The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 655: Thesis and Credits (End)

The sun had long since passed its highest point when Amberine stepped beyond the orphanage gates, the laughter of the children still echoing faintly behind her. For several heartbeats, she simply stood there, letting the warm resonance of their giggles linger in her thoughts. It was a sound she'd never grow tired of—hopeful, bright, and unburdened by the weight of academic stress or arcane theory. A ragged breath escaped her, part contentment, part exhaustion. The day had been long and filled with more chaos than she cared to recount, but each child's smile had been a reminder that her time in this battered corner of the city meant something beyond credits and lecture halls.

She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders from hours of stooping over desks and runic chalkboards. The late afternoon light bathed the slum's narrow alleys in a golden haze, creating elongated shadows that danced over chipped cobblestones. Dust motes caught in the sunbeams made the air shimmer like scattered fairy lights.

Amberine had almost made it back to her dorm—halfway across the southern slope of the Magic Tower University's sprawling campus—when she froze mid-step. A sudden, sharp recollection pricked at her mind. She halted so abruptly that the passing street vendor, pushing a cart stacked with wilted produce, nearly ran into her. She shot the vendor a quick, apologetic smile, then pressed her palm against her forehead.

"My research ledger," she muttered, her voice laced with a frustrated edge as she smacked her forehead in self-reproach. "I left it in my locker. Gods above, and the archive clerk won't let me in without it."

She glowered skyward, hoping for some cosmic response. Instead, the empty clouds overhead offered only the streaks of warm amber trailing into violet—no miraculous intervention forthcoming. Her shoulders sagged. She had been longing for a hot meal and maybe a quick power nap, but apparently, the universe had other plans.

With a defeated sigh, Amberine turned back toward the towering silhouette of the university. The fortress-like spires and conical rooftops dominated the skyline, rising above the rest of the city as though carved from a single massive piece of living stone. In places, the stone was etched with shimmering runes that pulsed softly, hinting at the unseen magic thrumming through the entire structure.

Her feet dragged slightly as she retraced her route along the old merchant's path—a weather-worn road that had once served as the main artery for trade caravans seeking the arcane wonders rumored to be sold near the campus gates. Now, the path lay in mild disrepair, its corners scattered with weeds pushing through cracked mortar, but it still led steadily upward, guiding her toward the grand spire of the Magic Tower University.

Even after years of walking its paths, the sight still took her breath away. Rising like an impossible dream, it wasn't just a single tower but a sprawling network of spiral spires, each connected by precarious hanging bridges, floating platforms that defied gravity, and translucent skywalks formed from aetherglass. The highest of these, the Aetherium Pinnacle, soared so high it seemed to pierce the heavens, its surface alive with shifting runes rumored to reflect the intangible moods of the arcane winds. Amberine herself had never gotten close enough to test that rumor, but she'd heard enough stories from braver (or more foolish) upper-year students who claimed they'd seen the runes glow when sensational campus gossip spread.

At this hour, the campus was bathed in gold and silver light, cast by the everburning lamps that hovered lazily along balconies and major lecture pathways. Mages in layered robes could be seen drifting past on broompaths suspended in mid-air, their arms laden with thick tomes, or scurrying up the side ramps—levitation spells gently buoying them with every step. Some wore excited or anxious expressions, clearly late for a lecture. Others moved with purposeful calm, indicating they were professors or staff, intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of the labyrinthine campus.

Amberine passed a side garden where nightshade orchids unfurled thick, velvet petals tinted a deep indigo, softly humming with stored mana. Beyond them, a row of everblossoms glowed pinkish-orange, their illumination harnessed to light up a statue of a revered Archmagus from centuries past. A small group of first-year students stood transfixed by the display, pointing and whispering about the synergy of horticulture and mana infusion that kept these exotic blooms alive.

The great courtyard emerged ahead—a crescent of starsteel tiles that shimmered faintly underfoot. Each tile was etched with elaborate runes that responded to the presence of passersby, a mild friction beneath the soles of her boots as though verifying her identity with every step. It was an odd sensation, like walking on a living tapestry that recognized her footsteps. Towering above the courtyard's edges loomed statues of legendary professors, cast in momentary poses: one unleashing a grand summoning, another immersed in a swirling barrier, each plaque inscribed in multiple languages—Elvish, Draconic, Old Kingdom Script, and a half-dozen others.

