The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 460: The Real Draven’s Quest Reward

The dim glow of my personal lab was a comforting sight—or at least, as comforting as a place built on discipline and purpose could be. Rows of magical artifacts lined the shelves, their intricate runes faintly pulsing in synchronization with the conduits in the walls. A faint hum of energy filled the air, a soft undercurrent to the solitude. I sat at the central desk, its surface immaculate despite the plethora of tools and research notes neatly arranged around me. My hands gripped the objects I had brought back from the Quest World—testaments to the absurdity of the ordeal and the price it exacted.

In my right hand, a pulsating Abyssal Mana Stone radiated malice. Swirls of fire, water, and shadow elements churned within its core, their chaotic dance promising destruction to those foolish enough to underestimate its power. It wasn’t just a relic; it was a challenge, a reminder that the impossible could be wrestled into submission with enough determination. In my left hand, the remnants of that submission: four miniature horns, faintly glowing with residual energy. Each one marked a death—Tiamat’s regenerative taunts turned trophies of her demise.

I allowed myself a rare moment to breathe, though it brought no relief. My mind returned to the battle, replaying each agonizing second. Tiamat’s forms had been relentless, a maelstrom of elemental wrath and unending regeneration. Lyan’s precision, Aurelia’s fiery defiance, Anastasia’s ingenuity—all of it combined to buy us moments, just enough to push forward against the inevitable. And me? I had been the orchestrator of calculated risks, pushing them, myself, to the brink until the brink shattered beneath us.

We had fallen. And risen. Fallen again. One hundred and eighty-two times.

The thought made my grip on the horns tighten, their cool surface grounding me in the present. "Impossible," the system had mocked when it bestowed the quest. And for those first hundred deaths, it had felt apt. But impossibility was malleable, bent under the weight of perseverance. Tiamat fell, not because we were greater, but because we refused to stop.

And yet, holding these remnants of victory now felt hollow. The cost had been immense—not just the physical toll but the knowledge that even in triumph, I had only postponed larger calamities. Tiamat was a symptom, not the disease. The world, with its unraveling threads, demanded far more.

I set the horns down, their faint glow dimming as they left my touch. The Abyssal Mana Stone remained in my grip. Its swirling chaos was almost mesmerizing, a reflection of my thoughts as I contemplated what came next. My clones—extensions of my will—should have already begun reporting back. Yet their silence was deafening.

Frowning, I extended my senses, attempting to reestablish the mental link. The familiar web of connections felt... empty, frayed at the edges. My frown deepened. I pushed harder, weaving mana through the threads, but it was like shouting into a void.

Then came the dizziness. It hit like a hammer, shattering my focus and sending me reeling. My vision swam, the lab’s faintly glowing conduits blurring into streaks of light. My knees buckled, but the chair caught me—a fortuitous investment, crafted with [Chrysus’ Touch] to adapt and support. Even in this state, I recognized its worth. The thought almost brought a bitter laugh.

I pressed a hand to my temple, the other still clutching the mana stone. The dizziness ebbed slowly, replaced by a creeping clarity that felt almost worse. And then it appeared: the accursed board, hovering mid-air, its mockery as infuriating as ever.

[Quest Completed: Defeat Tiamat (Retry: 182 times)]Rewards:

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I snorted despite myself. "Ten thousand mana? What happened to a million?" I muttered, the words dry with sarcasm. The board flickered, as if taunting me further, before vanishing.

As the mana surged into me, it struck like a tidal wave of raw energy, dense and searing with potency. Each particle seemed to crackle as it flooded my core, its intensity bordering on combustion. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but the overwhelming pressure felt as though my very essence was being rewritten. My body trembled under the weight of the influx, every fiber of my being stretched taut as my core expanded to accommodate the growth. The sensation was breathtaking, leaving my breath shallow and my pulse racing with an unfamiliar rhythm.

The mana burned with a brilliance that threatened to unravel me, and yet, within that inferno of energy was a strange exhilaration. This wasn’t a gift freely given; it was power extracted from the jaws of the impossible, forged through relentless struggle and loss. Each surge carried the weight of 182 attempts, 182 agonizing trials that had whittled away weakness and left only resolve.

My hands tightened reflexively, my nails biting into my palms as I absorbed the unrelenting flow. The power coursing through me wasn’t just a resource; it was a vindication, a hard-won triumph that spoke to the depths I had endured. My body ached, not with exhaustion but with the strain of adapting to something far greater than it had ever known. The mana churned like a storm within me, dense and chaotic, yet my core thrummed steadily, mastering it with a cold, calculated rhythm.

