The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 648: Teaching at The Orphanage (1)

Amberine had a theory that waking up before dawn rewired your mana flow in all the wrong ways, jostling the natural rhythm that kept a mage's mind and spirit in delicate balance. At this particular moment, with the sky still washed in the pale blues and grays of daybreak, she felt that imbalance keenly. A fierce yawn forced its way out, and she nearly dropped the battered crate of spellbooks she was in the process of moving. The crate smelled faintly of mildew and a comforting hint of cinnamon—possibly from the spice-laced ward someone had tried (and failed) to set on the books ages ago. Either way, the scent reminded her she was definitely not curled up in her warm dorm bed where she believed, with every fiber of her being, she rightfully belonged at such an early hour.

"Waking up this early should be illegal for mages," she mumbled around the tail end of her yawn, chin tipped toward the cracked ceiling beams. She wanted the universe to know she was protesting.

Elara, who stood by a creaky chalkboard re-inking runic lines with meticulous precision, didn't bother lifting her head. The steady scratch-scratch of chalk against wood was as consistent as a heartbeat in the quiet orphanage. "So should misspelling 'resonance' three times in your thesis notes," came the dry reply. Her sleeves were rolled neatly to her elbows, the smooth bun of her hair unruffled, as if even the morning chill wouldn't dare muss her disciplined appearance.

A flush heated Amberine's cheeks. "It was intentional," she shot back, letting a spellbook flop onto one of the orphanage's crooked desks with a theatrical thud. "A stress test for peer reviewers."

From across the modest room, Maris gave a quiet chuckle as she stirred a large pot of reheated bread stew. The pot itself hovered over a warm, rune-engraved cooking stone, each swirl of Maris's wooden spoon causing a drowsy cyclone of steam. The stew smelled earthy and comforting, a salve to the cool dawn. "Can we get through one morning without academic violence?" she teased softly, though there was an underlying plea there, too. Maris had never been fond of tense bickering, even the mild kind that meant no real harm.

"You say that like it's not my coping mechanism," Amberine muttered, picking up another book and blowing the dust off its cover. Her mood was sour, but in that moment, she recognized something that almost made her smile: the orphanage felt more like home now than a random, half-falling-down building in the slums had any right to. The walls were patchwork, scrawled with runic chalk from dozens of earlier lessons. The furniture definitely carried the scars of rowdy children and unpracticed spells—singed edges, chipped corners, scorch marks that had refused to vanish under repeated illusions. And yet, there was a warmth in the battered surfaces, a sense of honest belonging that made Amberine's heart lighten, no matter how much she complained.

A muffled clattering echoed from outside, perhaps a cart crossing uneven cobblestones. The slum markets hadn't woken fully yet; soon enough, the air would fill with the spicy tang of street foods and the brisk calls of merchants hawking their paltry wares. For now, the dawn was quiet, a hush of soft dew coating everything, the last vestiges of night clinging to the shadows.

Inside, the three of them—Amberine, Elara, Maris—moved in a steady routine. Dusting the benches, heating the stew, sorting which battered scrolls would be used for the morning's lessons. They'd been at this for weeks, and a sense of easy coordination had developed, the kind that came from shared experiences of both triumphs and near-disasters with the young students who trickled through these doors each day.

Amberine tugged a broken broom from behind a half-broken desk, intending to shoo out the layer of dust that had accumulated overnight. Just as she turned, a giggle rang out, high-pitched and mischievous. A small shape darted past her in a whoosh of air. She blinked. Then froze. There were leaves stuck to her hair, her shoulders, her robe—crisp autumn leaves, bright with browns and golds and oranges, rustling each time she moved.

"What the—? Who dares?!" she spluttered. Her voice rose, half in indignation, half in bafflement at how silent the culprit's spell had been.

A chorus of laughter came from behind a makeshift bookshelf. Little footsteps scurried on the worn floorboards, culminating in the triumphant grin of a curly-haired boy popping up into view. "I cast 'Autumn Crown'!" Nico announced, eyes shining with delight. "You're now Leaf Queen!"

Amberine's eyes narrowed to slits. "You little goblin!" She brandished the broom like a sword, albeit somewhat uselessly. "That's an illegal illusion, not to mention too advanced for your level! Underage, unsupervised illusions are a big no, buster!"

