliberate disdain behind it. The way his lip curled ever so slightly, the faintest twitch of amusement flashing in his sharp eyes, as if the entire exchange was nothing more than a tedious formality to him. Sophie’s posture stiffened at the noise, her gloved hand faltering for the briefest second as she pulled it back to her side.

Draven’s voice followed, smooth and chilling, like ice sliding over glass. "Is this the best they could send?" The question was not aimed at her so much as to the world at large, a rhetorical observation meant to cut down the perceived importance of the envelopes in his grip. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he flicked his gaze toward Sophie, piercing through her as though searching for cracks beneath her unyielding exterior.

"The Magic Council," he continued after a pause, his tone flat, yet edged with disdain, "has grown stupider by the year."

The sound of the words seemed to reverberate through the hall, amplifying the tension already building between them. His calculated dismissal was not only an insult but a challenge, wrapped in the simplicity of a single, well-placed scoff.

Sophie’s posture stiffened, her hands curling slightly at her sides. "Stupid?" she repeated, her voice low but sharp. "Is that because they released a criminal like you?"

The hall fell into a suffocating silence. Tiara and Clara froze, their eyes widening as they leaned closer.

"You really killed her, didn’t you?" Sophie demanded, her voice rising, barely masking the tremor of anger beneath.

Clara’s fingers clutched at Tiara’s arm. "What… what did she say?"

Draven’s gaze was unflinching as he stared at Sophie. Then, to their utter shock, he answered.

"Yes. Indeed."

The words, spoken with chilling calm, sent a shiver through the sisters.

Tiara whispered hoarsely, "He’s… still the same."

Sophie’s magic flared. A sudden gust of icy wind swept through the hall, the temperature plummeting. The sisters could see frost creeping across the marble floor, their breath visible in the chill.

Draven didn’t move. He stared at Sophie with an unsettling calm, his voice low and sharp.

"Hatred. Good. If you truly want me to be held accountable…" He paused, the silence heavier than the cold around them.

"Kill me."

Sophie froze.

Draven tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

"But you won’t be able to."

The cold wind howled furiously, as though responding to Sophie’s rage, but with a casual flick of his hand, Draven dispersed it. The frost evaporated, and a shimmering bubble of energy appeared around Sophie, trapping the wind harmlessly within.

She saluted stiffly, her expression thunderous.

"Farewell, Lord Drakhan."

She turned sharply, her knights falling into step behind her, their movements crisp but strained, as if walking a fine line between discipline and unease. The echo of her boots rang out in the tense silence, but her knights, unable to contain themselves, exchanged furtive glances before poorly stifled snickers slipped out. One, bold enough to speak, whispered just loud enough to be heard, "She really got put in her place, didn’t she?" A few of them coughed to disguise their laughter, their voices carrying a mocking undertone that bordered on insolence.

Sophie’s stiff back and precise steps spoke of unwavering pride, but her clenched fists betrayed the storm beneath her stoic facade. Her jaw tightened, and though her posture remained flawless, the faint flush of anger across her cheeks betrayed her humiliation. The knights behind her, clearly oblivious to the gravity of the situation, muttered to one another with quiet derision, their laughter becoming bolder the further they moved from the hall. One chuckled, "Didn’t even see that bubble until it popped. Imagine being a royal knight and walking into that." Another muttered in agreement, "I’d rather face a thousand orcs than be humiliated like that." Their grins widened, emboldened by the distance between themselves and Draven.

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However, their confidence shattered like glass as a single sound cut through their quiet jeering: the slow, deliberate echo of Draven’s boots advancing toward them. They froze mid-step, their laughter dying instantly as though snatched from their throats. Draven’s gaze swept over them like a blade—sharp, unrelenting, and heavy with quiet menace.

His voice, when it came, was like a winter wind: frigid and unforgiving.

"Your captain salutes me, yet you stand idle like witless brooms," he said, each word laced with icy disdain. "Move."

The knights paled visibly, their previous bravado replaced with frantic, panicked motion. They snapped into rigid salutes, their arms almost trembling with the effort to appear disciplined. "Y-yes, my lord!" one managed to choke out before they all hurried to catch up with Sophie, their steps disjointed as they tripped over themselves in their haste. Draven watched them go with a lingering, piercing gaze, as though daring them to look back.

Sophie, still walking ahead, didn’t falter. Whether she was aware of the humiliation unfolding behind her or simply chose to ignore it, her steps remained rigid and precise, though the slight quiver of her fists suggested she wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted to appear. Draven’s sharp gaze followed her retreating form, his expression carved from stone, yet Tiara and Clara—watching from above—could see something deeper lurking beneath that cold exterior.

It wasn’t satisfaction. It wasn’t triumph.

It was sadness, faint and fleeting, but unmistakable. A glimmer of something broken, hidden behind the iron walls of his demeanor.

The bubble barrier popped the moment Sophie crossed the mansion’s threshold, unleashing a sudden burst of snow and icy wind that struck the knights flanking her. The abrupt force sent them stumbling, their armor rattling noisily as they flailed to regain balance. One knight let out an ungraceful yelp as he slipped, crashing to the ground with an audible clatter, while another fell into a heap of frost-covered fabric. Their breath puffed out in startled clouds as they scrambled upright, brushing ice and snow from their uniforms with frantic hands.

From their hidden vantage point, Tiara and Clara stifled giggles, their shoulders trembling as they whispered to each other. "Did you see that? She didn’t even flinch! But her knights—oh, how embarrassing," Clara hissed, a mixture of amusement and disbelief lighting her face. Tiara pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes shining with suppressed laughter. "It’s like they were hit by a snowstorm! I can’t believe—"

Before she could finish, they saw him.

Draven watched them go with a cold finality, his posture unyielding as the bubble of silence he commanded expanded around him. For a long moment, his face remained unreadable—hard as stone, untouched by emotion. Yet as Tiara and Clara watched from above, their earlier amusement replaced with uneasy awe, they noticed it.

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A brief shadow of something else passed through Draven’s eyes as he looked at Sophie’s back, something so fleeting they might have imagined it. Sadness? Pain? The same haunted look they remembered from long ago—a look they hadn’t seen since childhood, when everything had first begun to fall apart.

When his curse made him lose everything he held dear.

"Those eyes…" Tiara whispered, her voice tight, as if speaking louder might break whatever spell held the room.

Clara swallowed hard, her expression stricken. "It’s the same as back then… When he lost everything."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken, as the scene below played out in stark contrast to the storm raging in their memories.

Suddenly, Alfred’s voice, soft yet firm, broke the tension as he appeared quietly behind them.

"That is the truth behind the master, my lady," he said, his tone laced with a gentleness that belied the weight of his words.

Tiara and Clara turned sharply, their initial shock giving way to questions that lingered unspoken on their lips. "What do you mean?" Clara managed to ask, her voice faltering slightly.

Alfred met their eyes, his own gaze steady and filled with something unreadable—a mixture of understanding and quiet insistence.

"Please," he said, the word carrying a depth they could not ignore.

"Give the master a second chance."