The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 465: How Are You?

The Drakhan carriage came to a smooth halt, its glowing runes dimming as if exhaling after a long, silent journey. The soft hum of its enchantments faded into the evening air, leaving a stillness that seemed almost reverent. Stepping out, I was greeted by the faint rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. The mansion—my mansion—stood before me, towering and formidable, with an elegance that defied its history of gloom. Its spires reached skyward, silhouetted against the fading light, while the intricate carvings along its façade seemed to shift subtly in the shadows, whispering secrets only they knew.

Alfred was swift in opening the carriage, as expected. Ever punctual, ever reliable. He stood beside the Drakhan carriage with a poised readiness, his gloved hands clasped lightly behind his back. His stance was impeccable, a silent testament to his unwavering dedication. The faint glow of the carriage’s runes reflected off his polished shoes, casting subtle shadows that seemed to frame his composed demeanor. As I approached, he moved fluidly, stepping forward to open the carriage door with practiced precision.

"Welcome back, my lord," he said, his voice steady yet imbued with a quiet relief that only someone of his loyalty could convey. He inclined his head with the perfect measure of deference, his movements exuding the balance of respect and assurance that had long made him indispensable.

I offered no reply, merely stepping down with measured grace. My eyes swept across the grounds with their usual precision. The estate had changed since I first inherited this body. What was once a place of oppressive silence and fearful glances now thrummed with subdued vitality. Servants moved about with purpose, their steps light and their faces—though still marked by cautious respect—lacking the perpetual shadow of dread that had once hung over them.

"The estate seems livelier," I remarked, my tone even, devoid of praise or criticism. It was a simple observation.

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Alfred’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. "The staff have found renewed purpose, my lord. Your policies have… encouraged them."

Policies. A word that glossed over the deliberate dismantling of systems that had thrived on fear and control. I had given them freedom within bounds, a structure that allowed autonomy without chaos. The results spoke for themselves.

As I began the walk toward the main entrance, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot accompanied my thoughts, a rhythm that matched the quiet contemplation settling over me. The garden—once an overgrown, neglected stretch—now unfolded as a vibrant tapestry of colors that seemed almost defiant against the fading light. Flowers bloomed in meticulous arrangements, their hues vivid and strikingly harmonious, each petal a testament to care and creativity. The air was fragrant, carrying the faint sweetness of blossoms intertwined with the earthy undertones of freshly tilled soil, a scent that felt grounding amidst the surreal shift in the estate’s atmosphere.

Servants tending to the garden paused as I passed, their tools momentarily forgotten as they bowed deeply. Their expressions were a mixture of awe and something subtler, harder to pin down. Gratitude, perhaps? Relief? The latter seemed plausible, given the weight this place had shed in recent years. I allowed my gaze to linger briefly on one servant—a young man pruning a lavender bush with remarkable precision. His movements were careful, deliberate, and unhurried, the sort of attention one gives not out of fear but out of pride.

"They’ve embraced their freedom," Alfred noted from behind me, his voice soft yet carrying a faint note of satisfaction. "Your decision to allow them autonomy in the garden has… borne fruit, quite literally."

The remark drew my attention back to the grounds, where vibrant patches of color stretched as far as the garden walls. It was not just beautiful; it was alive in a way I had not anticipated. A young maid, kneeling beside a rosebush, adjusted her wide-brimmed hat before resuming her task with delicate care. Her focus was so unwavering that she barely noticed my passing.

"Fear is efficient," I said after a moment, my tone measured, "but it stifles creativity. A balance was necessary."

"And achieved admirably, if I may say so," Alfred replied, his words carrying a rare touch of pride that hinted at his own involvement in nurturing this transformation.

My gaze shifted to a cluster of marigolds that seemed to glow faintly in the twilight, their bold orange hues defying the encroaching shadows. The servants’ postures had changed too; while their bows still carried the formality of their positions, their movements were no longer stiff with unease. There was a fluidity now, a subtle lightness in the way they carried themselves.