Amberine paused near the central fountain. It was said to be older than the entire campus, rumored to have been transplanted from a lost civilization. The water danced upward in intricate arcs, every hour forming a new mythical creature from ephemeral droplets. Right now, it was shaping an opalescent dragon, arching its neck skyward in a silent roar. The spectacle had drawn a small crowd of mesmerized onlookers—some clutching notebooks to quickly scribble illusions they saw, others simply enthralled by the shifting, silent power.

She allowed herself a moment to stare, breath catching at the interplay of color and light. The day's fatigue weighed on her limbs, a dull ache in her calves from too much walking. Yet, despite her physical exhaustion, the university's grandeur fired a spark of energy within her. This place, for all its quirks and challenges, was where she had cast aside her youthful illusions about easy success and learned the difference between real skill and half-baked ambition.

Her locker was nestled beside the Alchemical Wing, overshadowed by the looming form of the grand Rune Repository. She carefully avoided the busiest route—a skybridge that soared hundreds of feet above the ground, thronged with chatty students—and chose instead a gently sloped walkway of cobblestone that meandered through an arcade of arched stone tunnels. Translucent vines clung to the arches, glowing a subtle greenish hue in rhythmic pulses, as though breathing in harmony with the distant hum of arcane wards.

Just up ahead, she heard voices echo. A trio of first-years, their robes still crisp from the campus store, gesticulated wildly. Their heated argument caused their footsteps to falter on the walkway.

"I told you Professor Caelwin deducts points if your glyph corners aren't exact curves!" one insisted vehemently. Her silver hair glinted in the half-light, eyes filled with the zeal of newfound knowledge.

The boy at her side retorted indignantly, "They ARE curves, Jaren! Yours looked like a toddler's imitation of a summoning circle!"

Amberine smiled faintly, watching the first-years argue with all the passion of seasoned archmages. Gods, she missed that kind of earnest stupidity. There had been a time—what felt like ages ago, though it was barely a year—when every single glyph and every single teacher's rumor felt like the difference between life and death. She remembered how serious everything had felt back then, how the entire world seemed to hinge on whether she could master a single layering technique or properly infuse a mana infusion formula without blowing up her dorm desk. She had been younger, too confident, and prone to illusions of grandeur, but at least it had been a purer time—one unclouded by deeper entanglements and half-hidden secrets.

With one final glance at the bickering underclassmen, Amberine followed the arched walkway that curved toward the Alchemical Wing. This stretch of campus was quieter, almost stately, lined with flowerbeds blooming in carefully controlled microclimates. She brushed past a bed of swirling starpetals—translucent flowers rumored to glow at midnight—and felt the hush of an approaching evening settle across her shoulders. No matter how tired or frustrated she felt, the campus always rekindled a spark in her chest. Magic was alive here, thrumming just beneath the stone and mortar, waiting to reveal more wonders to those persistent enough to chase after them.

At last, she reached her locker—a simple, narrow compartment etched into an alcove beneath a towering mosaic of some ancient alchemist's triumphant portrait. The mosaic's eyes, crafted from shards of glittering obsidian, seemed to follow her as she stepped close. She whispered her access phrase—"Veritas Lux"—and the glyphs decorating the locker's seal flared in soft teal, peeling open with a faint hiss of released wards.

Inside lay a chaotic tumble of parchment scrolls, half-full ink bottles, and one extremely judgmental quill perched on top like a feathered sentinel. It bristled at her presence, pivoting in that subtle way that threatened to jab her fingers if she reached for it carelessly.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not in the mood," she muttered, arching a brow in warning. The quill froze. Possibly for the best—she'd never quite figured out how to discipline a rebellious writing implement.

With exaggerated care, she pushed aside the quill and rummaged through the clutter, eventually extracting her battered research ledger from beneath a half-unraveled spool of arcane thread. The ledger's corners were bent, its spine cracked from too many long nights flipping pages, but it was the only place she'd diligently recorded every fleeting insight and half-formed idea for her thesis. She brushed a bit of dust off its cover, taking a moment to feel the reassuring weight of it in her palms. It was disorganized, contradictory, sometimes nonsensical—but it was also entirely hers.

"Found you," she said under her breath, to the ledger or perhaps to herself.

Slamming the locker door, she let the wards re-engage, watching the teal glyph lines crawl back over the seam with quiet efficiency. Then she leaned against the cool stone wall, gazing out through the open archway. Beyond it stretched the spire-lit courtyard below, illuminated by everburning lamps that hovered at various heights to form a loose constellation of light across the campus. A fresh breeze glided through, stirring her robes and carrying with it the faint scents of baking bread from the lower district and the sharper tang of brewed potions from the nearby labs.

