The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Sharon moved through the battlefield, her body twisting and spinning, each strike of her sword precise and unyielding. The enemies kept coming, relentless and well-coordinated, but to her own surprise, she felt no hesitation. Her movements were fluid, her strikes powerful, each motion followed by an opening created by Draven—as if the two of them had trained together for years. It was uncanny, almost surreal how perfectly they fit into each other's fighting rhythm.

Draven moved beside her, his rocky sword cutting through their foes with ruthless efficiency, his magic pens hovering around him like sentient entities of their own. Sharon found herself instinctively understanding his actions, her strikes coming naturally in sync with his movements. She would deflect an attack, leaving an opponent open, and before she even had a chance to follow through, one of Draven's pens would dart in to finish the job. It was as if they were two parts of a whole, neither one needing words to communicate.

The Fire Pen hovered near Draven's left, releasing bursts of flame that engulfed their enemies, incinerating them in waves of heat and light. Sharon could feel the blaze on her skin, but instead of feeling fear, she felt strangely reassured. The flames seemed to dance around her, sparing her, focused only on their foes. On Draven's right, the Water Elven Pen glowed a soft blue, conjuring sheets of ice that obstructed enemy movements, allowing Sharon time to reposition herself. The way he manipulated these elements, the perfect timing of each spell—it left her in awe.

"Behind you!" Sharon shouted, but Draven had already moved. His Psychokinesis Pen flickered through the air like a bolt of lightning, piercing through the throat of an enemy that had been trying to flank them. He never even turned to look. The movement was swift, almost effortless. Sharon watched as the pen hovered back to his side, its surface glowing with a soft purple light, as if nothing had happened. Her admiration for Draven's skill grew with every passing moment, her own determination pushing her forward.

An enemy mage tried to conjure a spell—a large fireball that glowed ominously, its energy crackling in the air. Draven's Devil Pen moved swiftly, releasing a dark, cursed energy that wrapped around the mage's spell, causing it to implode before it could be launched. Sharon took the opportunity to move forward, her enhanced sword cleaving through the mage, her movements precise and deadly. She could feel the curses empowering her blade, each strike cutting deeper than the one before.

"How are you doing this?" Sharon found herself muttering under her breath, her eyes darting toward Draven, who continued to fight with unwavering precision. He was everywhere at once, his pens moving with a life of their own, each one working in perfect harmony to eliminate threats. He used his sword like a master swordsman, parrying blows that should have shattered his defense, countering with brutal strikes of his own. It was clear now that his prowess wasn't limited to magic alone—he fought with the strength and technique of a knight.

She'd heard rumors of Draven's power before, whispers of his unmatched magical abilities, she believe that it was just another rumor that he himself spread to increase his fame, but seeing it firsthand left her stunned. The way he combined magic and physical combat was unlike anything she had ever seen. Every movement seemed calculated, every attack deliberate. He was not just powerful; he was effective, intelligent, and utterly ruthless. It made her question how she could have underestimated him for so long. She had thought of him as a schemer, a man who preferred manipulating others from the shadows. But now—now, she could see the true extent of his abilities.

For a brief moment, a lull fell over the battlefield. Sharon, catching her breath, glanced at Draven, who had just finished dispatching an enemy with a swift slice of his sword. "You're better with a sword than I imagined," she called out, her voice carrying a hint of begrudging admiration.

Draven didn't reply. His gaze remained focused, his attention already shifting to the next enemy. It was as if her words hadn't even reached him, his focus so absolute that anything beyond the battle was irrelevant. Sharon let out a small huff, half in exasperation, half in amusement. Typical Draven—aloof and entirely absorbed in whatever he deemed important.

The battle continued, and Sharon found herself falling back into the rhythm. It was almost easy—a thought that would have terrified her if she had the luxury to dwell on it. It was easy to fight alongside Draven, easy to know where to be, what to do, how to react. And then, amidst the chaos, a voice cut through, startling her.

"Lady Sharon!"
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Sharon froze for a split second, her heart skipping a beat. That voice—it was unmistakable. She turned, her eyes wide, and saw a familiar figure standing just beyond the circle of combat. Ella. The maid from the Blackthorn family, the one who had delivered the letter. What was she doing here?

