The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"That one? Not sure it's your style, friend. Suppose you can have it for… let's say three silver."

I recognized the game. He wanted me to haggle, to see how far I'd go. But I simply nodded, dropping the coins on the table. His eyes narrowed, likely suspecting he could've asked for more. But I was in no mood to play petty mind games. The ring vanished into my belt pouch, another piece of the puzzle I was assembling.

I moved on, weaving through the throng of people. The smell of incense gave way to the salt of cured fish, then the spiced aroma of roadside grills cooking sweet-glazed meats. Vendors shouted over one another, promising miracles or bargains, depending on your coin. A group of street performers in bright costumes juggled torches, drawing a small crowd of onlookers who clapped at each daring toss. Two pickpockets eyed the spectacle, tongues between their teeth, waiting for the right moment to lift someone's purse.

I felt a brush at my cloak, too light to be accidental. My hand shot out, gripping a thin wrist. A boy, no older than thirteen, stared back with wide eyes. The faint bulge of my coin pouch was clutched in his other hand. For a heartbeat, we locked gazes—my own cold and unyielding, his wide with fear but also a flicker of desperate cunning. I saw the flicker of recognition that I wasn't the typical mark, but hunger or desperation had made him reckless.

Without a word, I twisted my wrist, dislodging the pouch from his grasp. He flinched, then darted back into the crowd like a startled animal. I let him go. No reason to cause a scene over a trivial theft attempt. My illusions still held, after all, and the child was no threat beyond a lost second of time. This marketplace was full of such small collisions, fragments of other lives that I had no patience for. I turned away, ensuring the pouch was secure, and continued. People parted before me, though they never acknowledged me directly. The illusions were subtle, but they worked. A hazy nudge that told them to step aside, not to see too clearly.

Eventually, I came to the final stall on my list—a battered table overflowing with half-labeled jars of powders, each tinted a different hue by the sun or by questionable storage. The merchant there was older, wearing a tattered coat that might have once belonged to a city official, though it was impossible to tell. His hair was unkempt, a patchy gray that reminded me of a cat that had lost too many fights. He watched me with the wariness of a cornered creature, yet he offered a curt nod.

"Traveler," he grunted. "See anything you like?"

I scanned the jars. Alchemical potential oozed from some, while others appeared worthless or possibly fakes. There, near the back, was a sealed glass container of what looked like powdered Noxroot, rare enough to fetch a steep price. If genuine, it would bolster illusions or necromantic wards alike. The merchant followed my gaze, a hint of greed sparking in his eyes. He likely thought he'd found a gullible buyer, or one too desperate to question authenticity. I was neither.

"Noxroot," I said, voice quiet, but carrying enough weight to imply I knew exactly what I was naming.

The merchant sucked in a breath, feigning surprise. "Sharp eye. Hardly anyone recognizes that. It's real, I swear by the gods. You won't find Noxroot this pure within a hundred miles. The meltdown disruptions have made supply lines complicated—"

I raised a hand, cutting off his spiel. "I know what it's worth," I said calmly. Then I named a figure half of what I suspected he'd offer. He bristled, his mouth flattening. We locked eyes, a silent standoff. In the distance, someone laughed loud and raucous, but the sound barely registered.

He tried to counter with a higher price. I shook my head. He hesitated, glancing at my cloak, perhaps noticing that my posture suggested I wouldn't budge. His shoulders sagged an inch, and he spat an oath under his breath. Reluctantly, he yielded. I placed the coins on his table in a neat stack, each one glinting in the pale morning light. He slid the jar toward me, glaring as though I'd robbed him. If only he knew how close he was to an actual robbery, he might have been grateful for the coins he got.

I took the Noxroot, careful to keep the jar sealed. A faint tingle of arcane residue clung to the container, an indication that it truly was potent. I might need it soon, or maybe never. Either way, it was better in my possession than in the hands of an opportunist.

Satisfied, I stepped away. The morning had worn on, and the crowd's energy shifted from excited bartering to the slow lull of midday. My tasks were nearly complete. I had one last place to check.

Threading my way through the throngs of bodies, I spotted a narrow stall that sold enchanted parchment and quills. Not precisely on my list, but the chance of finding a specialized charm or a unique piece of scribing paper was too good to pass up. The old scribe behind the stall looked half-asleep, hunched over a battered ledger. I skimmed the goods quickly—standard supply, mostly. A few wards etched into paper, a couple of minor illusions that glowed faintly. Nothing special. My illusions flickered in the background, ensuring no one remembered me for longer than a second.

In the end, I found nothing I needed there. My illusions wavered slightly as I turned away, a momentary pulse of mild fatigue threading through my mind. This bustle was draining, more so than any fight. So many prying eyes, so many trivial movements. A lesser person might have found it overwhelming or even charming. To me, it was just an obstacle. The quicker I concluded my business, the better.
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Yet, I couldn't help a brief moment of reflection as I caught sight of a family passing by—a mother guiding two small children by the hands, each child staring wide-eyed at the colorful stalls. They reminded me that once, a lifetime ago, I might have found awe in such displays. Before the tower, before the betrayals, before the Tapestry sank its hooks into my destiny. Now, I felt nothing but the cold clarity of purpose. This world was never meant to be a comfort. Not for someone like me.

I adjusted the hood of my cloak, continuing along the winding path that led between stalls stacked high with crates and baskets. A pair of city guards ambled past, paying me no mind. My illusions and the mundane camouflage of a worn cloak ensured they found nothing noteworthy about me. That was precisely how I wanted it.

Minutes later, I reached the last vendor I intended to visit—a narrow booth jammed between a blacksmith's forge and a weaver's stall. The sign read "Rare Finds & Oddities," a typical come-on that could mean anything from genuine treasures to worthless fakes. But rumor had pointed me here.

