The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 726: Blight Beneath the Boughs (End)

Draven's eyes hardened. A trap.

Shadows peeled from the tree-trunks like damp parchment, coalescing into human shapes beneath the slivered moon. Five of them, perhaps six—difficult to count when their outlines kept flickering between substance and smoke. Their cloaks hung wrong, as though draped over emptiness; light brushed the fabric, then vanished as if swallowed. At their sleeves, ghost-green sparks crawled along tendons, skipping from knuckle to knuckle like sickness made visible.

Draven's pupils narrowed. Green illumination meant soul-binding runes—unstable, prone to backfire but lethal in close quarters. The red glow under their hoods confirmed the order: Soul-Reapers, disciples of carrion gods who harvested spirits as currency. He adjusted his stance a fraction, weight settling on the balls of his feet, cloak swinging open just enough to free both hilts.

"The Ghost-Hunter walks again."

The speaker stepped forward, boots sinking into the mulch without a rustle. His tone carried the grainy scrape of gravel poured through a flute. "A blade in the mist, thinking it can cut what has no form."

Draven let silence answer. Words wasted time, and time bled advantage. With a slow exhale he drew—twin arcs of steel whispering from leather, catching a heartbeat of moonlight before the gloom swallowed them. He registered where each enemy stood, plotted angles of approach, distance to every trunk, depth of moss for foot purchase. A whole map built itself behind his eyes in less than a breath.

The nearest Reaper twitched; spectral links burst from his palm, chains forged of coalesced ectoplasm. They hissed through the air, clattering like real iron though nothing solid touched wind. Draven pivoted. The links whistled past his shoulder, gouging a groove in a standing stone behind him. Before the chain could retract he stepped inside the man's guard, drove his left sword point through the hollow at the base of the skull. There was no blood—only black fog expelled in a surprised sigh. The body sagged and melted, as if gravity suddenly remembered it.

A second figure raised both arms, fingers scribing jagged sigils that sparked emerald. Rune-lines drifted forward, weaving into a cage meant to compress around Draven's torso. He watched the pattern form—six bars, two rings, a hinge point at the caster's forearm. He slashed once, upward. Steel intersected the hinge rune precisely; the whole construct disintegrated, and with the same stroke his blade sheared wrist from arm. The Reaper's scream was thin, almost curious, before devolving into gurgle as smoke sluiced from the stump and ate down to elbow.

The remaining pair lifted their hands in tandem, palms outward. Veins of sick light crawled across the air, joining into a semi-opaque shell. Mist within the barrier churned, thickening until it resembled marbled glass. Draven gauged tensile potential—too soft at the perimeter, stronger toward the nexus between casters. He angled toward the weaker seam, expression remote, almost polite.

"Magic is a poor crutch," he said, voice calm enough to be mistaken for courtesy.

One breath later he moved. To the untrained eye he simply vanished; to a soldier's, he compressed space—one slide of boots, body folding low, cloak streaming behind. His right sword met the barrier in a thrust that was less stab than scalpel cut. Fog wall split, curled outward like silk set to flame. He continued through the tear, shoulder brushing stray wisps, and flicked his left blade in a tight crescent across the nearer caster's throat. Shadow jetted, hissed on the steel, then fell in silvered motes.

The last Reaper stumbled back three steps, boot crunching brittle twigs. Blood—real blood now, not the smoky imitation—bubbled at his lips. Yet he smiled, pupils pinpoints of livid red. "The forest's rot is not your prey alone, Ghost-Hunter. It has deeper roots."

Draven's blade answered, sliding between ribs with surgical accuracy. The man convulsed, mouth falling open in silent laughter before collapsing. Where he landed, the flesh browned like autumn leaves, then crumbled into a pile of decay streaked with worm-white mycelium.

The clearing emptied of foes, yet tension thickened instead of easing. A hush settled—deafening in its completeness. Draven remained still, swords angled down, eyes half-lidded as if listening to something beneath normal hearing.

Then the earth shivered. At first a mild tremor, the sort felt when distant thunder jars window glass. It grew—a low groan, timber straining under invisible weight. The ground under his boots rippled, moss bunching into soft waves. He widened his stance, absorbing balance through bent knees, blades lifting to guard.

Roots erupted from the soil—fat as pythons, bark slick with oily sap. They whipped across the glade, splattering dark droplets that sizzled where they landed. One root coiled the empty chains, snapped them in half as though insulted by their presence, then burrowed again. Stench flooded the air: sweet rot layered over iron, a compost of things recently alive.

Draven's mind catalogued data even as he drifted around a thrusting root. Velocity moderate, mass significant but not irresistible, origin radial—not random. Something central directed them.

He scanned, filtering chaos. A faint glow pulsed thirty paces ahead, hidden behind a curtain of mist and ferns. Each pulse timed with the tremors—heartbeats of whatever entity nested beneath.

