The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The second floor of Atras Requiem was different from the first. Where the first level had been crude and filled with low-tier undead, this place hummed with power. The walls were covered in ancient runes, remnants of necromantic rituals that had once been performed here. Each rune pulsed with a faint light, a ghostly reminder of the magic that had once thrived in this forsaken place.

Draven's eyes scanned the symbols, his mind quickly deciphering their meanings.

"These runes… they're not just for defense," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. "They're absorbing the mana in the air, redirecting it somewhere deeper. Whoever built this place didn't just want to protect it. They wanted to feed it."

He paused for a moment, reaching out to touch one of the runes. His gloved fingers brushed the surface of the stone, and a sharp jolt of energy shot through his body. It wasn't painful, but it was powerful, a surge of necromantic magic that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He smirked, pleased with the discovery.

"So that's how they did it," he mused, stepping back and letting his hand fall to his side. "They created a self-sustaining system, drawing in the ambient mana and converting it into necromantic energy. Efficient."

Draven continued down the corridor, his sharp eyes noting every detail. The air grew heavier, and the faint whispers of the dead became louder, more insistent. He could hear them now—fragments of conversations, pleas for mercy, curses muttered in the dark. But they didn't bother him. He had heard the voices of the dead before.

To him, they were little more than background noise, distractions that held no power over his iron will.

As he moved deeper into the second level, he noticed something strange. The layout of the dungeon had changed. The corridors, once wide and straight, had become narrow and twisted, almost maze-like. The walls closed in, the darkness thickening around him like a living thing. Draven's sharp instincts kicked in, and he slowed his pace, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area.

"This isn't a natural formation," he muttered, his voice low. "The dungeon is shifting."

It was a defense mechanism, he realized—a way to confuse and trap intruders. The dungeon was alive, or at least something deep within it was controlling its layout, reshaping the paths to keep invaders from reaching the core. But Draven wasn't worried. He had encountered similar traps before, and his mind was more than capable of navigating a labyrinth.

"Interesting," he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Let's see who gets tired first—you, or me."

With a flick of his hand, Draven summoned a small orb of light, a cold, blue flame that hovered above his palm. The light cast long, eerie shadows on the walls, revealing the shifting stone as it moved ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. Draven watched it for a moment, his mind working through the puzzle.

"If the dungeon is shifting, then the pattern must be irregular. It's trying to keep me disoriented," he mused, his voice calm. "But no matter. I'll break it."

He focused on the energy around him, feeling the flow of magic that pulsed through the dungeon like a heartbeat. It was chaotic, but not impossible to decipher. With a deep breath, Draven closed his eyes and let his mind attune to the rhythm of the dungeon. His necromantic senses expanded, reaching out to touch the magic that surrounded him.

For a moment, everything was still. Then, slowly, the patterns began to reveal themselves. The shifting stone, the twisting corridors—it was all part of a larger design, a maze created by the flow of necromantic energy. Draven could see it now, the path laid out before him like a blueprint. All he had to do was follow the lines of power, and the dungeon would lead him to its core.

"Got you," he whispered, his eyes snapping open. With a confident stride, he moved forward, navigating the shifting corridors with ease. The dungeon tried to confuse him, to throw him off course, but Draven's mind was sharper than any trap it could devise. He moved through the maze like a predator stalking its prey, his every step precise and deliberate.

As he neared the heart of the second floor, the air grew colder, and the oppressive weight of the necromantic energy became almost unbearable. To most, it would have been suffocating, but to Draven, it was invigorating. He could feel the power here, the raw, untapped magic that pulsed through the walls. Whatever lay ahead was close—he could sense it.

He entered a large chamber, the walls lined with ancient tombs. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and the ground was littered with the bones of long-dead warriors. At the center of the chamber stood a massive stone altar, its surface covered in bloodstained runes. And standing before the altar was a creature unlike anything Draven had ever seen.
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It was a lich, its skeletal form wrapped in tattered robes, its eyes glowing with an eerie green light. The air around it crackled with necromantic energy, the power radiating from its body like heat from a furnace. This was no ordinary undead. It was a master of necromancy, a being that had once commanded the dead with ease.

Draven's eyes narrowed as he studied the lich. It was powerful, yes, but it was also old. Its magic, while formidable, was decaying, just like the dungeon around it. It had been here for centuries, feeding off the energy of the dungeon, but now it was nothing more than a relic of a forgotten age.

"A guardian," Draven muttered, his voice low. "So you're the one controlling the flow of magic here."

The lich let out a low, rasping laugh, its voice echoing through the chamber like the sound of dry bones rattling together. "You are bold to enter this place, mortal," it hissed, its glowing eyes locking onto Draven. "But you are a fool if you think you can defeat me. I am eternal. I am death incarnate."

Draven's lips curled into a cold smile. "Eternal, perhaps. But not invincible."

Draven's sharp eyes narrowed as he observed the lich, his mind already dissecting the creature's nature. The lich stood before the ancient altar, its skeletal frame cloaked in tattered robes that whispered of centuries of decay. Glowing green eyes flickered with a hatred that had festered over time, but Draven saw past the anger—he saw the exhaustion, the slow degradation of power.

The lich had been formidable once, a necromancer of great renown who had sought eternal life by transcending the mortal coil. It had succeeded, in a sense, but that success had come with a cost. The lich's body was now nothing more than a withered husk, kept animate by the faint spark of necromantic magic it had absorbed from the dungeon.

Even now, Draven could feel the creature drawing on the mana around them, pulling in energy to maintain its existence.

Draven's mind worked quickly, analyzing every detail. The lich's magic, though potent, was decaying. It relied too heavily on the dungeon's ambient energy, like a parasite feeding off a dying host. The green glow in its eyes was not the sign of strength it once had been; it was the last flicker of a flame on the verge of burning out.

"You are death incarnate, you say?" Draven's voice was cold, laced with a quiet confidence. "I see only a ghost of what once was. A relic desperately clinging to power it no longer deserves."

The lich hissed, its skeletal hands twitching with dark energy. "You dare mock me, mortal?" Its voice was a dry rasp, like bones grinding together. "I have ruled over this dungeon for centuries. I have summoned armies of the dead, crushed kingdoms beneath my heel. You are nothing."

Draven remained unmoved, his mind already calculating the best way to dismantle the lich's defenses. The creature relied on its connection to the dungeon, which meant cutting off its supply of mana would weaken it considerably. But the lich would not go down without a fight—it would summon hordes of undead to defend itself, trying to overwhelm him through sheer numbers.

Draven's lips curled into a faint smile. Numbers meant nothing to him.

With a flick of his hand, he summoned his devil servants. The Undead Goblin King lumbered into the chamber, its grotesque form reeking of decay. The Ebon Devourer swooped down from above, its blackened wings unfurling as it landed gracefully beside Draven. The Goblin Lord and Ascended Minotaur marched forward, their massive forms filling the room with an imposing presence.

"Spread out," Draven commanded, his voice calm yet filled with authority. "Crush anything that moves."