The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 720: Hunt in the Shadows (4)

A rumble shivered through the ground—the tremor of something colossal approaching. Vaelira's ears rang as the vibration climbed her bones. A shadow parted the smoke. The crimson-plated warrior arrived, each step a concussive thoom that kicked dust into spirals. His armor was lacquered with runes glowing brick-red, lines jagged like split veins. The greatsword he bore was almost as tall as Vaelira, edges serrated with obsidian teeth that dripped oily luminance.

Draven slid one foot back, blades crossing before him in an X. Vaelira felt the air tighten, the earth hold its breath.

"Who are you," the giant demanded, voice rumbling like stones grinding in a kiln, "to slaughter my kin?"

Before Draven could shape an answer, a wounded soldier somewhere behind the warrior screamed: "Answer him, Drakhan!"

The name slammed into Vaelira's chest. Old library ink and hushed bedtime tales came aflame in her memory. Pale-eyed Reapers. Twin blades. Heart of winter. Stories of the Drak'harn line made real in one skinny, ice-veined man.

Her distraction proved costly. A surviving scout flung a dagger—a whicker of metal whistling toward her neck. She tilted her head aside, felt cold wind kiss skin, then whipped her sword left, the flat knocking the dagger to the mud. She sighted the attacker, gestured; roots erupted, dragging him under with a startled cry.

But the delay allowed the crimson giant to strike. His greatsword scythed down toward Draven in a blow that could have bisected a horse. Draven stepped into it rather than away, crossing both blades high, wrists locked for reinforcement.

CLANG—krrrk.

Metal screamed. Shockwaves rippled out, rattling branches. Vaelira's lungs seized as she felt the force travel up her spine. But Draven's knees flexed with catlike give, taking the impact, rolling power down through hips into the earth. Dirt cracked under his boots, but he did not budge.

The giant leaned in, visor slitted, eyes glowing a dull, hungry gold. Sparks crawled the seam where sword met swords, casting their faces in strobing light.

"Who are you?" he repeated, voice dropping to something unnervingly intimate, as if smelling Draven's resolve. "Speak, soul-reaper."

Draven's response was movement. He unlocked the cross-guard and let the greatsword skitter down one blade while his second sword skimmed up along the giant's arm in a hunting glide. The edge sought a joint seam near the pauldron.

TCHK-sssh.

Sparks detonated as rune-barriers flashed scarlet, turning keen edge into sliding shriek. Draven recoiled two paces, assessing new data. His eyes narrowed—a fraction, yet Vaelira read volumes. This armor siphoned corruption for defense.

The giant advanced. Whummp. Earth shuddered. He swung crosswise—wind screamed under the blade's breadth. Draven ducked, cloak flaring in a tight swirl. The greatsword carved a smoking trench through air, missing by thumb-widths.

Vaelira launched herself into the gap. Her leaf-steel slammed flat onto the greatsword's broadside with a ringing GONG, leveraging her momentum to shove the weapon clear of Draven's spine. Shock stung her elbows. She rolled with it, planting boots, blade reversing to guard.

A hiss of stormlight crawled her sword's runes. She felt the forest's pulse answer—roots tensing beneath the loam, waiting.

Draven caught her glance, understanding flickering in his winter-grey gaze. He repositioned: left blade forward for parry, right drawn back for thrust—the classic Drakhan cross-stance.

The crimson warrior roared, aura swelling. Red runes on his armor brightened until Vaelira tasted iron ozone at the back of her throat. He raised his sword high, both hands gripping the hilt; red motes spiraled around him, siphoned from fallen comrades' blood.

"Roots now," Vaelira whispered.

She knelt, palm flattening to ground. The forest answered: thick coils burst up, ensnaring the giant's ankles with a bark-ripping screech. Sap spurted; the warrior pitched but ripped loose, tearing three strides of root with him like shackles.

Draven flowed inside the falter. He sidestepped the dangling roots, swords flickering.

First thrust—high, probing for throat gap.

Thunk—deflected by rune flash.

Second strike—low, skimming under the pauldron lip.

Clang-snap—tip slid off flashing ward.

Third—feint feint, real cut to left elbow joint.

The greatsword jerked, parry too wide.

Shhk! Draven's blade kissed metal, left a shallow groove glowing silver. A success? No—runes sealed behind the cut, wound closing with a sinister hum.

The warrior snarled. He reversed grip—greatsword sweeping low in a brutal horizontal arc aimed at both foes. Vaelira spun backward, cloak flaring. The edge missed her knees by a finger. Draven hopped over, planting one boot on the blade's flat mid-swing, using it as springboard. He vaulted high, twisting in midair.

Vaelira's breath caught. Time slowed: Draven upside down, cloak billowing like dark wings, twin blades raised in a V. Moonlight glimmered along the steel.

He dropped. SHRACK. Both swords hammered down for the visor slit. The giant snapped helm upward, catching the strike on the brow ridge; sparks fountained, helmet denting. Draven landed crouched, blades crossed to guard. Pulse of corruption erupted—red shockwave blasting outward. He slid backward, boots gouging two thin trenches.