He inhaled through teeth. Cold air slid inside ribs, sharpening focus. The forest's own mana—normally a deep, resonant hum—now felt like a plucked string left to vibrate off-key. That dissonance had direction; he followed.

Five steps brought him to an incline where ground dipped. Dew-heavy leaves muffled his footfalls; ferns brushed cloak hem with wet kisses. The glow intensified, veins of dull crimson threading through the loam like capillaries. Draven crouched, pressed gloved hand to soil. Heat radiated upward—unnatural for midnight. Embedded spores burst under his touch, releasing a whisper of spores that glimmered then died.

He rose, adjusting grip. Twin blades reflected the ruddy gleam, edges pulsing as if eager.

A sharper quake split the silence. Up ahead, a ring of elder pines shook, trunks flexing despite their girth. Bark cracked, chunks pitching off in dusty cascades. A circular fissure formed at the roots, widening until whole trees slid inward, vanishing like ships down a whirlpool.

Draven sprinted. He cleared the collapsing lip a heartbeat before gravity claimed the patch where he'd stood. Below, a cavern yawned—walls ribbed with gnarled roots, floor slick with black sap. The air billowed upward, humid and foul, carrying a buzz like distant flies.

He landed lightly, knees absorbing impact, cloak settling. Behind him, soil continued to crumble, sealing daylight away until only moon-shafts lanced through ragged holes. Within those pale beams dust danced—tiny skeletons of former spores.

Shadows shifted at the periphery. He rotated wrists, blades catching faint red glints. Figures knelt around a central stump—six silhouettes, backs bowed, palms pressed to ooze-wet ground. Their chanting droned, words foreign yet uncomfortably close to heartbeats.

The stump pulsed, each throb sending ripples through surface sap. Viscous lines climbed the kneelers' forearms, grafting flesh to wood. Their hoods were down; scalps glistened with sweat and strange runic scars that glowed faintly.

Draven advanced. His cloak brushed a root; black liquid hissed but the rune-thread repelled it, beading poison into droplets that fell harmlessly.

First target: leftmost chanter. Draven's right blade thrust under the ear, angled for brainstem. Spine severed, chant died mid-syllable. The body sagged; sap-tendrils snapped, flinging tar. Second target pivoted, mouth shaping alarm. Too late. Left sword severed carotid; breath exited in a spray of steam.

The remaining four ripped free of the stump, jagged sap-strands dangling. They hurled handfuls of writhing shadow that elongated into clawed arms. Draven spun aside; claws grazed cloak, leaving luminous rents. He reversed grip, sliced the appendages—their substance parted like silk soaked in ink.

He closed distance, movements all short economy: stab, pivot, parry riposte. Soon only one chanter remained. This one stood taller, eyes bright as coals, runes along skull pulsing faster. He whispered a fragment of verse—soundless, carried in mana rather than air.

Roots burst upward around Draven, weaving a cage. He slid two steps, but bars thickened, sealing gaps. Overhead the roof trembled, dust raining. The stump's glow brightened, as if feeding off his entrapment.

Draven stilled. Heartbeat slowed. He centered gravity into soles, felt tiny gaps where roots hadn't fused perfectly. Left sword stabbed downward, right followed—two quick punctures that aligned into a wedge. He twisted, using hips, not shoulders. Roots cracked, splinters flying. Opening formed; he dove, rolled, came up under chanter's extended arm.

A clean thrust ended the spell. The cage withered, roots slumping. Sap geysered from the stump, streaming into the chanter's breach, but the body collapsed anyway.

Silence again—but alive, throbbing. The stump itself shifted. Bark peeled, revealing an orb of hardened resin at its core, shot through with ruddy veins—an artificial heart. Inside the resin, motes of light whirled: trapped souls. Each flicker bumped the inner shell like insects in amber.

Draven's breath clouded. He leveled blades, mind slicing options. Break the core: unleash spirits, risk uncontrolled backlash. Leave it: corruption regrows.

A tremor underfoot made the decision. He stepped forward, blades crossing overhead, and drove them down in an X. Steel bit resin; cracks spidered. The orb throbbed, resisting. He set teeth, pressed weight. Snap—fissure widened; a scream, multitudinous and thin, escaped.

The earth shuddered, a warning groan. He withdrew swords, pivoted, leapt for a root-ramp that coiled upward. Behind him the core fractured, light geysering out in beams that seared through rot like dawn through cloud.

He reached the rim as a concussive blast chased him, flinging sap and dust. He hit moss, rolled, regained feet. Below, the cavern collapsed, roots writhing like limbs in death throes, then falling still.

The forest exhaled—a long, shivering breath. Draven's chest rose, fell. He scanned tree-line for new threats. None—only distant moonlight, and the lingering scent of scorched corruption.

He had found the rot's heart. Or it had found him.