The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Chapter 691: The Elven Demon (End)

The Grove groaned once more, but the note was lower now, almost relieved.

Above, the Heart Tree's scarred trunk split along an existing seam. No crack of pain, only a deliberate parting. Warm gold spilled through the opening, bathing root and ruin in gentle sunlight where no sun could reach.

A seed floated from that radiance, no larger than a raven's eye, wrapped in filaments of pale energy. It drifted, slow and deliberate, spiraling as if carried by unseen hands. It neared Draven and paused, hovering at breast height.

Sylvanna watched, silent. Her breath caught as petals of light circled the seed.

Draven lifted his palm. The seed settled into his glove as though it already knew the path. A heartbeat later, the glow folded inwards, dimming to a steady pulse—alive, waiting.

The walls, newly freed of corruption, exhaled.

Bark knit itself slowly, like wounds stitching beneath a patient summer sun. Where rot-cracks once yawned, new grain formed in careful spirals, sealing splinters the way a scar fades to pale gloss over time. The wheeze of strained timber eased into softer creaks, timbre dropping from pain to relief. Memory-phantoms—specters caught in endless loops of grief—lost their definition. Colors leached from their robes and faces, bleeding into threads of honey-bright sap that flowed into veins long clogged by corruption. They did not howl or linger; they simply thinned, a mist burned away by dawn, until nothing remained but a tingling hush.

Sylvanna's body finally demanded tribute. She dropped to one knee, boot skidding across damp loam. Her bowstring slackened and the last arrow, brittle now that its enchantment had done its work, snapped at the midpoint with a crisp crack. The shards tinked against a root, then melted into harmless vapor. Frost haze curled around her gloves and dissipated. Sweat streaked soot across her cheek in accidental war paint.

Draven watched her only long enough to confirm she was breathing. Her pulse was visible—juddering beneath skin at her neck—strong enough to trust. Satisfied, he wiped spare demon ichor off his left blade on a strip of ruined cloak that hung from a nearby stump. Black residue hissed where it touched the fabric, but the steel emerged silver-bright. He slid one sword home, then the other; the first sizzled as lingering corruption met sheath oil. A final flick of his wrist dispelled the scent of burned pitch.

The Grove groaned, though the note carried none of the earlier agony. It sounded more like a creature stretching after too long confined.

Above them, the Heart Tree moved. A seam that had always been there—hidden beneath bark callus and misery—opened like a mouth finally allowed to speak. Not a snap, not a scream. A quiet parting. Light washed over vaulted roots in a soft, steady spill. It had texture, that glow: slow riverlight, pale amber shot through with flecks of green. Gentle, inviting, impossibly warm in the forest's cool breath.

Inside that glow hovered a single seed. No larger than a thumbprint, yet facets within its crystalline surface whispered of storms and calm tides, orchards in bloom, and the hush before snowfall. It drifted downward, buoyed by invisible currents.

Draven raised a palm. The seed settled with the inevitability of destiny, as though it had judged every other landing spot and dismissed them all. It pulsed once—an almost indiscernible heartbeat—and he felt the weight of the Grove's gratitude in his bones, a silent resonance that bypassed language.

Thank you. Return what was stolen.

The message wasn't sound; it pressed on joints and sinew, tightened the air across his shoulders. He inclined his head a fraction—acceptance, acknowledgment, promise.

Behind them the wounded trunks began to unfurl. Bark edges uncurled like fingers unclenching after long torment. Vines that had strangled their own blossoms loosened, and tiny leaves the color of newborn limes spiraled outward, tasting clean air for the first time. Bioluminescent filaments hidden in moss flicked on, a galaxy of emerald pinpoints spreading across the ground. Sap, once turgid and blackened, ran clear as mountain springwater, mapping liquid constellations down every trunk.

The scent changed. Ash and iron dissipated, replaced by green cinnamon, wet stone, and a sweetness that made Sylvanna close her eyes in spite of the pain pinching her ribs. She drew a shaky breath and rose, wobbling, but refused the hand Draven half extended. Pride, or maybe gratitude disguised as pride.

"You good?" His voice was flat as ever, but his eyes missed nothing: the tremor in her left leg, the pinched set of her jaw against bruised ribs, the tiny fissure in her bow grip.

