Shea broke free from Abel, whose legs were tied with a belt. She rounded a corner, gripped the maze of pipes, and activated Spirit Form to slip through the ceiling onto the surface.

Honestly, she didn’t feel great.

Sure, Shea had used Spirit Form many times—but all those moments added up to barely six seconds. Maybe? She hadn’t kept count.

Also, she felt like she’d forgotten something.

But right now, she was utterly drained.

Static snow crept into her vision. It felt worse than low blood sugar—her head throbbed dully, and her chest tightened like a trapped breath she couldn’t release.

“Magic Exhaustion Syndrome… gotta get home fast.”

Escaping Abel was only temporary. He’d catch up soon. Dawn was near too. If her black-haired self collapsed here, Abel would definitely get suspicious.

Good news: home was close. Leaning on the wall, Shea pushed her last reserves to move.

What should’ve been minutes felt like an eternity. By her door, she barely had strength to turn the key.

She’d planned to blame Abel for her state. But honestly—if he hadn’t arrived when he did, those Cultists would’ve cornered her while she couldn’t use Spirit Form. The outcome would’ve been far worse.

Unlike Abel, that lust-crazed idiot, Cultists wouldn’t wait for her to recover.

In a way, Abel had saved her life.

Her trembling hand finally opened the door. Her balance gave way—she stumbled and crashed to the floor.

Pain jolted her foggy mind clearer, but agony flooded in. A dark bruise bloomed on her knee, oozing a little blood.

“Hah… I’ve survived worse since childhood. Just one more step.”

Step by step. Anyone watching would’ve seen Shea’s face ghostly pale, bloodless—but the stubborn girl kept crawling forward.

Thankfully, her bedroom door stood open. She collapsed onto the bed and lost consciousness.

“……”

—

She woke to deep night.

“Ugh… my head’s pounding.”

Awake, but her brain felt stabbed with needles—a hangover-like ache.

She tried sitting up, but her body screamed in protest.

People here were tough, yet Shea had truly collapsed. Magic Exhaustion was no joke.

Even better: she’d survived. Untreated, it had a high death rate.

Staring at her ceiling, she waited for strength to return. She needed food.

“Sigh… I always wish someone was here to cook for me in moments like this.”

Not critically injured, but barely mobile. She knew—getting out of bed was hard, but no bed meant no food.

Lying flat, she noticed her scraped knee was bandaged.

And… hadn’t she passed out uncovered?

Could that Perverse Hunter have done this?

As she wondered, Abel pushed the door open. He set a bowl of noodles on the table, then caught Shea’s wary glance.

“Perverse Hunter, barging into a girl’s room is a crime.”

“I don’t barge. I always step in right foot first.”

Seeing her awake, Abel cracked a joke.

“Besides, trespassing to care for an injured person is emergency defense. You can’t sue me.”

He didn’t leave. Sitting by her bed, he took a deep breath, dropping the humor.

“You went into the sewers to rescue people last night, didn’t you?”

“……”

Shea froze. Was she exposed?

What horror came next?

Silent, she braced for judgment. Beaten, stripped—violated.

Her dagger lay ready. It might not pierce Abel’s skin, but it’d end her fast enough.

“You can deny it, Shea.”

Abel’s face grew graver. Shea steeled herself.

“Yes. I went to save them in the sewers.”

“Figured…” Abel’s eyes widened. His hand—the one that shredded countless Cultists—inched toward her.

Shea shut her eyes, dagger clenched.

But his palm only settled gently on her head.

“Nelly told me everything. You tried Spirit Form in the sewers, but ran out of magic before going deep.”

Nelly? Shea blinked. What did her teacher have to do with this?

Abel explained: after rescuing civilians, he’d collected his pay from Nelly and headed home. But Shea was missing. After calling out, he found her unconscious in bed. He rushed back to Nelly for help. With the mysterious mage’s aid, Shea survived.

Nelly had shared how she’d taught Shea Spirit Form—and how stubbornly Shea pushed herself. They’d pieced it together: Shea tried rescuing people, nearly dying in the attempt.

“Shea, you push too hard. I’d planned to return your money and move out.”

He jingled a heavy sack of gold coins before her eyes. Her gaze locked on it—easily four thousand gold.

“But now I get it. You don’t need this cash urgently. And I need a cook. So I’ll stay here to protect my Lucky Cat.”

“Hey! I’m not a cook or some Lucky Cat!”

Shea wanted to curse, to snap:

*I don’t need your protection.*

But the words died. Honestly, in just one day, this Perverse Hunter had saved her twice.

It… touched her. A little.

“Catgirls never submit to slavery—unless you pay my wages first.”

Her eyes flicked back to his coin pouch.