The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 651: Teaching at The Orphanage (End)

Lina's grin was wolfish, a sharp contrast to her usual stoic expression. "Nope," she said with a satisfied glint. "It's a trap glyph to banish boys."

Amberine let out a snort of genuine laughter, the kind that made her shoulders loosen. "Keep that one handy for academy dating life," she quipped. Lately, the kind of trouble Lina threatened for hypothetical teenage suitors sounded like the perfect deterrent to any heartbreak. Amberine wondered briefly what Draven would think if he saw such off-the-wall spells. Probably he'd give a cold shrug and say, "That's an improvement over your last iteration, Miss Lina." The thought both amused and exasperated her.

Soon enough, the morning portion of the lesson reached its midpoint—drills ended, illusions flickered out, chalk scrawls got smudged into half-blurred arcs. The kids tumbled outside in a chaotic wave, giddy for their short break in the dusty courtyard. That left the orphanage's classroom momentarily still, the only lingering signs of the children's presence in the half-drawn glyph sketches and the faint afterimage of illusions dissipating in the air.

Amberine collapsed onto a crooked bench with a theatrical groan, letting her limbs go limp. She felt like she'd run a marathon of mental gymnastics. "How do you stay so calm?" she asked no one in particular, though she looked toward Elara. "They're feral."

Elara was in the midst of pouring herself a cup of weak tea from a battered tin kettle. Her posture remained as straight as a rod. She turned her head just enough to regard Amberine with a slight tilt, then sipped. "Because I don't match their chaos. You do."

Amberine raised a hand in mock outrage. "I am a beacon of structure," she declared, though the grin tugging at her lips suggested she knew how absurd that sounded. She'd been chasing illusions with brooms just minutes before.

"You're a bonfire of mood swings," Elara corrected gently, her tone absolutely earnest, as though delivering a mere fact. In a way, Amberine couldn't deny it.

Maris settled beside them, nibbling a piece of stale bread leftover from breakfast. Her robes had a smear of bright chalk dust across one sleeve, evidence of having to physically intervene in some child's overenthusiastic illusions. "Can we teach," she began with a sigh, "and not fight for one hour?"

"Debatable," Amberine muttered.

She looked at her fingers, the chalk dust clinging stubbornly around her nails in pale, ghostly whorls. A faint, lingering tingle of mana burn prickled the pads of her fingertips, remnants of the day's practice sessions. Her throat felt unexpectedly tight, and it surprised her how an ordinary conversation could lead to an unexpected moment of honesty.

"I used to hate kids," she admitted, lifting her gaze toward Elara and Maris as though expecting some immediate backlash. Her voice had softened, almost as though the confession itself weighed it down. "Couldn't stand their noise. Now… I actually care what they think of me. That's weird, right?"

She'd never planned on saying such a thing out loud, yet here it was, an intimate piece of truth laid bare in the musty warmth of the orphanage's main room. The sun outside had advanced into early afternoon, bathing the battered benches and scuffed floorboards in slow-moving beams. The children had taken their chalk-drawn illusions into a short break, leaving the teachers momentarily alone in a hush of leftover giggles and magic sparks.

Elara, hands folded calmly in her lap, didn't blink. Her posture, as always, was impeccable—serene, focused, and unflinchingly direct. If Amberine had expected teasing or a lecture, she found none. Instead, Elara's eyes flickered with a subtle acceptance. "That's not weird," she said quietly, with the sort of measured certainty that always made people listen. "That's growth."

Amberine felt her heart give a small jolt. Growth. The word settled on her chest like a gentle weight, comforting and unsettling in equal measure. She blinked, then gave a short snort, trying to break the moment's intensity. "You trying to be profound now?"

"No," Elara answered, deadpan, "just accurate."

For a moment, none of them said a word, letting the echo of that statement hang in the stillness. Amberine's gaze drifted across the sunlit emptiness where a gaggle of rowdy kids had been seconds ago, each set of footprints marking their chaotic presence. She considered how not long ago, she would have found the swirl of illusions and shrieking jokes maddening—more a nuisance than anything. But now those illusions felt more like glimpses of innocence, like windows into a world where cynicism hadn't fully set in.

She exhaled, forcing a wry smile. "Fine. Growth it is."

Something settled between the three of them—a hush that wasn't strained, but rather a quiet agreement. It felt almost like relief, as though speaking that truth aloud closed a gap between them. Maybe they'd each changed here in ways none of them had expected. For a few heartbeats, the old orphanage felt like a living, breathing presence around them, its worn walls and crooked chairs listening in on their conversation, granting permission for a more honest reflection.

