The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 625: The Unexpected Name (4)

"Where the hell are we?"

His question was rhetorical. Even so, I felt compelled to answer, if only to ground myself in cold, rational words. "The Council Chamber," I said quietly. "But… not the one we know. This is older. It's something erased. Something that shouldn't be."

Even to my own ears, my voice sounded subdued, as if the hush of this ancient place demanded a certain reverence. I didn't like it. I prided myself on being the predator, the one who held control, who dominated each scenario with cunning and discipline. Now, I felt like a trespasser in a giant's tomb, each footstep a sacrilege.

The air around us rippled. My first instinct was to raise the Devil's Pen, preparing for another onslaught. But instead of an attack, ghostly shapes began to coalesce around the obsidian table at the center of the room. They flickered into half-solid illusions—men and women in archaic robes, their faces partially obscured by drifting shadows. Their voices overlapped in whispers and murmurs, intensifying into an urgent melody that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

Their conversation was an argument, fierce and unrelenting. They spoke in an archaic dialect, though it overlapped enough with modern magical parlance that I could decipher the gist. Scraps of phrases struck me:

"…the Cycle of Decay will come again…"

"…our seals only buy us so much time…"

"…we are caretakers, not gods. We cannot hold it back indefinitely…"

The final words landed like lead in my stomach: a reminder that these illusions were not mere shadows but echoes of real people who once grappled with cosmic truths. My heartbeat thundered in my chest, and I forced myself to remain outwardly cold. Let Kyrion see the panic in my eyes if he must, but only for a fleeting moment.

One figure stood out from the rest—a mage robed in deep crimson, the hood so large that their face was fully concealed. Their posture radiated authority and finality. They leaned forward, slamming a hand against an ancient map sprawled across the table. I couldn't read every detail of the map from where I stood, but I made out the swirling lines that depicted Aetherion's leylines in meticulous detail.

Their voice reverberated through the chamber, rippling the illusion itself. "We do not seal it to protect ourselves. We seal it to delay what cannot be stopped."

There was a resignation in that statement, as though they'd spent centuries debating but arrived at the same, grim conclusion. The shimmering illusions around them wavered, some nodding silently, others curling their hands into fists. A tension crackled through the group, so palpable even the illusions quivered.

A second voice answered, sharper, undercut by sorrow. "And when the day comes that the seal breaks, the one who stands at the heart of the cycle must decide."

A wave of goosebumps crawled over my arms. The words resonated with uncomfortable clarity. The mention of "the one who stands at the heart" made my chest tighten. Had we, in our reckless manipulations, become the very people they predicted would arrive?

The vision blurred, as if some cosmic hand had brushed it aside. In the brief moment before it vanished, I caught glimpses of a future they feared: cities collapsing under waves of chaotic magic, towers made from shimmering crystal bursting under mana overload, entire civilizations undone by arcs of unstable power. Stars flickered in the skies before dying, leaving cosmic darkness behind. And through it all, a solitary figure—whose face I couldn't see—walked among the ruins, orchestrating or observing, I wasn't sure which.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, the entire illusion vanished.

The hush that followed was somehow more terrifying than any scream. My heart drummed relentlessly, and my pulse echoed in my ears. The weight of that final whisper pressed heavily against my mind, like a brand scorching itself into my memories:

"The Outlier must decide if the world breaks or bends."

I swallowed hard. The title hit me with the force of an avalanche. I'd heard it only once before, in half-whispered fragments from that mysterious benefactor, in scattered references. Now these ancient illusions had pinned it to me as though it was my birthright. The air smelled of burnt ozone, or maybe that was just my heightened senses picking up the residual magic.

And then, in a single breath, the obsidian chamber shattered like glass struck by a hammer. The swirling chaos of the leyline reclaimed us, pulling us back into an unending freefall. My cry of alarm ripped from my throat, even as my brain instantly pivoted to survival. I clamped down with all my mental might, trying to shield Kyrion and myself. Colors bled together in impossible patterns, space folded and refolded, and gravity spun in bizarre loops.

We plummeted faster this time, the illusions' hold on us completely broken. Everything was a maelstrom of wild arcs of mana. My limbs flailed helplessly despite every discipline I tried to impose on them. Kyrion tumbled near me, his eyes squeezed shut in grim determination, arms wrapped protectively around himself as if warding off some unseen threat.

At last, with a crunch that reverberated through my bones, we slammed into something solid. Pain detonated in my spine, forcing a ragged grunt from my lips. My vision nearly blanked out; only years of harsh training kept me from blacking out entirely. Slowly, I inhaled, then exhaled, fighting to regain control over my body. The adrenaline still pumped furiously, and my mind hammered at me to remain alert, to keep my edges sharp no matter how battered I felt.

Kyrion coughed somewhere off to my left, the sound wet and pained. My gaze flicked toward him, confirming he was alive—likely bruised and battered, but alive. The space around us was different: darker, colder, stifling. It lacked the illusions' grandeur, yet it felt more ominous than any temple or fortress I'd known.

Heaving myself upright, I found we were in a vast subterranean cavern ringed by towering monoliths. Each monolith bore runes older than the Council's earliest archives, lines of text that glowed faintly like the last embers of a dying fire. The silence pressed in from all directions. My breath sounded unnaturally loud as I took shallow intakes of air.

This was the secret the illusions had spoken of. The place that was never meant to be trespassed upon—Aetherion's hidden heart, a place of warded eternity. At the corner of my mind, I recalled the phrase: "Aetherion's leyline was never just a power source… it was a prison."

Kyrion rasped, "Tell me I'm not the only one who feels like we just walked into something we shouldn't have."

I forced a humorless smirk, though my face felt stiff with tension. "No," I replied, voice cold and clipped. "You aren't."

Any further commentary died in my throat as the ground beneath us trembled. The monoliths around the cavern began to pulsate, their runes blazing from faint to brilliant. An oppressive weight bore down on my mind. My hackles rose, every survival instinct screaming that an impossibly ancient presence had just awakened to our intrusion. My pens—the Fire Pen, the Water Elven Pen, the Psychokinesis Pen, and especially the Devil's Pen—reacted with a cacophony of trembling energies along my belt. They sensed the shift, the surge of intangible hostility.

Something stirred from the largest monolith, stepping out in a slow, measured gait. It was an entity that defied classification: part arcane metal, part bound mana, part swirling essence of countless souls. Every inch of it radiated authority so immense it made the illusions in the Council Chamber feel like children's playthings. It fixed me with a gaze that I felt more than saw. When it spoke, the words resonated not just in the air but inside my skull:

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"You have forced open the path."

A statement, not a question. Nor did it sound like an accusation. It was absolute, like a law of nature made manifest. Kyrion tensed beside me, raw necromantic energy flickering around his hands, but he held himself back, uncertain if attacking would accomplish anything except our swift destruction.

"The Cycle accelerates," the Guardian declared, each word thrumming with finality.

I found my voice, every syllable shaped by the cold rationality I forced into my mind. "Who are you? And what is this place?"

It did not answer me directly. Instead, the monoliths behind it shifted, their runes morphing into new patterns. An image appeared in midair, floating between us—a depiction of three branching paths. My eyes narrowed, analyzing them with lethal precision. Each path represented a drastically different outcome.

"Now," the Guardian rumbled, "choose."