All around her, the university maintained its steady pulse of life. Students hurried by with panicked expressions—probably late to some specialized evening lab session. A pair of robed librarians drifted past on a low-float platform, discussing cataloging new grimoires in hushed tones. At the far corner, a group of advanced enchanters tested a glowing barrier that threw dancing reflections across the stone floor.

Amberine exhaled softly, letting herself absorb it all. No matter how frustrated or jaded she sometimes felt, she still appreciated these small details—the intangible hum of magic in the air, the swirl of robes and the flash of enchanted quills. The spires might overshadow everything in grandeur, but it was the people's quiet dedication and frantic energy that truly breathed life into the old stones.

Then, almost like an afterthought, a realization hit her. It was the same creeping anxiety that had been on the edge of her awareness for weeks now, rearing its head with renewed vigor. Her credit count.

She held the ledger in both hands and flipped open the back cover. The final page, dog-eared and scrawled with half-faded ink, housed her meager attempt to track academic progress. She'd avoided looking at it, partly due to fear of what it might say. But no more dodging.

"Oh crap," she muttered.

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Amberine stared at the number like it had personally insulted her, as though the digits themselves had conspired to mock her ambitions. Her eyes flicked over the parchment again, confirming:

Total Credits Required for Graduation: 340

Completed: 125

Remaining: 215

Two hundred and fifteen. That staggering figure hung in her mind like an ominous stormcloud. A knot of tension formed in her stomach, mingling with the dull ache still lingering in her calves from the day's long trek around the slums and up the university slopes. She hadn't realized just how far behind she was. Or, more accurately, she'd known but refused to acknowledge it. Sometimes, ignorance was kinder—until reality slammed into you, as it had here, in the back cover of her battered ledger.

"Two hundred and fifteen... seriously?" she repeated under her breath, scowling at the swirling lines of her own handwriting. "Gods, and I've already got 'Advanced Mana Threading' and 'Magical Ethics' on my roster... that's only twenty-five credits. That's nothing." A groan rose from her chest, and she tilted her head back in a theatrical display of exasperation. "I need at least twenty more if I don't want to end the semester in a panic."

Her voice echoed slightly in the arched corridor, though no one seemed to pay her outburst any mind. Most of the foot traffic had drifted toward the main spire or the dormitories for a final meal before the inevitable push of evening labs. The faint scent of parchment, arcane ink, and cooling stone enveloped her. Overhead, a line of small, floating orbs cast a soft bluish glow across mosaic tiles, each orb aligned with a roving pattern that responded to passing footsteps.

Shaking off her frustration, she glanced at the margin of the page. There, among scrawled doodles of mana circuits and a tiny, furious mimic creature, she'd tried to list potential electives. Most hovered around five or ten credits. She'd need at least two or three just to keep pace. And if she wanted a better buffer, she'd have to either find a particularly hefty course or risk overloading her schedule so badly that her sleep would become a distant memory.

Amberine's brow twitched at the thought. The last time she'd overloaded her schedule, she'd spent half the semester subsisting on conjured coffee illusions that did nothing for her actual fatigue. The memory made her shudder involuntarily.

But then her eyes locked onto a bold line near the bottom of the page, the single largest chunk of credits she had left unaccounted for. It felt like a quiet threat, practically looming off the parchment:

ARC 407: The Arcane Philosophy and Applications of Sequential Spells

Instructor: Professor Draven A. von Drakhan

Credit Value: 20

Semester: 2 (Early-Year Eligibility: Confirmed)

Reputation: Nightmare, Do-Not-Touch, Academic Death Wish

Just seeing it made her stomach flip. A little more than a year ago, she'd seen an announcement pinned to the main lecture board, advertising a "limited-time enrollment for advanced study in sequential layering." She remembered that day vividly: the hush in the hallway, the flicker of curiosity in a few older students' eyes, and the overwhelming sense of dread from everyone else. Draven's name had been whispered with either awe or fear, sometimes both. Rumors said that course devoured students' GPAs whole and spat out their shredded confidence. She'd also heard that the credit payout for passing was enormous—twenty credits in a single go, enough to catapult anyone ahead by an entire semester if they survived.

Amberine winced, recalling how she'd enrolled in that monster of a course during her second semester, a time when most students were barely coping with mid-level illusions and basic runic theorem. She herself had been stable in core classes, but something reckless burned within her. Maybe it was the lure of the credit bump, or maybe it was a deeper, rawer drive. In truth, it had been a swirl of factors, none of them particularly rational.

She remembered how the counselor had furrowed her brow when she came in with the registration slip. "Are you sure?" that woman had asked, lips pursed in concern. "You're still early in your core progression. This course is... advanced. Most take it after Semester Five, or at least after passing all the recommended prerequisites."

