The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Draven's Necromancer Clone sat calmly at his polished desk, the grand study illuminated softly by magical lanterns that floated quietly above him. Their gentle, flickering glow cast dancing shadows across the walls, highlighting the intricate carvings of runes etched into the dark wood panels. Stacks of meticulously organized research papers rested under his precise gaze, each title gleaming faintly in the dim illumination: "Harmony Between Chaos and Necromancy: Balancing Disparate Forces," "Familial Ideologies and Magic: Tracing the Origin Attributes in Bloodlines," "The Dungeon Core Phenomenon: Mechanisms Behind the Emergence of Dungeons," and "Mana Flow Disruption and Stabilization: Identifying and Repairing Imbalances in Magical Systems."

His expression remained neutral, coldly calculating, yet his eyes burned with a sharp intensity. Mentally, he traced every argument, every nuance, every conceivable counterpoint. The symposium was more than just a scholarly gathering; it was a battlefield of intellect and prestige. Draven intended not merely to participate, but to dominate, dismantling every challenge with ruthless precision.

His fingers drifted toward the psychokinesis pen resting neatly beside his papers, its tip aligned perfectly with the edge of the documents. The meticulous order was not just a matter of habit—it was an essential element of his mental framework. Precision fostered clarity; clarity yielded victory.

Then, abruptly, his brows twitched.

A sudden, jarring emptiness flooded his chest, as though something intrinsic had been snatched away. It was an unsettling sensation, akin to losing a crucial limb unexpectedly. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, irritation flaring within him, though his outward composure remained intact.

"If the original vanished, it can only mean another damned Quest was triggered," he muttered sharply under his breath, irritation seeping into his otherwise calm demeanor.

He closed his eyes momentarily, swiftly turning inward. It was akin to navigating through a network of threads woven meticulously by his magic—each thread representing one of his active clones. The sensation was almost tactile: his Professor Clone, currently lecturing at Magic Tower University, registered clearly, delivering a lecture on mana conductivity. His Battle Clone was also evident, dutifully commanding troops in the aftermath of the recent conflicts, giving precise and methodical orders.

Both connections were perfectly stable. No disruption. Only the original body had vanished.

He opened his eyes, narrowing them thoughtfully. "Then it's Quest-specific," Draven concluded coldly, his voice edged with a quiet disdain for the restrictive nature of such constraints. He began tapping his finger rhythmically on the polished surface of the desk, a subconscious metronome marking the relentless precision of his thought process.

He delved deeper, probing inwardly once more, examining every corner of his mind. His memory of past events, his previous life, was sharply intact—every lesson, every moment, every painful realization remained vividly etched into his consciousness. No erosion there. This memory gap was artificial, deliberately imposed by Quest constraints, a forced blind spot designed to keep him ignorant of the precise conditions for the Quest's activation.

A quiet breath escaped his lips—a sound not of relief, but resignation mingled with growing irritation. He disliked uncertainty, hated being forced to operate with incomplete information. Yet experience had taught him that some battles were fought best by setting aside uncertainties to tackle the immediate threats first. Priority was clarity.

He quickly composed a mental list of immediate concerns, arranging them according to urgency and potential impact. First, the keynote speech at the upcoming symposium. A significant task, but one well within his capacity. Second, the lectures at Magic Tower University, already managed smoothly by his Professor Clone. And third—he hesitated slightly, a subtle crease forming between his brows—the private royal lecture scheduled for Queen Aurelia. This was problematic. He glanced sharply at his watch.

Five hours.

He allowed himself a quiet, controlled sigh, betraying just a hint of weariness. Aurelia was brilliant, a prodigy with a near-limitless reservoir of potential. Unfortunately, beneath that blazing mane of hair lay a temperament that combined fiercely stubborn independence with a flagrant disregard for structured effort. Her laziness wasn't just inconvenient; it was a deliberate defiance against all imposed order. Motivating Aureliawas less a matter of simple persuasion and more akin to igniting damp tinder—possible, but far too taxing.

