The Villain Professor's Second Chance

From the corner of the room, a younger, cockier adventurer chuckled nervously. "What's the big deal? You're all bark now, Rylan, ain't you?" he quipped, his grin faltering when Liora's sharp eyes turned toward him. The movement was subtle—a tilt of the head, a narrowing of the eyes—but it was enough to make the younger man freeze. Liora's hand moved with an almost casual grace, flicking a coin across the bar with a precision that made it spin like a dagger in midair. It clinked to a stop directly in front of the younger adventurer, who swallowed hard, his face paling.

The older patrons, those who remembered the stories of Rylan Duskwhisper from his prime, exchanged knowing glances, their expressions a mixture of nostalgia and unease. They understood what that movement meant. It wasn't just skill—it was a statement, a glimpse of the nimble hands that had once outmatched foes twice his size, bested merciless bandits, and stolen from tyrants under their very noses. Legends whispered of Rylan single-handedly infiltrating a noble's guarded manor to liberate prisoners, and of his duel with the infamous Giant-Slayer, a man twice his height, where Rylan emerged unscathed and victorious.

"Still think it's funny?" Rylan's voice was low, steady, and carried just enough edge to silence the room completely.

The laughter died as quickly as it had started, and those who had underestimated him now looked away, fidgeting awkwardly. Meanwhile, the older patrons leaned back with faint smirks, exchanging subtle nods of satisfaction. They had seen this before—the deft movements, the quiet command of a room. It was a reminder of why Rylan Duskwhisper's name still carried weight, even after his long absence from the adventuring world.

"He hasn't changed," murmured one grizzled veteran to another, his voice barely above a whisper. "Small as he is, he could probably take the whole lot of us if he wanted."

"More than that," replied his companion, a wiry elf with a patch over one eye. "He's the reason half the stories in this tavern exist. New blood doesn't know it yet, but they'll learn."

A grizzled man seated at the end of the bar leaned toward his companion, muttering, "Still got the touch, doesn't he? Makes you wonder why he came back." His companion, a wiry elf with a patch over one eye, nodded solemnly. "Not for a drink, that's for sure."

Liora, unfazed by the murmurs, let his hand fall still on the bar. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that didn't need to be filled with words. To the untrained eye, he might have seemed like just another small, aging halfling, past his prime and returning to a life of anonymity. But those who had been around long enough knew better. The weight of his reputation pressed down on the room like an invisible force, silencing even the boldest voices.

The younger adventurer who had spoken earlier flushed deeply, his gaze fixed firmly on his drink as if it might shield him from the tension in the air. Others in the room, newer faces unfamiliar with the tales, exchanged skeptical glances, their bravado faltering under the oppressive quiet.

A burly mercenary seated at a nearby table started to rise, his lips curling into a sneer, but his movement halted the moment Liora's hand flicked ever so slightly toward the hilt of his dagger. It wasn't drawn—didn't need to be. The speed and precision of that small gesture carried enough menace to make the mercenary freeze mid-motion. He sank back into his seat with a forced chuckle, muttering, "No offense meant, Rylan. Just didn't know you still had it in you."

The tension began to ease slightly as Liora—or Rylan, as the tavern knew him—snorted quietly, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was enough to signal that, for now, the room's balance would remain intact. Conversations resumed in low murmurs, but the glances cast in his direction carried an unmistakable wariness. Liora's hand returned to rest lightly on the bar, his sharp gaze sweeping the room one last time. The unspoken message was clear: tread carefully.

When Liora finally broke the silence, his voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "Anyone else have something to say?" His words hung there, daring anyone to challenge him. No one did. Instead, heads turned away, conversations resumed at a lower volume, and the tavern seemed to exhale as the moment passed. Liora turned back to Mara, his fingers tapping a softer rhythm against the bar. The silence he left in his wake was as commanding as the tension he'd brought in.@@novelbin@@

Liora's hand stilled on the counter, his knuckles tightening ever so slightly. The playful grin he often wore didn't reappear, and for a brief moment, the tavern seemed to hold its breath. Then, without a word, he brushed past the man, his silence louder than any retort. He reached the bar, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the worn wood as he waited.

"Still as hot-blooded as always, eh?" came the voice of Mara Broadshield, the stout owner of the tavern. Her tone was a mix of teasing warmth and unspoken concern, her words cutting through the thick silence that Liora had left in his wake.

Liora turned his head slightly, enough to acknowledge her but not enough to invite more probing questions. His fingers, now resting on the bar's worn edge, resumed their rhythmic tapping—a small, almost meditative motion that betrayed his restrained frustration.

Mara stepped closer, her ever-present tankard in hand, which she polished with a rag that looked as tired as the tavern itself. She leaned forward, her sharp eyes locking on his face, and she let out a knowing sigh. "Rylan, you're back. Been a while since you last came through," she said, her voice softer now, almost maternal. Her gaze lingered for a moment, as if searching for something in his expression. "Still using her name to spread your search?"

Liora's jaw tensed imperceptibly, but he didn't respond immediately. The weight of the question hung between them, pressing down like a heavy stone. Finally, he slid a coin across the counter with deliberate slowness, its faint metallic clink punctuating the silence. "I'm looking for information," he said evenly, his voice carrying the faintest edge. "A pickpocket. Market. Earlier today."

Mara raised a brow, her lips pulling into a slight frown. She set the tankard down with a soft thud, the rag now forgotten in her hand. "Pickpocketing, huh?" she muttered, her gaze flicking to the far end of the tavern, where a group of adventurers sat huddled in low conversation. "Plenty of that in this city these days. You sure you've come to the right place?"

The low hum of chatter in the room resumed, but not without a few bold patrons chiming in.

Explore more stories at My Virtual Library Empire

"Rylan, a babysitter?" a burly man called from his table, his deep voice tinged with mock disbelief. His scarred face twisted into a grin, his tankard raised in a mock toast. "The hero who left his S-rank party because kids drove him crazy? What's this world coming to?"

Another voice joined in, this one belonging to a wiry rogue perched on a stool near the corner. He twirled a dagger in his hand, his smirk as sharp as the blade. "Maybe he's getting soft. Or desperate. Babysitting's not gonna bring her back, Rylan."

The words struck a nerve, though Liora's stoic expression barely faltered. His hand stilled on the bar, and his sharp gaze turned toward the rogue, locking onto him like a predator sighting prey. The room's atmosphere shifted noticeably, the tension crackling like static in the air. Conversations tapered off as heads turned, all eyes watching for his reaction.

The rogue's smirk wavered, his bravado faltering under Liora's piercing stare. "Just saying," he muttered, his voice losing its earlier confidence as he turned his attention to his drink.

"Shut up," he said, his voice low and sharp. It wasn't a shout, but it silenced the room all the same. He stood abruptly, the movement sending his stool scraping against the floor. His eyes, usually alight with mischief, were cold and unyielding.

Mara sighed, stepping between Liora and the rest of the room with practiced ease. "Still as hot-headed as ever," she muttered, shaking her head. Her tone was more resigned than critical, as though she'd long since accepted this side of him. She turned her attention back to the patrons. "That's enough, all of you. Keep your mouths shut or take it outside. Rylan doesn't need your nonsense tonight."

The room seemed to exhale, the tension diffusing slightly as the patrons returned to their drinks and conversations, though the volume was notably subdued. Mara leaned her elbows on the bar, her sharp gaze softening as she studied Liora.

"You've got people talking, you know," she said, her voice quieter now. "Word's spreading about you being at the guild with some greenhorn. That doesn't sound like you."