The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 566: The Looming Return

"You’ve both seen what he can do."

"And he might come back stronger," the envoy murmured, brows knit in thought. "Or worse, not come back at all, leaving the Tapestry in permanent disarray."

"No," Lorik said sharply, though his voice was frail. "The Tapestry wouldn’t let one of its key threads vanish so easily, especially if that thread has begun to rewrite itself." He glanced at the rift, the faint arcs of leftover magic still sparking like wounded lightning across the courtyard. "Not after that display."

A hush fell, each faction weighed down by the knowledge that Draven’s fate—and thus their own—was far from certain. The Council members wanted control, the Gravekeepers wanted to preserve or manipulate destiny, and Lorik just wanted the Tapestry not to unravel entirely. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, as though afraid to disturb this fragile equilibrium.

Eventually, an older Gravekeeper, her face lined with scars, spoke in a voice that cracked with weariness. "So we do nothing? We stand and wait for the Tapestry to open again, swallowing us whole? Because that breach out there—" She pointed a gnarled staff at the faintly shimmering rift. "It’s not stable. Sooner or later, it will flare up. If it does, none of us survive."

The envoy’s mouth tightened. She looked like she wanted to protest or to reassert the Council’s authority, but the memory of arcs of chaotic power ripping through her rank-and-file must have been fresh in her mind. "We must seal it, or at least contain it," she admitted. "But Lorik says further interference could do more harm." Her gaze shifted to Lorik, the question unspoken but clear: Then what do we do?

Lorik exhaled, the dryness of his throat making his voice rasp. "Conduits," he said simply. "The Tapestry can’t just be shut off like a lamp. We need stable conduits—nodes in the real world. Draven might be searching for their counterparts in the realm he’s trapped in. We find ours, secure them, anchor them. That’s the only way to keep this rift from bursting wide open again."

The councilors exchanged uneasy looks. One began to speak, but the envoy silenced him with a curt gesture. Her eyes rested on Lorik, raking over him as though evaluating whether he spoke truth or cunning. "And you know where these conduits are?" she asked, voice low.

His response was a haggard smile. "I have an idea. But I’ll need resources. Research. Time."

A Gravekeeper hissed in displeasure. "You’ll have as much time as we allow," she said, stepping closer, the edges of her dark robe brushing the ground. "We won’t let you vanish into some hidden corner of the kingdom with your knowledge. Belisarius’s partial awakening must be guided—"

"Guided?" interrupted a Council enforcer, hand drifting to the pommel of his sword. "You speak as if you want him resurrected. For what? Some ancient prophecy you’ve concocted?" Read new chapters at novelbuddy

The Gravekeeper’s eyes flashed behind the veil. "It is not ’concocted,’ soldier. The Tapestry weaves itself around vital threads. Belisarius’s line is integral to that weave, whether you wish it or not."

A tense murmur spread through the onlookers. The truce, fragile as it was, threatened to erupt into violence again. Lorik could practically taste the hostility in the air, thicker than the residual arcane stench. His chest tightened; part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity. They were all battered, drained, perilously close to doom, yet they still circled one another like predators fighting over a fresh kill.

"We have one path," Lorik said, mustering as much authority as he could with his failing voice. "Find the conduits, secure them. Keep the Tapestry from tearing further. If Draven reappears, we either ally with him or brace ourselves for whatever he plans next. If Belisarius emerges, we adapt. But petty bickering—" He let the words hang, letting them sink in. "Petty bickering will kill us all."

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Another hush descended, thick with the potential for violence or grudging acceptance. A Council arcanist and a Gravekeeper disciple looked at each other, uncertain whether to brandish weapons or extend an uneasy hand of cooperation. The envoy and the Gravekeeper commander locked gazes, each weighing the other’s resolve. Lorik could see the calculations in their eyes. Both sides recognized they needed him, hated that fact, and understood that any move to seize total control would be disastrous.

It was the envoy who spoke first, her voice carefully measured. "Then we proceed with your plan, Lorik—under tight supervision. Both our forces will coordinate. You’ll have enough to research these conduits and not enough freedom to vanish."

The Gravekeeper commander inclined his head slightly, a grudging acceptance if there ever was one. "We will ensure the Tapestry’s integrity is maintained. If that means cooperating, so be it. But know this: if you betray our cause, the Gravekeepers will act without mercy."

Lorik gave a bitter laugh that ended in a cough. "Mercy? Coming from you? Let’s not pretend we’re friends here. We’re allies of necessity, nothing more."

No one argued. The battlefield, strewn with fresh scars and fresh ghosts, offered stark testimony to what happened when unstoppable forces collided. They had all bled for this fragile peace, and none of them seemed eager to reignite a conflict that might finish what the Tapestry had started.

Silently, the group turned their attention to the shimmering rift. Though it was subdued, each pulse reminded them of the volatile power beneath the surface. Even with Lorik’s partial sealing, it remained a threat that could flare up at any moment, unleashing chaos none of them were prepared to handle. An uneasy tension passed through the gathered warriors and mages as they began to collect their wounded, salvage what they could from the wreckage of House Valemore’s courtyard. The stench of ozone and burnt flesh lingered, a ghastly perfume no one dared acknowledge.

A handful of bodies still needed to be identified—fallen enforcers and Gravekeepers alike. In more peaceful times, they might have been given proper rites. Now, their final resting place was a courtyard perched on the brink of another catastrophe. Men and women who had survived the skirmish stepped gingerly around rubble, lifting corpses onto makeshift stretchers. Occasionally, a Gravekeeper would recite something in a low voice—some archaic prayer, or perhaps an invocation to hold the Tapestry stable. The Council enforcers made no complaint, too spent to argue over rites or small ceremonies.

