The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The wind howled through the narrow passage of the Blackthorn estate, the cold seeping into the bone, unkind and unyielding. Sharon stood in the courtyard, a ten-year-old girl with dark, untamed hair and piercing eyes. She was small, but her gaze was fierce. The stone walls around her seemed to loom higher each day, a constant reminder of her place within the Blackthorn family—a branch lineage, an outsider with only a tenuous connection to the esteemed name.

The elders had little patience for her. She was an orphan, the only surviving member of her branch after her parents died under mysterious circumstances. Instead of being cared for, Sharon was made head of her small branch. It wasn't a position of power or honor—it was a burden. At ten years old, she was responsible for maintaining what little influence her family still had, and the Blackthorn main family had made it abundantly clear that she was on her own.

"Hold that properly, girl!" the instructor's voice barked, his tone filled with irritation. Sharon's small hands struggled to lift the training sword, its weight awkward and heavy. Her arms ached, her fingers numb from the cold, but she refused to let go. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to endure it, even as her muscles screamed in protest.

She had to prove herself. She had to show them that she wasn't just some forgotten child of a fading lineage. She was a Blackthorn, even if they treated her like a burden. If she could endure the harsh training, if she could become strong, then maybe—just maybe—they would recognize her. Maybe they would stop looking at her like she was nothing.

But no matter how hard she tried, the recognition never came. Instead, the main family treated her with disdain, her efforts ignored, her struggles dismissed. The other children whispered behind her back, the servants spoke of her in hushed tones, and the elders' gaze was always filled with contempt.

It was a lonely existence, one that seemed to stretch endlessly. The estate, with its towering walls and shadowed corridors, was a cage—one that Sharon believed she would never escape. She had resigned herself to this life, her dreams fading beneath the weight of duty and expectation.

Until she met Sophie.

It was on a rare occasion that she was allowed to leave the estate, a trip to the main city for supplies. Sharon remembered the bustling streets, the colors, the sounds—it was overwhelming, almost disorienting after so long spent within the cold, gray walls of the estate. And then there was Sophie. She stood out amongst the crowd, her silver armor catching the sunlight, her presence commanding yet kind.

Sophie had noticed her struggling with a heavy basket, her small frame barely able to carry it. Without hesitation, Sophie had approached her, her voice gentle as she offered her help. Sharon had looked up, meeting her gaze, and for the first time, she saw someone who didn't look at her with contempt or pity. Sophie's eyes were filled with warmth, her smile genuine, and in that moment, something shifted within Sharon.

Sophie had taken her under her wing. She spoke to her about knighthood, about honor, about the strength needed to protect others. She had shown Sharon that there was more to life than just surviving, more than just bearing the burden of her family's expectations. Sophie had given her hope—a way out of the shadows of the Blackthorn estate.

"You're stronger than you think, Sharon," Sophie had told her once, her voice filled with conviction. "You just need to find that strength within yourself."

Those words had stayed with Sharon, driving her forward, pushing her to train harder, to endure more. She wanted to be like Sophie—to stand tall, to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. It was Sophie who had encouraged her to become a knight, who had helped her find the courage to leave the Blackthorn estate and pursue her own path.

Through relentless effort, Sharon had earned her place as a Royal Knight. She had faced countless challenges, endured grueling training, and had fought for her place every step of the way. And when she finally stood before Sophie, her armor gleaming, her heart filled with pride, Sophie had smiled at her, her eyes filled with pride.

"I knew you could do it," Sophie had said, her voice soft. "I'm so proud of you, Sharon."

And from that moment on, Sharon had dedicated herself to serving Sophie, becoming her loyal adjutant. Sophie was her guiding light, her inspiration, and Sharon would do anything to protect her—to repay the kindness that had saved her from the darkness of the Blackthorn estate.

Sharon's thoughts shifted, the memories fading as she found herself back in the present. Just before leaving for the Magic Council's embassy, she had received a letter—a command from the main family of Blackthorn. The letter was curt, direct, its instructions clear. She had read it in her small room, her heart heavy with the weight of the main family's expectations once more.

But there had also been a flower—a unique, beautiful bloom that she had found amongst her belongings. Sharon wasn't sure where it had come from, but something about it had felt... right. She had decided to send it to Sophie, thinking it might bring her good luck, a gesture of care for the one person who had always believed in her. As she sent it, she wondered if her lady had received it yet—if it had brought her any joy.

____

Slowly, Sharon opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry, her body weak, the memories of what had just happened rushing back to her in disjointed fragments. She blinked, her gaze focusing on the figure before her. Draven. He stood there, his robes torn, his body covered in wounds, blood staining the ground beneath him.

But despite everything, he was still standing tall. His posture was straight, his gaze focused entirely on her. Sharon's breath caught in her throat as she realized the truth—he had protected her. He had endured her attacks, had taken the blows meant for him, and yet he was still here, still standing, still protecting her.

"Draven..." she began, her voice trembling, the words caught in her throat. She wanted to apologize, to say something—anything—but before she could, Draven's cold voice cut through the silence.

