The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Draven moved further into the chamber, a barrier of psychokinesis shielding him. He had a phobia of filth—he hated it, hated the feeling of being dirtied by the chaos of battle or the grotesque nature of places like this. But today, even as a droplet of blood splattered onto his polished shoe, he didn't react. His anger was boiling, but it wasn't aimed at the mess.

It was aimed at those who had done this—who had treated human lives like livestock, like experiments to be toyed with.

He lifted his foot slightly, using his psychokinesis to wipe the blood away with the same cold detachment he always had. But there was something different in his eyes now, a darkness that simmered behind the icy calm.

He moved on, entering the next chamber. The moment he stepped in, his sharp gaze caught sight of three orcs—each one dressed in robes that marked them as both shamans and researchers. Their eyes widened as they saw him, squeals of alarm escaping their lips.

Draven's pens moved without a word. The water elven pen spun, releasing a cold mist that froze the first orc in place, its body encased in ice. The psychokinesis pen shot forward, impaling the second orc right through its neck. The fire pen twisted, flames erupting and engulfing the third orc, its screams echoing off the stone walls before being silenced.

The air filled with the scent of burning flesh, the light of the fire casting long shadows across the stone. Draven stepped past the fallen creatures, his expression unmoved, his focus on the next door—a door that seemed almost ceremonial, marked with golden symbols.

He pushed it open, his gaze narrowing as he took in the sight before him. It was a room filled with human women, all of them lined up against the walls, each one visibly pregnant. The sight made his stomach churn, but he remained calm, his expression as cold as ever.

And there, in the center of the room, stood another orc. This one was different—its robes were lavish, finely adorned, the kind of garment that a noble would wear. A golden axe rested against the wall beside it, its blade glinting in the flickering torchlight.

The orc was in the middle of violating one of the women, its grotesque form bent over her, its heavy hands pinning her down. The woman's face was twisted in pain, her eyes empty, her spirit broken.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Something within Draven snapped. His eyes darkened, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. The sight of that orc, dressed like some sort of dignitary, abusing a helpless human—a woman—was the final straw.

His veins bulged, his fists clenching as he drew his swords, the cold steel catching the light of the torches. His voice was low, a deadly whisper, dripping with fury.

"Oi. Look at me."

The orc's head jerked up, its eyes meeting Draven's, and in that instant, it saw the truth. It saw the end that was coming for it, the cold, relentless fury of the man standing before it. The kind of fury that promised no mercy, no respite.

Draven took a step forward, his gaze fixed on the orc, his entire body radiating a terrifying calm—a calm that masked the storm brewing inside him. The orc moved to grab the golden axe, but it was too late. Draven was already upon it, his blade flashing in the dim light.

The chamber filled with the sound of steel meeting flesh, the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, and the quiet, broken sobs of the women who remained.

Draven stood over the fallen orc, his breath steady, his gaze cold. He looked at the women, each one broken, each one a victim of this monstrous place. He had no words for them—no comfort he could offer. But there was one thing he could do. He could make sure no one else would suffer as they had.

His gaze turned to the other orcs in the room, the ones who had watched in horror as their leader fell. His pens moved, the flames flickering, the ice forming, the psychokinesis swirling. They would all pay.

He will make sure they all pay.

Draven stood alone in the chamber, facing eleven orcs. Their eyes were wide with a mix of anger, fear, and confusion. He could see the uncertainty in them—they didn't know what to make of him, a lone human who had stepped into their den without hesitation.

Without a word, Draven raised his psychokinesis pen. It floated in the air before launching forward with deadly speed, piercing through the skull of the closest orc. The creature barely had time to let out a squeal before it collapsed, its body crumpling to the ground with a heavy thud.

But Draven didn't feel any satisfaction. He glanced at the fallen orc, his lips curling in displeasure. This wasn't enough.

His water elven pen hovered forward, icy mist forming around the next orc. The creature shivered, its green skin turning blue as it froze, its body slowly encased in a layer of glistening ice. But still, Draven's heart felt nothing. No satisfaction, no sense of vengeance fulfilled.

The fire pen flared next, bright flames consuming the third orc. It screamed, the air filling with the scent of burning flesh. But even as the creature's cries faded, Draven's expression remained cold, almost bored. This wasn't enough.

