The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Chapter 308 The Thrilling Dungeon of Necromancy

Draven's clone spoke aloud, his voice echoing faintly off the dark, pulsating walls of the dungeon of necromancy. The air was thick with a heavy stench, a mixture of death and decay that seemed to seep into his very bones. But for him, this was more invigorating than stifling. The deeper he ventured, the stronger his connection to the necromantic energy pulsing through the dungeon.

He glanced at the faint glow of runes etched into the stone floor, evidence of the long-lost souls that had once wandered here.

"It's no wonder," he continued in a low murmur, his sharp eyes scanning the passage ahead. "If high-ranked adventurers die in this place, they become undead. It strengthens the dungeon and adds to its defenses—a never-ending cycle of feeding itself."

For most, this would be terrifying, but to Draven, they were merely food. Every corpse, every undead, was a resource for him and his monsters. The necromantic energy here was rich, practically begging to be devoured and bent to his will. His sword, a dark, gleaming weapon pulsating with necromantic energy, hummed softly at his side.

He had taken it from the boss-level creature before entering these deeper layers—a fitting weapon for someone who thrived on death itself. It was crafted with an ancient spell that allowed him to not only cut through enemies but also collect their very souls. The blade felt alive, a perfect companion for his growing mastery of necromancy.

His companions followed in the shadows. The Ebon Devourer, a massive, sleek demon with a body of swirling dark mist, absorbed stray mana from the surroundings, feeding on it like a gluttonous beast. It consumed everything in its path—mana, life force, even weaker undead that dared cross their way. Beside it, the Ascended Minotaur, with its hulking, muscular form, acted as a relentless vanguard.

Its brute strength could crush even the dungeon's strongest foes with ease. The Goblin Lord, shrouded in darkness, skittered along the walls, its cunning mind always looking for traps or ambushes. And finally, the Undead Goblin King, a towering figure of decayed flesh and bone, fed on the souls collected by Draven's blade, growing stronger with each passing moment. Discover exclusive content at empire

Draven raised his sword and focused his mana into the blade, feeling the familiar cold rush of necromantic energy surge through him. The sword shimmered with a dark light as it absorbed the scattered souls around them, feeding directly into the Undead Goblin King.

The king let out a low, guttural sound of satisfaction as its decayed body bulked up further, becoming more formidable with each soul consumed.

"Come," Draven said softly, his voice carrying the weight of command. The monsters obeyed without hesitation, their loyalty unquestionable.

The deeper they ventured, the more the dungeon began to reveal its secrets. It was no longer just a maze of death; it was a labyrinth of ancient knowledge, long-forgotten spells carved into the walls in languages older than time itself. Draven's eyes gleamed with interest as he approached one of these carvings, his sharp mind already piecing together the complex symbols.

He paused before the ancient text, running his fingers lightly across the grooves. "Relics of the past," he muttered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Tied to the origins of necromancy, no doubt."

His gaze drifted to the dusty tomes and scrolls scattered across the floor, relics that had been left behind by those who sought the same power centuries ago. He crouched down, picking up one particularly worn tome, its cover faded and brittle. Opening it carefully, he found a treasure trove of forgotten spells—incantations that had been lost to the world above.

"How quaint," he whispered, his tone coldly amused. "They thought they could harness this power."

A trap triggered as he moved, a faint click resounding through the chamber. He didn't flinch, his sharp reflexes kicking in. A series of spikes shot out from the wall, aiming to skewer him. With a flick of his wrist, Draven summoned a dark tendril of necromantic energy that stopped the spikes mid-air, disintegrating them into dust.

The Goblin Lord clicked its teeth in approval, its beady eyes gleaming. "Careful," Draven said without looking back. "This place doesn't take kindly to the careless."

They pressed on, facing one deadly trap after another—flames erupting from hidden crevices, floors that gave way to pits of darkness, and walls that threatened to crush them. But with his devil servants at his side and his own intellect guiding him, Draven dismantled each obstacle with ease, his focus never wavering.

Every step forward was a calculated move, every action designed to minimize risk and maximize reward.

After what felt like hours of navigating the deadly labyrinth, Draven's path finally opened into a vast chamber, the walls of which were lined with more ancient carvings. But this time, something felt different. The air here was heavier, darker, and thrumming with power. The floor beneath his feet pulsed with life—or rather, with death.

His cold eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his necromantic sword. "So, this is it," he whispered. "The heart of the dungeon."

A low, bone-chilling wind swept through the chamber, carrying with it the scent of rotting corpses and ancient, decayed magic. Draven's senses sharpened as the wind coalesced before him, forming into a ghostly figure. The figure was transparent, its form barely held together by the necromantic energy swirling around it.

Its eyes glowed with a sickly green light as it gazed at Draven with something akin to recognition.

"At last," the figure spoke, its voice a hollow whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "One with power has arrived."

Draven's expression remained unreadable as he studied the entity before him. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice cold, sharp.

The spirit chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver through the air. "I am a remnant... a shadow of a necromancer who once ruled these halls. I was sealed here, trapped for centuries. But you... you have awoken me."

Draven's grip on his sword tightened slightly, though his face betrayed no emotion. "And now what?" he asked, his tone as flat as ever.

"You seek power," the spirit said, its form shifting as it floated closer to Draven. "I can sense it in you. The hunger for knowledge, for control over death itself. You wish to dominate this dungeon, but you are not yet ready. I hold the secrets of necromancy—techniques long forgotten, power beyond your understanding."

"And you intend to share them?" Draven asked, already aware of the trap in the spirit's words.

"Yes... but at a cost," the spirit replied, its eyes gleaming with malice. "Submit to me. Allow me to guide you, to teach you the true depths of necromantic magic. In return, you will gain power beyond what you currently possess. But refuse...

and you will face the consequences of defying one who has mastered death itself."

Draven's mind raced, calculating the risks and potential outcomes in mere seconds. The spirit was powerful—ancient, yes, but also desperate. Its hunger for freedom was evident, and its offer was tempting. But Draven knew better than to trust something that thrived on death and deceit.

"You're trapped here for a reason," Draven said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "You were once powerful, but now you're nothing more than a relic, clinging to what little you have left. And you expect me to submit to that?"

The spirit hissed, its form flickering with anger. "Do not underestimate me, mortal! I could teach you—"

"You could," Draven interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like ice. "But I don't need you."

Without warning, Draven's sword ignited with necromantic energy, the blade glowing with a deep, pulsing black light. He slashed through the air with precision, the sword cutting through the spirit's form as if it were paper. The spirit screamed, its form dissolving into wisps of green mist as Draven severed its connection to the dungeon.

The chamber grew silent once more, the oppressive weight lifting as the spirit's presence faded. Draven lowered his sword, his expression as calm as ever.

"Power gained through submission is no power at all," he muttered, sheathing the sword. He had no need for the spirit's guidance. His path to domination was clear, and he would carve it himself—without compromise.

As the last remnants of the spirit dissipated, the runes on the walls began to glow with a faint light, revealing more of the ancient necromantic knowledge hidden within the dungeon. Draven's sharp eyes scanned the new symbols, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"This," he whispered, "is just the beginning."

He turned, motioning for his devil servants to follow. The dungeon had much more to offer, and Draven intended to claim every piece of it for himself. There was no time to waste.

For Draven, the road to power was one he would walk alone—calculated, cold, and relentless. And now, with the deeper secrets of the dungeon at his fingertips, he was one step closer to the ultimate goal: mastery over death itself.