Lyselle suddenly recalled she’d forgotten to clean up the crime scene after bursting out of her coffin.

Not only had she left the coffin out, but the grave remained wide open. If Shall returned now, he’d see the desecrated cemetery and the empty coffin lying exposed.

What would he think?

Her smug grin froze on her face.

She didn’t know what Shall would think—but she knew someone would pay for this. Even if he couldn’t guess who’d dug up his wife’s grave, he’d investigate.

And what if that investigation led straight to her?

Secrets couldn’t stay buried forever. Lyselle had believed her infiltration of the Brave Squad was flawless. In her past life, even the world’s greatest detectives would never have pinned it on her.

But this world had magic—unreasonable, unpredictable magic.

Who knew if spells existed to reconstruct crime scenes? What if Shall followed the trail and discovered she was his dead wife?

If her misdeeds came to light, her life as a Sorceress would be over.

She’d face the Champion’s furious retribution.

No way!

Under no circumstances would she tolerate men!

Even during her closest days with Shall in the Brave Squad, she’d only seen him as a brother.

Before coming to this world, she’d never been interested in men. After becoming a beautiful girl here, she’d grown even more averse to them. Part of her reason for hiding in the Forest Sea was to escape the greedy stares of men calculating how much it’d cost to "win" her.

So during her time in the squad, she’d tolerated him through gritted teeth.

Only after realizing Shall truly was a worthy Champion did her prejudice fade. She stopped viewing him through tinted lenses.

But men still needed to stay far away. Being held by a man? Marrying one? Having children? Unthinkable. She’d always adored sweet, soft maidens. Any sensible man would do well to stay far away.

The Champion had destroyed ten years of her hard work and countless precious spell components. She’d made him experience eternal loss and ruin. They were even. If he kept clinging, she’d… she’d…

Lyselle suddenly fumed.

—She couldn’t beat the Champion in a fight.

No matter. If she couldn’t win, she could run. He only had two legs. She had the Blink Spell. Victory!

Calm returned. She regarded the Champion coolly.

"Why rush? You don’t think resurrecting someone is simple, do you?"

After speaking, an instinctive unease prickled her—but she couldn’t pinpoint why.

She hadn’t lied.

Magic and miracles weren’t free. Greater spells demanded greater resources and mana. That was equivalent exchange.

Like fate: every gift fate bestowed carried a hidden price tag. Though no true resurrection spell existed, scholars theorized reviving the dead required sacrificing living souls—

And not just one.

So far, the Old Sages of the White Tower Alliance hadn’t perfected resurrection. Their half-finished spells only produced half-finished beings: bodies without souls, or twisted flesh and spirit.

Perhaps that’s why Shall, desperate, had turned to her—a half-baked Sorceress.

Now, this half-baked Sorceress lectured the Champion on reality:

"Even to the White Tower’s Old Sages, resurrection is forbidden magic. Only high-ranking mages may study it. Even if I had a special method, the cost and resources required would be terrifying."

This time, she spoke truth.

She wasn’t arrogant enough to think her magic surpassed the White Tower’s Old Sages. She couldn’t resurrect the dead—but she could *craft* a person. If she extracted her three years of memories from the Brave Squad and shaped them into a separate personality… problem solved.

The Champion’s lost love would return. She’d avoid his wrath when the truth surfaced. A world where no one got hurt. As for her ruined spell array and wasted materials…

She believed Shall would gladly scour the Pan Continent to replace them—if he believed she could truly resurrect his love.

A perfect solution. Wonderful. Truly wonderful.

The only issue? The dimensional transfer array had emptied Lyselle’s coffers. Like Shall, she was now utterly broke. She couldn’t afford materials to craft him a wife.

No matter. As the saying went: the wool comes from the sheep’s back. Since he sought her help, he ought to pay handsomely.

She crossed her legs, folded her arms, and feigned profundity.

"Do you believe you can provide sufficient resources? Hmm?"

Shall’s expression immediately tightened—he’d never looked this uneasy before dragon-slaying missions—and he replied awkwardly:

"I have no money."

Lyselle knew he was broke. Still, she pressed:

"No money? How can you resurrect your love? The rare materials needed won’t be any less than what I used for my array…"

Shall grew even more flustered.

"But I truly have none…"

"Then there’s nothing to be done," Lyselle shrugged. "Don’t look at me. I’m a pauper too. I’d help if I could, but I’m powerless."

Shall lowered his head in silence.

After a long pause, he finally looked up, forcing a bitter smile.

"I…" The Champion clenched his fists under the table. "I’ll… find a way."

Since he’d said that, Lyselle stopped pressing him.

Shall wasn’t poor—he just didn’t know it. Many he’d helped longed to repay him, but he’d never given them the chance.

Perhaps that’s why he became the "Light Champion."

But what did that matter to Lyselle? She only wanted to craft him a wife, collect her compensation, kick him out, and return to her carefree, lazy life.

Where he got the money was his problem.

She smiled politely instead.

"How did you preserve… ah, the Priestess’s body?"

"Freezing magic. And a coffin carved from the Mother Tree of Elves," Shall answered carefully. "Is that… acceptable?"

*No wonder I nearly suffocated trying to crawl out of that coffin,* Lyselle cursed inwardly. Aloud, she praised:

"Freezing magic preserves the flesh. The Mother Tree’s coffin anchors the soul. Excellent preservation. Her body will remain intact for at least a year…"

"Within that year, you must gather the materials for her resurrection and assist me in constructing the spell. Only then can I return the Priestess to you—whole and healthy."

That inexplicable unease returned, stronger than before.

Lyselle blinked, puzzled. She replayed her words in her mind but found no flaw.

*Strange. If nothing’s wrong, why do I feel this?*

The Sorceress couldn’t understand.

She retraced every exchange with the Champion, searching for the source. But her efforts felt futile.

She gave up.

People sometimes had such illusions, she told herself. Anxiety made you feel you’d forgotten something vital—when really, you were just scaring yourself.

Comforted, she dismissed the odd sensation and focused on negotiating with the Champion.

She’d laid out the only solution. Habit made her add a perfunctory question for show.

She meant to ask, *"Right, Champion?"*

But her body moved on instinct—muscle memory twisting her words.

Naturally, she inquired:

"Right, Master?"

Silence.

The Sorceress froze. The Champion before her froze too.

The unease crystallized. Lyselle realized the truth—the "common sense" altered by the contract.

Since the contract took effect—since she’d commanded the Champion to obey her—she’d stopped calling him "you" and started using "Your Honor." Over time, the contract’s influence deepened… until now.

She’d called Shall "Master."

But… how?

Lyselle’s eyes darted to the completed contract. A memory flashed: her teasing the Champion moments ago. Her heart dropped.

—She was panicking.

But panic was useless now.

[To Be Continued]

—