The devil pen was next, its dark red glow radiating with malice as it drove straight into the chest of another orc, the creature's eyes bulging as it felt the life force drain out of its body. Draven watched as the orc collapsed, but again, that emptiness inside him remained unfilled.

He clenched his jaw, his frustration boiling beneath the surface. The orcs were starting to move towards him, their weapons raised, their expressions twisted in rage and fear. Draven's eyes narrowed as he drew his twin blades, stepping into the oncoming wave of orcs. He moved with precision, his blades cutting through them, one after another.

The green blood splattered across the stone floor, the orcs falling beneath his onslaught.

But still, it wasn't enough.

He sheathed his blades, his breath coming in steady, calculated rhythm. He stood still for a moment, his eyes scanning the remaining orcs. They were hesitating now, uncertain, their steps faltering. The fear in their eyes was palpable, and something inside Draven clicked. A realization—a truth that suddenly made everything clear.

A cold smile spread across his lips, his eyes darkening. He let out a soft, almost mocking laugh—a laugh that echoed through the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls, filling the air with a chilling resonance.

"I see..." he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His laughter grew louder, twisted, a devilish sound that made the orcs shudder, their bodies trembling. "That's right," he said, more to himself than to them. "There's no need for any of these."

He withdrew his pens, the glowing tools of death disappearing back into the folds of his coat. He stood there, his hands empty, his gaze locking onto the remaining orcs. For a moment, it felt as though he had handicapped himself—as if he had decided to fight them without his weapons, without his tools. But the orcs could feel it.

The air around them grew heavy, the aura of death emanating from the man before them so overwhelming that it made their skin crawl. It was like staring into an abyss, a void that promised nothing but pain and death. Their instincts screamed at them to run, to flee, but there was nowhere to go. They were trapped in this chamber, and the only way out was through him.

Draven moved, his body a blur of motion as he launched himself at the closest orc. His fist connected with its jaw, the sound of bone cracking filling the air as the orc's head snapped back. He didn't give it a moment to react. He brought his knee up, driving it into the creature's abdomen, the force sending it flying backward, its body crumpling against the stone wall.

He turned to the next orc, his eyes cold, a smile playing at his lips as he stepped forward. He grabbed the creature by its arm, twisting it with a sickening snap, the bone breaking beneath his grip. The orc let out a guttural scream, but Draven silenced it with a punch to the throat, the creature choking, collapsing to the ground.

There was something raw, something almost primal in the way Draven fought. He didn't use his swords, his pens—he used only his hands, his fists, his body. The orcs, each one larger and stronger than any human, were nothing against him. He moved like a predator, each strike deliberate, each movement calculated to bring as much pain as possible.

One orc lunged at him, swinging a heavy club, but Draven sidestepped, his hand lashing out, grabbing the orc by the neck. He squeezed, his fingers digging into its flesh as the creature struggled, its eyes wide with terror. He lifted it off the ground, the orc kicking and thrashing, but Draven didn't even flinch.

He slammed it down, the impact reverberating through the chamber, the creature lying still, its life snuffed out in an instant.

Green blood splattered across his clothes, his hands, but Draven didn't let a single drop linger. His psychokinesis moved with precision, wiping away the filth, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only—ending every single one of these monsters.

The remaining orcs backed away, their fear evident, their weapons trembling in their hands. They could see it now—their deaths were inevitable. This man, this human, was not something they could fight. He was something else entirely—something they could never hope to defeat.

Draven's eyes locked onto the last orc, a twisted grin on his face as he stepped forward. The creature fell to its knees, its eyes wide with terror, tears streaming down its grotesque face.

"Please, my lord," the orc whimpered, its voice shaking. "Don't kill me."

Draven's grin faded, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at the creature. There was no mercy in his gaze, only cold hatred. He leaned in, his voice a whisper, dripping with disdain. "I am not your lord, dog."

With a swift motion, his hand lashed out, his fingers wrapping around the orc's neck. He squeezed, his eyes never leaving the creature's as it struggled, its breath coming in gasps, its hands clawing at his arm. Draven didn't let go, his grip tightening until he felt the life drain out of the orc's body, its eyes rolling back as it went limp.

He let the body fall to the ground, his breathing steady, his eyes cold. The chamber fell silent, the air thick with the scent of blood and fear. Draven looked around, the bodies of the fallen orcs scattered at his feet. He clenched his fists, his gaze hardening. There was no satisfaction, no triumph—only a deep, simmering anger that had yet to be quenched.