Amberine had forced a confident smile that was all hollow bravado. "I'm sure," she'd replied, voice tinged with a challenge. "I'll manage."

She had not managed.

The course was merciless, almost militaristic in structure. Each lecture delivered a barrage of concepts that made her mind reel—intricate synergy loops, arcane layering that defied standard logic, historical examples that required knowledge of multiple timelines. She'd never forget the day Draven casually introduced a multi-affinity diagram that had half the class scribbling furiously while the other half just stared, wide-eyed, already lost. The textbooks he assigned were heavier than most advanced grimoires, some borderline archaic, quoting mages who'd existed in the earliest days of recorded magic. She'd lug them around in a battered satchel, shoulders screaming by midday, cursing her own pride.

At night, she'd slump over a desk in the library, forging citations from the dustiest corners of neglected shelves. The essay prompts demanded cross-referencing magical philosophers who hadn't existed in the last two centuries, many of them only partially translated. She'd found entire paragraphs in Draconic runes, or references to planar theory that required footnotes from half a dozen contradictory manuscripts. It felt like forging a puzzle out of broken shards that had never been meant to align.

Somehow, unbelievably, she scraped by with a 74. A hair's breadth above failure—just enough to dodge academic probation. But that grade carried the unmistakable stench of near-disaster, broadcasting that she was a "second-semester overreach." She recalled the sympathetic glances from older students who'd heard rumors of her meltdown during finals. Even her own roommate had tiptoed around her, offering tea laced with mild calming wards.

And yet, for all the frustration, for all the nights her eyes burned from reading cramped marginalia, she couldn't stop thinking about the things Draven had said in those lectures. Or, more precisely, the way he said them. His words, cool and measured, hinted at underlying truths deeper than the syllabus could fully capture. He spoke as though the world was layered in illusions upon illusions, and only by dissecting the fundamental nature of spells could one begin to see the threads tying everything together. Each session felt like a glimpse into how broad magic truly was, how the typical illusions and single-spell castings taught in standard courses barely scratched the surface.

But here was the secret: that wasn't even the only class she had taken with him. She'd voluntarily signed up for two more: Mana and Intent in Sequential Constructs and a half-semester elective called Theory of Arcane Dissonance. Both had been optional. Neither was easy. Both had tested her patience and sanity. Yet she came back, like a moth to a flame, half-hoping she'd finally be the student to corner Draven in a rhetorical argument, to see that cryptic calm break. She never succeeded.

Originally, she never meant to be "one of Draven's students." She had no illusions about forging a mentor-mentee bond with a cold, distant professor. In fact, when she first saw him, the dryness of his gaze and the cutting calm in his tone reminded her painfully of her father. Her father—the same man who'd dismissed her every dream of exploring illusions, claiming it was a waste of intellect. The same father who left her with a raw need to prove, to the entire world, that she wasn't just a mediocre nobody, that her passion for improbable spells was valid. Draven's own reputation as a merciless critic struck an angry chord in her, as if she'd seen a ghost from her own household.

So when the rumor spread that "Draven's new advanced course is open," she'd pounced on the chance. Not from curiosity or ambition—she'd had simpler classes lined up. But from spite. She'd pictured waltzing into the classroom, besting Draven at his own game, then reveling in the collective shock. She'd deliver a perfect final paper, a demonstration of arcane synergy so jaw-dropping even his distant mask would falter. She'd see that glimmer of acknowledgment—Look, Father, I can make even the scariest professor bend. Something about humiliating a man so reminiscent of her father felt vindicating. Like she'd be rewriting her own past on a bigger stage.

It hadn't worked out that way.

Sure, she walked in that first day with her chin high, ignoring the older students' apprehensive stares. She'd settled into a seat near the front, arms folded, defiant. She'd all but dared Draven to pick her out and try to break her confidence. However, Draven hadn't singled her out. He hadn't singled out anyone, in fact. His gaze swept across the lecture hall with that frigid neutrality, and he'd said, "Let's begin," diving into multi-layered synergy so complicated that half the room was lost within ten minutes.

Amberine found herself feverishly scribbling notes, not because she wanted to prove him wrong, but because she had to keep up. The illusions of grandeur—I'll tear him down—began to crumble under the crush of reality. She spent each lecture more obsessed with the material than with her petty vendetta, pulled along by the unstoppable current of new insights. She started staying after class not to confront him with witty retorts, but to clarify obscure references. He'd answer in that clipped, indifferent tone, but every word held the seeds of further revelations, intangible threads that led deeper into magic's labyrinth.

