The Villain Professor's Second Chance

Chapter 212 The Demon King's Miserable End

"Draven," he began, his voice calm, steady, and regal, carrying the weight of countless victories and wars fought over millennia. "You're fortunate. There are few mortals who would ever witness—"

His words were cut off.

Behind him, Malakaroth, who had been standing still, his body radiating nothing but defeat, moved. It was subtle at first, a twitch of his massive hands, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto the back of Gilgamesh's head. The demon king's pride had been wounded, but that wasn't enough to stop him.

He had waited, bided his time, and now, seeing the King of Heroes turning his attention away from him, he believed this was his moment.

In an instant, dark energy began swirling around Malakaroth, coiling like a viper, crackling with raw, malevolent power. His eyes burned with hatred, and with a guttural snarl, he raised both hands, summoning the full force of his demonic magic. I could feel the dark energy building, twisting the air around us, and in that moment, I knew exactly what the demon king intended.

"Your arrogance will be your downfall!" Malakaroth roared, his voice filled with venom. With a wave of his hands, a massive vortex of dark flames erupted from his fingertips, barreling toward Gilgamesh's exposed back like a hurricane of pure destruction. The flames were thick, black, and corrosive—demonic fire that could incinerate even the strongest of mortals.

I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but before I could even utter a word, Gilgamesh moved.

He didn't turn. He didn't even flinch. His hand flicked outward, almost lazily, as if swatting away a fly. The motion was so casual, so effortless, that for a split second, it didn't seem real. And yet, the result was devastating.

A golden ripple of light spread from his hand, expanding in an instant to engulf the dark flames. The demonic fire, which had moments before seemed unstoppable, disintegrated upon contact with the golden light. It didn't explode, didn't fade—it simply ceased to exist, vanishing into nothingness as if it had never been.

Malakaroth's eyes widened in shock, his body frozen mid-attack. He didn't even have time to process what was happening before Gilgamesh finally turned to face him, his expression one of utter disdain.

"Really?" Gilgamesh said, his voice dripping with annoyance. "I was going to let you leave with your pitiful life, but you couldn't help yourself, could you? You just had to try."

Malakaroth stumbled back, panic flooding his features. "No, I—"

Before he could finish, Gilgamesh raised his hand again, and with a flick of his wrist, the golden light that had disintegrated the flames intensified. It coiled around Malakaroth's massive form like golden chains, wrapping tighter and tighter with each passing second.

"You should've taken the mercy I offered," Gilgamesh said coldly. "But now…"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

With another flick of his hand, the golden chains tightened one last time, and Malakaroth's body shattered. There was no explosion, no dramatic burst of energy—just a soft, almost imperceptible sound, like glass breaking. The demon king's form dissolved into countless fragments of light, each piece disintegrating into the ether until there was nothing left. Not even a trace of his existence remained.

Just like that, Malakaroth, the Blood-Forged Sovereign, a demon king feared by many, was gone. His life, his power, erased with a simple gesture from the King of Heroes.

I stood there, watching as the last fragments of the demon king's essence faded into nothingness. There was a chill in the air now, the oppressive heat from Malakaroth's demonic magic having vanished as quickly as he had. My mind raced, processing what had just happened, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Gilgamesh turned back to me, as though the demon king's demise had been nothing more than an afterthought. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flash of irritation, perhaps, or maybe disappointment.

"Apologies for the interruption," he said, his tone as casual as if we'd been discussing the weather. "It seems your demon friend had delusions of grandeur."

I didn't respond immediately. My mind was still piecing together the reality of what had just occurred. I had seen Gilgamesh fight before, both in the game and in the various histories I'd studied, but witnessing it firsthand was an entirely different experience. He had killed a demon king with nothing more than a flick of his hand, as though the creature had been beneath his notice.

It was humbling, in a way.

"I should've expected as much," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. "Malakaroth was always known for his desperation. He never knew when to quit."

Gilgamesh raised an eyebrow at me, clearly amused. "I suppose that's one way of putting it."

There was a brief moment of silence, and in that time, I allowed myself a second to truly take in the King of Heroes. His golden armor gleamed, unmarred by the battle, and his eyes—sharp and cold—seemed to pierce through everything they looked at. He exuded confidence, but it wasn't just arrogance. No, this was something deeper. Gilgamesh didn't just believe he was superior—he knew it.

His power was absolute, and he wielded it like a weapon, with precision and purpose.

And yet, there was something more beneath the surface, something I had always suspected but never fully understood until now. Gilgamesh wasn't just a king of unrivaled strength—he was a man who relished the challenge. The thrill of battle. The opportunity to test himself against the strongest of foes. It was why he had given Malakaroth a chance, why he had handicapped himself with an ordinary sword.

And now, having found that challenge lacking, he was bored again.

"So," Gilgamesh said, breaking the silence once more, "where were we?"

I met his gaze, keeping my expression calm and measured. "You were about to explain why you've graced us with your presence, your majesty."

Gilgamesh chuckled softly, his amusement returning. "Ah, yes. Well, as I said before, it's been a while since I've been summoned." He glanced down at the pen I still held, his eyes gleaming with interest. "And your little artifact here—my gift to you—has served its purpose quite well, it seems."

I nodded. "It did what I needed it to."

His gaze lingered on the pen for a moment longer before returning to me. "You've grown stronger since the last time we crossed paths, Draven. Or should I say… Dravis?" He smirked at the mention of my old name. "I see you've adapted to this world rather well."

"I've had little choice," I replied evenly. "Survival requires it."

"Indeed," Gilgamesh said, his tone thoughtful. "This world is far more dangerous than most mortals realize. Demons, dungeons, rifts in time and space… It's all coming apart, piece by piece."

He began to pace slowly, his golden eyes scanning the chamber as if seeing through the very fabric of reality itself. "This tower," he muttered, "the rift… it's not just a coincidence, Draven. The threads of fate are pulling tighter. Time is unraveling, and the forces that threaten this world are growing stronger."

I frowned, processing his words. "You're saying this isn't an isolated event?"

Gilgamesh stopped, turning to face me once more. His expression was serious now, the amusement gone. "No. This is only the beginning. The demons are stirring again, and their power is spreading, corrupting everything it touches. If it continues, it won't just be this tower that falls—it will be the entire world."

I clenched my jaw, the weight of his words settling over me like a dark cloud. I had known, from the moment I was summoned to this world, that something larger was at play. But hearing it from Gilgamesh himself made the reality of it all the more stark.

"And what do you intend to do about it?" I asked, my voice cold, calculating.

Gilgamesh smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "What I always do, Draven. I fight. I destroy those who stand in my way."

His eyes gleamed with a fierce determination, and for a moment, I saw the true nature of the King of Heroes. He wasn't just a ruler—he was a warrior, a conqueror. He would stop at nothing to preserve his world, his legacy.

And in that moment, I realized something else: I needed him. As arrogant as he was, as overwhelming as his presence could be, Gilgamesh was the key to stopping whatever was coming. He was a force that could stand against the rising tide of darkness, and whether I liked it or not, I would need his help.

"I see," I said, my voice calm and measured. "Then it seems we have the same goal."