The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"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."

Liora's fingers resumed their tapping, though his gaze remained fixed on a spot somewhere beyond the bar. His silence was answer enough, but Mara pressed on, her concern cutting through her usual teasing demeanor.

"Still," she added, pouring him a drink without asking, "it's good to see you back. Even if you're chasing after ghosts."

He accepted the drink with a nod, taking a slow sip before setting the tankard back down. "Do you know anything about the pickpocket?" he asked again, his tone clipped but steady.

Mara shook her head, her frown deepening. "Not much. But if you're looking for answers…" She hesitated, glancing toward the far corner of the room where a small group of cloaked figures sat, their hushed conversation barely audible. "Your kin took it," she said finally, her voice carrying a note of reluctant certainty. "You know where to find them."

Liora's jaw tightened, and he placed another coin on the counter. "Of course I do," he said simply, rising from his seat with a fluid grace that belied the tension simmering beneath his calm exterior. The room seemed to watch his every move as he turned toward the door, his shadow stretching long behind him in the tavern's dim light.

As the door swung shut behind him, the tavern's energy shifted once more, the lingering whispers filled with a mix of awe and unease. Mara shook her head, muttering under her breath as she collected the coins he'd left behind.

"Still as stubborn as ever," she said softly, her voice carrying a note of both fondness and exasperation.

From the corner, one of the older patrons let out a low chuckle. "Some things never change. That one's still got the fire of a hundred men in that tiny frame of his."

Another nodded in agreement. "He's still Rylan Duskwhisper. No one else could make this room feel like that."

And yet, beneath their words, an unspoken question lingered in the air: how long could even someone like Rylan keep carrying the weight of his past?

_____

Theron's Rest was a city of layers, and Liora knew them all too well. As he moved through the brighter, well-paved districts, the city seemed almost serene, with orderly streets bathed in the glow of lanterns and guards strolling with an air of calm authority. The faint hum of distant conversation and the steady clop of horse hooves gave the illusion of a peaceful urban rhythm. But as Liora pressed deeper into the city, the polished façade began to crumble.

The transition was almost imperceptible at first—a few cracks in the masonry here, a sagging sign there—but it quickly became undeniable. The buildings shrank in stature, their facades dirtied by layers of soot and grime accumulated over decades. Shattered windows, hastily boarded up, stood as mute witnesses to the neighborhood's slow decay. The streets narrowed, losing their structured grid in favor of a twisting labyrinth of alleys and passageways, where shadows stretched long and thick, clinging to every surface like cobwebs spun from neglect.

Liora moved with purpose, his boots silent on the uneven cobblestones as the air grew heavier. The faint scent of damp wood, mingled with the sour tang of refuse, made the atmosphere almost oppressive. Here, the once-proud city revealed its true face—a place where time and fortune had abandoned the edges. He turned into one of the darker alleys, his sharp eyes catching the flicker of movement from a scurrying rat and the occasional glint of wary eyes peering from behind curtains.

The Hollow was a place Liora had tried to leave behind, but it was inescapable. The slum quarter, home to most of the city's halfling population, was a world unto itself. Despite the squalor, there was a strange sense of community here. Halflings shared what little they had, tending to makeshift gardens and repairing one another's homes with whatever scraps they could scavenge.

Liora's steps slowed as he entered The Hollow, his sharp eyes scanning the familiar streets that seemed frozen in time, yet somehow diminished. The air here was different, heavier, tinged with the faint smell of damp wood, cooking fires, and the bittersweet aroma of resilience. Memories flooded back unbidden—his childhood here, the laughter of friends long gone, the camaraderie forged in tight-knit alleys where even the poorest found ways to celebrate life. And then, the daughter he'd once called his light, her laughter brighter than the sun cutting through the slums' ever-present shadows.

The buildings loomed smaller than he remembered, their weathered facades leaning against each other like tired old men. Wooden planks, warped from rain and time, patched walls that could no longer bear the weight of their own history. Tiny windows, once brimming with the chatter of families, were darkened or covered with makeshift curtains of burlap and rags. Each step felt like an echo, the sound bouncing back to him as if the alleys themselves recognized his return.