And then, perhaps worst of all, she discovered she was learning from him, the man she'd wanted to humiliate. She caught glimpses of a bigger world—something beyond her father's scorn, beyond the superficial illusions typical of second-semester novices. Draven's criticisms, harsh as they were, forced her to refine her approach, question her assumptions. She started devouring advanced texts just to keep pace. By the time her final project was due, she was so overwhelmed that she almost forgot she'd once tried to sabotage him, or watch him squirm. All that remained was the fear that she'd fail spectacularly, losing face in front of the entire advanced mage community.

She ended up scraping by—a 74. "Barely passing," the transcripts said. Some part of her was mortified. Another part felt relieved. But the biggest surprise? She realized she wasn't done. She still wanted to know more. Even if it meant subjecting herself to Draven's relentless standards again, even if it meant re-fighting old battles with her father's shadow. She despised how enthralling it was, how the complexities of layered spells set her mind ablaze in ways no simpler class had done. She despised that Draven had effectively overshadowed her petty feud.

But it hadn't worked out that way.

Somewhere between Draven's third lecture and her fifth failed annotation draft, Amberine's grand revenge plan had quietly dissolved, like ink washed away by a sudden downpour. At first, she hadn't even noticed the shift—she was too absorbed in the labyrinthine complexity of his course. Each new concept he introduced was like a door opening into yet another corridor of arcane theory, each corridor leading to more hidden rooms stuffed with unwieldy tomes and half-forgotten spells. She realized, belatedly, that the hatred she'd stoked so carefully, that vision of humiliating him in front of the entire faculty, had been drowned by her own fascination.

She remembered the precise moment she felt that hatred falter. It wasn't a dramatic epiphany—no single grand event or emotional meltdown. Instead, it happened during office hours, well after dusk, in a corner of the old library annex. The walls were lined with volumes so ancient that many bore no titles, just cryptic runes pressed into peeling leather. She had marched in intending to debate him—to corner him with a rhetorical flourish that would prove him arrogant, incompetent, or at least misguided. She was armed with a half-dozen references, her adrenaline thrumming. But as soon as he looked up from his desk and gave her that cool, unblinking once-over, her mind went embarrassingly blank.

He'd said, "So, you have questions?" in a voice that managed to be as neutral as a snowfall—and just as frigid. Somehow, that tone cut through her bravado. She found herself asking about layering synergy in multi-affinity spells, not because she wanted to verbally spar, but because she genuinely needed to know. The question tumbled from her lips, halting at first, then rushing out in a torrent of confusion. She could still recall the faint flicker of acknowledgment in Draven's gaze—a distant interest, as though he recognized that she wasn't there just to posture.

From that point on, her visits to his office hours became less about proving him wrong and more about gleaning every ounce of insight he could spare. She was still intimidated, of course. She'd walk in with a shaky determination, sometimes forgetting to eat dinner, a flurry of parchment scrawled with half-legible runic expansions tucked under her arm. There, she'd stand in the hushed corridor, building the courage to knock on the old oak door, the one with an elegant silver plaque reading "Professor D. von Drakhan." Inside, he'd be hunched over a stack of dissertations, red pen in hand, posture unwaveringly perfect.

And yet, no matter how scathing his critique, no matter how many times he said, "This is substandard for an advanced mage," she found she couldn't muster real resentment. Instead, she found herself craving the clarity he brought. His words cut through illusions—both literal and figurative—revealing where her arguments wobbled, where her logic fell into lazy leaps. He'd pinpoint a contradiction in her essay with ruthless precision, then watch her unravel it with a numb mixture of dread and relief. It was maddening, humiliating, and weirdly thrilling.

She let out a breath of wry amusement now, recalling how naive she'd been with her revenge fantasies. How many times had she daydreamed about humiliating him in front of an entire lecture hall, brandishing the perfect rebuttal or conjuring a mind-blowing demonstration that would force him to acknowledge her brilliance? Instead, she found herself chasing the ideas, not the man. Getting lost in the mechanics of mana loops, the paradoxes of layered spells, the maddening intricacies of theoretical resonance—those were the real captures of her heart.