A young boy, no older than twelve, emerged from a side path with a basket filled with herbs. He froze upon seeing me, his eyes wide as if caught in a moment of indecision. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he bowed low, clutching the basket tightly to his chest.

I inclined my head faintly, the gesture barely perceptible, but it was enough. The boy straightened, his expression a mixture of astonishment and pride before he hurried off, his steps quick but not frantic.

"Encouragement, rather than imposition, can yield unexpected results," Alfred remarked, his tone carefully neutral but carrying an undercurrent of approval.

"Perhaps," I replied, though my attention was drawn back to the distant echoes of laughter—a pair of maids sharing a quiet joke as they rearranged potted flowers near the greenhouse. It was an unfamiliar sound here, yet it did not feel out of place. It was a small detail, easily overlooked, but it signified a deeper change that extended beyond the aesthetics of the garden. And it had been my decision that allowed it to flourish.

I resumed my stride, the crunch of gravel blending with the distant hum of activity. The estate had not merely changed; it had evolved. The oppressive atmosphere I had inherited was gone, replaced by something unspoken but tangible.

Something alive.

As we approached the mansion’s grand entrance, the towering double doors loomed ahead, their intricate carvings glinting faintly in the enchanted light. Alfred stepped forward, opening them with practiced ease. The air inside was warm, carrying the faint scent of polished wood and something subtler—a blend of lavender and aged parchment. The hall stretched before me, its high ceilings adorned with chandeliers that cast a golden glow over the polished marble floors. The faint hum of magical wards resonated in the background, a constant reminder of the estate’s layered defenses.

I paused on the threshold, a rare hesitation tightening my chest. Memories flickered unbidden. The first time I had walked these halls, the air had been heavy with distrust, the servants’ eyes avoiding mine as if to meet my gaze was to invite wrath. It had taken time—and calculated effort—to change that. Now, the silence was no longer oppressive but serene, a quiet hum of activity underlying the stillness.

Alfred’s voice drew me from my thoughts. "The mistresses await you, my lord. Shall I inform them of your arrival?"

Mistresses. A formal term for Clara and Tiara, my sisters. The words hung in the air, stirring a complex tangle of emotions I had no patience to unravel. Instead, I nodded once. "No need. Lead the way."

As we traversed the hall, servants we passed greeted me with low bows. Their movements were fluid, their expressions subdued yet respectful. I acknowledged them with the barest tilt of my head, a gesture so slight it might have been missed by the inattentive. Yet it was enough. The ripples of hushed excitement that followed were palpable.

The sitting room came into view, its doors slightly ajar. Alfred stepped aside, his role as escort fulfilled. I entered without preamble, the soft creak of the door announcing my presence. The room was bathed in the warm glow of a crackling fireplace, its light dancing across the polished wood and rich upholstery. The scent of tea hung in the air, delicate and inviting.

They were there. Clara and Tiara, seated at a low table, their identical dark hair catching the firelight. Their sharp features, so similar to my own, bore expressions of mingled tension and annoyance. Yet beneath that, I saw the flicker of something else. Surprise? Unease? It was difficult to tell.

"So, you’ve come," I said, my voice calm, detached, yet carrying a weight of unspoken acknowledgment. I crossed the room with measured steps, each footfall deliberate, as though the act of approaching them demanded its own ceremony. My gaze, sharp and unyielding, locked onto theirs with the precision of a predator surveying its surroundings. Their postures stiffened in response, a mixture of tension and latent apprehension rippling through their identical forms. Their sharp eyes tracked my every movement, flickering with unease, as though searching for some hidden motive behind my composed demeanor. The crackling fireplace cast fleeting shadows across their faces, adding a layer of complexity to their expressions that mirrored the uncertainty lingering in the air.

I took a seat opposite them, the maid nearby immediately stepping forward to pour tea into the delicate porcelain cup before me. I acknowledged her with a faint nod. But then, She blushed deeply, retreating with a whispered, "It’s my honor, my lord."