But a slam of the door in the next hallway, coupled with a squeal of laughter, reminded them there was still a class to handle. The day marched on, and so did the lessons. The next segment was to be half art, half magic—an idea Maris had once pitched to keep the kids engaged. It turned out to be the perfect blend of creative expression and spell practice, encouraging them to shape illusions or enchant drawings in their own personal styles.

The children returned in a scattered flock, carrying stubby pieces of colored chalk and the leftover excitement from break time. They gathered in a big circle on the floor, leaving the battered desks behind. The boards and old rugs were stained with years of footprints, but that didn't stop them from plopping down cheerfully to begin scribbling.

A hush of anticipation spread, broken only by the initial scratching of chalk. Some kids immediately started on their dream spells—wild things like floating castles and dancing dragons—while others glanced around, uncertain. The teachers circulated gently among them, offering hints or, in Amberine's case, cautionary words about not summoning a forest fire in their scribbles.

Amberine found herself kneeling beside Fennel, who hunched close to the floor. He had a bit of green chalk pressed between his fingers and was sketching, in short, hesitant strokes, what looked like the outline of a sunflower. "Hey, that's pretty neat," Amberine said softly, letting her genuine curiosity shine through. Fennel's face colored slightly under the praise.

He mumbled, "I'm… it's a shield that blooms. When I'm scared. A 'panic bloom,' I guess." He shrugged as though embarrassed by the admission, as though expecting laughter or judgment.

Amberine smiled. "That's clever. So if something tries to hurt you, it… blossoms and protects you, yeah?"

Fennel nodded, relaxing a fraction. "I want it to be bright and tough. So I can, um, feel safe."

Amberine nodded. "I love it," she said, voice light but sincere. She raised a hand, shaping the barest flicker of her own magic to demonstrate. "When you're done drawing, we can try a small enchantment, see if we can coax it to life."

A tiny smile graced Fennel's lips. He resumed sketching, posture a bit more confident than before.

Nearby, Vera had already claimed a corner of the floor and was vigorously drawing a stylized tiger in bright reds and oranges. She pretended not to be too invested, but the detail in her lines told a different story. She muttered under her breath, "It's just a doodle," whenever Elara or Maris passed by. But the moment someone pointed out a shading technique or asked about the glyph she was outlining, her eyes lit up, and she eagerly rattled off a dozen reasons why her fire tiger needed special luminous paws. Clearly, her bravado masked a passionate need to prove herself.

Nico was up to his usual comedic mischief. He drew broad arcs with pink chalk, calling his creation a "prank burst." Amberine, mid-laugh, warned him not to even think about illusions that would soak the entire class in slime again. He gave her an exaggerated innocent look in return. Within minutes, his "prank burst" exploded with glitter, sprinkling shimmering specks that clung to hair, clothes, and the cracks between floorboards. The kids shrieked with glee, Maris glared down at her newly glitter-coated robes, and Nico bowed dramatically, looking far too pleased with himself.

Amberine was about to chase him again when she noticed Tamryn was just sitting there, chalk resting in his lap but untouched. He stared at the swirling illusions around him with something like longing, occasionally glancing at the shapes on other kids' drawings. His own space on the floor remained stubbornly blank, a wide patch of untouched dust.

Careful not to spook him, Amberine approached, kneeling so they were at eye level. She offered him a piece of teal chalk. "It doesn't have to be good," she said in a quiet tone meant only for him. "It doesn't even need to make sense. It just has to be you."

For a heartbeat, he looked torn between refusing and giving it a try. The memory of his earlier mana surge clearly weighed on him, fear flickering in his eyes. But eventually, some small kernel of courage emerged. He grasped the chalk and set it to the floor, exhaling shakily. His initial lines were shaky too—timid arcs that didn't connect. But slowly, carefully, he pressed the chalk more firmly, forging a circle. Inside that circle, he drew outlines of hands, four or five, clasped together.

Amberine's breath caught. It wasn't the neatest piece of art—some of the fingers looked mismatched, half the circle was uneven—but there was a tenderness in the image that made her chest tighten. The quiet sincerity of it, the wish for connection, was all too plain. She stared at the shape for a few long moments. The rawness of that symbol struck her more powerfully than any flamboyant illusions ever could.