Standing in the corridor, ledger in hand, she thought back to the first time she'd realized she was behind on Draven's coursework. It had been a random Tuesday night. She'd emerged from the library basement with ink-stained fingertips, her eyes burning from the stale glow of mage-lamps that never flickered. The weight of the texts in her satchel had almost dislocated her shoulder. She'd paused halfway across the campus courtyard to watch an astronomy demonstration overhead—illusionary constellations swirling in the sky—and in that moment, she recognized she was more excited about rewriting her "failed annotation draft" than she was about proving any personal vendetta. She'd stared at the illusions overhead, a swirl of cosmic colors, and thought: I want to understand everything about these layered illusions, not just undermine him. That epiphany made her stomach knot, because it hinted that her father's specter wasn't the real reason she was pushing herself. Her hatred had been overshadowed by genuine curiosity and a thirst for mastery.

She sighed, muttering under her breath as her gaze flicked back to the lines in her ledger:

"What kind of second-semester idiot takes a lecture meant for battle-scarred fifth-years... and then considers doing it again?"

Yet here she was, entertaining exactly that notion. She remembered signing up for ARC 407 out of desperation. Her academic plan had been in shambles. She needed credits—lots of them—and in fewer semesters than most. The course was infamous, almost legendary. Upperclassmen whispered about the half-dozen students each semester who tried and failed, their GPAs beyond salvage. The rest avoided it like a plague. When she scrawled her name on the sign-up sheet, the hush in the corridor had been a mix of awe and pity: "Poor second-semester kid, she's done for."

Draven's course, in practice, had been exactly as brutal as the rumors suggested. The lectures were dense, riddled with references to advanced treatises no normal second-semester student had encountered. The reading list was so extensive that each week felt like a final exam's worth of text. She recalled many a night slouched on her dorm floor, surrounded by precarious towers of books, her roommate half-laughing, half-terrified for her. She'd highlight entire pages, only to realize she'd misunderstood the fundamental concept, and would have to read it again from the top.

The final project had loomed like a monstrous shadow over the semester. It demanded cross-disciplinary mastery—merging illusions, wards, evocations, or enchantments in one cohesive demonstration that showcased layered synergy. So many nights she'd stared at a half-finished runic structure, scribbling notes about potential mana feedback loops that might devour her entire dorm if miscast. She even considered dropping out at one point, but pride and that nagging curiosity chained her to the endeavor.

She passed with a 74. Barely. When she saw her final grade, the relief that she wouldn't have to retake the class clashed with deep disappointment that she'd achieved nothing close to the top-tier brilliance she'd aimed for. And then there was Draven's voice—so cold, so piercing—handing back her essay with that one line of critique:

"Your thesis lacks the clarity to understand the subject you're attempting to critique. Return to fundamentals."

No sugarcoating. No phrase like "Good job overall, but here's some advice." Just scalpel-sharp honesty. For once, she found it refreshing. Everyone else in her life either tried to placate her or pitied her ambition. Draven did neither. He simply laid out the facts, demanding she rise to them. In a twisted way, that was exactly what she needed—and exactly what she hated.

A breeze stirred, pulling her from memory's grip. Her robes fluttered lightly, carrying the subtle scent of twilight-laced mana drifting from the highest spires. She gripped the ledger closer, feeling the worn leather edges dig into her palms. She was no longer that naive, vengeance-driven second-semester student—yet she still needed Draven's crucible. He was, ironically, the only professor who pushed her in ways that mirrored her father's relentless critiques but fed her intellectual hunger.

She forced her thoughts to shift from the bitterness of half-remembered arguments to the more pressing problem: her own thesis. Despite the illusions of confidence she sometimes projected, her "thesis" was a scattered, disorganized mess. Five different drafts, five different directions, each a reflection of her restless mind:

1. Emotional resonance in enchanted artifacts

2. Spirit-familiar feedback loops

3. Environmental influence on unstable child-mage mana

4. Cross-affinity glyph compatibility

5. And most recently... magical developmental anomalies in orphaned children

Each sounded promising at the time—like a polished gem ready to be set into an academic crown. But the truth was harsher. In practice, all five ideas had faltered beneath the weight of her own uncertainty and Draven's incisive critiques. The memory of his voice echoed:

"You're asking the wrong question,"

he had told her in that clinical, cold tone.

"You're painting a masterpiece without understanding the canvas."

Back then, the remark had stung like a lash. She'd wanted to snap at him that of course she understood her own research. But the ugly truth was that he'd been right. Amberine had discovered each idea like a spark in the dark, but she'd never cultivated the flame properly. She'd jump from spark to spark, enthralled by the novelty, never building a real fire. And Draven—damn him—saw right through every excuse, every half-baked rationale.

She let out a slow breath, feeling the ledger's worn cover press into her arm. The corridor around her was oddly tranquil for this time of day. Class had let out hours ago; most students were either at dinner, locked away in labs, or scurrying through last-minute errands. A hush of magic lingered in the air, the glass tubes of arcane light pulsing softly like living veins across the stone walls. She could almost convince herself that the corridor breathed in tandem with her.