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As the surge began to settle, I allowed myself a moment of rare satisfaction. This was no mere victory—it was a reminder of what I could achieve, what I could withstand. Each tremor in my limbs, each bead of sweat that clung to my brow, was a testament to the resilience carved into my very being. This power wasn’t given; it was mine, earned with blood and determination, an echo of battles fought and won.

But there was no time to revel in it. As the energy settled, so did the threads of connection to my clones. Information poured in, each thread carrying a fragmented picture of their current state:

The Necromancer Clone had collapsed en route to the Drakhan Mansion, its form now guarded by the undead Goblin King it had summoned. The Professor Clone was faring little better, currently under Liora’s care. Her voice, frantic and commanding, echoed faintly through the link as she mobilized her underlings to find aid. The Adventurer Clone had fainted in an inn, left vulnerable but intact. And the Foreign Agent Clone—the furthest, the most isolated—was barely clinging to coherence, sprawled somewhere in the shadows of another kingdom.

Their shared agony hit me like a tidal wave. Memories of my deaths—their deaths—flooded through the connection. It was visceral, unrelenting. A blade to the throat, a fire consuming flesh, bones crushed under stone… each ending layered over the last, a symphony of destruction that made my head pound.

Yet amidst the chaos, one memory stood out: the Holy Scriptures of Aetherion. The Necromancer Clone had glimpsed them, their pages altered, the flow of destiny rewritten. This wasn’t a mere anomaly. It was a warning—the world’s balance was shifting, its threads fraying in ways I couldn’t yet grasp.

I exhaled sharply, grounding myself in the present. The clones’ pain was a reality they’d endure. The altered scriptures were not. My gaze sharpened, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. Problems, no matter how monumental, were meant to be solved—and this one would be no exception.

But first, priorities. The Devil Coffin’s infiltration, the Demon Uprising’s brewing threat, the Orc Hordes looming on the eastern front… they formed a trifecta of crises demanding attention. My skill [Villain Fate] pulsed faintly, a reminder that hostility toward me had grown. No surprise there. Villains, after all, were magnets for hate.

Yet my mind remained calm, my focus unwavering. These problems were pieces of a larger puzzle, and puzzles were my domain. My next move crystallized with cold clarity: the palace. Aurelia the queen would have insights—perhaps not answers, but enough to illuminate the path forward.

I rose, placing the mana stone and horns into a secure case. Their weight left my hands, but their presence lingered in my thoughts. As I left the lab, the air hummed softly behind me, the artifacts resuming their quiet watch.

_____

Aurelia, fiery-haired and even fiercer in temperament, sat at the head of her private dining hall. The Queen of Regaria was many things—brilliant, temperamental, endlessly capable—but seeing her now, devouring plate after plate of lavishly prepared dishes, one might mistake her for a ravenous commoner.

The staff—a collection of maids, chefs, and attendants—exchanged bewildered glances. Their Queen, usually so composed, had turned the table into her personal battlefield, each dish a vanquished foe.

"More," she demanded, her voice muffled by a mouthful of roast. "I need another round!"

But despite of her words, all movement of her including her voice herself remain elegant and precise, filled with grace and beauty.

Beside her, Caelum—her younger brother and prodigy—ate with a quiet grace, his attention split between his plate and a magical journal propped open beside him. He glanced at Aurelia occasionally, his smirk betraying his amusement at her display.

"Your appetite’s impressive, sister," he said without looking up. "Did Tiamat’s head serve as a seasoning?"

He has heard her dream as she boast she defeat a monster, as grand, as the primordial chaos.

Aurelia snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Tiamat was nothing. The real challenge was putting up with that bastard Draven. Cold, smug, and always one step ahead. He’s like a walking insult with legs."

"And yet," Caelum murmured, flipping a page, "he’s still alive, isn’t he? That’s very interesting how you find him inside your dream, sister,"

Before Aurelia could retort, a royal messenger entered, bowing deeply. "Your Majesty, Earl Drakhan has been released from the custody of the Continental Magic Council. He is en route to the castle as we speak."

Aurelia’s hand paused mid-reach for another dish. Her fiery gaze locked onto the messenger, a slow smirk spreading across her face. "Finally," she said, her voice low and edged with anticipation. "Let him in the moment he arrives. I’ve got questions for that troublemaker."

She leaned back in her chair, her appetite momentarily forgotten. Her mind turned to the battle they had fought together, the peril they had faced, and the lingering frustration of his arrest by the continential magic council upon her return. Draven was an enigma—brilliant, infuriating, and perhaps the only one she trusted beyond Caelum.

She leaned back further, her smirk deepening.

"Now, Draven. We have much to discuss."