The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 652: Thesis and Credits (1)

The sun had long since passed its highest point when Amberine stepped beyond the orphanage gates, the laughter of the children still echoing faintly behind her. For several heartbeats, she simply stood there, letting the warm resonance of their giggles linger in her thoughts. It was a sound she'd never grow tired of—hopeful, bright, and unburdened by the weight of academic stress or arcane theory. A ragged breath escaped her, part contentment, part exhaustion. The day had been long and filled with more chaos than she cared to recount, but each child's smile had been a reminder that her time in this battered corner of the city meant something beyond credits and lecture halls.

She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders from hours of stooping over desks and runic chalkboards. The late afternoon light bathed the slum's narrow alleys in a golden haze, creating elongated shadows that danced over chipped cobblestones. Dust motes caught in the sunbeams made the air shimmer like scattered fairy lights.

Amberine had almost made it back to her dorm—halfway across the southern slope of the Magic Tower University's sprawling campus—when she froze mid-step. A sudden, sharp recollection pricked at her mind. She halted so abruptly that the passing street vendor, pushing a cart stacked with wilted produce, nearly ran into her. She shot the vendor a quick, apologetic smile, then pressed her palm against her forehead.

"My research ledger," she muttered, her voice laced with a frustrated edge as she smacked her forehead in self-reproach. "I left it in my locker. Gods above, and the archive clerk won't let me in without it."

She glowered skyward, hoping for some cosmic response. Instead, the empty clouds overhead offered only the streaks of warm amber trailing into violet—no miraculous intervention forthcoming. Her shoulders sagged. She had been longing for a hot meal and maybe a quick power nap, but apparently, the universe had other plans.

With a defeated sigh, Amberine turned back toward the towering silhouette of the university. The fortress-like spires and conical rooftops dominated the skyline, rising above the rest of the city as though carved from a single massive piece of living stone. In places, the stone was etched with shimmering runes that pulsed softly, hinting at the unseen magic thrumming through the entire structure.

Her feet dragged slightly as she retraced her route along the old merchant's path—a weather-worn road that had once served as the main artery for trade caravans seeking the arcane wonders rumored to be sold near the campus gates. Now, the path lay in mild disrepair, its corners scattered with weeds pushing through cracked mortar, but it still led steadily upward, guiding her toward the grand spire of the Magic Tower University.

Even after years of walking its paths, the sight still took her breath away. Rising like an impossible dream, it wasn't just a single tower but a sprawling network of spiral spires, each connected by precarious hanging bridges, floating platforms that defied gravity, and translucent skywalks formed from aetherglass. The highest of these, the Aetherium Pinnacle, soared so high it seemed to pierce the heavens, its surface alive with shifting runes rumored to reflect the intangible moods of the arcane winds. Amberine herself had never gotten close enough to test that rumor, but she'd heard enough stories from braver (or more foolish) upper-year students who claimed they'd seen the runes glow when sensational campus gossip spread.

At this hour, the campus was bathed in gold and silver light, cast by the everburning lamps that hovered lazily along balconies and major lecture pathways. Mages in layered robes could be seen drifting past on broompaths suspended in mid-air, their arms laden with thick tomes, or scurrying up the side ramps—levitation spells gently buoying them with every step. Some wore excited or anxious expressions, clearly late for a lecture. Others moved with purposeful calm, indicating they were professors or staff, intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of the labyrinthine campus.

Amberine passed a side garden where nightshade orchids unfurled thick, velvet petals tinted a deep indigo, softly humming with stored mana. Beyond them, a row of everblossoms glowed pinkish-orange, their illumination harnessed to light up a statue of a revered Archmagus from centuries past. A small group of first-year students stood transfixed by the display, pointing and whispering about the synergy of horticulture and mana infusion that kept these exotic blooms alive.

