The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 732: Shadows at Ironleaf (1)

The evening fell like a velvet cloak over the ancient forests of Valaroth, soft yet suffocating, as if dusk itself were reluctant to release the trees it shrouded. A damp breeze drifted through the moss-laden boughs, carrying the faint scent of loam and distant woodsmoke. Draven stood where the trunks thinned, boots planted on a crumbling root, shoulders square against the gloaming. His breath left no plume in the spring air, but every exhale felt measured—an engineer timing bellows in a forge.

He traced the horizon with a gloved finger, marking landmarks no ordinary traveler would notice: the way Ironleaf Fortress's northern watchtower tilted three degrees off true—enough to warp its sight-line over the eastern palisade; the weak gleam of one lantern that guttered rather than flared, betraying a cracked rune-stone in the warding ring; the slight sag in the ironwood gate hinges that would squeal if forced too quickly. Each detail slid into an invisible ledger behind his eyes, columns of risk and opportunity balanced in silent arithmetic.

Ironleaf itself crouched on a rise like a gargoyle: walls of living ironwood darkened by pitch, crowned with barbed rails. As daylight drained, the rails shimmered, runes igniting one by one in a sequence designed to dazzle elven sight. Draven watched the lighting pattern repeat, lips compressing. A boast, he decided. Whoever commanded within wanted the forest to know they feared nothing in the dark.

The forest told a different story. Underbrush had been hacked back too hastily, leaving raw stumps that oozed sap—bright tears on black soil. Birds no longer nested in nearby hollows; their absence made the canopy oppressively still. Only the rasp of insects rose and fell, like a cautious whisper that refused to form words. Draven felt the hush settle against his cloak, a weight of wrongness that pricked the skin beneath his collar. He let the sensation linger, catalogued it, then set it aside. Emotions had their uses, but not when steel work waited.

A flicker below the watchtowers caught his eye—two patrols changing shifts. Eight men, heavy armor, casual posture. Good. Confidence meant they would react slowly to surprise. He counted the seconds it took for the old squad to clear the catwalk, noted the overlap—four heartbeats when only half the guard force was awake and aware. Plenty of time for a shadow to slip through.

Behind him, leaves rustled: Sylvanna emerging from the deeper brush. She pressed one hand to the trunk of an ancient beech, steadying herself as she stared at the fortress. Even at a distance the runes painted faint spirals of sickly light across her cheekbones. Her hair—a storm-touched silver in dim glow—shifted with an impatient toss.

Draven sensed rather than saw her scrutiny. He knelt, drawing a thick-bladed dagger over a whetstone with the soft hiss of steel on grit. Each pull glinted moonlight off the fuller. He checked the edge against his thumbnail; a filament of nail shorn away, feather-thin. Acceptable.

He moved to the second blade, mirror to the first. Its surface bore faint etchings—angular runes for silence, for swiftness. He whispered a numeral as he worked, cadence aligning with each stroke: "One—two—three." It wasn't counting; it was calibration, merging breath with motion, mind steadying around rhythm.

Sylvanna's boots crunched, the quiet sound loud in the hush. "You sharpen them even when they don't need it," she observed.

"A keen edge forgets it can dull," Draven said without looking up. He finished the stroke, flipped the blade, repeated. "I remind it."

She folded her arms. "And the vials?" Glass clinked softly at his belt—seven small phials of viscous indigo, necromantic essence pulsing like captive fireflies. She recognized the brew: binder of spirit to flesh, oil to keep undead servants pliant.

"Insurance," he answered.

Her gaze drifted to the rough parchment pinned beneath his knee: a map charcoaled in swift, decisive lines. One path traced a serpentine route—avoiding ward-stones, skirting scent traps. At its terminus he had inked an unassuming X on the western wall. No arrows, no notes. Just that lonely mark.

Sylvanna's brows knitted. "You charted a blind corridor. No sentry line, no beast ward, no rune lattice. It can't be coincidence."

"It's a service tunnel for wagons that off-load at dusk," Draven said. He sheathed one blade, the snap of the frog clasp emphasizing finality. "They hide it behind brush mats at sunrise. Laborers think it a drainage cut."

"You were planning to face them alone?" she pressed. There was more iron in her voice now—hurt disguised as disbelief.

