The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 686: The Grove’s Illusion (End)
Roots sensed his intent and rebelled—twisting, bucking beneath his boots in an attempt to trip him. Memory-phantoms burst from the air like thrown veils: Roth leaning over a burning map table, eyes furious; Clara reaching out with ghost-pale fingers; a heap of students from his engineering lectures, faces melting into blame. Each specter clawed for his focus.
He ignored them all.
Sylvanna's next arrow hissed past Draven's ear, feathers brushing the edge of his hood. The shaft split into three shards mid-flight, each fragment skewering a different phantom that leapt to intercept him—one took the form of Roth's scowling face, another bore Clara's wide, silent scream, the last a nameless student clutching burned lecture notes. The illusions popped like soap bubbles, shards dissolving before they even hit the ground. Each kill bought Draven half a heartbeat—time enough for boots to find purchase on the writhing tangle of roots beneath him.
The giant arterial root reared and twisted, its crystal veins throbbing with corrupted light. Draven climbed anyway, using broken branches as springboards. Sap slicked his gloves, but he turned the hazard to advantage, sliding across a jutting knot to gain momentum. Memory-strands lashed from the Soul-Grafter's main mass, chasing him like barbed whips; tight arcs of his swords met them, reverse crescents that severed the cords just shy of his spine. Every cut felt like breaking the bars of a rusted cage—rusted not with iron but with grief. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com
Up close, the root was wider than a castle stairwell. Pale gold sap flowed visibly beneath the translucent bark, pulsing in rhythm with the Grove's faltering heartbeat. Draven's breath misted in the chill; sap vapor rose in shimmering waves of heat. The two temperatures collided and sparked tiny arcs of static mana that stung his exposed skin.
Behind him the Soul-Grafter shrieked, a sound stitched from a hundred separate throats. The demon finally understood his aim. Tendrils collapsed back toward its core, knitting into one massive spear of congealed memory. Faces surfaced along its length—Cort, Clara, the Tribunal judges—all bent in silent fury. The spear shot toward Draven with the force of a siege bolt.
Too late.
He was already in motion. One blade sheathed itself at his back; the other remained in a reverse grip, channeling power. He planted a foot on the living root, gathered will, and pushed a surge of mana into the rune lattice etched along his sword's fuller. The steel answered with a deep, resonant hum, vibrating so fast that the air around it blurred in ripples. Sparks danced along the edge—bright motes yanked from the very notion of heat.
He raised the weapon overhead, angle precise, wrists locked. The spear of memories slammed down. Instead of parrying, Draven pivoted. The spear glanced off the outer curve of the blade, scraping a path so near his ear that it shaved two hairs clean away. The redirection sent the spear smashing into a lesser root behind him, where it detonated in a burst of shattered recollections and purple flame. Howls echoed, swallowed almost immediately by the cavern's yawning silence.
Now the path was clear. He pressed the vibrating blade flat to the root's surface. The resonance bled into the wood, setting the crystal veins singing like glass under a wet finger. Sap quivered, froth building at cracks too fine for the eye. Draven ripped the blade in a tight, vicious spiral—no wider than the width of his shoulders—unwinding the root's layered grain from outside to core. The cut was elegant, controlled, but the result was catastrophic.
Golden sap erupted in a geyser, soaking his coat, hissing against steel. Where droplets struck bare skin, they burned like molten sugar—sweet scent, savage heat. Draven clenched his jaw, ignoring the pain. He vaulted backward as the arterial root convulsed. For an instant gravity inverted; the cavern floor yawed sideways, and all sensations of weight spun around him. Trees rooted to the ceiling buckled in impossible directions, leaves shredding to spirals of glowing pulp. Air itself shrieked, a high, keening whistle as pressure dropped.
Flames kissed the hem of his cloak—backlash heat from ruptured mana lines—but the fabric was rune-treated; it smoldered rather than ignited. He twisted mid-air, turning a chaotic fall into a controlled roll, and hit the stone floor shoulder-first. Momentum carried him into two revolutions before he planted a boot, skid-stopping in a crouch. Both swords found reverse guard, ready for whatever came through the smoke.
