The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"One day," she said, her voice lower than usual, "I'll crush you in this game. And when I do, I'll make sure you never forget it."

His lips curved into something resembling a polite smile. "I look forward to the attempt."

How could someone be so damned insufferable and still so compelling? Aurelia inhaled, pressing her lips together. The slight ache in her temples told her she'd been concentrating harder than usual, though she'd never admit it out loud. "Hmph," she mumbled, crossing her arms. The final arrangement of stones mocked her, their black and white patterns reflecting her latest defeat.

She closed her eyes, recalling the opening moves. Could she have chosen a more balanced approach in the mid-game? Or perhaps capitalized on his subtle shift around the tenth move? The question lit a small flame of curiosity. She hated losing, but she hated losing to Draven even more—because it forced her to confront the knowledge that she wasn't always in control. She might be a genius, but Draven was simply that much more dangerous.

The cushion that had soared across the table now rested by his side, an unspoken declaration of her frustration. But he remained unbothered, scanning the board one last time to confirm the territory count. With the game decided, the entire dynamic in the chamber shifted. The tension settled into a languid sense of finality. Aurelia let out a soft snort, half-laugh, half-resignation.

Then she repeated, her voice a tad quieter, more like an afterthought, "Yeah. Next time, I'm flipping the board. See how you handle that."

He drummed his fingertips on the edge of the table, unwavering. "Then I'll teach you why order matters."

Aurelia grumbled and flopped onto her back, hair spilling around her like molten fire as she stared up at the ornate ceiling. For a second, she pretended to be anywhere but in Draven's presence—anywhere except trapped in another of his maddening lessons. She took a slow breath, ignoring the slight ache in her arms from her prior training session. Honestly, she'd planned on dozing off or throwing one of her trademark tantrums to cut the lesson short. Instead, she felt an odd tension rippling through the room, as though Draven were about to unveil something unexpected.

"So what's the lecture today, smartass?" she muttered, letting her gaze drift sideways toward him. "More mana theory? Or more 'let me show you how dense your magical channels are'?" A wry smirk tugged at her lips. She had endured enough of his "constructive criticism" for a lifetime—or so she thought.

At first, Draven did not reply. He stood there with a quiet composure, setting aside the cushion she'd hurled only moments ago. The hush in the chamber deepened, an almost electric undercurrent making her skin prickle. Then, with a gesture so smooth it bordered on lazy grace, he reached into his coat. Aurelia's eyes narrowed—she recognized that motion. The prized psychokinesis pen. The same tool he'd used to manipulate battlefields, rearrange lecture halls, and conjure illusions that left even the most stoic mages unsettled. She opened her mouth to hurl another jibe, but paused at the shift in his expression.

"Swordplay," Draven announced, his tone characteristically unruffled.

Aurelia blinked. Then, with a dramatic lurch, she sat up so quickly her hair fell across her face. "Wait. Swordplay? You—you're serious, bastard?"

Her mind buzzed with equal parts confusion and indignation. Of all the lessons she might have expected—arcane geometry, runic theory, historical treatises—this was nowhere on her list. She was, after all, considered among the finest swordsmen in the kingdom. She had bested knight-captains and roving champions. That Draven would consider teaching her swordsmanship came close to feeling like an insult.

He responded with a subtle flick of his psychokinesis pen, and in the span of a heartbeat, the entire chamber shimmered. The gilded walls pulled back as though the stones themselves were folding. Shelves of precious tomes and comfortable divans disappeared behind illusions or retreated into hidden alcoves. She recognized advanced spatial magic at play—an unsettling reminder of just how powerful Draven was outside his usual repertoire.

Lights sparked and danced along the marble floor, forming floating runic sigils like tiny constellations. Then, out of nowhere, racks of swords and equipment slid into view. An open dueling circle marked its presence in the center of what used to be her private room. It was a metamorphosis so seamless that Aurelia's breath caught in her throat, stunned at the speed of it all.

"Holy shit," she murmured, eyes wide. She ran a hand through her hair, inadvertently triggering a small flare of her mana. "You are serious."

Her surprise was genuine. Though Draven was a master mage—someone known for precision and cunning—she hadn't imagined he'd bother crossing into her domain of skill. This was a man who dissected spells with cold clarity and solved conflicts by orchestrating half a dozen illusions at once. Why swords?

"Try not to stab yourself," he said in that maddening, collected tone, gesturing toward the gleaming racks of weapons.

