The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 642: The Color of Unfinished Thoughts (1)

Sunlight didn't quite reach the corners of Amberine's workshop. It tried—filtered in through stained, dust-fogged windows high up the stone walls of the arcane tower—but mostly failed. The room seemed to absorb it, swallow it whole into the tangle of parchment rolls, floating crystal shards, half-formed constructs, and scattered teacups.

This chapt𝓮r is updat𝒆d by ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom.

Amberine sat cross-legged on a stool, a small screwdriver pinched between her teeth. In her hands, the Orb of Emotion pulsed faintly—a gentle bluish glow that shimmered each time she exhaled. Her eyes narrowed.

"No," she muttered, turning the sphere in her palm. "You're still syncing just a hair too slowly on low-end resonance." She reached for a new runeplate and etched in a secondary feedback circuit.

The orb was already finished, technically. It worked. It pulsed in harmony with her mood, responded to ambient energies, and could be tuned to reflect emotional states for diagnostic or artistic use. It was everything the Arcane Symposium committee could want.

But she couldn't stop tweaking it. Not because it needed refinement—but because she needed something to do. Something other than thinking.

She paused, staring blankly at the half-finished runeplate. Her gaze drifted around the workshop, skipping across the cluttered desk, the scattered notes with half-legible formulas, and the teacups stained dark at the bottom from too many refills. Amberine liked the controlled chaos of her space; it felt like her. But today it didn't comfort her.

The screwdriver clattered onto the workbench, rolling across its surface and bumping gently against an abandoned crystal shard. Amberine leaned back with a sigh, spinning the orb lazily in her fingers, watching its gentle light reflect off her fingertips.

Her mind betrayed her, slipping quietly into an unbidden memory.

Draven.

Walking into class the week after the Knight Sharon rumors.

She remembered that day vividly—students whispering in hushed clusters by the corridors, exchanging furtive glances with every sound of approaching footsteps. Gossip clung to their words, sharper than usual, heavy with speculation. Amberine had leaned against the back wall, arms folded, projecting disinterest she didn't truly feel. Her heart had thumped strangely at the sound of Draven's precise footsteps echoing down the hallway, utterly unhurried, rhythmic like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

He had entered exactly as always: coat meticulously buttoned, collar sharp, gaze so frigid and composed that it seemed utterly alien to the whispers that filled the room. Draven's cold eyes, a chilling shade of steel-blue, had swept across the class as if cataloging each of them without judgment or acknowledgment. It was like the swirling gossip in the air didn't exist for him, like the rumor—that he'd killed a Blackthorn Knight with a spell so refined it left no evidence—meant less to him than a misplaced comma in a student's essay.

He had walked silently to the front, placing his notes down with quiet precision. And then he'd started the lecture, as though nothing had ever changed:

"Today we continue our derivation of sequential mana layering from contradictory affinities."

Every word had fallen crisp and exact, every formula razor-sharp. His voice had cut through the thick air effortlessly, forcing students to focus. The explanation had been staggering in its complexity, leaving Amberine feeling like a novice fumbling in the dark. And yet, at the same time, his teaching had carried a strange clarity, as though he held a lantern high above the labyrinth, guiding each student through with gentle inevitability. The puzzle was impossible, yet so intuitive that once solved, the answer seemed painfully obvious.

Amberine recalled thinking, How does he do that?

But what had unsettled her most was not Draven's brilliant teaching. It was how seamlessly he ignored everything else. He never cracked. Never addressed the whispers. Never showed annoyance or anger or even mild discomfort. Just calm, ruthless professionalism.

Eventually, the buzz had faded. Students shrugged off the unanswered questions, moving on to fresher gossip. The class had adjusted, normalized, accepted Draven's silent assertion that whatever had happened—or hadn't—was not their concern.

But Amberine hadn't moved on.

The thoughts still echoed in her mind, weeks later. They nagged at her, tugged at the corner of her concentration like a persistent itch she couldn't reach. Amberine growled softly, twisting the orb in her hand a little too harshly, its glow flickering in protest.

"Am I the only idiot still bothered by this?"

A sudden puff of warmth bloomed beneath her robes. Flame curled upward in a playful twist of golden smoke, catching the workshop's dim air and illuminating it briefly. Ignis, her fire spirit, slid smoothly into view, coiling around her forearm like a lazy ember snake. His eyes glittered—tiny flickers of flame, amused, mocking.

