The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 563: The Ground Whispers, The Sky Bleeds

The air was thick with the scent of scorched earth, carrying a metallic tang that clung to my tongue and reminded me uncomfortably of blood. Each breath felt like inhaling the remnants of a dying fire, acrid and lingering. The sky stretched endlessly above, painted in lurid hues of lavender and a sickly yellow that had no place in any natural world I’d traversed. In that sky, thin, twisting clouds meandered across the horizon, sometimes vanishing in the blink of an eye as though they, too, were uncertain whether they belonged here.

This entire place felt wrong, as if it had been formed from pieces of nightmares and half-remembered illusions. It was too quiet—no wind, no life, no distant hum of anything recognizable. When I focused, I could sense a faint vibration beneath the surface, like a heartbeat pulsing through stone, but it came and went at irregular intervals. A thought crept into my mind: perhaps this realm was never meant to exist, some cosmic error or by-product of the Tapestry’s unraveling. Then again, maybe I was the error. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be here at all.

I took a few steps forward, the ground cracking like ancient bones under my boots. The texture of the soil was unsettling, both powdery and rigid at once, as though countless remains had been compressed into a single, unholy mass. I bent down briefly, brushing a gloved hand over the surface. Tiny shards glimmered in the pale light, possibly crystals or flakes of something that had once been alive. I didn’t want to think too hard about what they might have been.

All around me, the landscape pulsed with half-formed illusions. If I stared too long at a stretch of ground, it seemed to breathe, trembling in place before collapsing into itself and reemerging a few paces away. On the far edges of my vision, I spotted shapes—a jagged wall of obsidian-like rock that flickered on and off like a faulty lantern. A sluggish river of something darker than tar snaked through the distance, but when I turned my head to look directly at it, I only found more cracked earth. Every time I tried to pinpoint a landmark, the scenery shifted, defying linear perspective as though mocking my attempts to get my bearings.

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I forced myself to inhale deeply, seeking any hint of fresh air or water or vegetation. Nothing. Just more of that stale, chemical-laden scent that made my eyes sting. My mind drifted back to the last time I’d tasted genuine, untainted air. That had been in the courtyard of House Valemore, right before everything collapsed in a burst of raw Tapestry power. It felt like a lifetime ago. It might have been minutes or hours or eons. Time held no meaning in this domain, as if each heartbeat stretched into an eternity.

I allowed my mind to settle, pushing aside the swirl of useless emotions. I’d learned long ago that panic served no purpose except to dull the edge of reason. I needed clarity. I steadied my breath and examined the state of my mana, reaching inside myself where I normally felt the quiet hum of arcane potential. Instead, it was a flicker, little more than a candle’s flame in a raging storm. The forced transition had nearly drained me. So there would be no grand displays of sorcery to carve my way out of this realm. I’d have to be more cautious, more calculating. I’d have to rely on my senses, on intellect, on raw will.

Another distant rumble made me pause mid-thought. This time the ground shuddered, cracking in a lattice of fine lines that spread outward from my position. A sulfuric stench wafted up, stinging my nostrils. I took a step back, muscles tensing, prepared to fight or flee if something emerged. But nothing did. The quake subsided, leaving only the hiss of venting gas behind. Already, I could tell that this entire place was like a wound—festering, unstable, dangerous.

Somewhere in the swirl of my thoughts, the memory of Belisarius returned. I’d seen his face, or a half-finished version of it, in that maddening kaleidoscope of illusions back at the moment of the Tapestry’s rupture. Even now, the thought of him sent a chill rippling through me. He was too close to returning. The Tapestry wasn’t done with him, or with me. We were both threads in its design, but I had no intention of letting it shape me into a passive piece. If there was a path out of here, I would claim it. If there was a chance to ensure Belisarius remained undone, I’d seize it without a second thought.

