The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 737: Shadows at Ironleaf (End)

nt from the others," she said, voice low, probing.

"Observation noted," Draven replied, standing. He slid the stiletto away, twin sabers resting comfortably in his grip.

Serewyn's gaze lingered on the runes etched along the blades. Recognition dawned—these were weapons forged outside the slaver network, wrought for ghost-work, not arena showmanship. "Who sends you?" she pressed.

"Someone who needs Ironleaf to burn brighter," he answered. "Long enough for chains elsewhere to loosen."

The tension in her shoulders eased no more than a fraction; still, she could taste sincerity—or perhaps simply saw opportunity. She tilted her head. "Yet you free me. Not them." A nod toward the ceiling, where distant clamor sounded.

"Timing," Draven said. Then, softer, "And optics. The elves have to see thunder break before they believe the sky can change."

Serewyn's lips curved, equal parts admiration and cruelty. "Then let me be thunder."

Draven flicked a dagger from his belt and held it out, hilt first. The blade wasn't elegant—standard steel, but honed to a wicked edge. Lightning sparked across its surface the moment her fingers closed around it, turning dull iron brilliant white.

He stepped back, satisfied. "If you desire vengeance," he said, voice devoid of heat, "start with Harken."

A slow, predatory grin spread across Serewyn's face—a crescent moon gleaming amid the torchlight. Magic wreathed her shoulders, crackling louder with every heartbeat. Somewhere above, a bell clanged and shattered mid-toll, its metal warped by a rogue bolt of electricity leaking through the stone.

She stalked past him, shoulders rolling like a lynx freed from a cage. "I will," she hissed, and the torch behind her exploded in a shower of sparks.

Draven watched her silhouette stride into the corridor, lightning blooming around her like jagged wings, and allowed himself a single, silent nod. The next stage had begun.

"Your only chance." He handed her the blade. "If you desire vengeance, start with Harken."

A smile, fierce and feral, curved Serewyn's lips—no courtly curve, but the bared-fang grin of a wolf tasting winter air after too long in a cage. Her fingers tightened on the plain dagger Draven had given her; lightning crawled up the steel, frosting the edge in white-blue fire. When she straightened, the air around her snapped and popped as though dozens of tiny branches broke at once.

A low hum filled the oubliette corridor—stone thrumming, torches guttering. Serewyn's aura was a storm compressing to a single point, begging release. She gave the storm what it wanted.

One step carried her into the passage. A guard rounded the corner, eyes wide at the sudden glare. Before he could shout, a spear of lightning burst from Serewyn's palm, stitched through his breastplate, and pinned him to the wall with a wet hiss. He twitched once, then slid down, smoke curling from seams in his armor.

Chaos blossomed above. Wooden beams groaned; dust sifted from the ceiling in fine grey sheets. Draven remained two paces behind, eyes half-lidded, measuring every new tremor against the map in his head. Each crash, each flicker of witch-light, traced a clear line of advance. He flicked two fingers and his shadow-wraiths divided: half flitted ahead to smother any alarm runners, the rest flowed along side passages, herding panicked soldiers toward bottlenecks where Serewyn's fury would burn brightest.

She climbed the winding stair like a comet ascending a dark sky. At each landing another unlucky slaver appeared—some armed, others clutching keys or hastily snatched cudgels. Lightning found them all. One man screamed as silver veins of current stitched through his chain shirt and lit every ring white-hot; another simply sagged when a crackling fist struck his temple, eyes glazing before he hit the step. By the time Serewyn burst onto the ground-level corridor the iron rails of the banister glowed dull red, warped by the heat of her passage.

Draven watched the glow fade, leaving snake-like distortions in the metal. Useful. Those rails would fail under weight, adding to the confusion later. He marked it, then turned down a quieter artery—a servant's passage that smelled of wet straw and lamp oil.

The fortress above had transformed into a hive struck by a torch. Orders clashed mid-air:

"Form a shield wall by the gate!"

"Protect the forge—she's heading there!"

"No, the courtyard—move!"

None could agree because none had the vantage Draven enjoyed. He slipped behind two junior officers arguing over deployment scrolls; the shadow at their feet stretched, rose, and coalesced into a thin blade that kissed each throat in turn. They crumpled gently, scrolls fluttering like startled birds. Draven kept walking, boots silent, heartbeat steady.

Ahead, orange light pulsed under the threshold of Harken's command tent—forge braziers rescued to illuminate maps. A gust of night wind lifted the tent flap just enough for him to glimpse silhouettes: one cleric pouring salve on a wounded spearman, two scribes frantically rolling charts, and Harken himself bent over a war table, fist planted beside a crystal lens that magnified the yard. His crimson pauldron caught the lamplight, bright as a fresh wound.

Perfect.

Draven knelt, drew a thin wire from his pouch, and looped it around the tent's rear stake. A single tug collapsed the canvas panel inward, muffling the brazier's glow. He slipped inside before the fabric settled, moving low between stacked crates. The cleric noticed a flicker of motion and opened his mouth; a throwing pin buried itself in the soft hollow below his ear, words dying on a bubble of blood.