He passed a group of halfling children playing with makeshift toys—a ball fashioned from tightly wound rags, and sticks wielded like miniature swords. Their laughter echoed through the narrow alley, a rare burst of joy in an otherwise somber atmosphere. As Liora approached, their games slowed, then stopped entirely. The youngest among them, a girl with dirt-smudged cheeks and hair tied in haphazard pigtails, froze mid-kick, her wide eyes fixed on him. She whispered something inaudible to her companion, a boy holding a stick like a knight's blade, who nodded solemnly.

The older boy tugged on the sleeve of another, gesturing toward Liora as if he were some legend come to life. One by one, their gazes shifted, small faces filled with curiosity and unease. Liora slowed his pace, catching their wide-eyed stares. A faint, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips—a rare softening of his otherwise hardened expression.

"Is that him?" one of the boys whispered, his voice barely audible. Find more to read at My Virtual Library Empire

"I think so," another replied, gripping his stick tightly like it was a talisman.

"Mom says he's a ghost," the girl blurted, her voice just loud enough to carry in the stillness.

Liora's smile flickered but didn't fade entirely. He crouched slightly, his sharp eyes leveling with the children. "A ghost, huh?" His voice was low, almost gentle, but carried the unmistakable edge of someone who had seen far too much. "Do I look like a ghost to you?"

The children exchanged hesitant glances before the smallest one shook her head, her pigtails bouncing. "No… but you're really pale."

The remark drew a chuckle from Liora, light and unexpected. "Fair enough," he said, straightening. He gave the older boy a pointed look. "Keep an eye on your crew, knight. The Hollow's not as kind as your games."

The boy puffed up his chest, gripping his stick-sword with renewed determination. "Yes, sir!"

As Liora turned to leave, the children's whispers followed him, their voices a mix of awe and confusion. "Do you think he's here to save someone?" one asked. "Maybe he's hunting someone bad," another suggested.

The air grew heavier as he continued, the children's innocent chatter fading into the oppressive quiet of the slums. The Hollow had always been a place of stark contrasts—a refuge for its inhabitants and a symbol of their exile. The halflings had claimed this part of Theron's Rest generations ago, not out of choice but necessity. Betrayed by a noble whose greed had stripped them of their thriving merchant class, they had been forced into the city's shadows. Over time, the quarter had become both sanctuary and prison, its narrow alleys and ramshackle homes bearing witness to the resilience and despair of its people.

Despite the decay, there was life here. Families shared what little they had, neighbors mended each other's roofs, and meals were cooked over communal fires that gave off more smoke than warmth. The sense of community was palpable, even in the dim light of lanterns strung haphazardly across the streets. Liora's footsteps were nearly silent, but he felt the weight of eyes on him from behind tattered curtains and cracked shutters.

Each step carried him deeper into his memories. He could see the faces of old friends, hear the laughter of days long gone, and feel the warmth of his daughter's small hand in his. Her voice echoed faintly in his mind, a sweet, lilting melody that clashed painfully with the squalor around him. He clenched his fists, his pace quickening as though trying to outrun the ghosts of his past.

He stopped in front of a crumbling building near the heart of The Hollow. Its once-sturdy walls leaned inward as if bowing under the weight of time, and its boarded-up windows stared out like empty, accusing eyes. The door hung ajar, swaying slightly with the faint breeze. Liora stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The sight stirred something deep within him—a bitter cocktail of sorrow, anger, and determination.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the rough wood of the doorframe. The texture was familiar, almost comforting in its imperfection. His voice was barely above a whisper as he uttered, "The hidden part of halflings…"

His words hung in the air, absorbed by the oppressive silence of the slum. He took a deep breath, his sharp gaze hardening as he stepped forward.

"Never thought I'd be back here again," he murmured, his tone tinged with both sorrow and resolve. The night seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening as he crossed the threshold.@@novelbin@@