The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The voice echoed through the chamber, low and rumbling, filled with malice so thick it seemed to coat the air itself.

"Again, you've failed my plans, human," the voice sneered, reverberating through the silence like a sinister growl. It was unmistakable, a voice that carried power beyond any ordinary demon—this was the voice of a demon king.

Draven remained still, his eyes narrowing, his body taut with tension but betraying none of it. He didn't flinch, didn't react with fear or awe as the voice continued to weave its way through the air. No, he stood there in silence, staring into the unseen source of the voice with deadly calm. He knew who this was. The demon king.

Not just any demon king, but Malakaroth, the Blood-Forged Sovereign, the ruler of orcs and ogres, worshiped as a god by the monstrous races that devastated the western lands centuries ago.

Draven's eyes remained fixed on the faint traces of mana swirling in the chamber, his mind already calculating the full scope of what they were up against. He could sense it—the weight of Malakaroth's mana, enough to crush cities with a thought, to flood the entire Magic Tower University with sheer malice. It was a monstrous presence, enough to drive any sane person to their knees.

Even with just his manifestation of his mana, it's already this threatening.

But Draven… Draven simply watched.

A low, guttural chuckle came from the disembodied voice, laced with cruel amusement. "Few stand before me without trembling. Even among demons, they dare not stare into the abyss of my power.

Yet here you are, the one who thwarted my schemes at the royal dinner, who killed the goblin king I placed, and now this… girl," Malakaroth's voice growled, dripping with disdain as he referred to Armandra's fallen form.

Draven's lips tightened, but he didn't respond. He merely stared into the void where the demon king's presence lingered, as if waiting. His cold, calculating gaze was locked onto the tendrils of mana. He was reading the fluctuations, the ebb and flow of power that surrounded them.

It wasn't just about facing a demon king—it was about understanding the beast's limits, the nature of his presence in this realm. Draven knew enough from his encounters with demons to recognize when they were testing the waters. This was no physical manifestation yet; it was just a fragment of Malakaroth's power, projected into the world like a shadow before the storm.
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"She was a fine pawn," Malakaroth said, his voice thick with dark amusement. "Useful, cunning, full of hate. But now… she's nothing more than a reminder of your meddling."

For a moment, the room fell silent again, save for the faint hum of residual magic lingering in the air. Then, without warning, a sudden burst of pressure filled the chamber—sharp, like a knife poised at the throat. Draven's eyes gleamed, and his posture shifted, barely perceptibly, as he felt it: murderous intent. Not from Malakaroth, but from himself.

The air seemed to still as Draven's icy gaze bore into the spot where Malakaroth's voice resonated. The depth of his hatred was a tangible thing, so dense that even the demon king hesitated. For a split second, Malakaroth, the demon king who could obliterate a nation with a thought, faltered.

Then, he laughed—a laugh that shook the walls of the tower, making the very foundation of the Magic Tower University tremble under its force.

"Ha! So, that's it. Even in the face of death, you think you can intimidate me?" Malakaroth roared, his laughter growing louder, more unhinged. "Very well, human. If you think you can challenge me, then I shall entertain you. You shall know your place before this is over."

The demon king's voice grew quieter, more dangerous. "I was content to bide my time. My preparations were nearly complete, but if you wish to meet your end sooner…" The dark mana swirled more violently around the chamber, warping the very air. "I could come now. There's no need to wait."

Draven's gaze remained steady, unflinching, his mind racing but his expression calm. He knew what Malakaroth was doing—posturing, baiting him into fear. And yet, it was true. The demon king could manifest now if he chose. But Draven wasn't afraid. He never was.

He understood power, and more importantly, he understood the game being played here.

"Stop talking and come then," Draven's voice cut through the silence like a blade, his tone ice-cold. "Or is the great Malakaroth afraid?"

The demon king's laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by an oppressive silence. For a moment, even the air felt as though it was being squeezed, the pressure enough to make lesser beings collapse under its weight. But Draven held firm, his eyes locked on the empty space in front of him, daring the demon king to make his move.

"You think you're strong?" Malakaroth's voice had grown darker, more menacing. "Or is it just arrogance? Let's see how that bravado serves you when I tear your body limb from limb, mortal."

The air seemed to warp, distorting as a blackish-red portal began to form in the middle of the chamber. The mana radiating from it was oppressive, suffocating, filling every inch of the room with its foul energy. Slowly, from within the portal, a hand emerged—a massive, grotesque hand, nearly the size of Draven himself, followed by an arm clad in dark, jagged armor.

The rest of the figure soon followed, stepping out of the portal with the kind of deliberate menace that only a creature of absolute power could possess.

Malakaroth stood nearly ten meters tall, his form towering over the room. His body was a grotesque amalgamation of orcish and ogre features, his skin a sickly greenish hue, muscles rippling beneath his armor. His face was a horrific mix of tusks and jagged teeth, his eyes glowing a deep, malevolent red.

Blackened veins pulsed across his exposed skin, radiating with dark energy that seemed to corrupt the very air around him. He was every bit the monstrous god the orcs and ogres worshipped.

"Now," Malakaroth sneered, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder, "you will die in my hands."

He raised a single finger, the gesture slow and deliberate, and from the tip of that finger, a massive orb of condensed dark energy began to form—so dense with malice that the sheer pressure of it warped the air around them. The sphere crackled with sinister power, growing larger by the second until it was nearly as large as Draven himself.

Without hesitation, Malakaroth flung the orb forward, hurling it at Draven with the force of a falling meteor.

But Draven remained still, his eyes locked on the approaching sphere of destruction. As it neared, the ground trembled beneath its weight, the very fabric of reality bending to accommodate the dark magic. But just as it was about to collide with Draven, something shimmered in front of him.

A blinding golden light flared to life, and in an instant, the dark orb was stopped dead in its tracks. The light shimmered, solidifying into the form of a massive hand clad in ornate golden gauntlets. The hand grasped the orb of dark energy and, with a single squeeze, crushed it, dissipating the dark magic like smoke in the wind.

It was a very arrogant gesture of the hand.

From behind the hand, a figure emerged, his form cloaked in golden light, his armor gleaming as if forged from the sun itself. His face, with a Zephyr crown, a blue turban-like headpiece with a flowing beige scarf that extends behind him, was regal, sharp, his expression one of arrogant indifference.

"It's been a while since someone summoned me," the figure said, his voice deep and commanding, filled with a cold majesty that made even Malakaroth pause. The figure's golden gauntlet tightened as he crushed the last remnants of the dark energy in his hand. "That was rather cheeky of you, mongrel."

The demon king stared in disbelief, his red eyes widening as the golden figure stood between him and Draven, unshaken, unperturbed. There was no mistaking the sheer presence of the figure before him—a being not just of immense power but one who carried the weight of divine authority.

For the first time since stepping into the world, Malakaroth hesitated.

Draven's lips curved into a cold smile, the golden light casting a sharp shadow over his features.

The battle was far from over, but now, with this new arrival, the tide had shifted in ways even a demon king couldn't have foreseen.