Her lips parted in a small smile, eyes softening. "I like it," she said simply, voice thick with an unexpected swell of emotion. She recognized something deep there—Tamryn wasn't just drawing for fun. He was expressing that craving for acceptance that so many kids like him carried, hidden behind polite nods and anxious eyes.

Before she could say anything more, a flicker of motion caught her eye from the far wall. Amberine glanced up, brow knitting slightly. Underneath the peeling paint, beneath the dusty chalk scrawls, she glimpsed a faint glow—one of Draven's glyphs, half-concealed. She knew that shape; she'd seen it enough times in corners of the university towers, subtle wards that Draven left behind, presumably for reasons he never explained.

It pulsed, just once, faint and fleeting. But unmistakable. Her curiosity surged. She reached out and touched the paint, her fingertips brushing the hidden lines. A tiny jolt of awareness shot through her like a spark. Then, unexpectedly, she heard a voice so low she might've doubted it if not for the chill it sent up her spine.

Draven's voice, calm and unyielding, echoed in her mind: "If they fracture, you cannot mend them. You can only hold the line."

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She jerked her hand back as if scalded, heart hammering. A wave of confusion and alarm roiled in her gut. Why had Draven hidden wards here? Why those specific words? Was he warning her that the kids were near some tipping point?

"Something wrong?" Elara asked softly, noticing the look on Amberine's face.

Amberine forced a small, brittle smile. "Just… itchy fingers," she said, feigning a casual shrug even though her heart still drummed a frantic beat. She decided, for the moment, not to mention Draven's whispered warning. She needed time to process it herself, to figure out what it might mean. Possibly nothing. Possibly everything.

Dusk arrived softly, the slanted rays of a setting sun painting the orphanage walls in stripes of orange and gold. One by one, parents or older siblings stepped inside, quietly collecting their children. There were no grand goodbyes, just small smiles and a heartfelt thanks here or there. A few dusty hugs were exchanged, and some of the littlest ones promised to show their parents the illusions they'd made. Amberine watched the slow exodus with a subdued sense of pride, though that flicker of Draven's voice refused to leave her mind.

Tamryn lingered. She heard his hesitant footsteps scuff along the plank floor behind her. When she turned, he extended a folded piece of paper, eyes lowered as though terrified she might reject it. She took it gently, unfolding it in the fading light. It was a drawing of her orb—a wobbly, uneven rendering with one side noticeably larger than the other. It was, objectively, not the prettiest piece of art.

It was also perfect.

She felt her chest tighten. It carried all the sincerity of a child trying to say thank you without the words. The flaws made it genuine, humble, real. She swallowed, feeling her eyes prickle with an uninvited surge of emotion. "Thanks," she croaked, voice tight. She wanted to say so much more—that it was wonderful, that it mattered—but she couldn't seem to force the words out. Tamryn just nodded, relief and quiet gratitude mingling in his eyes before he hurried away to meet whoever was waiting for him outside.

By the time all the children had left, the building felt strangely hollow. The sun dipped below the mismatched rooftops of the slums, pulling shadows longer across the floor. Amberine, Elara, and Maris ended up on the orphanage's roof, perched on a ledge of crumbling stone, watching the day fade into a kaleidoscope of purple and soft pink streaks. It wasn't the safest spot, but it offered a private overlook of the slums and a glimpse of the better part of the city's skyline beyond.

A hush settled as the last vestiges of sunlight glowed on the horizon, bathing everything in gentle gold. They stared in comfortable silence until Maris quietly asked, "If we weren't told to come here... would you still come?"

Amberine spent a long moment thinking. She allowed her gaze to wander over the sprawling slums, the tangle of crooked roofs and dusty roads, that faint hum of life even in this impoverished district. "I wouldn't have," she confessed, memories of her old dismissiveness gnawing at her. "But now?" She took in the laughter rising from below, a few kids still playing at the corner, even though it was nearly time for them to be home. "Now I'd fight to stay."

Maris didn't say anything, but her eyes softened. Elara nodded in silent acknowledgment, as though she, too, understood how these run-down walls and hyper children had carved a niche in their hearts. None of them expected that.

Far away, high in his tower, Draven watched the glyph flicker.

"She touched the anchor," he murmured. "She's closer than I hoped."

A voice behind him—Alfred, his old steward. "You're still testing them. But what will you do when they stop playing your game?"

Draven didn't move. His gaze remained fixed.

"Then," he said, "I'll have to stop watching. And start acting."

And the mirror dimmed.