The great courtyard emerged ahead—a crescent of starsteel tiles that shimmered faintly underfoot. Each tile was etched with elaborate runes that responded to the presence of passersby, a mild friction beneath the soles of her boots as though verifying her identity with every step. It was an odd sensation, like walking on a living tapestry that recognized her footsteps. Towering above the courtyard's edges loomed statues of legendary professors, cast in momentary poses: one unleashing a grand summoning, another immersed in a swirling barrier, each plaque inscribed in multiple languages—Elvish, Draconic, Old Kingdom Script, and a half-dozen others.

Amberine paused near the central fountain. It was said to be older than the entire campus, rumored to have been transplanted from a lost civilization. The water danced upward in intricate arcs, every hour forming a new mythical creature from ephemeral droplets. Right now, it was shaping an opalescent dragon, arching its neck skyward in a silent roar. The spectacle had drawn a small crowd of mesmerized onlookers—some clutching notebooks to quickly scribble illusions they saw, others simply enthralled by the shifting, silent power.

She allowed herself a moment to stare, breath catching at the interplay of color and light. The day's fatigue weighed on her limbs, a dull ache in her calves from too much walking. Yet, despite her physical exhaustion, the university's grandeur fired a spark of energy within her. This place, for all its quirks and challenges, was where she had cast aside her youthful illusions about easy success and learned the difference between real skill and half-baked ambition.

Her locker was nestled beside the Alchemical Wing, overshadowed by the looming form of the grand Rune Repository. She carefully avoided the busiest route—a skybridge that soared hundreds of feet above the ground, thronged with chatty students—and chose instead a gently sloped walkway of cobblestone that meandered through an arcade of arched stone tunnels. Translucent vines clung to the arches, glowing a subtle greenish hue in rhythmic pulses, as though breathing in harmony with the distant hum of arcane wards.

Just up ahead, she heard voices echo. A trio of first-years, their robes still crisp from the campus store, gesticulated wildly. Their heated argument caused their footsteps to falter on the walkway.

"I told you Professor Caelwin deducts points if your glyph corners aren't exact curves!" one insisted vehemently. Her silver hair glinted in the half-light, eyes filled with the zeal of newfound knowledge.

The boy at her side retorted indignantly, "They ARE curves, Jaren! Yours looked like a toddler's imitation of a summoning circle!"

Amberine smiled faintly, watching the first-years argue with all the passion of seasoned archmages. Gods, she missed that kind of earnest stupidity. There had been a time—what felt like ages ago, though it was barely a year—when every single glyph and every single teacher's rumor felt like the difference between life and death. She remembered how serious everything had felt back then, how the entire world seemed to hinge on whether she could master a single layering technique or properly infuse a mana infusion formula without blowing up her dorm desk. She had been younger, too confident, and prone to illusions of grandeur, but at least it had been a purer time—one unclouded by deeper entanglements and half-hidden secrets.

This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.

With one final glance at the bickering underclassmen, Amberine followed the arched walkway that curved toward the Alchemical Wing. This stretch of campus was quieter, almost stately, lined with flowerbeds blooming in carefully controlled microclimates. She brushed past a bed of swirling starpetals—translucent flowers rumored to glow at midnight—and felt the hush of an approaching evening settle across her shoulders. No matter how tired or frustrated she felt, the campus always rekindled a spark in her chest. Magic was alive here, thrumming just beneath the stone and mortar, waiting to reveal more wonders to those persistent enough to chase after them.

At last, she reached her locker—a simple, narrow compartment etched into an alcove beneath a towering mosaic of some ancient alchemist's triumphant portrait. The mosaic's eyes, crafted from shards of glittering obsidian, seemed to follow her as she stepped close. She whispered her access phrase—"Veritas Lux"—and the glyphs decorating the locker's seal flared in soft teal, peeling open with a faint hiss of released wards.

Inside lay a chaotic tumble of parchment scrolls, half-full ink bottles, and one extremely judgmental quill perched on top like a feathered sentinel. It bristled at her presence, pivoting in that subtle way that threatened to jab her fingers if she reached for it carelessly.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not in the mood,"