When I shift my gaze, Clara and Tiara were staring at me with a surprised gaze.

Clara’s voice broke the silence, sharp and incredulous.

"You… you’re really Draven?"

I met her gaze, letting the question hang unanswered. My silence was deliberate, a tool I wielded as effectively as any blade. It allowed me to study them, to take in their features with clarity. Their sharp eyes, faint scowls, the wavy black hair that mirrored my own. They were nearly identical, yet distinct in the subtleties of their expressions. Tiara’s brows knit slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line of suspicion. Clara’s eyes widened fractionally, a glimmer of… hope? No, it was something more guarded, more complicated.

"Is that a proper question to ask?"

I chuckled.

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Or did I?

I don’t know myself.

It’s too complicated.

For a moment, an unfamiliar sensation stirred within me. Relief. Not the superficial kind that evaporates as quickly as it comes, but a deep, profound sense of release, as though some long-forgotten burden had momentarily lifted. The realization was disconcerting, a crack in the carefully constructed walls I had built around myself. Memories, fragmented and fleeting, rose like specters unbidden—their laughter as children, ringing bright and untainted by the heavy yoke of legacy that would later descend upon us all. Their smiles, unguarded and genuine, lingered in the recesses of my mind, defying the hardened exterior we had all been forced to adopt. It was fleeting, yes, but potent, a jolt that left an ache in its wake—a reminder that even within the fortress of my cold logic, the embers of something raw, something painfully human, still glowed faintly. It was as though the past had reached out to me, not with accusations, but with a quiet yearning, asking to be acknowledged.

"I heard your merchant firm has grown into one of great renown," I said finally, breaking the silence with precision.

The response was immediate. Clara straightened, her surprise evident. "O-Of course! We’re part of the Drakhan family, after all," she stammered, her attempt at confidence undermined by the slight flush that colored her cheeks.

Tiara’s reaction was more measured. She studied me with a calculating gaze before nodding. "It’s only natural. We’ve worked hard to uphold our name."

I inclined my head slightly, sipping the tea before me. Its warmth spread through me, though I hardly registered the taste. My sharp eyes caught the faint crumbs on their sleeves, remnants of earlier snacks. With a subtle flick of my magic, the crumbs lifted and vanished, the act so seamless it might have been overlooked.

Their reactions, however, were telling in ways that words could not convey. Clara blinked, her eyes darting to her now-pristine sleeve as though she couldn’t quite believe the change. Her fingers brushed over the fabric, a tentative gesture, as if to confirm the absence of the crumbs she had been unconsciously aware of moments before. Tiara’s gaze snapped to the fireplace, the brief flare of enchanted flames reflected in her wide eyes. The warm glow seemed to soften her guarded posture, dispersing the chill in the room with a tangible sense of relief. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, their shoulders relaxed, and the faint shivering that had marked their discomfort eased into stillness.

It was a subtle transformation, but one that carried weight—a testament to how small gestures, almost trivial in execution, could ripple outward to touch something deeper. Watching them, I could see the tension they held so tightly unraveling thread by thread, as if the careful construction of their guarded exteriors faltered in the presence of unspoken care. It was a fleeting moment, one that passed like a shadow across their faces, but its impact lingered, reshaping the silence that had settled over the room. The air felt warmer, not merely from the fire but from the subtle shift in atmosphere, a quiet acknowledgment of something shared yet unspoken.

"Perhaps you should rest here for a while," I said, my tone even. "It’s been some time since you’ve been home."

Tiara’s brows shot up, her incredulity evident. "Y-You don’t usually care where we are."

I met her gaze steadily. "Consider it a change."

Clara’s scowl softened into something closer to curiosity.

"A change... huh? You’re full of surprises today."

I wonder.

In these kinds of moments.

What do they talk about, I wonder?

But well, I guess it could start from the very basic question.

"How are you?"