Draven leaned back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers in thought, eyes narrowing as he carefully analyzed potential motivational strategies. Aurelia's pride was her greatest strength and greatest weakness simultaneously. It was a perfect lever if he wielded it carefully. Challenge her intellect and talent directly enough to prick her pride, but subtly enough that it did not provoke outright rebellion. The delicate balance demanded precise calibration.

The corner of Draven's mouth quirked upward slightly, a faint, cold amusement flickering briefly across his features. Few could challenge Aurelia without being burned by her fiery temper. He, however, was uniquely positioned—not merely because he was unafraid of her outbursts, but because Aurelia recognized, even begrudgingly, his intellectual superiority. Their interactions were less professor and student, and more akin to two masters playing a game where the stakes were their mutual respect.

Rising with calculated grace, he moved to a towering shelf filled with ancient tomes, scrolls meticulously rolled and tied with silken cords, and neatly stacked manuscripts exuding faint traces of protective enchantments. Each volume was selected deliberately, quickly but precisely, to supplement the lecture. A scroll detailing advanced mana manipulation was followed by an old grimoire discussing theoretical enhancements in magical circuits. Draven's hands moved quickly, with practiced efficiency, the subtle rustle of pages the only sound breaking the heavy silence.

Placing the chosen texts upon the desk, he arranged them in a sequence carefully designed to escalate complexity and provoke Aurelia's innate curiosity. The lecture would begin simple—an insult to her pride—before rapidly increasing in complexity to a level befitting her intellect. The method was tried and true, though occasionally volatile.

His eyes lingered momentarily on a parchment detailing mana-infused sword techniques, considering the physical component of today's lesson. Aurelia excelled in combat; perhaps a dual approach, interweaving theory and practice, would prove most effective. He mentally adjusted his strategy once more, adding layers of subtle provocations to ensure her motivation remained consistently engaged.

For a moment, he paused, a faint flicker of uncertainty passing through him—not over Aurelia, but over the vanished original. Quests were unpredictable by nature. He disliked unpredictability, disliked knowing the original body was locked away somewhere inaccessible to his consciousness. Yet, acknowledging uncertainty was itself a strategic act. Accept, adjust, proceed.

His gaze returned to the materials before him, eyes once more turning coldly resolute. He had no patience for fruitless speculation. Immediate tasks required his complete attention—everything else was mere distraction. With ruthless efficiency, he resumed preparing his materials, making minor adjustments to ensure perfection in every detail.

Five hours.

Draven considered briefly his route to the palace, the potential interruptions he might encounter. The guards, typically eager to scrutinize him closely out of a blend of respect and subtle fear, would be no issue. They recognized his authority. More troublesome might be the ministers, ever eager to entangle him in trivial matters of court intrigue. He swiftly planned a route minimizing unnecessary interaction—speed and efficiency paramount.

A brief flicker of satisfaction surfaced within him as the lecture preparation concluded, each paper, scroll, and grimoire precisely aligned on his desk, every element of his strategy meticulously refined. His methods were harsh, perhaps, but undeniably effective. Aurelia, for all her fire and rebellion, recognized and respected effectiveness above all else.

Draven's eyes flicked once more to the psychokinesis pen. It levitated gently into his grasp, its slender form comfortable and familiar in his hand. He felt a subtle resonance from it, a quiet affirmation of readiness. His preparations were complete.

He leaned back slightly, allowing himself a final, measured breath. His expression was calm, resolute, devoid of doubt. Whatever chaos the Quest had unleashed by claiming his original body could wait. For now, only the immediate mattered. He had prepared thoroughly; Aurelia would respond precisely as calculated.

Draven rose smoothly from his chair, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from his robe with practiced movements. A slight adjustment of his collar, a brief check to ensure no detail had been overlooked, and his preparations were finalized. Every second, every breath, every movement precisely accounted for.

He cast a final, assessing glance over the neatly arranged materials, verifying once more that all was ready. The symposium would be a triumph; the university lectures would proceed without fault. As for Queen Aurelia—he allowed himself the barest hint of a confident smirk—she would find today's lesson both infuriating and irresistibly engaging.

He glanced sharply at his watch once more, the subtle click echoing softly in the quiet study.

Five hours.