To Aurora, reuniting with Beatrice was something she only dared dream about.
She knew that if they truly met again, she probably wouldn’t be able to walk away—and she’d likely get a solid beating too.
Now that it was actually happening, Aurora felt like it had all come too suddenly.
Her heart was brimming with a thousand things she wanted to say, but the moment she saw those wooden prosthetics where Beatrice’s legs used to be, her longing was drowned out by a wave of guilt.
In the end, all she could do was quietly observe her, carefully comparing her current appearance with how she had looked when they parted.
Beatrice…
Even after a century had passed, she was still just as beautiful as before.
Her soft, raven-black curls, her fair and supple skin, and those deep blue eyes—none of that had changed.
The only difference now was in her aura.
Where her gaze once held a sharp edge, it now carried a tired melancholy.
She was still wearing that familiar black witch’s outfit—the very one Aurora had sewn for her by hand.
Even the wide-brimmed hat was the same, with a dangling blue gem that only accentuated the mystery of her gaze.
Since she still wore the clothes Aurora had made for her… maybe, just maybe, she truly missed her.
At that thought, a faint smile crept onto Aurora’s lips.
Beatrice no longer had her legs.
Even just entering the café, she’d had to rely on a floating broomstick for mobility.
Several customers cast odd glances in her direction.
“One more lemon bubble juice, boss!”
“Coming right up!”
Avila and Beatrice were seated in the corner of the restaurant.
From the sheen of sweat on Avila’s forehead, it was clear they’d been traveling for quite some time.
Aurora lowered her head, afraid that Beatrice might spot her.
But she stood out far too much in her bright, striking outfit.
The attention of the entire restaurant was practically glued to her.
Naturally, Beatrice and Avila also looked over to see what everyone else was staring at.
Thud!
Just as Beatrice was about to meet Aurora’s gaze, a loud knock on the table broke the moment.
A bald man in rough, cheap armor sat nearby, leering mockingly at Beatrice and Avila.
“Can’t even get a meal without bumping into witches. What a damn curse.”
He clicked his tongue and laughed harshly.
“And one’s even a cripple. What, screw up your spell and blow your own legs off? Hahaha!”
His tone dripped with contempt.
Clearly, he loathed witches.
“Hey now, sir,” the shopkeeper said awkwardly, “please don’t cause trouble in my establishment.”
But the bald man ignored him, sneering as he went on, “Looks like you’ve got quite a figure there. Better looking than those succubi down at the Succubus Parlor.”
“Tsk tsk… I wonder just how many men have used that body of yours?”
“You bastard! Are you asking for a beating?!”
Avila, seated beside Beatrice, could take no more.
She slammed her drink on the table and pointed at him furiously.
“Oh, I’m shaking in my boots,” the bald man sneered.
“What, gonna use me for your dark magic rituals or something?”
“You—!”
Avila tried to curse him out, but the moment the words left her lips, they were sewn shut by a thread of flowing, water-like silk.
“Mmmf mmmf! (Teacher, are you really just going to let this pig insult us?!)”
“Calm yourself. I’ll handle this,” Beatrice said coolly.
Beatrice, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke.
Her voice was rich and magnetic, filled with a composed maturity—like the surface of a winter lake: still and cold.
She stepped up to the man with an icy expression, but a gentle smile played on her lips.
“W-What are you trying to do?”
The man was clearly intimidated.
Seated as he was, his body instinctively leaned backward.
Beatrice’s smile vanished in an instant.
With a swift movement, she slammed the man’s head down onto the table.
Thump!
The sound that rang out was dull rather than crisp.
Caught off guard, the man was momentarily stunned.
By the time he came to his senses, his face had already turned red with shame.
“Damn witch! I—”
He tried to erupt in anger, but no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t lift his face from the table.
“What the hell did you do?!” he yelled furiously.
“You wanted to see dark magic, didn’t you?”
“Well—this is dark magic.”
“Dark magic?!”
“What, just gluing your face to the table isn’t dramatic enough for you? Then here—enjoy the full experience.”
He didn’t get to finish cursing.
A sharp pain suddenly shot through his face, so intense it felt like the skin and flesh were being peeled away layer by layer.
“AAARGH! It hurts, it f*cking hurts! What the hell did you do to me?!”
He rolled his eyes downward, trying to see what on earth was causing such excruciating pain.
But one look—and his soul nearly fled his body.
Countless tiny black hands had sprouted from the surface of the table.
They were no bigger than grains of sand, yet some of them were clutching something in their grasp.
A closer look revealed the horrifying truth: they were holding pieces of his flesh, ripped straight from his face.
One by one, the little hands were tearing the skin and muscle off one side of his face.
Blood trickled down the surface of the table, pooling on the floor beneath and soaking into the wood.
“AAAAAAHHH! IT HURTS! IT HURTS, DAMN IT!!”
“You cursed witch! Undo the magic, now!”
Beatrice didn’t respond.
She calmly stared at the man, as if quietly waiting for his death.
The bystanders who witnessed the scene began to look at her with growing fear and apprehension.
They were terrified that this witch might, on a whim, use them as material for her dark magic.
Aurora had seen the whole scene unfold. She was starting to grow anxious for Beatrice’s sake.
After all, this was the royal capital—a place with strict laws and regular patrols.
If someone were to report her, Beatrice could instantly become a wanted criminal.
But of course, Beatrice hadn’t changed.
While her appearance had matured somewhat, her temper was just as fiery as ever.
“I-I was wrong! Please, I beg you, let me go!”
The man’s panicked voice rang out, but Beatrice remained silent, still staring at him with cold detachment—as if she wouldn’t be satisfied until he died right there.
His screams echoed throughout the restaurant.
People outside could probably hear it just as clearly.
He felt like the flesh on half his face had already been peeled away entirely, and even the bone beneath was being crushed piece by piece.
Aurora grew increasingly alarmed.
If this man really died here, Beatrice would be in serious trouble.
She wanted to step in and stop her, but she was afraid Beatrice might recognize her—so she just sat at her seat, fidgeting with worry.
“Teacher, if you keep going, he really might lose his mind,” said Avila suddenly, clearly having enjoyed the show.
“If I don’t go this far, how will he learn a proper lesson?”
Apparently growing tired of the game, Beatrice lazily extended a finger and slid it downward.
A glowing violet magic rune followed the arc of her motion.
Immediately, the tiny black hands on the tabletop seemed to receive a command.
They stopped peeling his face—and instead began reattaching the torn flesh bit by bit.
Unfortunately, the blood that had already spilled onto the floor was impossible to recover.
At last, the man’s half-mutilated face lifted from the table.
His complexion had turned deathly pale—a clear sign of blood loss.
“Y-You! I’m going to report you to the guards! Just you wait!”
With that, the man staggered and ran out the door, his voice shaking with weakness.
“Honestly, how many times has this happened since we set off, Teacher?” Avila asked, amused.
“Aren’t you afraid the guards are actually going to come looking for you someday?”
“So what if they do?”
“Avila, I’ve told you in class before—if you don’t use your power when it truly matters, you’ll start losing things around you. Maybe your life. Maybe your pride. Maybe… something else entirely.”
“Something else?”
“For example… a disobedient silver moon flower.”