The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 394: This Time We Will Win

The cabin was a quiet, fragile space, filled with a tension that clung to the air like smoke. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the fire in the corner and the ragged breaths escaping Draven’s lips as he sat in the center of the room, fighting to control the raging storm of power within him. His head was bowed, eyes closed, and his hands rested on his knees, trembling slightly. The others stood around him, watching with a mixture of concern and helplessness.

Aurelia, usually brash and filled with sarcasm, seemed unnervingly quiet. Her gaze never left Draven, her fiery red hair casting a soft glow in the firelight. Lyan stood by the window, his eyes darting between Draven and Anastasia. It was Anastasia who looked the most lost—her expression filled with confusion and uncertainty. She still bore the aftershocks of what had happened, her hands clutched together, fingers twisting anxiously.

And then, Lyan’s face changed. His eyes lingered on Anastasia a beat longer, and a flicker of understanding crossed his face. Draven noticed it—that shift, that realization. Lyan had figured it out. He knew Anastasia had been possessed, knew that something monstrous had been inside her and had now been expelled. The realization brought a kind of ease to Lyan’s expression, a small, almost imperceptible nod. He understood. And so did Draven.

But Draven had no time to acknowledge it. He closed his eyes again, shutting out everything around him. All that mattered was the power within—the dark, raging energy he’d taken from Tiamat. He could feel it inside him, coiling and thrashing like a captured beast, trying to tear him apart from the inside out. It was relentless, powerful, and it wanted control. He knew he couldn’t allow that.

He imagined walls—tall, thick walls around his soul. He built them brick by brick in his mind, each one a barrier to contain the chaos. It was like trying to dam a river with his bare hands, each piece requiring every ounce of his concentration and strength. The power fought against him, slamming into the walls, trying to break free, but Draven pushed back, his teeth gritted, his face etched with pain.

The minutes turned into an hour, and every second felt like an eternity. His body shivered, sweat dripping down his forehead, soaking into his clothes. His breaths came in ragged bursts, the strain evident in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his muscles twitched involuntarily. He knew he couldn’t fully control it, but he didn’t need to. All he needed was to trap it, to seal it away, to create enough barriers to hold it in place.

Piece by piece, the walls went up, and Draven created small, controlled openings—holes that would allow him access to the power when needed, but nothing more. The rest would remain locked away, sealed within him, unable to harm anyone else. It was a battle of wills, a test of endurance, and Draven was determined to win.

Finally, the storm began to subside. The thrashing power grew weaker, more contained, the violent energy settling as the walls closed in around it. Draven’s body sagged, the tension releasing from his muscles, his breathing slowly evening out. He could feel the power still there, lurking, but it was contained, controlled. For now.

He opened his eyes, the blue glow faint but unmistakable. He looked up, meeting the worried gazes of those around him, and nodded once, slowly. "It’s time to strike," he said, his voice commanding yet calm. He stood up, the exhaustion evident in the way he moved, but his resolve unwavering.

Lyan, Aurelia, and Anastasia watched him, a mixture of relief and determination in their eyes. Draven’s gaze moved between them, lingering on Anastasia for a moment longer. She looked back at him, confusion still clouding her eyes, but there was a spark of something else now—understanding, maybe even hope.

"No need for elaborate plans this time," Draven continued, his tone cold, precise. "Just support me."

He reached for his cloak, pulling it around his shoulders, the fabric shimmering as it melded with the shadows around him. The four pens—the fire pen, the elven water pen, the psychokinesis pen, and the devil pen—hovered around him, each one glowing faintly with its own magical energy, ready to be wielded.

Draven took the elven water pen, waving it gently. A soft light spread from it, enveloping Lyan, Aurelia, and Anastasia, the magic washing over them, healing their injuries, easing their exhaustion. The tension in their faces seemed to melt away, replaced by a renewed determination.

Aurelia gave a quiet scoff, her lips curving into a small smile. "Thanks, you bastard," she muttered, her voice lacking its usual edge, a note of gratitude slipping through. Experience exclusive tales on novelbuddy

Draven nodded, his gaze resolute. "Let’s go. We don’t have much time."

Without another word, they moved. The door of the cabin creaked open, and they slipped into the night, the cold air biting at their skin. They moved quickly, silently, weaving through the dense forest, their footsteps barely making a sound against the earth. The sky above was a blanket of darkness, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, and the forest was a maze of shadows. But Draven led them with unwavering certainty, his eyes locked on their destination—the altar.

As they approached, the air grew heavier, the oppressive energy of the altar pressing down on them, making it harder to breathe. The altar stood in the clearing, a twisted, dark monument, the runes carved into its surface glowing faintly with a sickly light. And there, standing guard around it, were the guardians.

Twelve of them.

A dozen powerful figures, their forms cloaked in dark, ancient energy, their eyes glowing with a malevolent light. They stood in a circle around the altar, their presence radiating power, an impenetrable barrier of darkness.

Lyan came to a halt beside Draven, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. "Impossible," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "There were only three before..."

Aurelia’s face hardened, her eyes narrowing. "What the hell is this?" she muttered, her voice filled with disbelief.

Draven remained silent, his gaze locked on the guardians. He showed no surprise, no hesitation. He stretched out his right hand, and the devil pen flew into his grasp, the cold metal resting comfortably in his palm. He held it like a wand, swirling it through the air, his lips moving in a quiet chant.

Dark energy gathered around him, swirling like a storm, the air crackling with power. The guardians moved, their speed blinding, their forms blurring as they rushed towards him, their movements fluid, precise—an unstoppable force.

But Draven was ready. He didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. The moment the guardians moved, so did he. The dark energy coiled around him, and with a flick of the devil pen, it shot forward, black serpents rising from the ground, their forms twisting and writhing as they lunged at the guardians. The serpents moved faster, more vicious, striking with lethal precision. The guardians barely had time to react before they were consumed, their forms disappearing into the dark maws of the serpents, swallowed whole.

The clearing fell silent, the oppressive energy dissipating as the serpents retreated, their forms dissolving back into the earth. Draven lowered his hand, his gaze still locked on the altar, his expression cold, unreadable.

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Lyan and Aurelia exchanged a glance, a mixture of awe and disbelief in their eyes. Draven turned to them, his voice calm, unwavering. "Take the talismans," he said, pulling them from his cloak, handing them to Lyan and Aurelia. "Spread them around the altar. We need to disrupt the energy flow."

Lyan took the talismans, his eyes meeting Draven’s. "What about you?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. "What are you going to do?"

Draven’s gaze shifted back to the altar, his eyes narrowing. "I have things I need to destroy," he said, his tone cold, final.

Aurelia stepped forward, her eyes locking onto Draven’s, her expression hard. "Are you sure you’ll be fine alone?" she asked, her voice edged with worry, her usual bravado slipping for just a moment.

Draven looked at her, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. "I’ll be fine, Your Majesty."

Aurelia’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, her lips curving into a smirk, which looks more like a smile of her acting tough.

"This is a royal command, you bastard," she said, her voice filled with determination.

"Don’t die."

Draven nodded, his expression softening for just a moment.

"Understood," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He turned away from them, his eyes locking onto the altar once more. The power within him stirred, the dark energy pulsing, ready to be unleashed. He took a deep breath, the air around him crackling with anticipation. This was it—the moment they had been waiting for. There was no room for failure, no second chances.

"It’s fine," Draven said, his voice calm, steady. He took a step forward, his gaze unwavering. "We will win this time."