The Champion was absurdly strong.

Just how strong?

This generation’s Champion was famously reckless—a pure brawler. Before infiltrating the Brave Squad for revenge, Lyselle had even calculated the gap between her strength and his.

If she was the unit of measurement—one "Lys"—the Champion’s power had to be at least ten Lys. No, perhaps a hundredfold.

Honestly, even if he tied his own hands and feet, Lyselle stood no chance against him.

That was precisely why she’d abandoned the idea of beating him into submission like a proper warrior to settle her grudge.

And now, this terrifyingly strong Champion had tracked her down.

Lyselle’s first thought: *Blast it! A traitor!* Someone must have exposed her fake identity as a Priestess!

But then she hesitated—no one even knew she’d disguised herself to join the Brave Squad. Why would the Champion be here?

The Sorceress couldn’t figure it out.

No matter. The Champion was at her doorstep now. If she didn’t want to be dragged off for a reckoning, the smartest move was to run.

If she couldn’t win, couldn’t she at least run away?

Lyselle held her breath, silently pulling out her Magic Wand. She slipped behind a tree, ready to cast a Blink Spell.

But halfway through the incantation—

“Who’s there?”

The Champion’s voice cut through the air nearby.

“!”

Lyselle nearly dropped her wand in shock.

*Blast it!*

How could she forget? The Champion’s senses were unnaturally sharp—he could detect any magical fluctuation within a hundred meters.

Back in the squad, it was his perception that had saved them time and again.

Maybe that was why she’d grown dependent on him. He always thought of everything. She’d never been this careless before.

*All his fault!*

Lyselle blamed him without hesitation.

Wand raised, she raced to finish the Blink Spell before he found her.

The Champion moved fast—as always. Sword drawn, he became a gust of wind, gliding soundlessly through the thicket straight toward her.

*‘Tsk tsk, still so quick. Reliable as ever, Champion-sama,’* Lyselle thought sarcastically. *‘Too bad I’m just a hair faster—’*

“Eat my dust!”

The Blink Spell activated.

The Champion reached her just as her body began fading—transparent as a sketch erased by an eraser.

He saw her smug expression. Heard her taunt.

But he didn’t rage. He simply dropped his sword, reaching out as if to grasp her vanishing form.

Lyselle froze.

She almost mocked his futility—how could he catch her mid-Blink?—then remembered his signature ability:

*Mana Nullification.*

He stripped everyone of magic, dragging them down to his level. Then, with his brutal experience and barbaric physique, he’d crush almost anyone.

Unfortunately, Lyselle fell squarely into the "crushable" category.

The moment his fingers brushed her, the Blink Spell shattered.

Reality snapped back.

Lyselle stumbled, landing hard on her rear. Spring grass cushioned the fall—barely saving her from splitting in half.

Still, she hissed in pain.

*‘Damn Champion!’* She rubbed her sore rear inwardly. *‘Just you wait. If I ever catch you, you won’t get off easy!’*

A shadow loomed over her.

The Champion.

Closing in.

Lyselle’s heart lurched.

*‘Blast it! Is this how I die today?’* Outwardly, she stayed calm, lifting her gaze to meet his.

They hadn’t seen each other in a while.

It had been nearly a month since she faked her death. In three years together, they’d never been apart this long.

A month had changed him.

Stubble shadowed his jaw—unshaven. His hair hung unkempt. Dark circles ringed his eyes like he hadn’t slept in weeks, lids drooping with exhaustion. His gaze was lifeless as a dead fish’s, radiating a "one foot in the grave" aura.

His clothes were filthy, stained gray by dust, dew, and plant sap. Rips gaped unrepaired. He hadn’t even wiped the dried blood streaking his cheek.

He stood over her, silent and expressionless—a sleepwalking corpse.

Lyselle stared at this stranger wearing the Champion’s face.

Was it because of her?

Because Priestess Lyselle Charlotte had "died" shielding him? In just one month, had grief reduced the mighty Champion to this broken husk? He looked ready to collapse any second, chasing his lost Priestess into death.

*How…*

Lyselle lowered her head.

She didn’t want him seeing her face. He’d wonder why a stranger—a Sorceress—was…

…barely holding back laughter.

*Pop the champagne!*

Her cheeks burned from the effort of stifling it.

She wanted to whisper in his ear: *Yes! This is exactly what I wanted to see, dear Champion-sama! That look of eternal regret!*

*Serves you right!*

Who did he think he was, wrecking her painstakingly built Planar Gate? Then playing innocent when she demanded compensation: *"I didn’t mean to. And I can’t pay."*

True—he hadn’t meant it. True—he was dirt poor, unable to afford materials that could bankrupt a kingdom.

But Lyselle was furious.

Did he think a flimsy "sorry" could repay ten years of work and irreplaceable reagents?

People paid for their mistakes. Since he’d destroyed her life’s work, she’d make him feel the pain of losing someone precious.

Only then would they be even.

Thinking this, fear faded.

What was there to fear? They were even now. Besides, didn’t he love "reason"?

She’d see what logic he’d spin this time.

Lyselle straightened up.

Before he could speak, she snapped:

“Who are you? Why lurk near my home? And why disrupt my Blink Spell?!”

Her acting was flawless—three years undercover in the Brave Squad proved it.

She didn’t know why he’d come, but she trusted her disguise. He likely didn’t recognize her. She glared, playing the offended victim.

Just as she’d guessed, he didn’t expose her. After a pause, he answered quietly:

“I am Shall… Champion Shall.”

Lyselle knew that name. She’d spoken it countless times over three years—morning greetings, bedtime whispers, soothing murmurs while healing his wounds: *"Hold on, Shall."*

No one knew that name like she did.

Now, she feigned confusion.

“Shall? Champion Shall…”

After repeating it twice, she gasped dramatically.

“I remember—you’re the brat who wrecked my ritual circle!”

Her face twisted into a snarl, as if seeing a mortal enemy.

“Ruining my circle was bad enough. Now you skulk near my home and sabotage my magic…” Lyselle rose, brushing dirt off her skirt with a cold snort. “Are Champions this cheap these days? How did someone so dishonorable even earn the title?”

Guilt pricked her—just for a second.

Even she admitted Shall was a near-perfect Champion.

But so what? Only people with consciences felt guilt. Hers had been discarded long ago.

No remorse. Only escalation.

When he mentioned the Priestess’s death, she’d mock his weakness. Ask why the mighty Champion couldn’t protect the one he loved.

Decision made, Lyselle dusted off her skirt and drawled:

“Last time, you promised compensation. Where is it?”

She held out her hand, palm up.

Shall hesitated. His expression darkened. He shook his head, voice rough:

“I’m sorry, Sorceress. I…”

Lyselle knew he was broke. She cut him off impatiently:

“Spare me. I knew you couldn’t pay. Then spit it out—why are you here?”

Shall fell silent again. Then he lifted his head, eyes locking onto hers with a strange mix of hope and desperation.

“Sorceress,” he whispered, “I was told… you can bring back the dead. Is it true?”

[To Be Continued]