Vaelira charged to keep pressure. Lightning crackled along her sword as she cut for the giant's knee. Impact jolted her bones; runes flickered, numbing her fingers as dark energy leeched along the edge. She ground her teeth, forced power onward. Bark-scaled roots shot from soil, wrapping the wounded limb in a hungry snare.

"Hold him!" she gasped through clenched jaw.

Draven planted his left sword into the ground like a spike. Pivot point established, he lunged with the right, thrusting for the softer leather under the gorget. But the warrior twisted, corruption flaring anew.

The blade struck invisible barrier—KZZZTT—sparks blasting outward like fireworks. Draven recoiled, palm smoking. He did not swear; he recalculated.

The giant snapped the root bonds, backhanded Vaelira with one gauntleted fist. She felt the hit a moment before registering motion—impact rattled her helm, stars flaring. She flew three paces, skidded on moss, rolled to knees before consciousness could flee. Pain bloomed, but she rode it, pressing teeth to tongue until blood brought clarity.

Draven interposed himself, swords circling. "Stay down," he said without looking her way.

"Not a chance." Vaelira spat red, pushed to feet. Her sword hummed again, lightning eager.

"Who are you?" the giant thundered, walking forward despite root-snagged leg. His runes licked flame across armor plates. "Answer me, Drakhan!"

Draven's nostrils flared. Moisture from the mist collected on his cheeks, mixing with flecks of scarlet. His eyes—glacial, reflective—chilled Vaelira to marrow. He lifted one blade, pointing, but not at the warrior: at the cage, the bodies, the spilled innocence.

"This debt," he breathed, "was inked before I drew breath."

The warrior laughed, low thunder. "Then die for it!"

He raised the greatsword overhead, rune-lines blazing, and slammed it down.

BOOOM—earth fractured, a shockwave rippling away in concentric rings.

Draven leapt sideways, one blade parrying the aftershock, cloak snapping like a banner in violent wind. Vaelira jumped opposite, toes barely kissing dirt.

Before the giant could recover, Vaelira swung downward, her blade howling with captured gale. The stroke cleaved into the greatsword's flat—CHANG!—forcing the weapon to skid groundward. She used the collision's rebound to propel herself into a cartwheel, planting beyond reach.

Simultaneously Draven lunged into the opening. His left sword lunged for the exposed armpit. At the last instant corrupt runes surged, raising a black sheath of force that cracked the air like ice. The blade deflected.

Draven anticipated. He abandoned the thrust mid-motion, let momentum spin him around the giant's back. His second sword came stabbing under the breastplate rim.

Tchok.

Steel bit flesh. Not deep, but blood welled—dark, sluggish. The warrior bellowed, elbow swinging. Draven ducked, blade singing free before the counterstrike could connect.

Vaelira, regaining footing, wove a sigil in the air. Roots blasted upward, thicker this time, bark plates like overlapping shields. They wrapped the giant's wounded leg, anchoring to soil with a groan of splitting earth.

"Now!" she cried.

Draven planted, pivoting off his front foot. One sword hooked for the warrior's wrist; the other swept for the back of knee. The giant chose to block the wrist cut—raising his greatsword vertical to deflect. He missed the low sweep.

Shrrrip.

Boot leather parted; hamstring severed. The warrior roared, dropping to one knee. Roots tightened around him, creaking under strain.

Draven followed with a flurry—overhead slash to helmet, feint to left pauldron, stab for throat. Each contact sparked corruption shields, but each weakened them, aura flickering like a lantern guttering.

Vaelira lunged. Her sword burst into leaf-green lightning. She stabbed for the breastplate dent Draven had opened earlier.

CRACK—Sszzrrk. Plate split, a fissure glowing. She twisted hard, levering the fracture.

The giant's bellow turned wet. He reared back, greatsword raised for one final cleave aimed at Draven.

Draven stepped inside the arc—timing perfect—crossed his blades into an X to receive force.

Steel met corrupted iron.

KLANG.

Shockwave tore outward, rattling oak limbs. Vaelira felt her teeth jar, ears ring. She saw both combatants freeze in that collision—power balanced on a knife-edge.

The giant strained, runes flaring blood-red. Draven's arms trembled; his cloak whipped around him like a storm caught in fabric. Vaelira glimpsed his expression—not fear, but an ancient sorrow hardened into steel will.

She channeled every ounce of her birthright. Wind roared up the fissure in the warrior's armor, cyan sparks racing the crack's length.

Draven's eyes flicked, acknowledging her support. He reversed grip on one blade, slid it down between their locked weapons toward the crack.

For one heartbeat they were statues cast in lightning and blood.

Then the warrior barked—"Answer me, Drakhan!"—voice splitting the mist.

Draven's answer came in a tone reserved for graves: "I am what you made me."

He drove the sword home.

TCHKK—

Blades clashed, and the night exploded in a fracture of silver and red.