<You are,> he said dryly. His voice sounded like the crackle of a campfire, pleasant but sarcastic. <There's nothing to be done if the man himself doesn't care.>

Amberine scowled sharply, her lips pursing. "You always show up when I'm talking to myself. You creepy ash ghost."

Ignis flickered brighter, a little smug, as he yawned theatrically. <You always talk to yourself when you're stressed. It's basically an open invitation. Besides, what exactly did you expect? For your frigid professor to start passing out flyers? 'Hello students, I may or may not have murdered someone; here's my side of the story'? Come on.>

"Don't be smug," Amberine snapped back, flicking a spark of mana toward him. He dodged effortlessly, the tiny spark sizzling harmlessly against a teacup.

<I'm not smug. I'm right,> Ignis retorted, settling comfortably on her shoulder. <Face it, you're nosy. You're annoyed you can't solve him like your orb or one of your rune puzzles. You hate the mystery he wears around himself.>

Amberine grimaced, irritated both at his accuracy and at herself. "You're lazy," she accused instead, evading his point. "You don't even care unless there's fire involved or something dramatic."

Ignis tilted his ember-head, feigning offense. <And you're obsessing. Draven's walking around like an unanswered riddle, and you're spinning in circles because you can't get him to line up neatly in your head.>

"I'm not obsessing," Amberine muttered, defensively. But even as she spoke, she felt the heat rise in her cheeks, betraying her own denial. The orb in her hand glowed softly orange, mirroring her irritation.

<Oh, please,> Ignis retorted, amused. <You like mysteries. But you like them neat and tidy, with solutions tucked at the back. You don't like people like Draven—walking enigmas who won't bend to your curiosity.>

Amberine sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping slightly. "You sound annoyingly like Elara."

Ignis snorted lightly, flickering as he adjusted his coils around her wrist. <Speaking of, where are your usual companions? The Quiet One and the Sad One?>

Amberine glanced absently toward the door, half-expecting it to open and Elara to step in, prim and composed as usual. "Elara's probably buried in the archives. She's been prepping her thesis proposal nonstop, talking about graduating early again."

Ignis made a small hissing sound, half admiration, half annoyance. <Overachiever. She never relaxes.>

"That's Elara," Amberine agreed softly, her fingers drumming lightly on the orb's surface. "Always ten steps ahead of everyone else."

She poured herself a cup of cold tea, taking a sip and grimacing at the bitter taste of nettles that had sat steeping too long. Her voice turned quieter, thoughtful. "And Maris... She's at the Knight Order again. Her part-time combat internship. You know, she's not the same timid girl she was."

Ignis gave a small crackle of assent. <Yes. Maris has grown stronger. No longer afraid of shadows, at least.>

Amberine nodded slowly. The thought of her friends moving steadily forward, chasing their own paths, left her feeling strangely adrift. She glanced down at her orb, watching as the blue turned to an uncertain violet.

"I just…" she began, then hesitated, words faltering.

Ignis' warmth pressed gently against her neck, sensing her mood. <You feel left behind. They have clear directions. You're still standing here, fussing over a toy that's already complete.>

Amberine frowned, though she couldn't quite argue. It was true. Maris, steadily conquering her past fears; Elara, rushing ahead, driven by fierce ambition. Even Draven—cold, mysterious, unflappable Draven—had his own precise path, untouched by gossip or doubt.

And Amberine?

She fiddled, she adjusted. She worried herself over the imperfections in things others would find perfectly acceptable. She chased problems already solved, while bigger questions haunted her quietly in the background.

She sighed softly, the sound tired and lonely in the quiet workshop. "I just feel like everyone's rushing forward, and I'm stuck here, spinning."

<You're not stuck,> Ignis said quietly. His voice softened, less sarcastic now. <You're hesitating. There's a difference.>

Amberine's lips curled into a small, reluctant smile. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

<Yes,> Ignis agreed, warmth radiating comfortably around her. <And you're stubborn. Which means you'll move forward when you're ready, and not a second before.>

She laughed faintly, feeling a tiny knot inside her chest loosen just a bit. "Maybe."

Amberine turned the orb slowly again, its surface now calm beneath her fingertips. She stared at it thoughtfully, noticing how it responded subtly, glowing in shades of soft pink—the color of uncertainty, but also the first signs of understanding.

She exhaled slowly, releasing some of the tension she'd carried. She might not have solved the mystery of Draven, or even herself yet, but perhaps not every puzzle needed to be rushed. Perhaps, she realized, the answers were allowed to reveal themselves in their own time, bit by bit, just like the shifting hues of her delicate orb.

She looked at the orb again. It glowed faintly pink.