The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 738: Iron Blazing towards The Leaves (1)

The grand throne room of Valaroth stretched into darkness, its vaulted ceilings disappearing into black rafters heavy with centuries of soot. Torches guttered along ironwood pillars, each flame imprisoned in a wire cage of dark iron. With every restless flicker, shadows prowled across the flagged floor, brushing trophies half-lost in gloom—vast antlers yellowed with age, the serrated jaw of a sea drake, and broken elven helms fused by fire into grotesque masks. A visitor might have believed the very walls breathed, for the ironwood creaked now and then like ribs flexing around a monstrous heart.

At the room's center reigned King Auric the Devourer. His throne—an eruption of petrified roots twisted into barbs—rose from a dais of obsidian stone. Where most monarchs lounged, Auric appeared poised to strike: spine rigid, hands draped lightly over the throne's armrests, nails clicking in an arrhythmic tap against the wood as though keeping time with some private dirge. Beneath his iron-thorn crown, volatile hunger smoldered in eyes the color of tarnished brass.

Below that unblinking gaze danced two elves, both slender as willow branches. Chains wove through their golden braids, the links clinking a delicate counterpoint to the distant crackle of torches. Their silken shifts—once pale ivory—were stained by travel and fear, the fabric clinging damply to trembling shoulders. Each measured step, each elegant turn, carried the dread of punishment should their performance falter. When the nearer dancer's ankle wobbled, her companion's hand darted out to steady her; metal rang sharply where their shackles met. Auric's thin smile curved wider, as if savoring the sound.

He gestured lazily, and guards in soot-scarred plate hauled a third captive forward. The young elf's tunic, homespun and leaf-green, was torn open at the shoulder, revealing angry bruises already blooming purple. He tried to rise, pride flickering in amber eyes, but a mailed fist on the back of his neck smashed him to his knees. Stone kissed bone with a hollow crack. A short gasp—half pain, half humiliation—escaped his lips before he bit it off.

"Look at him," Auric murmured. His voice—soft, almost coaxing—still carried to every rafter, a blade sheathed in velvet. "Beautiful in his terror, wouldn't you agree, General Vostyr?"

General Lyran Vostyr knelt at the foot of the dais. Torchlight sheened across his armor, tracing every gouge and crimson sigil worked into the blackened steel. A jagged scar cut from his cheekbone to the hinge of his jaw, a memento from an older campaign—though none alive dared ask which. His expression now was a sovereign mask of devotion, yet behind hooded eyes a flicker of contempt stirred each time Auric toyed with his captives.

Vostyr inclined his head, voice measured. "Indeed, my King. An exquisite addition to your collection."

The young elf's eyes darted to Vostyr, perhaps seeking mercy in the human soldier's face. He found only the flat reflection of torchlight on metal and lowered his gaze again.

Auric leaned forward on his throne, long fingers steepling beneath his narrow chin. The dancers faltered at the motion, chains clattering, then redoubled their effort. "Exquisite, yes," he echoed, savoring the word. "Yet still incomplete. The jewel of my desires remains beyond reach."

Silence pooled. Even the torches seemed to hush, flames bowing in the updraft from flues overhead.

"An elven princess," Auric continued, voice low and reverent, as though naming a sacred relic. "A pureblood whose very presence will hush those mewling barons and their endless doubts." His gaze sharpened. "Bring her into my light, Vostyr, and watch every dissenting tongue fall silent."

Vostyr's pulse ticked once against the collar of his gorget. He bowed deeper, forcing calm across his thoughts. A princess—not a common runaway or minor noble's daughter, but a pure heir of Greenbark's ancient houses. The risks multiplied like maggots: secret alliances among elven clans, Wardens prowling the border, the meddlesome interest of neighboring crowns. Yet Auric spoke as though ordering fresh wine.

"Our network grows stronger by the day," Vostyr answered, keeping his tone smooth. He pictured the lattice of slaver routes snaking through the forests: hidden waystations in hollowed oaks, bribed river pilots, corrupt ward-scribes etching false warrants. Every link relied on fear or coin—both brittle under real pressure. "It is only a matter of time."

Auric's eyes gleamed. The dancers finished a spin and knelt, foreheads pressed to cold stone. Sweat beaded on their napes, catching torch-glow like scattered pearls. "Make it swift, Vostyr," the king purred. "I grow impatient."