Draven crossed the floor, already mapping exit angles, fire-pot locations, Harken's reach with that cumbersome axe. Intelligence first: he swept every surface—maps of tributary valleys, lists of caravan schedules, ciphered letters bearing the black seal of Valaroth's Inner Court. He memorized the seal pattern in two heartbeats, then began rolling the charts into a tight cylinder. Every piece would become leverage later.

Leather boots pounded outside, then halted. Draven felt the air change—the sharp, furnace heat of enchantment steel nearing. He pivoted just as a dark shape exploded through the main flap.

Harken filled the doorway like a battering ram, war-axe raised overhead. The runes cut into the axe head blazed, tongues of orange flame licking the iron edge. "You!" The word roared out, reverberating against oiled canvas.

Draven let the flame's reflection mark the swing path. He stepped left, toes grazing the chalk line of an old ward circle as the axe whistled past and smashed the table in two. Splinters cartwheeled, brazier coals scattering. A few landed on a fallen parchment and began to smolder.

Harken ripped the weapon free, rage thick as tar in his voice. "Spine-less shade!"

Draven replied with silence—and motion. His left blade flicked, the flat striking a hanging lantern, sending it spinning. The sudden flare dazzled Harken's uninjured eye. Draven glided in, tilting under the return swing. A quick slash opened Harken's bracer; sparks showered from parted mail links. Not deep enough—an intentional tease, baiting the larger man into overreach.

Harken obliged, bellowing, hacking wildly. Canvas walls quivered each time the axe bit a support pole. One blow sheared a brazier chain, sending the iron bowl crashing; coal and ash blossomed in a choking cloud. Draven vanished into that cloud—low stance, twin blades tracing arcs of lunar silver.

Steel kissed the back of Harken's knee. Tendons popped. The giant staggered with a snarled curse. Draven slid around, hooked a pommel under the axe haft, and twisted. Wood splintered; runes fizzled. Harken's left wrist cracked like dry ice when it bent past its limit. He howled, but the sound dwindled to a wet rasp as Draven's second blade found the exposed seam beneath the jawline and gouged upward, destroying muscle control. Blood sprayed, sizzling where it met stray embers.

Even wounded, Harken swung again—instinct more than skill. Draven pivoted, stepped inside the blurred arc, and slammed a knee into the commander's sternum. Air burst from Harken's lungs; he folded. Draven caught the helmet ridge, twisted hard, and drove a stiletto through the remaining eye, burying the blade to the hilt.

Silence rushed in like a tide.

Draven wiped his blade on Harken's cloak, then kicked a stray ember onto the spreading oil slick. Flame blossomed quietly, licking up fallen maps until the ink blackened. He retrieved the cylinder he'd rolled, thrust it into an inner pocket, and paced to the exit.

Outside, Serewyn's storm had grown monstrous. Bolts spider-webbed across the night sky, each strike turning battlements into silhouettes of jagged bone. Arrows launched at her simply ionized mid-flight, metal melting to slag that rained down on horrified archers. A barrel of alchemical pitch detonated near the gate, showering the yard in burning tar. Amid the chaos she strode like a goddess of wrath, every flick of her wrist orchestrating fresh devastation. Elves in the cages rattled bars so hard their knuckles bled.

Draven found Sylvanna near the shadow of a collapsed watchtower. She crouched over two injured elves, cutting makeshift bindings from her cloak to wrap bleeding wrists. Her face lit with relief—and exasperation—the moment she spotted him.

"We can save them," she urged, voice low yet intense, the words nearly drowned by thunder. "You've created chaos—now free them."

Draven's gaze followed a bolt that skewered a ward-mage atop the forge chimney, sending the man tumbling in a trail of sparks. He spoke without looking at her. "Not yet. A taste of freedom is more potent than freedom itself. It creates longing, a drive strong enough to overturn this entire kingdom."

Sylvanna drew in a shaky breath. Firelight danced in her eyes. "And what do you gain?"

"A bargaining chip." His tone never wavered—cool as riverstone. "A promise the elves will trade for their loyalty."

Below, flames leaped high from the barracks roof, shingles popping like musket fire. Serewyn's name rippled through the cages—first a few voices, then dozens, until it became a roar that challenged the crackling thunder. Soldiers broke ranks, some fleeing toward the inner gate, others frozen by the realization that command was gone. Along the northern wall a scribe hurled his ledger aside and scrambled over debris toward the forest, desperation beating discipline at last.

Sylvanna frowned, jaw working. "You're leaving them in chaos."

"I'm leaving them with a story," Draven corrected, his voice gentling by a fraction. "A story of rebellion. Of Serewyn, the Thunder-Witch who defied her captors. Stories spread faster than swords."

Lightning flashed again, revealing her face—admiration warring with sorrow. "You gamble with souls, Draven."

"I gamble to win." Shadows from the burning barracks slid across him, draping his cloak in restless ink. He opened his fist. The broken chain fragment he'd pocketed earlier glowed faintly, runes flickering like embers refusing to die. It pulsed against his palm—an echo of every collar still clasped around desperate throats.

Silence fell between them, fragile, underscored by distant screams and the steady roar of flames consuming timber. Sylvanna's gaze dropped to the glowing shard, then lifted back to his eyes, seeking an end to the calculation behind them. She did not find it.

"And I'm not done yet."