Lyselle instinctively wanted to retort, "How could that be possible?"
If she could truly resurrect the dead, every race and kingdom would have enshrined her long ago. Even with harsh ritual conditions, it’d end up as "You just resurrect them—we’ll handle the rest."
The dead stay dead. No resurrection method existed—that was undeniable truth.
So the question was—
"Who told you that?" Lyselle asked, neither confirming nor denying.
Shall shook his head.
"I promised that person," he said. "I can’t tell you."
"Tsk…"
Lyselle pursed her lips in annoyance.
She smelled conspiracy—he’d only just heard she could resurrect the dead after she’d died shielding him as a fake Priestess. She didn’t believe it was coincidence.
But Shall wouldn’t name that person.
She knew him: stubborn as stone. Once he promised something, he’d keep it. Pressing him was pointless.
The Champion’s mouth was famously tight—she hadn’t tasted it, but she knew.
So she skipped the topic. "Who do you want to resurrect?"
At that, the Champion’s expression darkened.
"It’s…" He paused, then said, "…a friend."
"Huh?"
Lyselle’s irritation flared.
A friend?
Just a friend?
Pfft!
She’d spent three years in the Brave Squad, flirting relentlessly with the Champion. She’d exhausted every trick, short of dragging Shall to bed and saying, "Bro, I like you—let’s sleep together."
And now he called her just a friend?
The more she thought, the angrier she grew—being called his wife wouldn’t please her, but being reduced to a mere friend infuriated her.
Her voice turned icy. "A friend? Which friend?"
She regretted it instantly.
Such emotional spikes were unwise.
Shall didn’t know her true identity. He might misinterpret this as anger over being "just friends," not lovers.
That wasn’t it. She just felt like she’d winked at a dog for three years.
What rotten luck!
But Shall seemed lost in his own sorrow, not catching her tone. He answered haltingly:
"Someone… very important… to me."
Lyselle’s anger cooled slightly.
Ah, so it was a very important friend. No wonder he wanted her back.
She almost sneered but masked it into a sweet, innocent smile.
Ever since taking this form, people praised her for looking cute and well-behaved. She always accepted those hollow compliments.
Why?
Looking innocent made doing bad things easier.
Lyselle flashed her signature harmless smile, feigning curiosity. "So who exactly? How can I help if I don’t know?"
Shall had no choice but to confess:
"Our squad’s Priestess. Her name is Lyselle—Lyselle Charlotte."
"Oh—" Lyselle drawled. "That name rings a faint bell."
She narrowed her eyes, tone turning playful like teasing a buddy. "Do you like her?"
She waited for his stubborn denial or silence—the usual routine.
The dear Champion just wouldn’t—
"Mm. I like her," Shall said suddenly.
His voice was grave, heavy with sorrow. It sounded like wedding vows in a graveyard.
"Eh?"
Lyselle froze.
Before she could react, he added softly:
"I like her. I love her—but I never told her."
The Champion looked up. Lyselle saw guilt and pain welling in his steel-gray eyes.
Then, in a heartbreakingly low voice:
"...I miss her."
Silence fell over the dense forest. Shall stayed quiet. Surprisingly, Lyselle didn’t break the mood.
After a while, Shall snapped out of it, flustered.
He shouldn’t have spilled this to the Sorceress. He stole a glance at her face, bracing for mockery—he always got it from her.
Had he offended her by ruining her spell array? If so, he deserved it.
But the Sorceress didn’t mock him. She wore a strange, unreadable expression.
Sensing his stare, she turned sharply.
Shall looked away too late. Guilt-ridden, he stood still, awaiting her sarcastic storm.
The tension thickened. Thunder brewed on her face.
But only a few raindrops fell—
"Hmph!"
The Champion thought he heard a soft snort—almost an illusion. Then her impatient command:
"Follow me!"
"Huh?"
"Are you this stupid, Champion?" Her tone turned harsh. "Follow me! I won’t discuss things outside!"
He finally understood. Scratching his head, he sheathed his sword and trailed the Sorceress down the forest path.
…
Lyselle wanted to curse.
Calling him stupid earlier was just a drop in the bucket. A toothpick couldn’t fill a vat.
As she led Shall home, she silently cursed him with lip movements.
Confessing now? What good was it? She’d been dead over a week. Even a million "I love yous" or a ring proposal wouldn’t make her jump from the coffin saying "I do."
Sure, as a Sorceress, she could fake death.
But she wasn’t a Priestess. The Champion was just stupid. Might as well be dead.
Her earlier amusement from teasing him vanished. Teasing idiots gave others joy—not her.
She hated idiots.
Especially Champion-level idiots like Shall.
At her lair’s door, she turned, sized him up, and frowned.
"You’re filthy," she said, eyeing him like trash. "How long since you bathed?"
Shall flushed. "I… bathed yesterday."
"Who’d believe that? How’d you get this dirty?"
"It’s true," he scratched his head. "I rushed… probably why."
"…"
Lyselle fell silent.
She knew why he rushed.
Since hearing she could resurrect the dead, he’d hunted her. Her hideout lay deep in the Forest Sea—he’d crossed it nonstop for three days and nights.
That’s why he looked exhausted and ragged.
Was he this desperate to bring her back?
She found it unbelievable.
But useful. The more he wanted her resurrected, the more she could manipulate him.
She was a Sorceress—no conscience. His effort meant nothing. Only his remaining value mattered.
A plan formed. She pointed. "That way. A stream, a hundred meters off. Bathe. Scrub head to toe. Then return."
Shall blinked. "Okay."
He hesitated. "But I only have this set of clothes…"
Lyselle despaired at his IQ—he used to be sharp, not this silly. This wasn’t widowhood; he’d lost his external brain.
"Just wash the clothes too," she sighed. "And use your Luminous Spell to dry them after."
Shall nodded.
He didn’t leave. Looking up, he asked tentatively:
"After I bathe… will you tell me how to resurrect Lyselle?"
Lyselle curled her lips. "Of course."
In her heart, she added:
'But how do you resurrect someone who isn’t dead?'