Her eyes flicked to the large window arch along the way, and she couldn't resist wandering closer. The city beyond stretched into the distance, its outline tinted by the smoky hues of dusk. Far below, she caught a glimpse of the slums, barely distinguishable except for the faint glow of scattered lanterns and hearth fires. She could imagine the orphanage somewhere in that sprawl of crooked rooftops, a place she'd grown more attached to than she'd ever expected.

Why did it feel more real than this entire pristine university? she wondered. Why did a single battered desk in that humble classroom, or the laughter of a scruffy kid with illusions far bigger than his confidence, resonate in her soul more than the grand spires and shimmering academic prestige all around her?

"Maybe that was always the problem," she murmured, pressing her forehead lightly against the cold glass. Overhead, the floating orbs of light shifted color from a placid blue to a soft lavender, signifying the late hour. An older enchantment professor had once explained to her that these orbs synced with the campus's daily cycle, adjusting hue to match the staff's recommended schedule for rest and study. 'An attempt to keep students from going mad with endless nights,' he had said dryly.

Amberine let her gaze wander downward again, imagining she could pick out the exact building that housed the orphanage. Probably not possible from up here, with so many twisting lanes and run-down shacks blending into each other, but she still tried. The memory of Tamryn's uncertain smile or Fennel's trembling attempt to draw a ward popped into her mind, unbidden. She found herself smiling faintly.

Environmental influence on unstable child-mage mana, or magical developmental anomalies in orphaned children—these two topics had stirred her the most lately. If she were honest with herself, she recognized a subtle shift in her perspective. No longer were these ideas just bullet points on a scrawled list. They connected to real people, real experiences. She'd seen flickers of those anomalies firsthand, right there in the orphanage. She'd glimpsed the wards Draven left behind, sensed the hush of deeper magics swirling around those corridors. Each day she spent there teaching illusions and glyph basics to wide-eyed kids made her feel closer to unlocking something bigger, something Draven's cryptic wards and research might not fully reveal.

Yet, an uneasy tension coiled in her gut. Draven's presence haunted every angle. She'd never finalize a thesis on those anomalies without grappling with his overshadowing knowledge. She suspected he already possessed notes and experiments that might confirm or destroy her ideas with a single glance. She bristled at the thought of needing his approval, but it was also oddly comforting to know someone else had trodden that path, even if he'd left little breadcrumbs for her to find.

The corridor's lighting pulsed softly again, and she noticed how the runes along the walls now displayed a gentle spiral pattern, ushering students gently toward their dorms. She wondered if she should find a quiet bench and let herself sink into the swirl of half-ideas in her mind. But no, the day had been too long; she craved the stillness of her own dorm room. Another flicker of memory intruded—her father's voice, dripping with dismissive sarcasm: "You'll never amount to more than illusions." She clenched her jaw, forcing the echo away.

Letting out a slow exhale, she turned her gaze back to the rest of the campus. The central spire, shining under arcane lights, loomed in the near distance. That was the very tower Draven often vanished into after his lectures, the place rumored to hold the university's most advanced magical theory labs and restricted archives. Even graduate students, those nearing the cusp of their final theses, found it difficult to gain access. She'd watched Draven stroll in there as if it were nothing, carrying that aura of absolute composure and authority that both infuriated and fascinated her.

She recalled the swirl of rumors about what exactly he did behind those heavily warded doors. Some said he was perfecting a new synergy array that could revolutionize multi-affinity spells; others whispered about top-secret research funded by the council. A few claimed he was experimenting with living spells—dangerous constructs that combined illusions with necromantic threads. Most rumors were probably nonsense, but Amberine knew from experience that Draven always had a deeper layer, a hidden page he rarely bothered to show.

And the orphanage wards... She wondered for the thousandth time if they were "prototypes" of something bigger he was cooking up in those labs. The notion intrigued her, made her chest tighten with the desire to peek behind his metaphorical curtain. She wanted to see those magical arrays with her own eyes, to test them against her own theories, to confirm or deny the swirl of speculation that had begun forming in her mind.

Yet all that speculation fed back to a single truth: her thesis would remain incomplete unless she mustered the courage to confront Draven's puzzle—not just academically, but personally. Because if Draven challenged her to face difficult truths about child-mage anomalies, about illusions that hinged on emotional tension, or about multi-affinity synergy that demanded a mage's own vulnerabilities to be exposed, then she'd have to do more than read. She'd have to open up pieces of herself she'd always kept sealed.