As I pushed forward, the brittle crust crackled beneath my feet. My boots left shallow imprints in what I could only describe as a graveyard of dust and bone. I walked slowly, ensuring I didn’t stumble into another hidden fissure or step onto a patch of ground that might be an illusion. The unnatural sky flickered overhead, clouds shifting from one shape to another like shifting puzzle pieces that refused to lock into place. When the light changed, so did the colors of the soil, turning from ashen gray to bruise-purple and back again, as if the land couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

In the distance, I noticed what looked like a formation of rock that might offer some vantage. Without any other landmark to guide me, I set my steps in that direction. The trek was disconcerting, as the ground sometimes pitched and buckled as though it were breathing. The occasional pockets of heated gas erupted, belching steam or dust that coated my coat in layers of grime. More than once, I thought I heard something scraping beneath the earth, but whenever I paused to listen, I only heard my own heartbeat thudding in my chest.

The dryness in my mouth became oppressive, and the heavy dryness of the air made each breath a labor. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had a proper drink of water. It occurred to me that if I didn’t find relief soon, if I remained stranded in this broken realm for too long, my body would eventually betray me. That was not an option I cared to entertain. I steeled my resolve, pressing on with the same cold determination I’d used in every dire situation before. Survival hinged on unwavering focus, not despair.

Suddenly, a flicker along the horizon drew my attention—like a mirage, but sharper, more intense, thrumming with the faintest shimmer of arcane energy. I stopped, narrowing my eyes, trying to isolate the phenomenon. It looked like something trying to take shape out of thin air, flashing in and out between each pulse of that nauseating sky. As I watched, the shape wavered, expanded, then dissolved again. I felt a prickle of adrenaline in my veins. If illusions manifested that strongly, it meant I was close to some significant disturbance—a seam in this fractured dimension.

But that wasn’t what truly seized my attention.

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The rumble returned, more insistent this time, and the ground moaned as a fresh series of cracks snaked outward. I heard a muted roar beneath the surface, as though some sleeping giant were stirring. Hot air blasted up through the newly formed crevices, stinging my face with gusts of sulfur-laden heat. I forced myself to keep moving, refusing to give fear any footing. Weak mana or not, I was still Draven, and I would bend this place to my will if I had to.

Step by step, I approached the flickering shape on the horizon. My eyes watered from the toxins in the air, and each breath felt like swallowing razor blades. Then, as if in response to my persistence, the illusions intensified. The ground around me started to shimmer with ephemeral shapes—half-formed towers that rose out of the dust only to crumble in silence, ephemeral silhouettes that danced at the corners of my vision. I caught a glimpse of something reminiscent of House Valemore’s courtyard, the silhouette of columns and broken statues, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

I resisted the urge to lash out at these phantoms with the scraps of mana I possessed. Exerting myself foolishly would only weaken me further, and I needed every trace of arcane strength if I were to find a way out. Instead, I advanced with mechanical calm, forcing the illusions to revolve around me rather than lead me astray.

Then, I spotted something else: runes. They were faint at first, but as I stepped closer, I realized they had been carved into the petrified remains of what looked like a twisted tree trunk. Each glyph curved and angled in ways that didn’t align with mortal languages, reminiscent of the markings I’d seen in the Tapestry realm. This was no random scrawling; it was an anchor—a relic from someone else who might have been trapped here. Or maybe it was a leftover from an older, half-failed attempt to stitch this land back to reality. The shapes glowed faintly in the gloom, beckoning me like a whisper of hope.

Cautiously, I kneeled near the trunk, brushing away layers of dust and debris to study the runes. They were worn, yet the lines remained distinct, each stroke imbued with a careful purpose. If my knowledge of arcana served me right, they symbolized the bridging of realms, the funneling of energy to stabilize a tear. My heart pounded a little faster. If these were truly anchor runes, then they could be my way back—assuming I could figure out how they connected to the rest of this dismal place.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the faint hum of the runes. My mana responded, flickering weakly, a mere spark but enough to sense the anchor’s latent potential. The carvings reverberated with a subtle echo, like a distant heartbeat. Yes, this was definitely an anchor. Now the question was how to ignite it. My mind raced with the fragments of knowledge I possessed about bridging realms. Usually, you needed a stable environment, a prepared ritual circle, maybe even a talisman keyed to your home dimension. Here, all I had were these mysterious runes and the last dregs of my mana.

A precarious combination, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.