The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 637: Again With The Queen (6)

Her blade sang with arcs of brilliant red mana that danced along its edge like miniature lightning bolts. She pressed forward aggressively, steps pounding across the marble. Her hair flared in tandem with her swings, testament to the raw energy surging through her. Draven blocked her once, twice, thrice, pivoting with an unhurried grace that made her want to scream.

Then, at last, she performed a feint. She lunged left, her mana spiking, only to shift direction at the last second. The watchers gasped. Draven's eyes narrowed. The tip of her blade hissed dangerously close to his side, grazing the fabric of his robe. She felt a thrum of triumph. Maybe she'd finally caught him off-guard.

The instant passed quickly. Draven twisted away, sliding out of her reach with minimal fuss, as though he had known precisely how close to let her get. For the first time, she glimpsed the faint lines of tension in his posture, the slightest wrinkle in that cold facade. It was enough to make her grin.

"Better," Draven said, letting out a slow breath. He flicked his sword in a neat flourish. "Do that again, and you might actually land a scratch."

His voice dripped with that cool authority, yet for one fleeting moment, Aurelia sensed the underlying respect. She had forced him to acknowledge her improvement, if only in that tiny shift of his eyes. The tension in her limbs gave way to a raw surge of pride. She'd proven something, to herself as much as to him.

She stood there, sword still raised, chest heaving from exertion. The guards behind them exchanged astonished glances. A few even forgot to maintain their stoic masks, and whispered phrases like "She almost got him!" or "Did you see that stance shift?" It ignited a warm satisfaction in Aurelia's belly. Regardless of Draven's unshakable calm, she'd broken a sliver of his outward composure.

"That last move," Draven continued, rolling his shoulder as if appraising the slight tear in his robe, "If you refine that timing, your opponent won't see it until too late."

She tapped the sword against her shoulder, letting the blade rest near her collarbone. "Hmph. I thought you mages always said swords were brute force compared to refined spellwork."

He glanced at her sidelong. "One can master multiple fields. You should know that, Your Majesty, given your… broad talents."

Her cheeks warmed slightly. The praise, backhanded or not, struck deeper than she liked. "Don't overdo it with the compliments, bastard. I might think you actually care."

He gestured for another round, ignoring her jab. She readied herself, ignoring the strain creeping into her forearm. Adrenaline coursed through her, a sweet ache fueling her determination. She'd always commanded the battlefield in knightly form, yet she couldn't deny the novelty of Draven's approach—each motion taught her a new synergy between mana flow and sword arcs, forging a style that felt dangerously addictive.

Again they clashed, steel meeting steel with electric hums of raw magic. This time, her mana poured more smoothly into the blade, each strike sharper than before. Draven's single-hand parries grew tighter, more controlled. Sparks rained around them, casting flickering lights across the watchers' wide-eyed faces.

Then it happened: Aurelia timed a cunning feint, weaving her mana into the footwork itself. She ducked under Draven's blade and unleashed a short burst near the hilt. The resulting jolt disrupted his parry—only for a split second—but enough to make him shift into a defensive stance. She caught the flash of approval in his gaze just as he stepped back with poised ease, raising his free hand. A shimmering barrier manifested between them. Her blade struck it with a potent crack, the shockwave rippling up her arm.

She stumbled, panting, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Draven lowered the barrier, an almost imperceptible nod acknowledging how close she'd come. Slowly, she let the blade dip, her arms trembling from exertion. It had been a long time since she'd unleashed so much of herself in a spar.

His voice cut through the hush: "Better," he repeated, though this time the word was accompanied by a flicker of actual warmth. "Do that again, and you might actually land a scratch."

Aurelia steadied her breathing, tapping the tip of the sword against the marble, sweat cooling on her forehead. She felt every pair of eyes on her—knights, guards, even a few wide-eyed servants peeking in from the corridor. The entire hall had become a silent gallery, witness to her collision of wills with Draven. Not that she minded the audience. She thrived on showing off, especially when it came to besting—or at least matching—the self-assured bastard in front of her.

