The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 658: Thoughts of The Amber (End)

Amberine. Grown older. Or at least she hoped so.

She exhaled softly, stepping closer. The reflection seemed to ripple, as illusions set decades ago tried to replay old data. A flicker crossed the glass—like a cameo of her younger face, bright-eyed, cocky, brimming with naive bravado. She felt an odd pang at seeing that grin, full of misguided certainty. She was an unstoppable force then, or so she believed, full of big talk about rewriting illusions as a higher art form, or dethroning Draven's stoic mastery. It almost made her laugh bitterly.

"Gods, I thought I knew everything," she whispered, lips curving in a faint smile.

She lifted a hand to brush dust from the mirror's frame, noticing the scrawled names etched into the wooden edge—old classmates, maybe from a project a year ago. She found her own: "A. L. With Fire & Dreams." The lettering was cramped, the lines unsteady. Probably carved in the throes of mania after a late-night illusions session.

Amberine drew a slow, uneven breath, her pulse still trembling from the brief illusion of Draven looming in her peripheral vision. Even after it revealed itself to be nothing more than a coat rack draped in a discarded robe, the moment left her with a disquieting swirl of adrenaline. She touched her chest, feeling the rapid thud of her heartbeat, as if it couldn't decide whether to calm down or stay on edge.

She turned from the coat rack, letting her gaze drift back to the mirror. The reflection that stared out at her was caught halfway between the present and the echo of a younger, more brazen self. That ephemeral version still smirked, exuding the reckless confidence she used to carry like a banner. Now, glimpsing it from the outside, Amberine couldn't help but note the brittle quality in that grin—like a porcelain mask, fragile enough to crack under any real pressure.

Slowly, she reached a hand to the mirror's surface. Her fingertips brushed the cool glass, stirring motes of dust that floated in the lamplight. The reflection blinked out of sync for a split second, an old illusion script struggling to keep pace. Then it stabilized, showing her present self: older, definitely a bit more tired around the eyes, and barefoot in a place that once epitomized structured magical practice.

She tilted her head, noticing how the dusty mirror had acquired hairline fractures across the edges. They cut through the reflection like branching paths, as though illustrating every different route her life might have taken. Would she have been happier if she'd never defied her father's scorn? Or if she'd never set foot in Draven's lectures and discovered how illusions could both define and unsettle her core beliefs?

She swallowed, willing away those tangles of speculation. Nothing good came from rehashing old possibilities. She was who she was because she embraced illusions and the messy journey that came with them.

A breeze wafted in through the open doorway, stirring her hair in a subtle gust. It carried a faint odor of old paper and distant torch-smoke. She thought it might be another sign, or maybe just her overactive mind. Either way, it sent a soft chill skittering across her bare arms.

In the mirror, the younger version of Amberine remained for a heartbeat longer, eyes bright with naive expectation. That naive face triggered a cascade of memories: the first illusions club she joined, those late-night illusions marathons that ended in laughter and burnt desk corners. She used to radiate a fiery excitement that refused to second-guess itself. She used to think illusions could fix everything.

"I'll get it right this time," she whispered, the words rippling across the dusty silence.

She wasn't entirely sure what "it" entailed—maybe illusions, maybe her father's approval, maybe confronting Draven or forging a new path for the orphanage kids who reminded her so much of herself. But the vow steadied her breath. She set her jaw in a determined line, silently vowing not to run from the complexities anymore.

Her mind drifted to Ifrit, the fire spirit that lurked quietly in her bloodline. She could sense it sometimes, pulsing with a gentle heat in her chest, always coiled, always waiting to be unleashed. He had nothing to say right now—perhaps dozing, or just content to let her roam. Sometimes he'd stir unexpectedly, flaming her temper or fueling her illusions with a crackle of hidden strength. Tonight, though, it seemed the hush of old illusions overshadowed his usual restlessness.

She pulled away from the mirror. The younger reflection lingered for a fraction of a breath, then flickered into static, replaced by a simple image of her current self. The air felt thick with memories, and she realized she'd been holding her breath again. This time, she exhaled deeply, as if pushing out the weight of regrets that had gathered in her lungs.

Stepping from the center of the room, she noticed a cluster of half-broken illusions apparatus stacked in a corner. A tangle of rods, crystals, and battered focusing lenses. Once, they'd probably played a crucial role in synergy experiments or illusions tests. Now, they lay coated in dust and a smattering of cobwebs, silent reminders of how quickly the university's spotlight could shift to newer labs and innovations.