"Ella?" Sharon's voice was filled with confusion. It didn't make sense. Ella shouldn't be here—she shouldn't even know where Sharon was. Sharon hesitated, her instincts screaming that something was off, that this was not what it seemed. The battlefield around her seemed to blur for a moment, her focus slipping as she tried to process Ella's presence.

"Lady Sharon, I—" Ella began, stepping forward, her expression seemingly innocent, but there was something in her eyes—something dark and unsettling. Sharon's eyes narrowed, her grip on her sword tightening.

But before she could react, Ella moved. It happened too quickly for Sharon to process—one moment, Ella was standing there, her face filled with concern, and the next, her arm had shifted, morphing into something grotesque, a dark claw-like appendage aimed directly at Sharon's chest.

Sharon's eyes widened, her body freezing for a split second as the realization hit her. The attack was too fast—she wouldn't be able to dodge in time. But then, before she could even fully comprehend the danger, she felt herself being yanked backward, a strong arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her out of harm's way.

Draven.

He had moved without hesitation, his grip firm as he pulled Sharon behind him, the dark claw missing her by inches. Draven's expression was one of cold determination, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Ella—or whatever she had become. Without missing a beat, he swung his rocky sword, the blade cutting cleanly through Ella's arm, severing it from her body.

The limb fell to the ground, the blackened claw twitching as dark energy seeped from it, staining the rocky earth beneath their feet. Sharon, still in Draven's grasp, stared in shock, her heart pounding in her ears.

"What the…" Sharon breathed, her voice barely a whisper. This was no ordinary enemy—no ordinary maid. Ella should have been screaming in pain, should have been writhing on the ground. But instead, she laughed. A chilling, distorted sound that echoed across the battlefield.

Sharon felt a shiver run down her spine as she watched Ella's entire demeanor change. The air around them seemed to darken, a menacing aura gathering as Ella's form began to twist and change. Her features melted away, replaced by something far more sinister—a man wrapped in bandages, his eyes hidden beneath layers of cloth, his presence exuding a dark, malevolent energy. The severed arm on the ground began to twitch, lifting into the air before reattaching itself seamlessly to his body.

"What… what is this?" Sharon's voice trembled, her eyes wide with horror. She had never seen anything like it. This wasn't just dark magic—this was something else, something far more twisted and vile.

Draven stepped forward, his expression unyielding, his voice cold and commanding. "Are you a member of the Devil Coffin?" The words were delivered with a chilling calmness, his gaze never wavering from the figure before them.

The man didn't respond. He only laughed, the sound echoing in the rocky terrain around them, filled with a mocking, almost joyous malice. Draven's eyes narrowed, his irritation evident. He didn't wait for an answer. With a thought, he sent his Psychokinesis Pen flying at lightning speed, the pen moving with deadly precision, piercing through the bandaged man's chest, aimed directly at his heart.

For a moment, there was silence. The figure staggered, his body jerking as the pen struck true. Sharon held her breath, her eyes locked on the figure, her heart pounding in her chest. Had Draven's attack worked? Was it over?

But then, the figure looked up. His head turned toward them, a dark grin spreading across his face, his voice low and mocking. "Welcome… to the deadly parade!"

The words sent a chill down Sharon's spine, her eyes widening in shock as she saw the surrounding cloaked figures—the enemies they had been fighting—begin to multiply. It wasn't that more had arrived; it was as if the shadows themselves were birthing new soldiers, each one cloaked in the same dark garments, each one armed and ready for battle.

The bandaged figure stood tall, his voice echoing across the battlefield, filled with dark amusement. "Draven Arcanum von Drakhan. We have deemed you a great threat to our existence. Please, kindly disappear."

Sharon's heart pounded in her chest, her eyes darting to Draven. He stood there, his expression cold, his gaze sweeping across the countless enemies that now surrounded them. The odds had just shifted—they were no longer fighting a small elite force. This was an army, a force unlike anything they had faced before.

Draven's eyes narrowed, his gaze turning to Sharon, his voice calm, almost indifferent. "Are you ready for more?"

Sharon swallowed, her grip tightening around her sword. Her body ached, her breath came in ragged gasps, but she forced herself to nod, her determination unwavering. "Of course I am. Don't think I'll back down now."