The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"Oi, you lot! Stop munching for a second!" Her voice carried authority, tinged with annoyance. The chimeras, with their grotesque forms and dark energy, reluctantly stopped, their glowing eyes fixing on her.

Sylara rolled her eyes and gestured for them to follow. "Come on, Draven might need us. No time for a snack break, you ugly bastards."

The chimeras growled but obeyed, trudging behind her as she moved down into the underground passages. The air grew colder as they descended, a deep sense of unease settling over her. The deeper she went, the louder the noises became—a sickening, rhythmic thudding sound. It wasn't the clang of metal or the crackle of magic. It was blunt, heavy, repetitive—a sound that made Sylara's skin crawl.

She picked up the pace, her heart thudding in her chest as she hurried down the passageway, the chimeras close behind. The closer she got, the more she could feel something else—a presence, an aura so heavy and terrifying that it seemed to press down on her chest. She rounded the corner and froze.

There, in the dim light of the chamber, she saw him—Draven. He was towering over a massive orc, his fists covered in blood. He was punching the creature over and over again, each blow landing with a sickening crack that echoed off the stone walls. The orc, despite being twice his size, was limp now, its body battered and broken. And still, Draven didn't stop.

He punched it again. And again. His face was expressionless, but there was a darkness in his eyes—a rage that seemed to consume him. The orc's body, once a hulking mass of green muscle, was now nothing more than a broken husk, blood pooling beneath it, the disgusting green liquid staining the stone floor.

Sylara could feel her heart pounding, her breath catching in her throat. She had seen Draven fight before—seen him take down enemies with the cold, calculated efficiency that made him who he was. But this... this was different. There was nothing calculated about this. It was pure, unbridled rage, and it made her shiver.

The chimeras, usually fearless, were trembling behind her. Despite the orc's size, Draven seemed to loom over it, his presence larger, more terrifying than anything else in that chamber. He was like a demon, his form covered in the green blood of his enemies, his eyes sharp and unyielding.

Sylara took a step forward, her voice catching in her throat as she called out, "Draven..."

But before she could say more, something else caught her eye. Behind Draven, a flicker of dark flame appeared. It grew, twisting and writhing, coalescing into a figure cloaked in darkness. The aura that radiated from it was powerful, ancient, filled with a malevolence that made the air thick and difficult to breathe.

A voice echoed through the chamber, deep and filled with a sinister authority. "Time and time again, you have hindered the great cause of our empire, human."

Sylara's eyes widened, and she took an instinctive step back, her hand reaching for the hilt of her dagger. The figure was unlike anything she had ever seen before—its form was almost ethereal, shifting in and out of focus, as if it were both there and not there at the same time.

Draven slowly turned, his fists still clenched, his eyes locking onto the figure. The dark aura that radiated from the figure clashed with Draven's own, a palpable tension filling the air. It was as though the very chamber itself was holding its breath, waiting for what would come next.

The figure's voice was mocking, filled with contempt. "The machinery of fate cannot be altered, human. You may have delayed our plans, but you cannot stop them. This meddling has gone too far and will not go unnoticed. Stop hindering us, or we will come for you. We will destroy you, and you alone."

Draven's eyes narrowed, his expression cold, detached. He stepped forward, his gaze unyielding, his voice calm and chilling. "You think your threats scare me?"

The figure's dark form seemed to shift, almost as if it were surprised by his response. It raised a hand, dark energy swirling around it, the shadows twisting and writhing.

Draven didn't flinch. Instead, he moved forward, his hand reaching out, his fingers extending towards the figure. The shadows twisted, as if trying to avoid his touch, but Draven's hand moved with precision, grasping at the darkness. And then, something happened—something that made Sylara's eyes widen in shock.

Draven's hand connected. He grabbed something—something solid, something that shouldn't have been there. The figure gasped, its ethereal form flickering as if it were struggling to maintain its shape.

Draven's eyes narrowed, his voice a low growl, filled with a dangerous edge. "An orc shaman... a high-ranking one, I see."

The figure—now clearly an orc, its twisted, cloaked form struggling against Draven's grip—shivered. It tried to pull away, its voice trembling. "Impossible... you shouldn't be able to touch me..."

Draven's grip tightened, his eyes cold, his voice dripping with disdain. "I don't need to analyze this pathetic trick of yours." He glanced around the chamber, his gaze lingering on the twisted bodies of the prisoners—the villagers who had been used, experimented on, treated like livestock.

His eyes darkened, his rage simmering beneath the surface, the cold fury in his voice making the air feel as though it had dropped several degrees.

"And you say you'll come here?" Draven's voice was a whisper, but it carried through the chamber, each word sharp, cutting through the silence. The orc shaman struggled, its form flickering, but Draven's grip was unyielding.

There was a long, heavy silence, the air thick with tension, the weight of Draven's words hanging over them. Sylara could feel her heart pounding, her breath coming in short gasps. She could see it—the darkness in Draven's eyes, the cold, calculating rage that promised no mercy.

Finally, Draven's gaze shifted, his eyes locking onto the orc shaman's. His voice was calm, almost eerily so, as he spoke. "[Devil Enslavement]."

The devil pen shimmered, the black and red aura swirling around it, growing darker, more menacing. It shot forward, striking the orc shaman, and the creature let out a scream—a guttural, primal sound that echoed off the stone walls.

The shadows around the orc began to twist, to writhe, as its form shifted, its body contorting. Its eyes widened, its mouth opening in a silent scream as the dark magic took hold, transforming it into something else entirely—something monstrous, twisted, enslaved.

Draven watched, his expression cold, detached, as the transformation completed. The orc shaman, now a devil servant, fell to its knees, its eyes glowing with a dark, unnatural light. It looked up at Draven, its body trembling, waiting for his command.

Draven stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at the creature. His voice was calm, almost conversational, as he spoke. "Go back to your master. Tell them this: the next time I see them, I will come to them myself."

He paused, his gaze hardening, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "And kill yourself and anyone near you as you relay this message."

The devil servant nodded, its eyes filled with a twisted obedience, its form flickering as it disappeared in a burst of dark flame. The chamber fell silent once more, the air thick with the scent of blood, of fear, of dark magic.

Draven turned, his eyes locking onto Sylara. For a moment, they stared at each other, the silence stretching between them. Sylara's heart pounded in her chest, her breath catching in her throat. She had always known Draven was ruthless, but this—this was something else entirely.

She took a step forward, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke. "Draven... what was that?"

Draven didn't answer immediately. He turned away, his eyes scanning the chamber, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice cold, detached. "It was a message. A warning."n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Sylara frowned, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him. "A warning? To who?"

Draven's gaze shifted, his eyes meeting hers, his expression hard, unyielding. "To anyone. To any race who thinks they can use us, humans' lives for their own gain. And treat us like livestocks,"

He turned away, his voice dropping to a whisper, more to himself than to her.

"This is just the beginning."

Sylara watched him, her heart pounding, her mind racing. She had always known there was something dark about Draven—something dangerous. But now, she could see it clearly, the darkness that lurked beneath the surface, the cold, unrelenting fury that drove him.

"There are more of them that need to be killed,"