Noah cleared his throat, trying to ease the awkwardness. “Uh… so you’re a Ritual Mage devoted to the Goddess of Death… right?”
“Absolutely correct.”
Anna puffed out her chest proudly, giving it a confident pat. “I, Anna Carole, am the only Ritual Mage in Arvin Hamlet—and the sole perfect-score graduate of the seventy-seventh class at the Ritual Magic Academy!”
Noah listened with a deadpan face, though relief quietly washed over him. At least he hadn’t been resurrected by a Heretic Deviant or a necromancer. Anna had used ancient Ritual Magic—a tradition worlds apart from common necromancy. Resurrected souls weren’t controlled by the Ritual Mage, and true resurrection rites were far more delicate and demanding. In that sense, Noah was lucky. Revived by a legitimate dark-aligned believer, no necromantic traces lingered on him. Even if he crossed paths with the Holy Order later, they’d never detect his resurrected state. He genuinely owed Anna gratitude.
But—
“Explain this,” Noah said, slapping the bill onto the table. “Why is your name on nearly every line?” Over seventy percent of the Azure Round Table’s expenses traced back to Anna. Put plainly: she carried seventy percent of the blame for the guild’s current state.
Anna averted her gaze. Cold sweat beaded on her brow; her index fingers tapped nervously together. “Well… ritual materials are just… expensive. They get used up fast?”
“And all these fines listed beside the rituals?”
“W-well… it’s not my fault!” She tucked a stray strand behind her ear and winked playfully at Noah. “A transcendent Ritual Mage like me is bound to be misunderstood. Townsfolk simply can’t grasp my art.”
Noah’s voice stayed icy. “But your rituals rarely succeed, do they?”
…
Anna froze as if struck. Her whole body trembled. Eyes darting, face flushing, she stammered before blurting out: “It’s not my fault! The Goddess of Death sabotages me! My steps are flawless—Her Ladyship’s just jealous of my talent!”
Noah was speechless. *Blaming the goddess for failed spells? Is this devotion?*
“And I *have* succeeded before!” Anna locked eyes with him. “You’re standing here because I pulled you from the graveyard!”
True. A flicker of unease stirred in Noah. *Side effects?* But his heartbeat was steady, breath smooth, mind sharp. No issues—yet. Maybe… a miracle?
“Anyway,” Noah said, gaze landing on the “Ritual Mage” line of the guild certificate. Curiosity, stubborn and unexpected, took root. Certified Ritual Mages were rarer than spotting a panda in foreign wilderness. Even with a Tier-1 license, Anna was extraordinary.
“This is sudden,” Noah added politely, meeting her eyes seriously. “Could you demonstrate your Ritual Magic?”
“Really?!” Anna’s face lit up instantly. “Oh! Guild Master, how did you know I had materials on me?!”
“I didn’t.” Noah kept his expression stone-cold. “Failure’s fine. I just want to see where it goes wrong.”
“My rituals never fail—it’s the Goddess’s fault.” Muttering this blasphemous line, she pulled a wooden puppet from her cloak and set it down.
Noting her preparation, Noah glanced at Monica. The maid gave a silent, reassuring nod: *No danger.* Still uneasy, Noah scooted his chair back.
Anna vanished into her ritual zone—humming off-key, smiling faintly. She drew a light-blue vial, poured liquid over the puppet, swirled a finger thrice inside the rim, then crouched and carved the magic circle at lightning speed. Fluid. Precise. Clearly honed through repetition. *At least it looked convincing.*
But Noah trusted the bill’s terrifying numbers more. He scooted back again.
“Now… the incantation!” Anna smirked. “Watch closely! This is a third-tier ritual from the Goddess of Death’s Ritual Magic—my theoretical model topped the Academy!” She stood, cleared her throat, licked residual liquid from her fingers, closed her eyes, and chanted guttural, inhuman syllables.
The puppet shuddered. Joints clicked. Its head jerked wildly. Cracks spiderwebbed across the floor within the circle; wood chips flew. Space itself warped—a violent ripple twisting puppet, floor, everything inward, as if crushed by invisible force.
Noah’s eyes widened. *Is it working?*
Then—*crack!*
A sharp snap echoed through the office. Anna’s spine seemed to break. Her torso arched backward nearly 180 degrees, limbs folding into a grotesque parallel. Legs buckled. She collapsed limp, forehead pressed to floor like a dying mollusk.
Noah: “???”
Even the unshakable Noah gaped, words frozen. Only sheer will to uphold the dignity of the Father of the Great Mediator stopped a torrent of curses. *Did she just ritual herself into collapse?*
Holy crap… does this even count as a work injury?