Lorik watched all of this, his vision swimming. His arms and legs felt so heavy, as if the earth itself were trying to claim him. Cold dread whispered through his veins: had he only postponed the inevitable? If Draven was truly lost, could any of them prevent the Tapestry from breaking? And what of Belisarius, whose name was uttered in hushed tones, as though acknowledging him might summon his presence?

His thoughts spiraled, but he forced them into line, a mental discipline that Draven himself might have admired. For now, he had done what was necessary. A short-term fix, a precarious alliance. Survival. Tomorrow would bring new hurdles: searching for those conduits, protecting them from meddling factions, and praying that Draven—if he returned—came with answers rather than vengeance.

Overhead, the sky began to fade from its battle-stained dusk into a color reminiscent of raw steel, a portent of yet another restless night. The once-proud towers of House Valemore loomed as shattered silhouettes against that horizon, their shadows stretching and warping across the courtyard. If there were ghosts here, they made no sound—only the living moved, each step laced with weariness and a guarded sense of relief that they hadn’t been obliterated by the Tapestry’s wrath.

Yet no one spoke aloud of gratitude or victory, because this was no triumph. Merely a reprieve. The tension in the air remained thick, and even a slight spark could reignite the violence. The soldiers, the Gravekeepers, Lorik—none of them trusted each other fully. They were bound by necessity, not goodwill. And the Tapestry was still wounded, its partial rift pulsing at the courtyard’s edge like a festering wound. The path ahead was fraught with unseen dangers.

"He’s lost between worlds," Lorik repeated softly, as if to convince himself. He glanced at the rift, noticing the faint arcs of energy clinging to the edges. "Exiled by the Tapestry. But for how long?"

No one answered him. Perhaps none dared.

Within minutes, they’d formed into rough clusters: Council enforcers tending to the injured, Gravekeepers whispering amongst themselves, and Lorik left in a limbo of shaky alliances. He licked his cracked lips, ignoring the dryness in his throat, the stabbing ache behind his eyes. If they expected him to lead them to the conduits, to keep Belisarius from manifesting, he would need rest, supplies, trust—no, not trust; at least enough cooperation that they wouldn’t stab him in his sleep.

He could feel the gazes on him, the unspoken demands that he solve a puzzle older and far greater than any mortal’s understanding. Part of him wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, but such impulses had no place in a world teetering on the brink of arcane collapse. So he swallowed them, forcing his mind to outline the steps ahead. Find stable ground. Research possible conduit sites. Prevent the Tapestry from bleeding any further. Survive.

A flicker at the corner of his vision made him glance toward the rift again. It was nothing—just residual energy playing tricks. But for a heartbeat, he imagined he saw Draven’s shape in that swirling gloom, a reflection or a shadow of the man who’d disappeared. He wondered if Draven might be glimpsing them from wherever he’d been cast, or if he was locked in some personal war beyond mortal comprehension. Lorik exhaled shakily, feeling the cold weight of dread coil around his heart. Draven could be forging alliances with unearthly powers, or fighting illusions in a half-real dimension, or simply… gone.

"He will return," the Gravekeeper commander said quietly, as if reading Lorik’s thoughts. "If the Tapestry wills it."

The words sent a ripple of unease through the circle of watchers. Even the Council enforcers, battered and stoic, seemed disquieted by the idea that Draven—unpredictable, formidable Draven—might reemerge under even more unpredictable circumstances. Yet none of them contested the claim. Deep down, they all sensed that Draven wouldn’t simply vanish from the grand tapestry of fate. Not him.

A hush settled over them anew. The last rays of a dying sun—if it could be called a sun—cast elongated shadows across the courtyard. The stench of burnt stone and charred flesh persisted, mingling with the tang of leftover arcane discharge. Armored boots scuffed over loose rubble, a subdued chorus of uneasy movement. No one dared break the silence with idle chatter. They were beyond such trivialities.

Lorik closed his eyes briefly, letting the weight of his exhaustion pull at his consciousness. Darkness threatened to swallow him, but he fought it off. Too soon to rest, too many pieces needed rearranging. Slowly, he forced himself to stand, ignoring the screaming protest of his muscles. A Gravekeeper moved as if to steady him, but stopped short, uncertain. Lorik gave a stiff nod, more of an acknowledgment than gratitude, and somehow maintained his balance.

"He’s lost," Lorik whispered, his voice ragged. "But that doesn’t mean he’s gone." An unspoken corollary flickered in his mind: If Draven returned, he would either save them from the brink or tip them all into oblivion. Lorik wasn’t sure which outcome was more likely.

"And what of Belisarius?" The envoy’s question sliced through the hush. Her eyes, cold and calculating, settled on Lorik once more.

Lorik pressed his lips together. "That depends on how the Tapestry weaves itself from here," he said softly, almost reverently. "All we can do is secure those conduits. Hope we can stabilize the threads."

Hope. A fragile word in a courtyard riddled with death and broken stone. No one seemed eager to embrace it, yet they had little else. The truce they forged in this moment might be the last bulwark against a cosmic unraveling that would devour them all.

A final hush fell over the courtyard. In the distance, somewhere beyond the battered walls, the wind howled, carrying the promise of another uncertain night. Those with enough strength or willpower began organizing watch shifts, clearing debris, and tending to the wounded. Lorik watched them with heavy eyes. If he was to guide them, he needed time to gather his thoughts. The rift pulsed again, a dull glow that reminded him how precarious their position remained.

And somewhere, beyond the reach of mortal hands, Draven walked the razor’s edge of return.