The Villain Professor's Second Chance

In that heartbeat of suspended time, every eye was on the prince, every muscle tensed for the imminent impact. The nobles' faces reflected the horror and shock they felt, a mirror of the dread that gripped Amberine. Prince Caelum, caught off guard, could only stare in disbelief at the oncoming threat.

The grand banquet hall, once filled with the hum of political maneuvering and celebration, now thrummed with a different kind of energy—one of imminent danger and barely contained panic. The possessed performer, her eyes black voids of malevolent energy, lunged towards Prince Caelum with terrifying speed. Her arm transformed into dark, twisted claws, extending towards the young prince's chest.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath. The queen, seated nearby, her face a mask of royal composure, could only watch in horror as the claws came within inches of her brother. But just as the claws were about to strike, the performer stopped abruptly, as if an invisible hand had seized her.

Everyone's eyes, filled with a mixture of relief and confusion, shifted towards Draven. He stood at the back of the room, his face impassive, his pen raised and pointed directly at the performer. The air around him seemed to shimmer with barely restrained power. Draven's psychokinetic grip held the performer in place, her body straining against the invisible force.

The possessed performer inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling with a grotesque parody of life. She then exhaled forcefully, a steel sword enveloped in a surge of dark mana materializing before her. It shot towards Draven with a speed that left a trail of black energy in its wake. Alfred, ever vigilant, moved to intercept the blade, but just as quickly, the sword froze in mid-air.

The room seemed to pause, the air thick with tension. In that instant, Lancefroz appeared beside the performer, his sword gleaming with a deadly light. With a single, swift motion, he beheaded her, the clean strike leaving her body to crumple to the ground.

"No!" Amberine's voice rang out, her face a mask of horror. She knew the performer wasn't guilty, merely a pawn in a darker game. But nothing could stop Lancefroz's blade. The head rolled to a stop, and the body lay still.

The initial shock of the beheading began to dissipate, and a tentative calm seemed to settle over the room. Yet, something was off. All eyes turned back to Draven, who stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the corpse. His eyes, deep and enigmatic, hinted at something more. The queen, perceptive and astute, followed his gaze and soon realized what he was sensing.

A black fog, thick and malevolent, began to seep from the decapitated body. It was a fog filled with pure malice, a tangible presence that sent shivers down the spines of everyone present. Slowly, the fog enveloped the corpse, which began to rise from the ground. Its movements were jerky and unnatural, as if controlled by unseen strings.

"The body... it's rising," someone muttered, their voice trembling.

"It's persistent," another added, as the great families readied their weapons and spells once more. But despite their efforts, none of their attacks seemed to harm the reanimated corpse. Blades passed through it without resistance, and spells dissipated upon contact, leaving the fog undisturbed.

With a whoosh, the beheaded corpse reformed, the head reattaching itself with a sickening sound. The performer's eyes, now entirely black, glinted with a horrifying intelligence. The room was filled with a collective sense of dread, each person acutely aware of the new, more formidable threat.

Suddenly, a deep, terrifying voice emanated from the performer's mouth. It was a voice that seemed to reverberate through the very souls of those present. "Hello, Queen of Regaria," it intoned, each word dripping with malice.

The queen's eyes narrowed, her regal composure slipping for just a moment. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the fear that gripped her heart.

The creature laughed, a sound that sent chills down the spines of everyone in the hall. "I am part of the Deadly Hollows," it said, its tone mocking. "Or perhaps, I am not. I am merely a being trying to set things right, to rid this world of bad blood."

The room fell silent, the air thick with anticipation and dread. The nobles, warriors, and mages all stood ready, but unsure of how to combat this new threat. The creature continued, its voice rising in a crescendo of malevolence. "HAIL THE WAR GOD! FOR THE HORDE!!!"

The declaration echoed through the hall, a rallying cry that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. The creature's body convulsed, dark energy radiating from it in waves. The room erupted into chaos once more, the nobles scrambling to defend themselves against the oncoming storm.

Amberine, her heart pounding in her chest, glanced at Draven. His face remained impassive, but there was a fire in his eyes, a determination that burned brightly. She knew that whatever happened next, they would need his strength and his cunning to survive.

The grand banquet hall was tense with anticipation as the dark fog began to coalesce, transforming the performer into a monstrous figure. The creature grew in size, its body swelling with muscle and dark energy. The transformation was horrifying, the black, muscular form of the orc emerging from the mist.

Its skin was an inky black, glistening like polished obsidian, and its eyes glowed a sinister red, filled with a malevolent intelligence. Each movement seemed to ripple with dark power, its claws extending into razor-sharp talons.

The orc's features were demonic, with horns protruding from its forehead and jagged teeth bared in a snarl. It towered over the nobles, its presence exuding an aura of pure malevolence. The beast flexed its massive arms, testing the strength of its new form. A deep, guttural growl echoed through the hall, sending shivers down the spines of all who heard it.

Amberine's heart raced as she watched the transformation, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The great families around her began to prepare their magic, their hands glowing with power as they readied themselves for another battle. But amidst the chaos, Amberine's attention was drawn to Draven. She noticed his eyes were fixed on her, or more precisely, on her chest.

"Where the hell are you looking at?" Amberine demanded, her face flushing a deep red.

Draven's expression remained impassive, his gaze unwavering. "Just this time, lend me a hand, Spirit," he said coldly, his voice carrying a hint of command.

A beautiful red pen appeared in his hand, intricately carved with delicate designs that seemed to shimmer with a life of their own. The pen was a work of art, its surface etched with flames and symbols that glowed faintly in the dim light. Amberine and Elara, standing at a distance, could feel the immense power contained within the pen—a blazing, overwhelming fire mana that radiated from it.

Ignis, from within Amberine, sighed. "It can't be helped," he said, his voice resigned.

"What? Ignis?" Amberine exclaimed, confusion and fear mixing in her voice.

"It can't be helped," Ignis repeated. "It's been a while since I last collaborated with a human, but it seems that you're not a bad option."

With that, Ignis began to move, his fiery form emerging from Amberine and approaching Draven. The fire pen floated towards Draven's outstretched hand, and as he grasped it, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The heat intensified, the air growing thick with energy.

Everyone in the hall could feel the change. The great families, recognizing the significance of the moment, ceased their random attacks and began to coordinate their efforts to contain the demonic orc. Duke Blackthorn and Count Valen formed barriers of earth and lightning, encasing the orc in a cage of raw power. Earl Falken's wind magic swirled around the beast, further restricting its movements.

The demonic orc, sensing the collaboration, struggled against its bonds, its claws tearing at the barriers with ferocious strength. It roared in frustration, the sound reverberating through the hall. Despite its efforts, the combined might of the nobles held firm, preventing it from breaking free.

"You won't hold me forever," the orc growled, its voice dripping with malice. "I will break free, and when I do, I will tear you all apart."

But the orc's bravado faltered as it sensed the formation of blazing red magic circles before it. The circles pulsed with fiery energy, each one a testament to the power contained within Draven's pen. The other nobles, realizing the significance of the circles, murmured in awe and fear.

"This is a Magic Series," someone whispered, the words echoing through the hall.

The demonic orc's gaze shifted towards the source of the power, its eyes widening in terror. The sound of footsteps echoed through the hall, and the orc's eyes locked onto Draven, who stood at the center of the magic circles, his pen raised like a wand.

"You are... Draven Arcanum von Drakhan," the orc said, its voice quivering with a hint of fear.

Draven's expression was cold and indifferent as he replied, "Fear me."