She sighed again, a faint tremor in the breath. The corridor's hush felt unusually charged, as if the runes themselves listened. She tucked her ledger under her arm more securely, feeling the weight of those five potential topics like an anchor pressing on her chest. A few other stragglers passed by, giving her polite nods or brief "Hey, Amberine," but no one lingered to chat. They could probably sense she was lost in her own thoughts.

"Maybe that was the problem," she whispered, though her voice barely broke the quiet. "I've been up here in these towers, shaping illusions of knowledge, while the real impetus for my thesis is down there, in the dusty corners of the orphanage." Her lips twisted into a self-deprecating half-smile. She was, in a way, exactly what Draven accused her of—painting a masterpiece without understanding the canvas. The canvas might be those children, the environment they inhabited, the swirl of uncertain magics that no library reference could replicate.

The breeze drifted in from one of the open arches, stirring her hair across her shoulders and carrying with it the faint, sweet smell of some flowering vine that clung to the tower's exterior. It reminded her of the fragrances at the orphanage—a mix of musty floors and the occasional whiff of stew, but also that intangible sense of possibility which bloomed whenever a child discovered a new magical spark.

She let her gaze slide away from the campus's grandeur, allowing herself to daydream about what it would mean to truly base her thesis in the slums rather than behind these manicured courtyards. To spend weeks, maybe months, observing the kids, documenting their growth in real time. Mapping their anomalies. Testing gentle enchantments, analyzing how group dynamics influenced mana flow. She pictured Tamryn, eyes bright with cautious hope, or Fennel, shaky but earnest, each day unveiling a little more about how child-mage mana might differ from standard patterns. The concept lit a tiny flame of excitement in her chest.

But that meant stepping away from the safety of the tower—the academic veneer she'd come to rely on for structure. The university was predictable in its bureaucracy, and Draven, for all his criticisms, was a known quantity. Out there in the slums, among a swirl of half-formed illusions and battered innocence, chaos might greet her. She could gather brilliant data or find her assumptions shattered. Worse, she might confirm that some kids simply needed help beyond what she could provide. The very thought made her stomach twist.

Glancing once more at her scribbled list of topics, she let out a pensive hum. Draven's critiques repeated in her mind, each cutting phrase a puzzle piece slotting into a bigger picture. "You're asking the wrong question." Yes, maybe she was. She was searching for neat answers in advanced papers, but the heart of the matter was unfolding in living color beneath this city's rooftops. If Draven's wards in the orphanage truly tied to new synergy theories, then she had to see them in context, not just through footnotes in his old research diaries or library texts.

Her thesis wouldn't be just a summarization of known arcana—it might become an exploration of how real children, real daily struggles, shaped a unique magical environment. That frightened her more than any final exam had. It meant leaving behind illusions of academic distance, stepping knee-deep into a messy, complicated world Draven had only hinted at. Yet wasn't that exactly what she needed?

She closed her eyes briefly, letting the drifting swirl of her thoughts settle into a quiet conclusion. She stood here in the corridor—the domain of curated, polite scholarship—but her spirit was half-lost down in the slums, among kids who taught her more about emotional resonance than any dusty treatise. Did she dare follow that thread, ignoring the risk that it might tear down all her old illusions?

Then, with a final deep inhale, she opened her eyes, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. The central spire loomed in the distance, a beacon of conventional accomplishment. But she found her gaze drifting lower again, toward where the city's lights were less curated and the orphans' world called more strongly than the polished floors of academia. She felt a pulse of resolve, faint but growing, pushing her beyond the hesitation.

"Maybe it's time to stop writing my thesis from a tower," she whispered, voice cracking slightly with the weight of her decision. The words resonated in the corridor as though acknowledging the shift. She'd have to gather her courage, approach Draven on her own terms, and perhaps forge a path that blended the best of both realms—the tower's discipline and the orphanage's raw authenticity.

A gentle hush fell, broken only by the hum of arclight overhead. She let the moment stretch, committing to the notion that she would do it. She would step away from sterile observation and immerse herself in the living puzzle that was child-mage anomalies. If that meant confronting Draven, so be it. If it meant revisiting her father's shadows in the process, that too would be a price she'd pay. Growth rarely came without a cost.

Then she turned, ledger tucked firmly under her arm, and began the walk back to her dorm. Every footstep felt a bit lighter, every breath a shade more steady, as though the corridor itself was cheering her on in near-silence. The next stage of her journey had quietly begun—no fanfare or illusions, just a newly anchored resolve.

And so she walked on.