The Villain Professor's Second Chance

The creatures obeyed without hesitation. The Undead Goblin King led the charge, its massive form barreling toward the lich with a guttural roar. The Goblin Lord followed closely behind, wielding a jagged blade that gleamed with dark energy. The Minotaur, with its towering frame and brutish strength, stomped forward, ready to tear apart anything in its path.

The Ebon Devourer took to the air, its crimson eyes locked on the lich as it circled above, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

The lich let out a low growl, raising its bony arms as a wave of necromantic energy pulsed from its body. Skeletal warriors erupted from the ground, their bones rattling as they took form. One by one, they rose, brandishing rusted swords and ancient shields, their hollow eyes glowing with the same sickly green light as the lich's.

Draven's eyes flicked over the battlefield, already anticipating the lich's strategy. It was predictable—summon hordes of weak, mindless undead to overwhelm his forces. But Draven had no intention of letting the lich control the pace of the battle.

With a calm precision, he reached into his robe and pulled out his pens—the Fire Pen, Water Pen, Psychokinesis Pen, and Devil Pen. Each pen glowed faintly with magical energy, their power ready to be unleashed at his command.

"Let's begin," Draven murmured, his voice a quiet promise.

He activated the Fire Pen first, a small flame flickering to life at the tip. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he sent the flame arcing through the air, targeting a cluster of skeletal warriors. The fire exploded on impact, engulfing the skeletons in a blaze of heat and light. Their brittle bones crackled and disintegrated within seconds, leaving nothing but ash in their wake.

The lich hissed in frustration, but it was far from finished. More skeletons rose from the ground, filling the chamber with the sound of clattering bones. Draven didn't flinch. His mind worked quickly, analyzing the flow of necromantic energy as it moved through the dungeon's stone walls.

The Psychokinesis Pen hovered beside him, ready to follow his mental commands. With a simple thought, Draven sent it soaring through the air. The pen wove between the lich's summoned skeletons, manipulating the environment with subtle precision. Loose stones and debris were hurled through the air, slamming into the skeletons with enough force to shatter them.

Draven watched impassively as the skeletal army crumbled under his assault.

But the lich was relentless. It raised its hands once more, and a new wave of undead rose from the ground—this time, more powerful. These weren't simple skeletons; they were armored knights, their rusted armor clanking as they lumbered toward Draven's forces. Their eyes burned with a malevolent light, and their movements were far more coordinated than the mindless skeletons from before.

Draven's eyes narrowed. "Interesting," he muttered. "But still not enough."

The Goblin Lord engaged the armored knights head-on, its jagged blade clashing with their rusted weapons. The sound of metal on metal rang through the chamber as the two forces collided, the Goblin Lord moving with surprising agility for a creature of its size.

The Ascended Minotaur charged forward, its massive horns goring through the ranks of undead, sending shattered bones flying in all directions.

The Ebon Devourer swooped down from the air, its blackened wings creating a gust of wind that knocked several undead off their feet. It landed gracefully behind the lich, its talons sinking into the stone floor as it prepared to strike. But the lich was no fool—it had sensed the Ebon Devourer's approach and conjured a protective barrier just in time.

The Devourer's talons scraped against the barrier, sparks flying as it tried to pierce through the magic.
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Draven observed the scene with cold, calculating eyes. The lich was growing desperate, pouring more and more of its mana into summoning reinforcements and maintaining its defenses. But every spell it cast drained it further. Draven could see the strain in the lich's movements, the flicker of uncertainty in its glowing eyes.

"It's only a matter of time," Draven thought, his mind already moving to the next step.

He activated the Devil Pen, its dark ink swirling with malevolent energy. With a swift motion, he drew a sigil in the air, and the ground beneath the lich began to tremble. From the earth, dark tendrils of energy erupted, wrapping around the lich's bony form. The lich hissed in anger, struggling against the bonds, but Draven's magic was too strong.

The tendrils tightened, pulling the lich down toward the ground, immobilizing it.

The Goblin King seized the opportunity, lumbering forward with a roar. Its massive fist slammed into the lich's barrier, cracks forming in the magical shield. The Minotaur followed up with a brutal charge, its horns crashing into the barrier with enough force to shatter it completely.

The lich let out a scream of rage as its defenses crumbled, its skeletal hands clawing at the air as it tried to summon more undead. But it was too late. Draven's servants closed in, surrounding the lich on all sides.

Draven watched, his expression impassive as the lich struggled. There was no emotion in his eyes, no sense of triumph or satisfaction. This was simply another obstacle to overcome, another step on his path to power.