A pause. Then Auric's hunger sharpened into threat. "Do this, and the Iron Marches shall be yours to rule."

The promise—lordship over the richest strip of Valaroth's eastern frontier—might have thrilled a lesser commander. For Lyran Vostyr it felt less like a golden coronet and more like a collar cinched tight against his throat. The Iron Marches were fertile, yes—amber-grain valleys, silver mines, cedar groves that perfumed whole seasons—but they lay beneath Auric's horizon of appetite. Accept and succeed, and the king would only widen his jaws for another feast. Accept and fail, and those hungry roots coiling around the black throne would drink deeply of Vostyr's blood.

Refusal, of course, was unthinkable. Refusal would splash that blood across the marble before the torches cooled.

He inhaled, steady and slow, letting the scents of the throne room anchor him. Charred resin, hot iron, the faint sweetness of crushed elf-flowers under guards' boots. The smoke stung, but the pain clarified. He lifted his gauntleted fist and tapped it once against the crimson sigil over his heartplate.

"As you wish, my King," he said, voice smooth as quenched steel. He bowed lower—submission carved into every line of his posture—yet behind shuttered eyes calculation whirled like black water around a hidden whirlpool gate.

Auric's attention moved on, already drifting back to the trembling dancers. Freed from that crushing gaze, Vostyr rose with a swordsman's precision and pivoted toward the great doors. Each step clicked in practiced cadence, his cloak whispering over the flagstones. Yet the weight of unease clung to his shoulders, a silent reminder that puppet strings were tightening.

Beyond the archway, torchlight thinned to sullen embers. The corridor walls curved inward, sculpted to funnel servants' whispers safely away from the throne. Cold draughts crawled along the floor like cautious snakes. Vostyr's breath frosted in the gloom. He caught his reflection in a tarnished bronze plate—armor lacquered black, scar pulsing pale against stubble, eyes flat as river slate—and thought, A hound on a longer leash is still a hound.

Halfway down the passage a shadow detached itself from a pillar. Lieutenant Serik Dravenhall—square-shouldered, lantern jaw, close-cropped silvering hair—saluted with the crispness of a man who measured loyalty in heartbeats. Yet his mouth was a thin line.

"General." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. "Urgent tidings from Ironleaf."

The words pricked Vostyr's spine. He motioned Serik away from a listening niche and lengthened his stride. "Plainly, Lieutenant."

As they walked, torch after torch sputtered awake in their wake—Serik's silent command to lurking servants. Still, the shadows seemed to cling, greedy for secrets.

"Ironleaf Fortress is… compromised," Serik said, tone clipped. "Fires in three quadrants. Slave pens breached. Garrison scattered. Harken—dead."

A pulse hammered at Vostyr's temple. Lieutenant Harken had been a brutal, meticulous man; his death hinted at something more than riot. Vostyr's fingers began a soft tattoo against the vambrace—a betraying habit—so he stilled them and asked, "Cause?"

"No ordinary raid," Serik answered. "Survivors mutter about a figure moving through smoke. Struck like a surgeon—precision kills, vanished before anyone could raise alarm. They're calling it… a 'Silent Hunter'."

The phrase hung between them, absurd and chilling at once. Vostyr's first instinct was to dismiss it—childish myth from frightened men—but the tremor in Serik's hardened voice gave him pause.

"Superstition," Vostyr murmured, half to test the word. Yet he felt strategy wheels turning. "Tools easily manipulated," he added, voice low, "but dangerous when they breed unrest." He pictured rumors flitting from Ironleaf to every slaver outpost like sparks on dry grass. Panic could rot a command faster than plague.

They emerged into a smaller antechamber, walls hung with wolf pelts and cracked shields. Vostyr halted beneath a sputtering candelabrum. His eyes sharpened. "We cannot allow this shadow to seed rebellion. Not when Auric's prize dangles on a thread."

Serik nodded. "Agreed, my lord. The king's spies have not yet sniffed the wind, but—"

"They will," Vostyr cut in, voice now cold iron. "Gather the council. Tonight." He lifted a finger, punctuating each order: "Contain the panic. Extinguish Ironleaf—whatever's left. And silence every tongue that utters that name."

Serik's neck cords flexed as he swallowed. "By your command." He turned on his heel, boots echoing a staccato down the hall.