Lyselle told Shall the Priestess couldn’t be bothered with him—and he actually believed it.

He even pestered her, asking if she could truly speak to the Priestess sleeping in the coffin.

Lyselle thought, *Duh, of course I can talk to myself.* But inwardly, she added, *Stop obsessing over that coffin. Your wife’s already been taken by me!*

She also felt a pang of wistfulness.

She remembered the Champion used to be sharp. How had he turned so pathetic?

Love really did make you stupid—even a clever Champion could become dumb.

But that was good. The dumber Shall was, the easier to handle.

Like now: Lyselle just needed to say, “Leave your wife’s coffin there. But don’t open it—ever. You might disrupt its magical balance. If something goes wrong, even I can’t save her.”

She knew he’d believe her.

So Shall avoided the coffin. For now, Lyselle didn’t fear him discovering her true identity.

But this was temporary. She couldn’t ensure he’d never learn the truth.

She’d even considered brainwashing him—impossible. Forget whether she could beat him; Shall had Magic Nullification. Any mental tampering would vanish the moment he used it.

That’d be messy.

Resurrecting the Priestess was urgent.

Lyselle was ready. Once she gathered enough materials, she’d cut out her memory of impersonating the Priestess and craft a fake version matching Shall’s ideal.

She also needed to confront the Old Sages of the White Tower Alliance.

The Master Servant Pact she signed with Shall used their spell prototype. Now it was broken—they were to blame. Lyselle planned to make the Old Sage who shared it cough up a fortune.

*Oi! Old Sage, mind if I park my ghost bike downstairs? .jpg*

Lyselle finally grasped her current philosophical trio.

Who was she? Lyselle Charlotte, the DawnDusk Witch.

Where from? The Eastern Land… ah, scratch that. Another world bathed in science’s glow.

Where to? To laze around and eat.

But someone wouldn’t let her slack off—the Champion, Shall Green of Pan Continent, wrecking her peace.

To stop him, she needed two things.

First, dissolve their Master Servant Pact fast. Even if he learned the truth, he couldn’t touch her. She had the Blink Spell; he’d chase on foot. She doubted he’d catch her.

Second, gather materials for the fake Priestess and return “his girl.” That’d cut ties forever, hiding the past truth.

She could also do a third thing—scam money under the guise of resurrection. She lacked guts to actually revive the Priestess, but fleecing Shall? Plenty of nerve for that!

Three years ago, he’d destroyed her painstakingly built magic array, costing her countless precious materials. She’d squeeze every bit back from him.

Shall was dirt poor, yet as Champion, he could beg for materials if he swallowed his pride. Like that Mother Tree of Elves coffin that trapped her for months—he could never afford it. Lyselle guessed the Elves gifted it after her death, thanking the former Champion.

Shall had helped countless across Pan Continent selflessly, earning respect but no riches. He never asked for rewards, so he was always broke.

Lyselle believed many would volunteer materials if he needed them.

But Shall, like past Champions, was stubborn—uninterested in worldly goods.

After three years following him, Lyselle knew his most valuable possession besides his Champion’s head was the Holy Sword.

Of course, it was a symbol—not for sale.

So Shall oddly had both “rich as a nation” and “destitute” statuses.

The destitute Shall often mooched meals from her to avoid starving. The rich-as-a-nation Shall owned a Mother Tree of Elves coffin for his lover.

Lyselle decided to rob the rich version.

He owed her—it was compensation. No guilt, just satisfaction.

The question was: how to squeeze maximum cash from seemingly broke Shall?

As Lyselle schemed, a knock sounded.

Knock knock knock—

Undoubtedly Shall.

It was deep night. Why wasn’t he sleeping? What did he want?

Lyselle couldn’t guess, so she raised her guard—even though Shall was a pure-love warrior who’d never attack her.

Still, she drew her magic wand, waved it, and cast the Luminous Spell. A warm yellow light sprang from its tip, flooding the dark cottage with light and heat.

The Sorceress approached the door with this glow and called, “Shall?”

The Champion’s slightly embarrassed voice came through. “…It’s me.”

“I know it’s you,” Lyselle snapped, then asked suspiciously, “Why knock so late instead of sleeping?”

“Nothing much,” his voice grew awkward. “Just… wondering if you have an axe. And rope…”

“Huh?”

Lyselle frowned and opened the door.

Pitch-black night poured in like ink, but the wand’s bright light blocked it, illuminating Shall’s face.

His expression was odd—like middle-aged men from her past life begging for their kids’ sake. Submissive, meek, pitiful yet laughable.

For no reason, Lyselle felt irritated. She couldn’t laugh at his face.

Hiding it, she acted natural and asked, “What do you need an axe and rope for?”

Shall scratched his head, muttering, “Might rain. I worried Lyselle’d get wet… wanted to build her a shelter.”

“…”

Lyselle was speechless.

She closed her eyes, reached into the night, felt the air, then replied flatly, “Rain might come. But…”

She glanced at the nearby coffin and clicked her tongue. “Your wife won’t fear rain. She’s in a Mother Tree of Elves coffin. Floods wouldn’t touch her.”

The Champion had no reply. He scratched his head, forcing a stiff smile.

Like a dog—those silly dogs that, whenever called, instantly look up, wag tails, and stare wide-eyed, begging for head pats.

But this dog’s owner was gone. It could only crouch by the door day and night, lifting its head at every rustle, peering out hopefully for its owner’s return and that familiar pat.

Could it really wait? In its short, limited life?

A night breeze blew. Lyselle tightened her cloak.

She turned away, showing only a blurry profile. “You should… think about yourself first.”

Shall froze, disbelieving Lyselle would say that.

He’d never suspect hidden motives—he always saw the best in people.

After a pause, he answered earnestly, “I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Lyselle retorted. “So you’ll sleep outside in the rain tonight?”

“Hmm…”

“Afraid of catching cold? Of waking up sick after a wet, freezing night?”

“Ah…”

Shall seemed to expect this. He raised his hand toward her.

A faint light glowed in his palm.

First like a firefly, then brightening—candlelight, oil lamp, campfire—until it blazed like a newborn sun, radiating warmth that banished the night’s chill.

Lyselle silently watched this sun.

Shall smiled.

He stared at the light, expression lonely yet happy. In a gentle tone she’d never heard, he said, “Because I have her…”

“As long as she’s with me, nothing’s scary.”

To Lyselle, his smile burned brighter than that sun.

She knew what it was—the Luminous Spell. Taught by her… no, by the Priestess version of her.

*Fine,* she thought. *It brings light and heat. It’ll keep him warm. But…*

A strange, unfamiliar emotion surged from her heart, taking over her body.

Involuntarily, the Sorceress leaned against the door, avoiding his eyes. She fiddled with her hair and, almost challengingly, muttered, “Well then… want to spend the night at my place?”