The Soul-Grafter's body couldn't hold shape. The severed root starved its connection to the Grove's memories, and without that reservoir the demon folded like rotted silk. It split along unseen seams; memories coughed out of torn pockets—half-finished lullabies, battlefield cries, whispers of lovers. Each fragment lost cohesion, flickering to gray dust before it could reach the ground. Faces peeled away: Clara's faded first, lips mouthing a silent farewell; then Cort's, eyes wide with sudden relief rather than pain; finally the black void at its heart sputtered and imploded, sucked inward by the collapse of its host matrix.
Ash rose in a slow cyclone, glittering under bioluminescent sap-light. In that hush, the entire cavern seemed to inhale, as though even the stone felt the infection lifting. Then came a soft boom—the sound of equilibrium snapping back into place—and Heart Hollow settled.
No more tendrils. No more screams. Only the slow drip-drip of sap, now thick with healing gold.
Draven wiped residue from his brow with the back of a gloved wrist. A welt scorched along his cheek where sap had splattered, already crusting into amber. He sheathed his first sword, slid the second home with deliberate care—metal meeting leather in a silky rasp. Each movement slow, deliberate, a ritual to tell the body the danger had passed even if the mind doubted it.
Across the newly calmed clearing, Sylvanna crawled over a toppled root, gasping. Her cloak was torn at the hem; one sleeve had shredded entirely, exposing a line of welts from memory-tendrils that had snared her just before the Grafter fell apart. She felt the fresh quiet, disbelief tilting her expression. Eyes scanned for more threats, found none, then locked onto Draven.
He straightened, arm stiff but functional, and offered his hand across the gap. Palm up—an invitation, not a command.
Sylvanna paused, suspicion warring with gratitude. Sweat left muddy streaks on her cheek; an arrow shaft still quivered in her left gauntlet where she'd blocked a phantom blade. Finally she reached, fingers threading into his. His grip was cool, steady, and he hauled her upright in one smooth pull. When she wobbled, he didn't steady her further—let her find her own balance, respecting her pride.
Around them the Grove exhaled again, this time in relief. Cracks in bark knitted, golden sap shifting from frantic spurts to slow, healthy weeps that beaded like honey before sealing entirely. Crystal veins lost their feverish glow, returning to a tranquil blue. Overhead, leaves unfurled, trading scorched edges for tender green. A breeze, impossibly gentle in an underground hollow, wafted fresh earth and distant rain.
Sylvanna drew a deeper breath—no rot, no sulfur, only living wood and the faint perfume of blooming moss. "It's… different," she whispered, voice rasped raw.
Draven didn't nod, but the angle of his shoulders relaxed for the first time since entering the Grove. Data collected: no hostile mana spikes, root flow trending toward equilibrium, temperature rising two degrees—indicators of systemic healing.
Yet his eyes remained on the tunnel mouth beyond the Heart Tree. A faint vibration lingered in the stone, too subtle for ordinary senses—something retreating, perhaps, or coiling for another strike elsewhere.
This was symptom, not origin.
Something else stirred outside these walls—he could feel its gaze skimming the newly quiet forest, calculating, adjusting.
He flexed his gloved fingers, as though calibrating an unseen tool, and felt the world's pulse realign: a softer throb, but vast, stretching far beyond the Grove's borders. A stage larger than he'd planned, but inevitable.
Behind him a twig snapped—just sap settling, not threat—yet Sylvanna still tensed, residual adrenaline crackling through her limbs. He tilted his chin, murmured, "Breathe," and she obeyed, shoulders unclenching by slow degrees.
Golden motes drifted between them, settling on scorched cloth, turning holes into sparkling seams. The Grove repaid debts quickly.
Draven listened a moment longer, ensuring no hidden snares waited, then sheathed the situation with the same meticulous care he gave his swords. Battle done. Evaluation complete. New vector required.
"The forest has stopped screaming," he said softly, voice carrying only to her ears. A promise, and a warning. "Now the world will listen."