Nico cackled at her outrage. "Elara! She's threatening to turn me into charcoal!"

Elara, still re-inking runes on the chalkboard with the steady hand of a surgeon, lifted her gaze a fraction, then returned to her task. "Then you shouldn't have used foliage-based pranks on a fire mage," she said in that calm, almost bored tone. The line was so perfectly, effortlessly timed that Amberine almost forgot her anger.

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Amberine took it as encouragement, pointing the broom at Nico. "Exactly! If you want a seasonal theme, I can do seasonal. Let me show you what happens in 'wildfire season.'"

A comedic chase ensued around a chipped desk. Nico squealed in mock terror, scuttling beneath chairs, darting behind corners. Every time Amberine tried to corner him, he wiggled free, illusions forming faint illusions of swirling leaves behind him. It was silly, chaotic, and wholly indicative of how life in the orphanage had become.

Finally, Maris intervened. She flicked her wrist, and a minor glamour disguised Nico's smug grin with a full, bushy beard that looked better suited to a grizzled dwarf. He shrieked, hands flying to his face. "No fair!" he yelped, stumbling back in horror as if the beard weighed him down.

"And that," Maris said sweetly, letting the spoon rest in the stew pot while she admired her own handiwork, "is why we don't prank our teachers before breakfast."

The entire confrontation couldn't have lasted more than a minute or two, but it left Amberine breathing a touch quicker, leaves still clinging to her robe and hair in a rustling reminder of her defeat. She blew a stubborn strand of hair from her face, unable to hide her smirk. Despite herself, she was half-impressed at Nico's illusions. He'd come a long way from the day he'd tried conjuring a single butterfly and ended up with a fuzzy moth that coughed dust everywhere.

She sensed movement behind her. Elara was there, far closer than Amberine realized, still holding a piece of chalk. The corners of Elara's lips twitched—her version of a half-smile, which in normal human terms might count as a huge grin. "Leave them, or do you want help picking them off?" Elara asked, glancing at the leaves nestled in Amberine's hair.

Amberine huffed dramatically but allowed a conspiratorial grin to show. "I can handle them, thanks," she declared. One by one, she plucked leaves from her hair. They vanished the moment her fingers touched them, disintegrating into tiny motes of ephemeral mana. "Sneaky illusions," she muttered, more to herself than Elara. "He's got a knack for detail. I hate it."

Elara just nodded, returning her focus to the chalkboard. She was printing lines of alphabets in runic script, presumably for the kids who still struggled with reading. She always balanced dryness with practicality in her teaching style, and it had proven surprisingly effective for the older children. They respected her unyielding calm, even if they occasionally tested the boundaries of it with pranks.

A slight shift of the door in the far corner made all three women look up. The caretaker—an older man with a kind face lined by the fatigue of years—poked his head in, eyebrows raised. "Everything alright in here?" he asked, eyeing the swirl of leftover illusions. Amberine noticed the small paper talisman pinned to his vest, likely a minor ward Draven had entrusted him with.

"We're fine," Maris answered politely, stirring the stew again. "Just the usual illusions. We'll have them done in time for the morning lesson." Her voice carried a warmth that rarely left her lips outside the orphanage's walls, but in here, she felt safe enough to show it.

The caretaker nodded, relief flickering across his face, and retreated, presumably to see if the children had started gathering. Even with her grumpiness, Amberine felt a small sense of readiness. Yes, she'd complained about being here at this gods-forsaken hour, but the silliness with Nico had somehow recharged her spirit. She realized she cared a lot more than she wanted to admit. She was downright protective of these kids, their illusions, and even the battered surroundings that they all found themselves in day after day.

She dropped the battered broom in a corner, deciding the leaves-littered floor was "clean enough," and turned her full attention to the pot of stew. "Is that even edible?" she asked, sniffing. It smelled decent, if watery, but the lumps of bread floating at the top looked suspiciously dense.

"I reinforced it with my illusions so they don't taste stale," Maris joked, which earned her a wide-eyed stare from Amberine.

"You can do that?" Amberine said, half-impressed. "Illusions that trick taste buds?"