The Villain Professor's Second Chance

A dagger strike to the wrist, disrupting its grip. I could still feel the resonant shock of steel meeting undead bone as the blow collided with precision, forcing the massive creature to reel for half a heartbeat. Despite its decaying body, the Goblin King's reflexes remained formidable—driven by necromantic power rather than mortal muscle. But for that brief moment, its vice-like hold on the greatsword loosened, giving me the chance to surge forward and press the advantage.

A pivoting slash aimed for the throat came next, quick as a viper's fang. The motion was fluid, born from years of relentless practice and countless battles. A single, smooth turn of my hips generated enough momentum to bring my blade in line with the pale stretch of decayed tissue that anchored the Goblin King's head. But even as my dagger swept toward its target, the Goblin King managed a desperate defense. It jerked its massive forearm up in a frantic block, and the edge of my blade scraped across congealed armor plates instead of slicing through the vulnerable neck.

Blocked. Barely. The King was fast, indeed—fast in ways that defied normal logic. Its body should not have been able to move with such speed, yet dark magic animated every muscle fiber, every rotting sinew. It retaliated immediately, swinging the greatsword in a violent arc that I had to twist my upper body to evade. The edge howled past my face, stirring the cold, stagnant air of the chamber as I pivoted away in a swirl of black coat and half-spent adrenaline.

I allowed myself a flicker of appreciation. Good. I did not need weak subordinates—certainly not among the undead. The Goblin King's skill had been forged in life and then amplified in death. Each of its blows might have turned lesser men to paste. But as the echoes of steel on stone subsided, I merely tilted my head with the faintest hint of amusement curving my lips.

Our dance continued, the King's blows shaking the ground, my counters cutting through the gaps it left exposed. Necrotic magic pulsed from its body, saturating the chamber with a malignant energy. Dust and bits of rubble tumbled from the high, vaulted ceiling every time the King's greatsword thundered against the floor in a missed strike. My dagger flicked out in response, searching for the seams in its armor—an elbow joint here, a partially exposed rib there—each thrust aimed at slowly wearing down the undead monstrosity.

It wasn't enough. Not yet. Though I inflicted shallow cuts and forced it to reel back with every well-placed strike, the undead flesh healed or simply ignored the damage. The Goblin King realized this too, its frustration evident in the deepening growl that built at the back of its throat. Every moment I eluded its crushing swings, the more urgent its attacks became. Finally, it let out a guttural snarl that reverberated through the stone walls, and I sensed a shift in the chamber's atmosphere. Something oppressive and cold coalesced in the air, like a gathering storm ready to unleash havoc.

The room darkened further as the King's necromantic energy thickened into something tangible. At first, it was a subtle swirl of shadows near the edges of the hall. Then the torches lining the stone pillars flickered and dimmed, as though starved of oxygen. There was a palpable heaviness settling on my shoulders, and a faint whisper of malevolent voices echoed just beyond human perception.

Figures began to rise. From the scattered debris and cracks in the floor, decaying arms clawed their way into view. Twisted shapes in battered armor dragged themselves upright, eyes burning with the same crimson malevolence that radiated from the Goblin King. Undead knights, still clad in corroded breastplates bearing long-forgotten sigils, formed a half-circle around us. Further back, two hunched figures in robes—shadow mages, their skeletal fingers already weaving the beginnings of vile spells—lurched into the meager light.

"Oh? Are we resorting to numbers now?" My voice was cool, almost amused, as I flicked the blood from my dagger. It spattered across the floor in thick, dark droplets. "Very well. Let's see how much difference they make."

They didn't.

The first knight lunged with a rusted longsword aimed at my gut. A simple step forward and a pivot put me inside its reach. I drove my dagger into the weak point between its ribs, twisting sharply as I did so. The knight made no sound, only a dull clank of armor as it slumped. I shoved its body aside, letting its weight crash into the second knight that advanced in tandem. Both toppled like broken dolls.

A flicker of foul magic bloomed to my right. One of the shadow mages was raising skeletal arms, chanting syllables that hissed through the air. Foolish. My dagger left my fingers in a blur, spinning end over end before embedding itself in the mage's skull with a thick, wet thunk. Whatever incantation it had prepared died in its nonexistent throat, leaving only a faint sputter of dark energy that crackled and dissipated around its twitching form.

