Noah stared at the black mist before him and finally understood why those eyes felt so familiar.

When Anna heard he’d buy ritual materials, her eyes had lit up exactly like this.

And the voice…

“Are you really Anna?” Noah asked, disbelief clear in his gaze.

The mist spun in place, its outline still shifting uncontrollably. “It’s me! President, have you forgotten my voice already?”

Noah studied it a moment. “Name.”

The mist hesitated. “Anna Carole!”

“Age.”

“Nineteen.”

“Family status.”

“Orphaned. No relatives. Single.”

Noah nodded. “Hobbies?”

“Ritual Magic!”

“Specialty.”

“Ritual Magic!”

Noah gave it a meaningful look. “Hmm?”

The mist blinked, then reluctantly added, “...And my knowledge of Ritual Magic.”

“Hmm.” Noah nodded, satisfied.

Now confirmed—the mist was truly Anna.

All that cautious tiptoeing earlier? Ridiculous. Wary of *Anna*? If word reached Arvin Hamlet, he’d be mocked for half a year.

He watched the mist-formed girl silently. Thoughts swirled, but one question rose first.

“Why are you here?”

“That’s *my* line—” Mist Anna circled him twice. “President, why are *you* here?”

“I don’t know.” Noah tossed out a casual excuse. “Zoning out at my desk one second, here the next. Wait—where *is* this?”

Her eerie green eyes widened. “You don’t know?!”

Noah shot her a glance. “Aren’t I waiting for *you* to explain?”

She studied him, hesitant. “You might not believe this… This is the Netherworld, ruled by the Goddess of Death.”

…

…

As expected.

Hell and the Netherworld weren’t so different.

The eerie green pool beneath them lay still, rippleless.

No reflections of Anna or Noah surfaced.

In the distance, a roaring waterfall churned endlessly—its rush slightly grating.

Noah fell silent, piecing it together.

Last time: the sea of clouds—likely Kale the God of Holy Light’s paradise.

This time: the Goddess of Death’s Netherworld. A hidden pattern connected them.

First ascension: through a mirror, hearing “Come.”

Second: through the black staff.

“Different mediums… so different divine realms?”

Reasonable.

That black staff *was* tied to the Goddess of Death—gifted at the Ritual Magic Academy, a hub for the Cult of the Death Goddess.

But what linked the guild office window to the Holy Order?

As Noah pondered, Anna drifted closer, worry in her voice.

“President… are you okay?”

“Fine.” He brushed it off. “You first—how’d *you* get here?”

She hesitated. “I died again. Came up after dying.”

Noah frowned. “*Again*?”

Few could casually prefix “die” with “again.” Anna was one of them.

She sighed. “Guild bonuses came… figured I’d treat myself—*just* a tiny bit! Did a celebratory ritual. Magic backfired. Twisted me into a knot. My corpse back there? Probably not pretty.”

“You should reflect,” Noah said, pinching his brow. “‘Didn’t expect backlash’? Ritual Magic’s backfired on you how many times?”

The mist puffed smoke, indignant. “But what if it *worked*!”

Noah almost argued—then remembered. *He* was that “what if.”

He scanned the surroundings. “So… does everyone who dies come here?”

“Not everyone.” She shook her head. “Only the chosen few—devout followers or those favored by the Goddess.”

*Favored by the Goddess of Death…* Not exactly lucky.

She floated before him, expression complicated. “So… when did *you* die, President?”

Noah’s eye twitched. “I’m not dead.”

Her flames flickered. “Then how’d you reach the Netherworld?”

Good question.

Noah chose vagueness. “Complicated. I’ll leave soon. Think of me as a Netherworld tourist.”

Anna fell silent, then nodded.

Sharp girl—aced Ritual Magic Academy theory for a reason. She knew he held secrets.

But prying wasn’t her job. As long as it didn’t mess with eating, playing, or crafting rituals? Not her concern.

Doubts vanished. She circled him, gleeful.

“What’re you doing? Spinning crazy?” Noah asked.

“I’m *happy*!” she exclaimed. “Never chatted properly with anyone here! Others vanish fast. You’re the first who actually *talks*!”

“Happy or not—stop. You’re making me dizzy.”

“I *can’t* stop!”

She spun faster. “You saw it! Can’t control this form—shape won’t stabilize! Got excited and… President, help! Why’s it speeding up?!”

Noah: “…”

Anna. A girl who turned solemn moments absurd.

He sighed, snatched the flailing mist like a kitten by the scruff.

A soft, wriggling warmth filled his palm—almost like a squishy meatball. Gross… yet oddly funny, knowing it was Anna.

Proof: she truly couldn’t control her form.

So he molded her. Literally.

Puppy. Seagull. Resilient as a balloon.

Finally, he straightened her, looped her into a belt around his waist, and tied a firm knot.

“Stable now.” He patted the mist. “How’s this?”

Two eerie green flames blinked on the belt.

Her voice drifted out, laced with grievance: “You’re settling a personal grudge.”

Noah’s eyebrow lifted. *Guilty.*

“Priority is security,” he said, flicking the belt lightly. “At least you won’t shift anymore.”

“That’s true…” Outmatched, she asked, “So where to? You don’t look like a tourist.”

Noah glanced down.

His legs were dissolving into scattered light—just like last time. A silent timer. Plenty remained.

He surveyed the Netherworld. “Since we’re here… souvenirs. And a look at the Goddess of Death herself.”

“You want to *meet* her?!” Anna’s voice spiked with shock.

Noah glanced at the belt. “Problem?”

“Not really… I just haven’t seen her in ages. Not sure where she is.”

“Where last time?”

Anna, coiled around his waist, lowered her gaze.

The green flames burned fiercely, casting silent light upon the lake.

“At the bottom.”

Her flame-eyes flickered once.

The fearless Ritual Mage straightened her tone, voice hushed with reverence for the first time.

“She rests at the bottom of the Netherlake.”