She smirked. "Bastard."

That single word dripped with a curious mix of respect, frustration, and an edge of friendly malice. In the flickering magical light that illuminated the training chamber, her flaming hair clung to her cheeks, framing that fierce grin. Adrenaline thrummed through her veins, fueling her pride. Despite her labored breathing, she refused to look away or betray any sign of surrender.

The next clash was different, sharper. She realigned her posture, honing her stance so that each step flowed into the next. The mana in her body swirled toward her blade with unusual harmony—she could practically feel it vibrating in time with her pulse. When she lunged, Draven parried twice, easily as ever, but she noticed his movements were less offhand now, more precise. A subtle tension in his posture told her he was actually paying attention.

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On the third strike, Draven lifted his free hand. A shimmering film of pale blue energy coalesced in front of him, forming a temporary shield. Aurelia's blade met it with a dazzling burst of sparks and a resonant crack that shuddered through her arms. She stumbled back, panting harder than she realized.

Her gaze flickered to the scorched mark on the barrier. Not quite enough to shatter it, but enough to leave a visible impression. A wave of satisfaction coursed through her, even as she bit back a wheeze for breath. She could sense the onlooking knights shifting, uncertain whether to cheer or stay silent in the presence of their formidable queen. She savored that moment, letting it buoy her pride.

Draven lowered the barrier. His eyes, calm and assessing, lingered on the faint scorch mark. "Congratulations," he said. "You just unlocked the first technique I was hoping to teach you next month."

Aurelia's heart gave a jump of triumph. She wanted to crow, to fling some triumphant insult in his face. But exhaustion stole the edge from her tongue. Instead, she dropped the blade with a clang, the weight of the steel leaving her arm trembling. She sank down onto the marble floor, leaning back until she could gaze at the vaulted ceiling. Her breath came in swift, shallow pulls, yet she felt oddly victorious.

"Don't look so impressed, bastard," she muttered, though her voice trembled more from exertion than arrogance. "I'm still skipping your next lecture."

Draven, ever composed, merely sat across from her, settling onto a conjured seat with brisk efficiency. He unrolled a scroll on his lap, scanning whatever notes he had written. It looked maddeningly clinical compared to the raw exertion she'd just endured, a testament to his inhuman focus. "I'll bring snacks," he said, his tone as indifferent as if discussing the weather. "You'll show up."

She snorted. "...You know me too well. Bastard."

For a few heartbeats, the entire chamber fell quiet. Aurelia's pulse hammered in her ears, yet she felt strangely at peace, lying on the cool marble floor with her arms flung out at her sides. She could sense the hush among the knights as well. Their usual murmuring had faded into silence, replaced by awe—many had never seen their queen pushed so hard in a spar, nor Draven forced to use an actual barrier to keep from being overrun.

What they didn't realize was that Draven had used maybe a fraction of his true power. He was a mage, first and foremost, but a cunning one. She understood deep down that if he fought her purely in his arena—magic—she'd be left gasping before she could lay a finger on him. Yet for him to meet her with a blade at all spoke volumes of his versatility. He had studied countless martial styles, mixing them with the crisp intellect that defined him. No matter how fiercely she burned, he always seemed to stay one step ahead. The knowledge aggravated her even as it spurred her onward.

Gradually, the hush gave way to the soft shuffle of boots and hushed whispers. More palace guards filtered into the antechamber, drawn by the noise and the swirling mana that lingered like the aftermath of a storm. Their expressions ranged from concern to fascination. Aurelia let them watch. She wasn't the type to shy away from a public display of her abilities, especially when Draven was involved. If she outdid him, or even matched him, let them see that their queen remained unstoppable. And if, for once, he bested her? Well, they could interpret that how they wanted. The queen's legend wasn't so frail that one demonstration would overshadow it.