Aurelia swung her legs off the chaise, ignoring the faint warmth in her cheeks. The knights who had been stationed quietly by the door—there were always a few around—exchanged glances. She caught a flicker of confusion in their eyes, mixed with a hint of dismay. They knew how good she was with a blade, had watched her train countless hours. Yet here was Draven, apparently challenging her to a sword lesson. She could almost feel the tension rising among them, a silent question: Is the Queen about to put him in his place?

A slow grin tugged at her lips. The chance to show off in front of these guards—her audience—sounded too tempting. "So what, now it's sword dancing with fireworks?" She tossed a derisive glance at Draven, fully expecting an equally biting remark.

He handed her a slender blade inlaid with faint magical channels. Runes glowed a pale blue along the steel. "Controlled bursts. Rhythmic synchronization with your mana output. Think before you strike."

The challenge in his voice was clear. She hated him for it, but oh, how she thrived on it.

She snatched the blade, testing its weight in her hand. "Cute," she said sarcastically, but a spark of interest flickered behind her eyes. If this was a trick, she'd figure it out and best him at his own game.

Her first few swings were broad arcs of motion, her innate power flaring with each slash. Fiery arcs of mana scorched the air in sizzling lines. At one point, the steel hummed with so much raw energy that a nearby tapestry smoldered at the edges, drawing startled looks from two newly arrived guards. Aurelia ignored their gasps, her focus pinned on Draven's reaction.

He surveyed her with that insufferable calm, mouth curving into the faintest frown. "You're trying to break the world," he said, his tone so mild that it felt like a slap. "Try carving it instead."

She twirled the blade with exaggerated flourish. "You're lucky you're hot when you lecture, bastard."

He didn't blink, though a flicker of exasperation might have passed over his features. He stepped behind her, adjusting her hand on the hilt. Instinctively, she bristled at the close contact. She was used to commanding knights, subordinates who trembled at her presence or at least displayed unwavering respect. This man treated her as though she were one of his unpolished artifacts. Yet, part of her found it refreshing. She could have threatened or even cursed him out of the room, but she held back, curiosity ignited.

"Your angles are off," he murmured in that measured voice of his. "Focus."

A wave of heat surged into her cheeks. She coughed, yanking her hand free. "Touch me again and I'll incinerate your eyebrows."

His mouth twitched in a near-smile. "You'd lose your only competent instructor."

She glowered but grudgingly copied the stance he demonstrated, shifting her center of gravity, adjusting her shoulders. Her next swings, though still brimming with her raw mana, followed a tighter form. She noticed the difference immediately: less wasted movement, more power at the point of impact. Even in her annoyance, she felt a thrill of satisfaction. This was new—an improvement she could feel in her very bones.

She caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye: a handful of off-duty knights and palace guards, drawn by the commotion, had begun to gather at the threshold of the chamber. Some whispered among themselves. One or two gave her an encouraging nod, though most looked uncertain, perhaps expecting the queen to snap at them for intruding. She let them stay. Maybe Draven needed an audience to see how outmatched he was.

He circled her like a hawk, eyes glinting. Each time she misaligned a cut or let her mana overspill, he halted her with a calm word or a quick demonstration of the better angle. Strangely, she found herself listening, as much as she hated to admit it. She'd been taught the sword by masters whose names were revered across the continent, and yet here was Draven—a mage, no less—proving her form had glaring gaps. It stung her pride as a top-notch knight. Part of her wanted to fling a sarcastic remark, but the bigger part craved what he had to teach.

Then he withdrew a second blade—sleeker, almost delicate—and stepped onto the dueling floor. The hush fell over the watchers. A few knights shuffled uncertainly, as though expecting Aurelia to tear Draven apart the moment they clashed. After all, she was the famed warrior queen, her skill with a blade whispered about even in far kingdoms.

She lunged first. Draven, one hand behind his back, met her blade with a soft hum. Sparks of luminous mana exploded where steel touched steel. Her expression hardened—she recognized the interplay of magic in his stance. He wasn't just physically blocking; he was channeling a subtle wave of telekinetic force, guiding his parries with minimal effort.

The force of her swings would have toppled a lesser opponent, but Draven deflected them gracefully. She cursed under her breath, summoning more of her formidable strength. The onlookers leaned forward, eyes bright with anticipation. This was a clash they seldom witnessed: the unstoppable queen vs. the immovable, aloof professor.