"Shut it," he said, his tone curt, dismissive. "It is not your fault." Find more to read at My Virtual Library Empire

Sharon stared at him, her eyes wide, her heart pounding in her chest. This wasn't the Draven she knew—the cruel, ruthless man she had come to despise. The Draven she knew was like a snake, venomous, always scheming, always looking out for his own interests. But this Draven... there was something different about him. Something she couldn't quite place.

He stood there, his body bloodied, his robes torn, and yet he still exuded an air of elegance, of strength. His sharp eyes, filled with intelligence, remained unwavering, focused, determined. Despite everything, he was still Draven—still cold, still calculating, but there was something more beneath the surface. Something she hadn't seen before.

Sharon found herself noticing his features—his sharp jawline, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the intensity of his gaze. Even now, covered in blood, there was an undeniable handsomeness to him, a presence that was impossible to ignore. She scolded herself internally, shaking her head, trying to push the thoughts away.

"What the hell am I thinking?" she muttered under her breath, her cheeks flushing slightly.

Suddenly, a chilling laugh filled the air, cutting through the silence like a blade. Sharon's heart skipped a beat, her eyes widening as she turned toward the source of the sound. There, standing amidst the fallen bodies, was the bandaged man. He was laughing, his body shuddering with each mocking sound, his eyes gleaming with twisted amusement.

Draven's eyes widened for the first time, genuine surprise flashing across his face. The man—the one they had thought was dead—stood before them, his laughter echoing across the battlefield.

"Well, well," the man said, his voice filled with a dark, mocking tone. "Surprised, Professor?" He spread his arms wide, his bandages shifting, his form almost fluid. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sloth, a member of the Devil Coffin."

Draven's expression shifted, his gaze narrowing as he muttered, "The Seven Deadly Sins... So you are one of the upper brass."

Sloth continued to laugh, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, I know you must be curious, Professor. Curious about why I didn't die. But that's not the important part, is it?" He tilted his head, his gaze shifting to Sharon, his smile widening.

Draven's gaze hardened, his eyes cold as he took a step forward. "What do you want with us?" he asked, his voice filled with authority. "What is the objective of this attack?"

Sloth's smile widened, his gaze locking onto Sharon. He raised a hand, pointing directly at her. "That girl," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "She is our objective."

Sharon's heart pounded in her chest, her eyes widening in shock. "Me...?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. Why would they be after her? What possible reason could they have for targeting her?

Draven's gaze didn't waver. He stepped in front of Sharon, his posture protective, his voice cold as he spoke. "This girl is under my protection."

Sharon stared at him, her eyes wide, her breath catching in her throat. He was... protecting her? Draven, the man she had despised for so long, was willing to stand between her and this threat? She didn't understand—none of this made any sense.

Sloth's laughter grew louder, his voice echoing across the rocky terrain. "Are you sure about that, Professor?" he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. He turned his gaze to Sharon, his smile widening. "Hey, girl. I believe that flower you sent to your beautiful lady has arrived."

Sharon felt her heart stop, her eyes widening in horror. "The... the flower?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Sloth's eyes gleamed, his smile twisted as he nodded. "Oh yes," he said, his voice filled with dark delight. "The flower was from me. A bomb, designed specifically for those with ice mana."

Sharon's breath caught in her throat, her mind racing. Sophie—her lady was in danger. She had sent that flower, thinking it was a gesture of care, but it had been a trap, a weapon meant to harm the person she cared for most.

Draven's eyes narrowed, his gaze locking onto Sloth, his expression cold. He was trying to determine if Sloth was lying, but the man's smile only widened, his amusement growing.

"Even you can't tell, can you, Professor?" Sloth taunted, his voice filled with mockery. He reached into his cloak, pulling out a single flower from the bouquet, its petals glowing faintly. He tossed it into the air, his smile widening as it exploded, the blast releasing a wave of energy—one that Draven recognized immediately.

"It's lethal to those with ice mana," Draven muttered, his voice filled with realization. He could see it now—the mechanism of the bomb. The flowers were attuned to Sharon's mana signature, connected through her blood. Unless the person bonded to the flowers through a blood contract dismantled them, they would explode.

"You..."

Sharon felt her legs give out, her body collapsing to the ground as the realization hit her. Everything had been a setup—the letter, the flower, all of it. They had been targeting her from the very beginning. But it wasn't just her. The true aim was Draven. They knew that Draven wouldn't stand by if Sophie was in danger. They had used that against him, forcing his hand, putting him in a position where he had to choose.

Sharon looked up at Draven, her eyes filled with tears, her heart breaking. She knew what had to be done. If she died here, maybe it would be enough to save Sophie. Maybe it would be enough to end this.

"Kill me," she said, her voice trembling, her eyes locking onto Draven's. "Please... I can't let my lady die. I'm sorry, but you must kill me."

Draven looked at her, his eyes cold, his expression unreadable. He didn't speak, the silence stretching between them, heavy and suffocating.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice low, almost a whisper.

"Indeed," he said, his gaze unwavering.

"I guess I do need to kill you."