She flicked her wrist, summoning a faint glow of fire around her fingertips. It cast dancing shadows across the gear, making it look almost alive for a second. Then she closed her hand, snuffing out the light. No point rummaging through these relics. If there was something valuable, the professors would have taken it already. This was just another place the campus forgot.

With one last glance at the empty space, she made for the exit, stepping carefully over the warped threshold. The door groaned on its hinges as she pulled it open, releasing a breath of stale air. She sensed the illusions in the room fade back into their dormant hush, as if relieved they'd no longer need to replay her younger self's smirk.

The corridor outside felt dimmer than before. A single torch flickered overhead, casting elongated shapes against the walls. She paused to let her eyes adjust. A fleeting sense of triumph washed over her, the kind that came from facing an old ghost and walking out intact. She'd revisit illusions, yes, but on her own terms—no longer chasing the naive stance that illusions alone would define her worth.

The next corridor twist led her toward the older dormitories. The hush in these halls was more profound. Most first-years were either at the main cafeteria or diving into group study sessions in more lively parts of campus. Here, the glow-lamps were turned low, creating an almost reverent quiet. She padded onward, aware of how the cold stone nibbled at her bare feet. The temperature difference kept her awake, each step a mild reminder of her choice to roam at night.

Soon, she recognized the branching hallway that led to the old wings. Her feet slowed involuntarily. She glimpsed a row of doors, each bearing the distinct nameplates and scuff marks that told small stories about the occupant. Some had lively color illusions marking them as gathering spots for social nights; others had stern wards or "knock politely" signs. One door near the end caught her attention—its edges chipped, the plate tarnished. She read it with a tightening in her chest: "S. Moen."

Her heart gave a small lurch. Seria Moen, her old roommate. A year older, always calm, always supportive in her own quiet way. They'd parted awkwardly, mostly due to Amberine's shifting schedule, abrupt illusions fiascos, and her inability to share her troubles in a normal conversation. She guessed Seria had grown tired of the drama, or maybe just recognized Amberine's path was diverging. They'd never spelled it out. They'd never truly said goodbye.

Amberine took a couple more steps, halting just in front of the door. The dusty plaque still read "S. Moen," though the letters were fading. The edges of the frame looked like they'd been hammered back on once or twice. Her throat tightened as she pictured that night she staggered in, mind reeling from Draven's savage critiques on her illusions essay. She'd collapsed on her bunk, trying to stifle tears, but her sobs broke out anyway. Seria didn't say a word. She'd risen, cast a hush-illusion around the room, and let Amberine cry in private, the entire dorm none the wiser.

It was possibly the kindest gesture she'd received that semester, a silent acceptance of vulnerability without demands for explanation or an immediate fix. And Amberine had never thanked her. She'd been too wrapped up in her own pride to admit gratitude. Then they'd drifted, lost in separate courses and different circles of friends.

She swallowed, guilt creeping into her thoughts. The door looked exactly as it had back then, but the occupant might have changed. Or maybe Seria was still behind it, continuing her advanced illusions track, or having a quiet dinner with new friends. The simplest thing would be to knock, maybe share an awkward greeting, maybe slip into that hush-illusion again and open up about how life had battered them both.

But the words stuck in Amberine's throat. She was still raw from the illusions of the mirror room, still not sure if she had it in her to face yet another piece of her past so directly.

Her hand hovered near the door handle, heart pounding. Should she? Dare she? The swirling conflict made her temples ache. In the end, she decided no. She couldn't do it tonight. She'd come so far processing her old illusions, but this conversation, this apology to Seria, might be another mountain. She promised herself she'd attempt it soon, though. Soon.

Carefully, she dug into her satchel, rummaging past scraps of notes and half-burnt quills. She found a small piece of parchment. Her pen hovered, uncertain how to phrase such belated gratitude. Finally, she scribbled simply:

You were kinder than I ever thanked you for. —A.

She folded it quickly. Then, with a soft exhale, she bent down and slipped it beneath the door. Her heart thumped a little harder at the vulnerability of that gesture. It might be meaningless now, or maybe it'd be a small spark bridging an old gap. She forced her hands to remain still and not yank the note back out.

She straightened, stepping away from the threshold as though it might pull her in if she lingered. An odd mix of relief and regret swirled in her stomach. She didn't know if Seria would see that note, or how she'd react. But at least Amberine had done something. A tiny step to mend a loose thread in her tapestry of regrets.

Without looking back, she pivoted on her heel, letting the corridor's dim lights guide her. She shoved her hands into her robe pockets, noticing how the chill of the floor bit into her soles with every step. It grounded her, reminding her that she was alive in this moment, forging a new relationship with her memories—be they illusions, father's memories, or Draven's challenges.

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And so she walked on.