Outside the window, night deepened. The eliminated students bid Morris farewell with deep emotion before leaving. Morris, however, paid it no mind—simply taking Sherlock’s hand and walking straight toward Max. Over his shoulder, he called back: “Don’t tell anyone a guy named Morris sent you to Shengyi.”

Just thinking about it gave Morris a headache. He sighed heavily. *Why did I even get involved?* One misstep, and the hard-won peace he’d built would shatter again.

He sat on the bed. The room felt like a capital-city hotel: double bed, en-suite bathroom, even a soaking tub. Too bad they’d only stay one night. Tomorrow morning, they’d be gone.

Water trickled clearly from the bathroom—naturally, since Sherlock and Morris shared the room. When Max heard, his expression flickered with surprise. Clearly, he hadn’t expected them to be this close. He offered only a token warning—*“Young people, don’t fool around…”*—then left.

Moments earlier, a groundskeeper delivered their Arcanum Academy uniforms: crisp white stand-collar shirts, charcoal suit jackets, pure white cravats edged in blue thread neatly tucked in the inner pocket. On the chest, the academy’s emblem—a stark, powerful three-legged, six-winged eagle, like a withered tree—was stamped with precision.

Morris changed. The fit was perfect, as if tailor-made. He didn’t bother wondering how the academy managed it.

Too lazy to ponder further, he flopped onto the soft mattress, sinking deep. A rare sense of calm washed over him. Warm yellow light. Pale pink wallpaper. The whole room hummed with… the vibe of a love hotel?!

Morris jolted upright. *Wait—Max seemed cold and strict… but maybe that very strictness made him book this subtly charged room?* He clutched his head. *If anyone finds out, both the princess’s reputation and mine are ruined on the spot!*

“Hey, Morris?” The water stopped. A delicate, fair hand timidly slipped through the glass door, waving. A shy voice followed: “I… forgot the towel…”

“Right, coming.” Morris tiptoed over, handed it through. Sherlock snatched it back instantly. *Clang!* The door shut—no chance given. Morris felt unfairly accused. *I wasn’t even looking…*

He trudged back and collapsed onto the bed, body sinking into the plush. Soft light. Drowsiness crept in. His eyes closed silently. No proper rest in days. Since arriving in Helsing City: chaos after chaos. Nights stolen by the princess. Truly, misfortune piled high.

*“What will become of us…?”* His thoughts blurred. The last image flickering in his mind: the violet-eyed girl from three years ago.

Such beautiful eyes.

Morris slipped fully into sleep—but his body tensed involuntarily, coiled like a drawn bow in silent agony. *Why… why was it you who betrayed me?*

***

Meanwhile, at the Royal Arcanum Academy—Headmistress’s Office.

The woman in a black teacher’s uniform gently bent the whip in her hand, then sighed. “Only the third time,” she said to the girl before her. “You handled the first two suitors perfectly—even rejection left a decent impression. So why this time…?”

Rubbing her temples, she continued: “Madame Nobelin says her son came home utterly changed. Now he begs his maid to trample him, whip him… claims it *feels good*.”

The girl stared blankly at the ceiling, hearing nothing.

“What did you do?” the Headmistress asked, voice weary.

“Nothing much,” Hathaway replied, chin propped on her palms. “Just told him I’d kill him if he blocked my path again.”

“He’s fragile,” the Headmistress nodded. “But that’s not the point. I don’t care about him. Previous matchmakings failed too—but you never lost composure like this. What happened?”

Her tone was tender. She knew her daughter was no obedient girl. If Hathaway suddenly slaughtered crowds on a busy street, she wouldn’t flinch. Hathaway was the only child she’d ever met—truly *inherently evil*. Her only daughter. Perhaps fatherless upbringing. Perhaps her own work-absorbed neglect.

Things shifted after the Demon Realm Trial three years ago. The girl who once obsessed over murder techniques suddenly vowed to learn ladylike grace: noble etiquette, dining manners, everything.

The Headmistress had nearly floated on cloud nine. For three years, she believed Hathaway was healing. Until the Nobelin incident. *Silent until the strike—then earth-shattering.*

Beneath the docile mask remained the same witch.

Only one thing could’ve sparked that change. What happened in the Trial? Hathaway never said.

Another headache throbbed. Hathaway offered no reply, eyes vacant on the shifting ceiling lights—like a lost child.

“Your power is formidable. Your Arcanum talent… terrifying,” the Headmistress murmured. “But who would marry someone scarcely human?”

“There will be,” Hathaway answered—unexpectedly earnest. She met her mother’s gaze squarely. “There will be. My destined one.”

“So confident,” the Headmistress sighed, shaking her head. “Go. And on your way… mind the safety of passersby.”

“Yes.” Hathaway rose. Violet eyes shimmered like rare gemstones. She bowed deeply, skirts lifted gracefully. “See you at the academy tomorrow, Mother.”

“See you tomorrow, Hathaway.” The Headmistress watched her, heart swelling. “I love you.”