I did not pause. My momentum carried me into the next group of knights, who attempted to form a defensive line. They were too slow, too disjointed—merely pale echoes of disciplined warriors. Sliding under the clumsy swipe of a battleaxe, I tore my blade free from the fallen mage, then sliced across the neck of the nearest knight. Its head lolled back, the vertebrae snapping with an audible crunch. A second slash disarmed another knight—literally—sending a severed limb tumbling to the floor with a metallic clang.

Step by step, strike by strike, I moved through them like a specter. Each motion was precise, each thrust or slash a lethal punctuation. Some knights were crushed by their own stumbling companions, others fell prey to my rapid counters. The sickly glow in their eyes guttered out almost as soon as they had risen, their undead forms failing to mount any true resistance. The Goblin King watched from a short distance, clearly enraged by my effortless dismantling of its reinforcements. Perhaps it had hoped that swarming me with lesser undead would buy time to land a decisive blow or wear me down with attrition. If so, the plan was doomed from the start.

And then it made its final play.

Power coiled around the Goblin King's greatsword, thick and overwhelming. The runes etched into the steel flared brighter than before, veins of crimson light crawling across the blade and spiraling up its arms. The very air warped around it, a visual distortion like heat rising from a desert plain, except it was cold. My breath turned to mist before my eyes, and a muffled roar thundered through the chamber as the King channeled everything it had into a single, monstrous attack.

A lesser man would have dodged. Stepped back. Evaded. Indeed, the rational move would be to let the swing carve a crater in the stone floor, then exploit the opening as the beast struggled to recover. But I did not step back. Instead, I took a measured breath and stepped forward, meeting the strike head-on.

Time seemed to slow as the King unleashed its blow. The greatsword descended with the fury of an avalanche, a tsunami of necrotic mana bearing down upon me. My arm rose in response, mana condensing into a barrier of raw, compressed darkness that swirled around my forearm. For an endless second, the blade hammered into that shield, and I felt the collision reverberate through my bones like a thunderclap.

The chamber itself groaned in protest. The stone beneath my boots cracked in a spiderweb pattern, tremors shaking dust from the ceiling. Torches toppled from their mounts, scattering sparks across the floor. But I did not break. I grounded myself, letting the dark energy swirling around me absorb the brunt of the King's power. It was like pushing against a raging tide, but I'd trained for moments exactly like this—where mere mortals would be obliterated, I found balance in the swirling chaos.

Then, seizing that perfect instant, I moved. My free hand lashed out in a blur, dagger angled toward the Goblin King's throat. Where my defense had occupied its attention, it now had no time to shift its guard. The tip of my weapon met decaying flesh with an audible scrape, pressing against the taut, ancient sinew that bound its neck. Your journey continues on My Virtual Library Empire

Everything froze. The King's muscles tensed, caught between completing its downward smash and recoiling from my lethal strike. The roar died in its throat, replaced by a low hiss as the runes along the greatsword dimmed. In that hush, I could hear the faint rattling of loose stones and the frantic, dying sparks from the broken torches. Wisps of necrotic mist swirled around my boots, but none drew closer—they, too, seemed to sense the finality of this moment.

The King froze.

All remaining undead knights halted, their arms slackening at their sides as if someone had severed the strings binding their limbs. The hush was absolute now, a silence born of every possible outcome narrowing to a single, decisive conclusion.

I exhaled, letting the tension ease from my limbs as I finally allowed a rare smirk to surface on my lips. "Now," I murmured, voice low but echoing in the stillness. "From this moment forward—serve me with the same energy."

With a dull clang, the greatsword slipped from the Goblin King's grip. The runes flickered once more, then went dark. Slowly, the towering figure knelt before me, its hands splayed against the cracked stone in a gesture of absolute submission. The glow in its hollow eye sockets seemed to waver, not in fear, but in acknowledgment.

Loyalty secured.

____

That was a fruitful experience.

I look outside, where the city of Halewick where the two of many main characters of the game just passed.

Kael. And another.

Rylan Duskwhisper—Liora's Father.

Two more pieces moving into place.

A whisper left my lips, barely more than a breath.

"Now the time for the next phase begins."