Sylvanna forced a wry grin through parted lips. "Better than good." Her voice cracked. A cough escaped—half laugh, half leftover fear—and she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "I'll take 'alive and upright' any day."

Draven accepted the answer and turned, allowing her weakness exactly no more attention than she offered herself. The seed's glow flashed against his knuckles as he tucked it into an inner pocket stitched for vials and fuses. Its warmth seeped through leather, a quiet metronome of living magic.

They crossed the chamber in unhurried strides. There was no need to run; nothing hunted here anymore. At the threshold, the massive root archway sighed and drew itself together behind them, sealing the scar with supple new bark. A single breath—lighter than a breeze—echoed through the cavern, like the forest's final exhale before sleep.

The climb up the root-stairs felt shorter on the return. Without rot gnawing at its bones, the staircase straightened beneath their weight, steps widening, angles smoothing. Draven's boots landed without slippage; Sylvanna's footsteps—once ragged—found a steadier cadence. Green light traced their path, illuminating each new rise a second before they needed it, as if the Grove guided them home.

Halfway up, Sylvanna glanced back. Where darkness and despair had loomed, columns of light now speared upwards—thin lighthouses marking healing nodes. She swallowed, throat tight with something like awe. "Never seen anything come back that fast," she murmured.

"Nature hoards resilience," Draven replied. "It only needs rot removed."

She considered that. "Wish more people worked that way." The quip was soft, but bitterness scratched underneath. He didn't answer, and she let the silence stand.

At the final landing, the ceiling eased into a canopy of interwoven branches. The very air felt newly washed—lighter, as though grief had mass and the Grove had finally set it down. A column of moonless twilight filtered through narrow gaps. Sylvanna rolled her shoulders, testing bruises. Draven paused, eyes half-lidded, sensing subtle tremors in the magical hum around them. The forest pulse had steadied into two slow beats—healthy trunk, healthy heart.

Sylvanna's gaze returned to the stair mouth, now sealed by fresh bark. "Is it over?" she asked. The question hung fragile in the space between them, like dew before dawn.

He tasted the question, let it linger. Silence answered first: quiet roots, restful sap, a living grove breathing unburdened. He inclined his head.

"This Grove?" His tone held certainty. "Yes."

He turned then, eyes narrowing northward—beyond the cluster of trunks, past distant ridgelines invisible through foliage. In his mind, he drew a map: dots of other sacred woods, threaded by malign seams. Corruption seldom traveled alone.

"But others have already begun to rot."

The words were low, but the leaves overhead rustled in what felt like agreement. An errant breeze threaded through the canopy, tossing new leaves like coins. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a bird startled from its nest, chirping for the first time since the scream of demons drowned natural song.

Sylvanna brushed soot from her temple, smearing it into streaks that made her look war-painted and weary. She followed his gaze, though she couldn't see what he saw—patterns of plague moving unseen. "Then we keep pruning," she said.

Draven's hands flexed, subconscious weapon check. Balance: unchanged. Grip: firm. The momentary vulnerability he'd allowed in confronting the child-Titan had soldered into fresh steel. He nodded once.

He stepped onto the path that wound toward the Grove's rim, each stride confident yet unhurried. Sylvanna matched him, though she favored her bruised side. Neither spoke; the forest supplied its own conversation—creaks of settling wood, sighs of cured vines, the wet pat of clear sap dripping onto moss.

At the threshold arch—now bright with new growth—Draven paused just long enough to glance over one shoulder. Light spilled from opened petals along the root walls, casting dim halos where hours earlier only rot had crawled. He held that image—not sentimentally, but as data: evidence of healing and template for what must come next.

A final creak behind them signaled completion. The bark of the arch folded in like closing wings, edges fusing in a faint shimmer. A hush settled, so deep it could have been eternal.

A heartbeat later, the outer canopy parted for wind. Leaves shivered, and the newfound hush turned into a gentle rustle—the forest's version of soft applause.

Draven accepted the cue. He stepped forward once more, boots sinking into a carpet of emerald moss. His voice carried just enough to be heard by the woman at his side and—maybe—by the trees leaning in to listen.

"Now," he said, tone calm yet iron-lined, "we return to the elves."

And the Grove closed behind us.