The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 672: The Hidden Elven (1)

Four.

These weren't merely guardians—they were Warden-Born. Sentinels of stone and ancient magic, awakened by intrusions upon the Seed's sanctum. Draven's mind raced, cataloging every detail as the dragons moved. He noted the synchronized rhythms of their breathing, each inhalation and exhalation perfectly staggered. Their wings flexed carefully, measured angles counterbalancing one another. They didn't move like animals; they moved like warriors taking positions on a battlefield, preparing for an assault.

Sylvanna's fingers twitched anxiously at her side, muscles coiled, her eyes darting nervously toward Draven. He was her anchor, her compass, and she needed his certainty now more than ever.

"Draven?" she asked, voice tight, edged with the faintest tremble she couldn't entirely mask.

"I could take them," Draven replied, his tone flat, clinical, utterly confident despite the monstrous odds stacked against them. "But not yet."

Sylvanna blinked, her mouth slightly open in disbelief, panic making her heart hammer violently against her ribs. "You're hesitating. Why?"

Draven's response was immediate, unruffled. "I'm not hesitating," he stated calmly, his gaze still locked on the approaching threat, calculating angles, timing, pathways of escape. "I'm reading ahead."

In truth, he recognized something—an echo from his past life, a fragment of strategy from a scenario he'd encountered before. "The Four-Tremor Guardians," he recalled internally. It had been a critical divergence point in the Grove's storyline. But something was wrong. This wasn't matching any script he remembered. This wasn't how the scenario was supposed to unfold.

This was different. Wrong.

This was dangerous improvisation.

Vaelarien bolted forward through the cramped tunnel, Sylvanna and Draven close behind, their steps a rhythmic drumbeat against crystal floors. Sylvanna watched with fascination and growing alarm as Vaelarien began to hum softly, a haunting melody infused with low pulses of blood magic. As his voice rose and fell, the crystalline roots responded, splitting apart like curtains moments before they would have smashed directly into them.

Sylvanna quickly realized the stakes. One misstep, one wrong note, and they'd be trapped—bones shattered, lives extinguished in an instant.

Yet Vaelarien moved as if guided by instinct alone, barely glancing ahead. It was blind faith in the ancient magic of the seal and his bloodline that carried him forward. Sylvanna's trust was less certain; her heartbeat felt like a frantic bird caught in her chest, wings beating frantically.

The walls trembled violently behind them, the sound of stone ripping open echoing like distant thunder. The dragons tore through barriers of earth and crystal, relentless in their chase.

Sylvanna glanced back just in time to see the closest beast surge through a nearby wall, sending shards exploding outward like deadly rain. She gasped sharply, ducking low, feeling the displaced air rush past her cheek like a razor-edged whisper.

The passage grew narrower and twisted chaotically, walls turning in unnatural spirals. Suddenly, Sylvanna felt gravity shift beneath her feet, moss-covered stone abruptly flinging her upward. Her stomach lurched, a startled shout escaping her lips as the ceiling raced toward her face. Reflexively, she twisted, reaching blindly, arms flailing in panic.

A powerful hand caught her belt in a sudden, iron grip. She jerked to a halt mid-air, suspended precariously for an instant before Draven's strength hurled her forward safely back onto the passage floor. She stumbled, breath coming in sharp, shaky gulps as adrenaline raced through her veins.

"You always were the impatient kind of rogue," Draven murmured dryly, his tone betraying no strain, no panic, just calm, controlled amusement layered over unwavering efficiency.

Sylvanna shot him an incredulous look, brushing hair from her flushed face, her heart hammering madly against her ribs. "And you always save your jokes for when we're nearly dead," she retorted, breathless, a half-smile fighting its way through the lingering fear.

They pressed onward, each step an act of trust, each breath another chance to regain their frayed composure. Behind them, the dragons roared and clawed with relentless, calculated precision. Vaelarien's humming grew more frantic, louder, desperate notes spilling from his lips. His voice wavered, nearly cracked, as sweat drenched his pale skin.

Draven continued to read the patterns, the subtle shifts and vibrations beneath them. His eyes narrowed, mind racing through possibilities. This wasn't just guardians roused by intrusion. They weren't simply acting on defensive protocols. They were being guided, coordinated by some outside force—some unseen puppeteer orchestrating their pursuit with deadly precision.

He considered Vaelarien again, the desperate urgency etched in the elf's features. Was Vaelarien a guide or a pawn? Draven filed the question away for later analysis, priority given now to immediate survival.

Sylvanna darted ahead, matching Draven's pace step for step. The passage grew increasingly chaotic, gravity bending again, flipping them sideways, forcing Sylvanna to adjust her stride mid-motion, scrambling to keep balance. Her bow clattered against her shoulder, each impact jarring, every step another tiny victory against the shifting terrain.

From behind, another roar echoed—a dragon closer this time. Sylvanna risked another quick glance. Through gaps in the twisted walls, glimpses of massive, stone-scaled creatures tearing after them sent ice through her veins. Their wings churned, scattering dust and crystal fragments like debris in a cyclone. They were too close, far too close.

Vaelarien shouted ahead, words strained through clenched teeth. "Faster! The Grove—it's unraveling!"

Sylvanna barely understood, yet felt his meaning keenly. The dragons shouldn't be hunting like this. The defenses of the Grove were failing—or worse, being deliberately misused.

She looked to Draven, found his jaw set in an expression that bordered on irritation—the cold fury of a strategist whose meticulous plans had suddenly frayed apart.

"What now?" she gasped, voice ragged with exertion.

"Now," Draven answered, utterly calm even amidst the chaos, "we adjust. Quickly."

Sylvanna snorted breathlessly, the absurdity of his understatement striking her even through the adrenaline-fueled panic. "Adjust, he says," she muttered under her breath, vaulting another obstacle of warped roots and crystal spikes. "Always so confident."

Draven's gaze flickered momentarily toward her, just long enough for her to glimpse the faintest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Then he faced forward again, leading them deeper into the twisting passage, as the sound of dragons closed in, vibrating through the crystal walls.

"And you always save your jokes for when we're nearly dead," she repeated breathlessly, knowing full well he heard her, even if he gave no further reaction.

They reached the creaking root-bridge just as the world erupted beneath them. Sylvanna's heartbeat crashed against her ribcage as another dragon surged violently through the cavern floor. Its jaws parted wide, flames roaring forth, liquid stone dripping like wax around its fangs. She felt a blast of searing heat lick at her ankles as she sprinted, nearly stumbling as the root bridge recoiled upward—not snapping, but wrenching away like a living creature retreating from flame.

Vaelarien didn't even spare a glance over his shoulder, his face pale, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief. "The protocols are unraveling! They're not supposed to hunt us. Not like this!"