The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 683: The Grove Illusions (1)

The order was unnecessary; Sylvanna's instincts already understood. Her arrow hissed over his shoulder and stapled a second Barkborn to the earth, pinning the vine muscle instead of puncturing the core. The creature howled, a dry splintering sound, and reached—but root and arrow held it fast.

To Draven's left, another Barkborn cracked its whip-arms toward him. He slid under one lash, feeling the bark kiss the hood of his coat, and flicked his left blade in a surgical cut along the bicep-analog. A single vine tendon parted; the limb went limp, swinging dead weight. Momentum spun the creature sideways and dropped it on its own roots.

Every motion economical. No flourish, no wasted steel.

Sylvanna resumed firing, rhythm deft and icy. The next shaft burst in blue frost across a Barkborn's trunk-torso, freezing the vines into brittle glass. Draven flowed in behind the arrow, twin blades needling precise lines across shoulders and hips, slicing control glyphs rather than entire limbs. The frozen warrior toppled in a single clumsy block, unhurt but helpless.

Roots beneath the moss writhed, a last-second booby trap. Draven felt the tremor half a breath before the surface ruptured. He shifted his balance without looking down, letting the earth rise harmlessly where he'd been, then stomped into the opening fracture, closing it with raw weight. The ground shuddered, subdued.

Another Barkborn lurched, claws extended. Draven caught its chest plate with his off-hand hilt. A sharp crack rang as the hidden glyph at its heart splintered, light bleeding out like a lantern kicked over. The warrior sagged, vines unspooling from rigid knots into soft, confused tendrils.

Precision. Every breath, every cut, a scalpel line in living wood.

Sylvanna's braid swung as she pivoted, loosing two arrows in quick succession. The first sliced through an exposed kneecap root; the second nailed a trailing tendril to the trunk behind it. She rolled her shoulder to keep tension from biting too hard and grinned despite herself. "I could get used to this."

Draven didn't answer. The last Barkborn reared back, twin fists merging into an axe of fused bark. He sidestepped into its blind spot, shifted both swords into a scissor, and snapped the weapon-arm off at the elbow equivalent. The severed section tumbled, embedding in soft loam. He drove a boot heel onto the fallen limb— not to damage it further, but to pin it harmless until the Grove reclaimed its piece.

Measured violence. Controlled entropy.

The Barkborn staggered, confused more than hurt. Its arm regrew in slow, trembling roots that immediately slackened, recognizing the fight was done. Around the clearing the others stilled, green glow pulsing like uncertain heartbeats.

The Grove considered. Branches overhead rustled with a sound like distant surf. Barkborn torsos trembled… then each warrior eased backward, sinking into the torn trunks that birthed them. Vines flowed closed, sealing cracks as if the guardians had never risen.

The earth exhaled. For one breath the forest felt empty, almost peaceful.

Draven rolled his shoulders once and slid both blades home. Metal whispered against scabbard leather. Behind him Sylvanna released a shaky laugh that sounded half relief, half awe.

"You're terrifying," she said, voice pitched low.

Draven tipped his head, listening to the sap hum return to a calmer rhythm. "Efficient," he corrected. The word weighed twice its syllables.

She didn't contest it.

They walked on. Roots parted at their footfalls, grudging but compliant, as though the Grove had judged their restraint and granted passage.

The Grove's test paused.

One by one the Barkborn froze, their vine-muscles fluttering like startled insects before loosening. Bark plates folded inward. A slow, tremulous shiver passed through each wooden torso, then—almost shyly—they backed away, vanishing into the very trunks that had birthed them. Splits in the bark re-knit themselves, sealing with a faint creak. At the same instant the moss underfoot rose and fell, as though the earth itself had sighed in reluctant approval.

For a heartbeat the twisted woods held their breath. Nothing moved. No leaf quivered. Even the distant drip of sap hushed.

Draven slid both blades home. The twin whispers of steel against leather sounded overly loud in the hush. Behind him Sylvanna finally let the tension bleed from her shoulders; the exhale she released staggered between a laugh and a shaky groan.

"You're terrifying," she breathed, rubbing the crescent welt the bowstring had left on her forearm. The words were half jest, half confession.

Draven didn't turn. He tipped his head instead, letting the Grove's subtle rhythms wash over him—sap-pulse, root-creak, the soft burble of nutrient flow deep below. Compared to those, Sylvanna's heart sounded like a snare drum. "Efficient," he corrected, the single word clipped, uninterested in flattery.

She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and simply nodded. They both knew there was no room for arguments the forest might overhear.

Roots drew back at their approach—reluctant, yes, but compliant—creating a narrow corridor that sloped gently downward. The temperature dipped with every step. Air thickened into a damp, resin-scented fog that clung to skin and cloak alike. When Sylvanna's boot scuffed a patch of lichen, glowing spores spiraled upward, illuminating the tunnel in uneasy jade light.

"Is it me," she whispered, "or are the trees watching?"

Draven's eyes glinted silver in the sporeglow. "Appraising," he said. His tone suggested that was marginally better than 'watching.'

Down they traveled, the path twisting in tight switchbacks that forced their shoulders to brush bark slick as glass. At each turn Sylvanna caught a fleeting vision—faces etched in knots, mouths partly open, as though the wood itself struggled to form words. Once she thought she heard her name, voiced by nothing but sap crackling in a trunk. She nearly drew an arrow on instinct.

Draven lifted two fingers, signaling absolute silence. Listening again, Sylvanna realized the whisper hadn't shaped her name at all; it was the Grove breathing around a syllable her mind had supplied. The realization chilled her more than any ghost.

They emerged onto a lip of rock. Below them, Heart Hollow gaped—a wound sunk into the world's green flesh. The cavern swallowed light. Only the Heart Tree glowed, a colossal bastion of crystal-laced wood rising from a lake of liquid darkness. Veins of quartz webbed the trunk, carrying pulses of lambent gold that dripped as viscous sap. Those drops vanished into the gloom before ever hitting ground, like tears swallowed by a wound that refused to close.

More disturbing than the tree was what hung in its root-cage: a dead Warden, calcified armor fused to bones, head bowed, ribcage carved open to leave a ragged window. Through that window something black and wet gleamed, as though shadows had hardened into tar and taken residence.

Sylvanna's breath fogged in front of her. "Hells," she murmured, but the word dropped like broken glass. It never reached echo.

Draven paused at the threshold stone. The air here warped. Vertigo sloshed through his inner ear; the cavern floor listed thirty degrees to the right though his eyes assured him it was flat. He felt Sylvanna waver beside him, her hand flying to the wall.

"Steady,"