Draven rose, rolling the map tight. The motion was fluid, economical. He didn't answer immediately; instead he surveyed the lowering sky. A lone star glimmered through the veil of purple clouds. Navigation fix—due east. He set the landmark, tucked the map away, and finally spoke. "I'm always alone." The words emerged cool as river-stone. "But I have my own army."

Sylvanna's eyes widened—not at the claim, but at the certainty beneath it. She parted her lips to argue, only for the air between them to curdle.

Draven raised one hand, palm outward. The leather glove tightened as if seized by unseen threads. A sigh of wind spiraled up from the forest floor, tugging mist from hollows like pale ribbons. The vapor rotated, slow at first, then faster, condensing around an invisible axis.

Metal rasped—the unmistakable clamor of plate meeting plate, but warped, hollow, as though the sound echoed from a tomb. Sylvanna instinctively stepped back, boots scuffing fern fronds.

From the swirling mass stepped a figure twice a man's height, armor plates mottled by verdigris and dried pitch. Rust flaked from serrated pauldrons; jagged trophies—wolf skulls, snapped blades—hung on bronze wire along its belt. Two pinpoints of baleful green burned where eyes should be, revealing nothing but endless night within the helm.

The creature's cleaver balanced on one broad shoulder. The weapon looked forged from a single slab of iron, edges chipped yet somehow sharper for it. Veins of sickly sorcery pulsed along the blade, feeding on the ambient mana like leeches.

Sylvanna swallowed. She felt Raëdrithar—a half-world away for now—stir in the pact bond, hackles rising in instinctive challenge. Her heartbeat matched the pulse of green light inside the helm. "Your… army?" she whispered, the word tasting brittle.

Draven turned at last, profile hard-cut against the dying light. "Precisely." His mouth curved into the faintest smirk, nothing more than a blade's breadth of expression—thin, sharp, final.

The two moved silently closer to the fortress, weaving through bracken and root as though the forest itself parted for them. Moonlight barely seeped past Ironleaf's crown of barbed rails, but Draven preferred the murk; darkness hid intention, and intention was everything tonight.

He paused at a fallen cedar. Sap glistened where the trunk had been hacked—fresh. Someone had widened sight-lines for archers posted on the walls. Draven brushed a finger across the sticky resin, testing viscosity. Less than a day old. He filed the datum away, eyes flicking to the parapet. Sure enough, a watchman in scale mail rested a crossbow on the sill, posture lazy yet gaze alert. The man's helm bore a crest of red wolf-fur, indicating veteran status. Draven counted the interval between each sweep of that helm—eight heartbeats. A habit like breathing; by the fourth repetition, Draven knew exactly when the archer's attention would slide past the blind spot near the southern buttress.

Ironleaf's outer ward smelled of hot iron and burnt sage. Patrolling ward-mages had scorched sigils into every fourth plank of the palisade, and char lines still smoked faintly in the cool air. The wards were designed to flare if anyone tampered with the wood. Draven noted three planks where the scorch pattern dipped—hastily reapplied after weathering. Weak points.

His gaze shifted to the watchtowers. Four rose above the main curtain wall, glowing with witch-lamps that pulsed in rhythm with a central focus gem. From this angle he could see the arcane conductor: a lattice of silver wire strung between spires, channeling energy into the gem every time patrols completed their rounds. Ingenious—but also predictable. The pulse told him exactly when magic swelled and when it ebbed. He waited, counting under his breath until the lamps dimmed for a breath-long lull. Time stamped.

Beside him, the Undead Goblin King knelt, creaking armor low enough that branches swallowed the shape of his bulk. "Fifteen sentries on east wall," the monarch growled, voice a hoarse grate of rust. "Two hounds smelling of brimstone."

"Incinerator breeds," Draven muttered. "Good. They'll follow smoke, not shadow. Draw them early."

A soft rustle announced Sylvanna slipping in behind. She nocked an arrow but made no move to draw it. Her eyes sought Draven's, questioning. He answered with a short nod toward the palisade's western quarter—a patch where vines climbed unchecked up the boards, hiding a narrow service grate.

She exhaled, understanding. "I'll cut any pursuit," she whispered. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

"Only if necessary," he reminded. "Noise is currency. Spend it when profit outweighs cost."