Lyselle had sneaked out of the coffin while Shall was knocking on the door.

To avoid being spotted by the Champion, she even used a Blink Spell.

From the coffin to the front door—just a few steps—Shall strolled leisurely, while she sweated profusely.

Using the Blink Spell, then disguise and costume-change spells, she ruffled her hair, pulled down one strap of her nightgown, and kicked off a shoe. The whole sequence flowed smoothly, seamless—a true feat for a Sorceress.

This was her acting prowess. Could any other Sorceress match it?

A pity Shall got to see it for free.

He was the first to visit her little nest, the first to witness her messy state.

Worse, he’d seen her shoulder—a fair expanse of skin. It must’ve been quite a sight; after all, she was undeniably a beautiful girl, and she had that confidence.

But it didn’t matter. She’d collect interest later.

She’d make the Champion understand: a Sorceress’s favors weren’t so easily taken.

For now, Lyselle kept these thoughts hidden. She was a mature, elegant Sorceress—even as this mature, elegant Sorceress schemed how to swindle the Champion before her.

“What’s the rush?” she pretended to be grumpy from being woken. “Haste makes waste, don’t you know?”

Yawning, she waved her Magic Wand, summoning the shoe she’d kicked off somewhere. She strolled past the Champion to the now-empty coffin.

Lyselle tapped the coffin lid lightly with her wand, frowning.

“Didn’t I tell you not to rush? The materials for the resurrection spell aren’t fully gathered. Why haul your… your wife’s coffin here?”

Even she felt the words sounded off.

She was both a Sorceress and a Priestess. Calling the non-existent Priestess in the coffin Shall’s wife—wasn’t she admitting…?

This was too weird.

But Shall didn’t notice her tone shift. He explained softly:

“This place is too far from Lyselle’s grave. I brought her here so you could check her condition. If there’s progress, we can start the ritual immediately…”

Hearing Shall call her name to an empty coffin was strange.

Yet Lyselle couldn’t blurt out: “Stop looking! Your wife isn’t there—I stole her.”

She couldn’t tell him she was the real Lyselle, and the one he loved was just an unattainable illusion—shattering like ripples at a touch.

Though the Priestess role… was somewhat her playing herself.

Perhaps she could roleplay—

as a dragon destined to be slain by the Champion.

Then, like before, infiltrate the Brave Squad, use all her charms to make him fall deeply for her.

Fate would turn as usual. The Champion would still slay the dragon. But as the Holy Sword pierced its heart, it would transform back into the girl he adored.

The dragon would hand him a key:

“As if I devoured your girl… Go there. I left everything of hers there.”

The Champion would finally understand… Or perhaps remain confused: had he known the dragon, or the girl?

Just thinking amused Lyselle. But she’d used a similar trick before; repeating it might backfire.

She reluctantly abandoned the idea.

Then she thought how to lie to Shall:

“No progress can be made on the resurrection ritual before gathering enough materials. Hauling your wife’s coffin early is useless—it might even cause backlash.”

Lyselle patted the coffin—which, in a sense, belonged to her.

“Originally, the freezing spell and this Mother Tree of Elves coffin preserved her perfectly. Even after a year, no change. But you dug her up and brought her here…”

She fixed the Champion with a convincing glare.

“Haven’t you considered? Any tiny magical fluctuation en route could disrupt the coffin’s balance. Aren’t you afraid something might happen to her body?”

In her mind, she added:

“—Like being stolen.”

Shall was magically illiterate. He didn’t know her words were nonsense for amateurs. Ignorance was scary; he didn’t doubt her at all.

He paced around the coffin like an ant on a hot pan, then suddenly looked up.

The worker ant stared at his queen ant.

“Is Lyselle alright?” The Champion’s voice trembled.

Lyselle was amused.

*Of course she’s fine—she’s standing right here, unharmed.*

She mentally spat: *Who’s your wife? I’m not your wife. Scram!*

Outwardly, she kept the composure of a master.

“Calm down,” she soothed Shall. “I checked. Your wife’s fine.”

She was fine—lively, even. If anyone was in trouble, it was Shall.

Since her lie, he’d been like a lost soul by the coffin, pale and listless, barely clinging to life.

If only he’d known then what he knew now.

Lyselle sighed and walked over.

“Trust me. I’m the DawnDusk Witch. Even if your wife were dead, I could bring her back. Preserving her body? Child’s play. Stop moping. Just don’t act rashly next time.”

Shall stayed silent, only nodding.

If this Champion had one redeeming quality, it was his humility—he actually listened.

But Lyselle couldn’t help nagging, like old times in the Brave Squad:

“Why obsess over moving your wife’s coffin? Can’t you leave her alone? She’s buried; let her rest.”

“You really are self-centered.”

True. Lyselle wished he’d give up resurrecting her. Let him walk his path, her hers.

She’d even forgo compensation—just as long as he never discovered the truth and settled scores.

But Shall remained stubborn, silent, unyielding as stone, determined to resurrect her.

Had he asked her opinion?

She had opinions!

Useless. She dared not speak them. Swept along by stone-like Shall into this uncertain race.

Lyselle felt inexplicably annoyed.

She turned, furrowing her brows, glaring fiercely. *You’re so troublesome. Just wait—I’ll stick pins in your voodoo doll!*

But Shall suddenly squatted.

He leaned against the coffin, pressing his face to it. His gaze was deep—nostalgia or longing? Lyselle guessed he was ruminating on yesterday’s happy illusions, like a cow chewing cud, as if only this could help him survive reality’s growing coldness.

She almost felt sorry for him.

A Sorceress shouldn’t have extra sympathy. Especially since he still owed her debts. This scene called for popping champagne.

Then she heard Shall whisper—not sure if to her or someone else:

“Lyselle told me she feared loneliness. She hated being alone; loved lively places. That’s why she joined our squad.”

“I don’t know what death feels like. But alone in a coffin, buried underground… it must be lonely.”

“So after her burial, I visited her almost every day.”

“Until I heard you could resurrect her. I rushed to the Forest Sea. The round trip took ten days. Gathering materials will take even longer…”

The Champion pressed his palm to the coffin, as if touching the love inside.

He looked satisfied, a faint smile on his lips.

“I’ve already wronged her enough,” he murmured. “I can’t wrong her again.”

“—So I want to tell her she’s not alone anymore.”

Lyselle clicked her tongue lightly.

*No wonder I saw you, you bastard, checking on me daily when I was in that coffin. Forced me to endure three months before I dared rise.*

All because of a casual remark she’d made long ago?

Just an offhand comment, yet Shall had treasured it like a fallen leaf pressed in a book. Now, flipping through time, it had become a brilliant mark.

*So why, oh great Champion, do you only remember things like this?*

Lyselle thought sarcastically. Then she did something strange—

Right before the Champion, she pressed her ear to the coffin. As if hearing something, she nodded theatrically, then looked up at him.

The Champion froze. “What did you hear?”

Lyselle replied solemnly:

“Yes. I heard your wife say to you—”

“Read it. But she can’t be bothered to reply.”

[To Be Continued]