With a final flick of his Fire Pen, Draven sent a jet of flame directly at the lich. The fire engulfed the creature, its tattered robes catching alight as the flames consumed it. The lich let out one last scream—a sound of desperation and fury—as its body was reduced to ash.

The chamber fell silent.

Draven stood still, his mind already shifting to the next task. The lich had been powerful, yes, but it had ultimately been a prisoner of its own arrogance, relying too heavily on the dungeon's magic to sustain itself. Draven, in contrast, relied on nothing but his own mastery of the arcane.

He stepped forward, approaching the stone altar where the lich had stood. The runes on its surface still pulsed with faint energy, but Draven could feel the power within them waning. The lich had been drawing from this place, feeding off its magic, but now that it was gone, the dungeon was slowly dying.

"Not yet," Draven murmured, placing his hand on the altar. He closed his eyes, letting his necromantic senses reach out to the flow of magic beneath the stone. He could feel it—the core of the dungeon, deep within the earth, pulsing with raw, untapped power.

Draven smiled faintly, the gleam of ambition returning to his eyes.

The lich had been nothing more than a guardian. The real prize lay deeper within the dungeon.

And Draven intended to claim it.

He motioned for his servants to follow, and began his descent deeper into the dungeon, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. The deathly silence that filled the tunnels didn't faze him—if anything, it energized him. The core of Atras Requiem was close, and Draven could feel its pull more strongly than ever.

The remnants of the lich's power still lingered in the air, but the creature itself had been little more than a final gatekeeper, a sentinel meant to guard the deeper secrets of this place. Draven had seen through it—its weaknesses, its desperate reliance on the dungeon's ambient magic.

His mind worked quickly, already analyzing what lay ahead, piecing together the puzzle of this necromantic stronghold.

He moved with purpose, his devil servants following in perfect formation. The Undead Goblin King, the Ebon Devourer, the Goblin Lord, and the Ascended Minotaur had proven their worth in battle. Each one had absorbed the mana of their fallen enemies, growing stronger with every step they took deeper into the dungeon.

Their strength was a reflection of Draven's mastery over them—a symbiotic relationship of control and power.

"Keep moving," Draven ordered quietly, his cold voice cutting through the stillness.

The Undead Goblin King, its rotting frame towering above the others, let out a low growl as it lumbered forward, leading the charge into the darkened halls. The Ebon Devourer took to the air, its blackened wings making no sound as it flew ahead, scouting the path for any further threats. The Goblin Lord and Minotaur marched behind Draven, their glowing eyes ever-watchful.

The corridor twisted and turned, and the deeper they ventured, the more the dungeon began to change. The stone walls were now lined with dark, pulsating veins of necromantic energy, their presence growing stronger the further they descended. The oppressive weight of magic in the air thickened, pressing down on them with a malevolent intensity that would have driven weaker men mad.

But to Draven, this was exactly what he sought.

"The core is close," he muttered under his breath, his sharp eyes scanning the runes that lined the walls. They had shifted, too—no longer just protective wards but something more ancient, more complex. They were feeding the dungeon itself, channeling the energy to a central point deep within the earth.

He reached into his robe once more, pulling out the Psychokinesis Pen. With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew a quick series of glyphs in the air. The glyphs glowed faintly, their magic reaching out to the stones around him, probing the flow of energy. Draven's mind worked quickly, interpreting the information with ease.

"Another defensive system," he said quietly, more to himself than his servants. "The dungeon is designed to protect whatever lies at its core. The deeper we go, the more intense the resistance will become. But in this necromantic dungeon, it's more like we're entering the underworld,"

He wasn't wrong. As they continued forward, the air grew colder still, and the faint whispers of the dead became louder, more insistent. Draven could sense the presence of something powerful—something waiting for them at the heart of the dungeon.

The Ebon Devourer let out a low hiss as it swooped back toward Draven, its crimson eyes gleaming in the darkness. It had seen something. Draven raised an eyebrow, curious.

"Report," he said, his voice calm but commanding.

The Ebon Devourer let out a series of sharp, guttural clicks—a language only Draven could understand. It had detected movement ahead, an entity of considerable power guarding the final chamber.

But it's not only one.

There are lots of them.

"I see,"

Draven's lips curled into a faint smile. It seemed they were close. But it turns out there are still a long way ahead. "No wonder this is considered as one of the most dangerous dungeons,"

"Prepare for battle,"