The moment Lyselle signed her name, she snapped back to her senses.
With her feet firmly on the ground and the chaos cleared, her sharp mind reclaimed its throne. Staring at her long-unused true name, the sorceress paused briefly, then subtly traced her fingertips over the characters.
And so, "Lyselle Charlotte" vanished.
A brand-new name took its place.
She slid the completed contract across the table to Shall.
Shall didn’t notice Lyselle’s little trick.
He instinctively took the contract, glanced at the signature line, and read out the swapped name:
"...DawnDusk?"
"Mhm," Lyselle replied, utterly unfazed. "They all call me DawnDusk—the DawnDusk Witch."
Seeing Shall’s hesitation, she added, "What? Haven’t you heard of the DawnDusk Witch’s reputation?"
Her question forced Shall to blurt out without thinking:
"No, I’ve never heard of her. I only heard..."
He abruptly clamped his mouth shut, refusing to continue.
Sensing his reluctance, Lyselle suspected foul play. Using the fresh contract’s power, she commanded:
"Heard what? Speak!"
Shall had no intention of obeying, but he froze in shock as his mouth betrayed him.
Without permission, it spilled his thoughts aloud:
"Before I came, I heard a sorceress lives deep in the Forest Sea. Since she avoids showing her face or meeting outsiders, some call her the Shut-in Sorceress..."
"?"
Lyselle mentally typed a slow, disbelieving question mark.
True, she disliked crowds and strangers—but "Shut-in Sorceress"? Seriously? Okay, she *was* a bit of a homebody, but that title sounded lame. "DawnDusk Witch" was way cooler.
When she first arrived on the Pan Continent as a sorceress, she’d chosen "DawnDusk Witch" as her title. She’d dreamed of becoming a dragon-slaying protagonist, defying fate to dominate the Pan Continent.
But reality hit hard. She accepted her inner couch potato, abandoned world domination, and retreated to the Forest Sea. There, she settled into a lazy, carefree life.
From then on, she rarely used her real name. Only old friends knew her as Lyselle; everyone else called her the DawnDusk Witch.
Decades had passed. If not for infiltrating the Brave Squad undercover, she might’ve forgotten "Lyselle Charlotte" herself.
And who’d guess the DawnDusk Witch and the Brave Squad’s Priestess were the same person?
Smug, Lyselle turned to Shall.
But Shall had no energy left to ponder identities.
He’d just realized the contract had shifted their dynamic—he couldn’t refuse her commands anymore.
Like moments ago: his mind screamed *no*, but his mouth overruled it, saying *yes*.
He turned to Lyselle, demanding an explanation.
But as he opened his mouth, dread struck.
"Witch—" He tried to address her as before, but his traitorous lips forced out her preset title. "M-Master? What’s going on?"
Shall’s shocked expression was pure comedy, especially against his usual stiff demeanor.
Lyselle burst out laughing, collapsing onto the table, shaking uncontrollably.
After a while, she lifted her head, fighting to keep a straight face. Her lips curled upward as she stared at him.
"Good boy. Say it again," she ordered.
Shall’s face darkened. Lyselle saw him clench his jaw, struggling to stay silent—but his resistance crumbled.
"...Master," he muttered unwillingly, looking like a rabbit forced to wipe a bear’s butt.
"Hahahahaha!"
Lyselle howled with laughter until her stomach ached. Finally, she straightened up, leaning on the table.
Her pale, porcelain skin flushed from the exertion. Her blue eyes softened, losing their sharp cunning, now glistening with moisture—strangely alluring.
Moments ago, her boisterous laugh made Shall mistake her for a buddy. Now, chin propped on her palm, she radiated pure, intoxicating charm.
Shall’s anger vanished. He remembered the girl who’d once walked beside him—
They’d teased each other like this too.
Then, as now.
The Champion felt a soft spot in his heart prick. Instinctively, he lowered his head, pressed a hand to his chest, checking if his heart still beat.
Satisfied, he smiled—a calm, distant smile.
...
Lyselle’s laughter died instantly.
Shall’s smile stung. It reminded her of a widower raising kids alone, shouldering life’s weight in silence, licking wounds while chewing on memories of past happiness.
Such people were unbreakable—yet fragile as glass.
They’d died the day their wives were buried. Only a final whisper kept them alive:
"After I’m gone, you must live well..."
That’s what Shall looked like now.
Lyselle couldn’t believe it—did he love her *that* much? Why hadn’t she noticed back then?
Or was it true: only lost loves become true loves? Was Shall the type who cherished only what he’d lost?
She didn’t know.
She just felt inexplicably annoyed.
Kind-hearted, she couldn’t bear his pain. So she decided to cheer him up—her way.
Her eyes narrowed, fox-like mischief returning.
"Question time!" she declared, yanking him from his memories. With a teasing grin, she asked:
"What’s your fetish?"
"???"
Shall’s grief evaporated. He wanted to refuse sternly, but his mouth and vocal cords had other plans.
"W-White stockings," he choked out.
"Excellent!" Lyselle praised with exaggerated enthusiasm. "So spirited!"
Watching Shall flush crimson, squirming like an ant on a hot pan, she mused:
"Truly the Light’s Champion—even your stockings prefer pure white! But is that all? Come on, be a good boy. Share your darker, deeper fantasies. What else turns you on besides white stockings?"
Her tone was warm, like a childhood buddy slinging an arm around your shoulders: "C’mon, bro, no shame!"
But Shall felt zero warmth.
He was sweating bullets.
As his body threatened to betray him again, he finally activated Magic Nullification.
The contract’s compulsion faltered under this anomalous power. Shall regained control.
He clamped his mouth shut, glared at Lyselle, and warned:
"Can you... stop asking these questions?"
Lyselle suddenly felt like a minotaur chieftain cornering a gentle widow. After threatening, "Madam, wouldn’t you hate for your late wife to stay buried forever?" even the most reluctant victim would yield with tearful submission. Shall’s warning lacked bite—it sounded like a plea.
*Amateur*, Lyselle thought. *This is nothing. Can’t handle a little fun? Such a pure, clueless virgin.*
Pity there was no browser history to exploit. That’d be hilarious.
But Lyselle was smart. She knew slow cooking yielded better results. Ruining him all at once was no fun.
She agreed readily, dropping the teasing.
Finally, they could discuss the real matter: reviving the Priestess.
—Though Lyselle never planned to actually resurrect her other self.
Shall didn’t know that. To him, his lost love had a chance to return. Joy flooded him—he longed to see her alive and bouncing before him.
So he told the sorceress:
"I’ll go fetch Lyselle’s body right now."
The sorceress nodded instinctively—of course you needed a corpse to revive someone. But then she remembered something critical.
Wait.
The Priestess’s body... wasn’t in the grave anymore.
Oh no. What now?