A single glance told me the vendor specialized in questionable relics, obscure baubles said to be cursed or blessed, depending on who you asked. I scanned the array quickly—plenty of nonsense, from decorative skull charms to half-broken amulets with chipped runes. Then, there in the corner, was the item that caught my eye: a small, polished metal sphere etched with lines reminiscent of labyrinthine wards.

I leaned in, picking it up carefully. A faint hum buzzed against my palm—subtle, but there. This was no ordinary trinket. The etching suggested it could store a short burst of potent arcane energy, releasing it as a targeted disruption or a shield in a moment of crisis. Potentially invaluable if used correctly. The vendor, a wiry man with a sly grin, noticed my interest.

"Ah, that one's a real gem," he said, his voice dripping with the well-practiced confidence of a seller who sensed profit. "Found it in the catacombs beneath the eastern ruins, or so my associate swore. Perfect for warding off ill spirits or harnessing a small jolt of power if you know the right incantation."

I turned the sphere in my hand, letting a trace of mana slip through my fingers. The lines glowed faintly in response, revealing a hidden pattern that encircled its surface. A good sign. The sphere recognized the resonance of my mana, suggesting it hadn't been keyed to a different mage.

"How much?" I asked, my tone as cold as the steel in my voice.

He named a figure that was laughable, even for a place like this. I stared at him, letting silence speak. He squirmed, adjusting his stance. We locked eyes—his brimming with hope or greed, mine a mirror of absolute indifference. Slowly, he coughed out a more reasonable price, still inflated but within the realm of negotiation.

We bartered. He tried flattery, cautionary tales, and a hint of dire omens about the meltdown. None of it swayed me. Eventually, he caved to a fraction of his starting demand. I counted out the exact coins, then slipped the sphere into my belt pouch. The vendor parted with it, looking equal parts relieved and suspicious. He probably suspected he could have gotten more from me, but the final glint in his eye said he'd made enough profit for one day.

I stepped away, once more letting the crowd envelop me. A sense of completeness settled over my mind. The items I'd gathered—Ironleaf extract, Duskroot, a ring laced with subtle enchantments, that newly acquired metal sphere—none of them alone could change the tides, but together, they formed the foundation of the arsenal I would need. I might be at seventy percent, but that seventy percent was enough if wielded properly. And if the time came to unleash it all, I'd be ready.

I had lingered long enough. The sun, though obscured by the thick canopy of overhanging fabrics and merchant stalls, had inched higher in the sky. Heat settled in, drawing out sweat from those who hustled in the midday throng. The earlier hustle that accompanied the morning rush had evolved into a more languid pace, but the noise and bodies were no less dense.

My illusions hummed around me, a constant drain on my mana that I found oddly comforting. It reminded me I was in control. That these wandering eyes would slide off me like water on oiled leather, leaving me free to complete my objectives without complication. A pickpocket brushed by again, but this time I barely noted the intrusion. My possessions were secure, and my reflexes sharper. I drifted sideways, letting him realize on his own that I wasn't worth the trouble. He slunk back into the crowd.

Finally, with everything I required safely stowed, I made for the edge of the market. The throng thinned, giving way to a row of cramped alleyways branching off the main bazaar. The stench of rotting refuse grew stronger here, mixing with the leftover smells of sizzling meat. Flies buzzed, drawn by the filth that no broom had touched in weeks. The city guard rarely came this far. Not enough profit or prestige to justify the trouble. It was perfect for my rendezvous.

I turned down one of the alleys, stepping over a puddle that shimmered with oily residue. A cat hissed from behind a broken crate, its eyes reflecting the midday glow. My illusions flickered in the subdued light, enough that a casual passerby might see a faint silhouette. No matter. I was almost done here.

Toward the far end of the narrow corridor, near a boarded-up shop, stood Asterion. He watched me approach, arms crossed, body taut. Even from a distance, I saw the lines of fatigue under his eyes, the tension etched into his jaw. He'd been waiting, thinking, maybe second-guessing. If he intended to betray me, he hid it well. But I'd be ready for that, too.

I came to a stop a short distance away. We faced each other in silence, the city's noise a muffled backdrop. Asterion's gaze flicked to the small parcels I carried, then back to my face. In that brief flicker, I read curiosity, relief, and a guarded sort of acceptance.

He spoke first. "We should move."

I said nothing, letting the weight of my presence and his caution hang between us. In that moment, the reality of our next steps pressed down on both of us like a physical burden. A few hours from now, we would attempt something only a fool or a desperate man would do—infiltrate Aetherion, the Council's underwater fortress. The stakes were higher than the surface murk of this market could convey.

But for now, I studied him. A slight droop to his shoulders that hadn't been there before. A fresh cut above his brow, half-healed, from that last scuffle we survived. The same steady resolve in his gaze that hinted he might follow me into whatever abyss we found next. Or perhaps he was just waiting to see if I'd falter first. Either way, we both knew there was no turning back if we wanted to expose whoever orchestrated Belisarius's resurrection.

I nodded once, silent. Words weren't necessary. He understood. Let the Council spin their lies, let the Devil Coffins dance their grotesque waltz around the meltdown's aftermath. Soon enough, we'd break it all wide open.

With that unspoken agreement, I brushed past him, heading deeper into the alley. He fell into step beside me, neither of us looking back at the marketplace we were leaving behind. That swirl of life and color was irrelevant now. We had the tools we needed, the knowledge gleaned from countless mistakes, and the readiness to use both.

I didn't answer. I turned and left, letting the crowd swallow me once more.