Facing Lyselle's accusation, the Old Sage calmly picked up her Magic Wand.

With a light wave, the enamel teapot beside her floated up. She drew a circle with the wand tip, and the round pot tilted, pouring steaming black tea into Lyselle's porcelain cup.

"Don't rush," the Old Sage said kindly. "Warm up with a drink first. Is black tea alright?"

Outside, the Forest Sea was in early spring, but the White Tower remained locked in winter's grip.

Lyselle had no patience for tea with this old sage. She retorted bluntly:

"I'll skip it. I'm worried that after this cup, I'll wake up as a lab rat in your wizard tower."

"Is that so?" The Old Sage lifted her cup, sipped slowly, and mused. "If I'd known this would keep you here, I'd have added something to the tea."

"Stop scaring me," Lyselle rolled her eyes. "You're the Lord of the White Tower, an Overrank Mage. This is your territory—if you wanted me trapped, I couldn't escape anyway."

The Old Sage just smiled. The plump cat leaped from the table onto her lap. She gently stroked its fur.

"What did you ask again?" she inquired leisurely.

Lyselle sighed inwardly—was the Old Sage's memory failing, or faking it? She answered:

"The spell prototype for that Master Servant Pact."

Ah, the Old Sage recalled. "That Master Servant Pact prototype... If I remember right, a young researcher invented it. Quite a clever little gadget." She waved her wand.

Tiny lights sparked in the air, swiftly forming lines that wove into a complex, arcane magic circle.

Lyselle recognized it—the exact prototype she'd used to sign the pact with Shall.

"A fellow thought our old pacts were primitive," the Old Sage explained. "He aimed to create a self-aware version that refined terms for both sides. But he failed. I found his idea fascinating, so I acquired a half-finished prototype."

"And then," she blinked innocently at Lyselle, "you happened to steal it."

Lyselle's vision went dark.

"Why didn't you warn me?" she blurted.

"I wanted to," the Old Sage shrugged regretfully. "But thieves don't alert their victims, do they? I had to play along."

Lyselle fell silent. Yet she needed a solution today. She conceded:

"...Fine. How do I dissolve that Master Servant Pact?"

"Dissolve it?" The Old Sage's aged face showed exaggerated shock, but her clear blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "Good heavens—could it mean..."

"—that Pan Continent's smartest, most adorable DawnDusk Witch accidentally signed a pact and became some lucky fellow's obedient little maid?"

Her tone held no sarcasm, yet Lyselle felt like an overheating boiler, ready to burst with steam.

"Impossible!" she forced nonchalance. "Even if I... became someone's maid, I'm so cute and sweet-talking, how could anyone—"

She nearly admitted no one would release her—collaring and locking her up until she surrendered. But she snapped out of it. Besides, Shall hadn't imprisoned her.

"Anyway," she said without guilt, "it's not me. I treat it like a familiar contract—it's my friend."

"My friend used this prototype by accident. Something went wrong. Now both she and her partner share master and servant identities."

"Old Sage, how do we dissolve it?"

To Lyselle's surprise, the Old Sage stopped teasing. Her expression turned intrigued.

Lyselle's unease spiked—like a doctor suddenly frowning and flipping through ancient medical texts.

"It's just a pact," she thought. "Shouldn't be this hard."

But the Old Sage murmured: "I've never heard of this... The prototype was never used. Few know its effects. Such a flaw is unexpected..." She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing Lyselle until her skin crawled.

"I see," the Old Sage leaned back slowly. "I understand."

Before Lyselle could ask what, she added: "No wonder that researcher quit. Contracts are better old-fashioned. Like us near-dead elders—we're more reassuring than you youngsters, right?"

She closed her eyes peacefully as Zarathustra, her black cat, leaped onto her shoulder to lick its paws.

"Dissolving it is simple," she continued. "Like a normal Master Servant Pact—it ends when the agreed time passes, or if the master voids it early."

Lyselle clicked her tongue. She'd considered this. But her pact with Shall lasted until his death—he was young, strong. Eighty years? Even ten years was too long; by then, she and Shall might have children.

The other option? She'd begged Shall to void it after the malfunction. The honest Shall refused.

"Your methods are useless," Lyselle admitted. "My... friend tried both. The pact won't dissolve."

The Old Sage opened her eyes. "Your friend failed?" she asked, half puzzled, half teasing. "But mutual agreement should work—even with dual masters." She paused, then grinned knowingly. "Ah. The person you signed with disagrees?"

"Not me—my friend!" Lyselle's voice shrank with guilt. "Both methods fail. Is there a third way?"

"Yes."

"Really? What?"

"Just kill that person."

"Huh?" The Old Sage ignored Lyselle's shock, smiling kindly like a caring elder. Her words chilled Lyselle: "If they won't void the pact, kill them."

Lyselle wanted to protest—her feud with Shall wasn't deadly. But the Old Sage sensed her hesitation. A cunning smile spread.

"You won't kill him?" the Lord of the White Tower pressed. "Or can't bear to?" Her deduction slid dangerously: "—You like him?"

Lyselle gaped. Why assume she liked Shall? Was hatred the only alternative? What a binary thinker.

"You're extreme," she argued. "I dislike the pact, but I don't want him dead. Give normal advice!"

The Old Sage's triumphant smirk answered her. "It's not your friend. It's you." She leaned closer, curious.

"'Human nature prefers compromise. Say a room's too bright: suggest a skylight, and they refuse. Demand the roof torn off, and they'll accept the skylight.'—My dear student, you taught me that."

"So," she whispered, "who turned my dear student into an obedient little maid?"

[To be continued]