The Villain Professor's Second Chance

He stood still for a moment, allowing the full weight of the dungeon's aura to settle around him. The ancient necromancers who had once ruled this place had left behind a remnant of their power, a foul energy that lingered like a dark cloud over the entrance. To any lesser magician, it would have been suffocating. To Draven, it was an opportunity.

His necromantic abilities were still at [C] rank—adequate for most tasks, but far from the perfection he sought. He needed to push himself, to grow stronger, and this dungeon was the perfect crucible. There were whispers that deep within its bowels lay the remnants of necromantic knowledge, fragments of power long lost to the world.

If he could harness it, his strength would ascend to heights unknown.

Beside him stood the grotesque forms of his devil servants, each one an extension of his will. The Undead Goblin King loomed the largest, its rotting green skin barely holding onto the bones beneath. The Ebon Devourer, a devilish creature with blackened wings and glowing crimson eyes, stood quietly at his side, its predatory gaze locked on the darkness ahead.

The Goblin Lord and Ascended Minotaur, both formidable in their own right, flanked him with silent, murderous intent.

Draven's lips curled into a faint smile. "Let's begin."

He stepped forward, his cloak billowing slightly with the motion, and entered the dungeon's maw. The moment his boots touched the stone floor, the magic of the dungeon responded. The air hummed with the whisper of dead souls, their energy coiling around the walls, waiting for the living to trespass. Draven could feel it pulling at his own mana, trying to test him, to probe for weaknesses.

He let it, unflinching as the pressure grew heavier with each step.

"Spread out," he ordered, his voice low but commanding. "Devour. Kill everything."

His monsters obeyed without hesitation. The Undead Goblin King lumbered forward, its ragged form moving with surprising speed for something so decayed. The Ebon Devourer took to the air, its wings unfurling as it vanished into the dark tunnels. The Goblin Lord and Minotaur, less subtle but no less deadly, followed suit, their monstrous forms disappearing into the shadows of the dungeon.

Draven stood alone, watching them go, his mind already calculating the likely resistance they would encounter on this floor. The first level of Atras Requiem was notorious for its traps and low-level undead, a test designed to weed out the weak before they reached the more dangerous depths. He had no doubt his servants would handle it.

They were here to grow stronger, to devour the magic of the monsters within and evolve. He, however, was here to learn, to study the flow of necromantic energy that pulsed through the dungeon like a heartbeat.

He moved forward slowly, his eyes narrowing as he began to focus on the ambient magic around him. Every step, every shift in the air, told him something new. The mana here was ancient, yet unstable, as if the necromancers who had built this place had lost control of their own creation. Draven's sharp mind dissected the patterns, analyzing the way the energy twisted and fluctuated.

It was chaotic, but there was a method to the madness—a logic that only someone like him could see.

He paused in the middle of a large, open chamber. The stone floor was cracked and uneven, with skeletal remains littering the ground. The bones here had long since been drained of any useful magic, but Draven could feel the lingering traces of necromantic energy that clung to them like dust. He crouched down, his gloved fingers brushing against one of the skulls.

"Fascinating," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with cold curiosity. "The residual energy is… corrupted, but it's not random. There's a pattern here, a degradation of mana over time. It's being siphoned somewhere deeper within the dungeon."

He stood, his mind already working through the possibilities. If the dungeon was drawing in magic from the surface, it meant that somewhere, perhaps on the lower levels, there was a central source—a core. If he could find it, he could absorb that energy, use it to enhance his own necromantic abilities.

But for now, he needed to conserve his strength, let his servants do the dirty work while he refined his own magic.

Draven sat cross-legged in the center of the chamber, closing his eyes as he began to meditate. The air around him hummed with mana, and he reached out with his senses, pulling in the ambient necromantic energy. His breathing slowed, becoming shallow as his body entered a state of deep concentration.

The mana flowed through him, dark and cold, but he welcomed it, letting it fill the gaps in his own power.

Slowly, methodically, he began to weave the magic around him, shaping it into something more refined. Necromancy wasn't just about controlling the dead; it was about understanding the flow of life and death, about manipulating the balance between the two. As the mana flowed through him, Draven's mind sharpened, his thoughts coming faster, clearer.
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He could feel his power growing, his control over the magic tightening like a vice.

In the distance, he could hear the sounds of battle—the roars of his minions, the screeches of dying creatures. The monsters on the first floor were no match for his devil servants, but that wasn't the point. Every kill, every soul devoured, would strengthen them, make them more formidable. Draven wasn't interested in small victories; he was playing a longer game.

The sound of bones crunching underfoot broke his concentration, and he opened his eyes, glancing toward the entrance of the chamber. The Goblin Lord appeared first, dragging the lifeless body of a skeletal warrior behind it. The monster's eyes glowed with a sickly green light, its body already swollen with the mana it had absorbed from its fallen enemies.

Behind it, the Ascended Minotaur stomped into the chamber, its massive frame barely fitting through the narrow entrance. The Ebon Devourer swooped in from above, its blackened wings folding as it landed gracefully beside Draven, its crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Draven stood, brushing the dust from his cloak as he surveyed his servants. "Progress?"

The Goblin Lord growled, a low, guttural sound that reverberated through the chamber. The corpses it dragged behind it were evidence enough of its success. The Minotaur grunted in agreement, its massive hands flexing as it cracked its knuckles.

Draven nodded, satisfied. "Good. Continue."

His servants obeyed, vanishing back into the tunnels to hunt down more prey. Draven remained in the chamber, his mind returning to the puzzle at hand. The flow of magic in this dungeon was erratic, but he could feel a faint pull toward the lower levels. Whatever was down there, it was feeding off the necromantic energy, drawing it inward like a black hole.

If he could reach it, if he could absorb even a fraction of that power…

He smirked to himself, the cold gleam of ambition in his eyes. "Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes."

With that, he began his descent, his movements smooth and precise as he navigated the dungeon's labyrinthine corridors. The deeper he went, the stronger the pull of magic became, a steady thrum that vibrated through his bones. His sharp eyes scanned the walls, noting the subtle shifts in the stone, the faint cracks where mana had seeped through over the centuries.

It was as if the dungeon itself was alive, feeding on the energy it collected.

As Draven reached the entrance to the second floor, he stopped, his sharp gaze narrowing. The air was heavier here, thick with a palpable darkness that clung to his skin like a shroud. The scent of decay mingled with a coppery hint of blood, filling the cavernous space. This wasn't like the first floor, where mindless skeletons had stumbled about in meaningless patrols.

No, whatever waited ahead was far more dangerous, steeped in the same dark magic he had come to master.

He could feel the presence—a concentrated, pulsing source of power, beckoning him deeper into the abyss. It resonated with the kind of ancient magic that called to his very soul, a challenge and a promise wrapped in shadow.

Draven's lips curled into a cold, satisfied smile. "Perfect," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. This was what he had come for. The stronger the magic, the greater the reward.

With a final, calculating glance at his surroundings, he stepped forward, unafraid. The darkness welcomed him, swallowing his form as he descended further into the depths, ready to seize the power that lay just beyond the veil.