“She’s here!”
“Come on, fight! Fight!”
“Is that Senior Leo? He’s super strong—this’ll be a good show!”
Before the three members of the Healing School led by Samimi and the Lightning School students even reached the white-brick dueling platform, a huge crowd of magic apprentices had already secured spots to watch, buzzing with excitement over the upcoming duel.
Even the corridors and windows of the surrounding teaching towers were filled with onlookers. A few low-profile magic instructors hid in the shadows, watching intently.
There was no helping it—the Penitent Nun was too popular. Every magician wanted to understand her trump cards.
Now that they finally had another chance to observe her spells up close, no one wanted to miss it.
Among the crowd was the white-haired witch Bémore, who looked half-dead like a zombie. Blending in like an invisible passerby, she could only watch the now-radiant villainess from a dark, obscure corner.
“You’ll pay for your arrogance sooner or later.”
Bémore pursed her lips with a hint of frustration, her face under the shadow of her hat brim twisted with jealousy and resentment. She was extremely irritated by the fuss Samimi had stirred up—and furious at her ridiculous popularity.
How could a lowly rice worm like her draw so much attention?
Although Bémore herself didn’t want that kind of spotlight—after all, she was a socially anxious girl—she also couldn’t stand other people getting it. Especially not her archenemy Samimi. Her heart was just that filthy. Just that petty.
But honestly, these kinds of feelings were pretty common among adolescents—pretending to be aloof and noble, while secretly despising anyone else who got to shine. Putting on the act of a cool and icy beauty… while actually being a socially awkward shut-in.
If Bémore weren’t so bent on hiding her social anxiety, she would have been the real villainess here. Because she was such a shut-in, rather than pulling mean pranks, she just stayed home.
Otherwise, she wouldn’t have earned the infamous nickname “White-Haired Witch”—the only member of the Hero’s Party with a name that suggested genuine evil.
In the world of magic, witch was a derogatory term used for female mages who dabbled in forbidden arts or had questionable morals.
Later, the term became openly sexist: whether or not you practiced dark magic didn’t matter—if you were a female mage, calling you a witch was fair game.
Not that her “Undead Cleric” nickname really counted. That was just an internal nickname from the Hero’s Party. Outsiders didn’t know that—only the book’s readers and teammates did.
Still, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. The general public’s fear of Bémore far exceeded that of the other three members.
No one feared the Hero. But everyone feared the Witch.
But now, because of Samimi’s rise, Bémore’s personality was slowly, subtly warping.
Normally, she’d never show up somewhere so crowded. But now? Just to observe Samimi’s spellcasting, she actually overcame her social anxiety—that’s how much she loathed Samimi. (Though half the reason she was here was because her upperclasswoman forced her.)
Now that Samimi had awakened her magical talent and could use mana shields, she was 100% a mage.
Bémore had originally planned to just coast through her time at the Magic Academy, to totally give up. But Samimi’s sudden appearance ruined all that—rekindling the fighting spirit of the white-haired witch.
Because if you are a mage, I am a mage too. Same class, same battlefield—rivals by nature. We’re fated to settle this.
“Only I, the White-Haired Witch, get to defeat that rice worm.”
Bémore stared intently, muttering to herself like a creepy stalker as she whipped out a small notebook to jot down notes.
“…Why does it suddenly feel so eerie?”
On the stage, Samimi suddenly shivered. A chill ran down her spine. A sense of unease crept in, unaware that someone had set their sights on her.
“I appreciate you accepting my duel request, Sister,” Leo said with gratitude. “Your spellcraft is fascinating. I haven’t been able to meditate in peace for days now. Of course, I won’t pressure you to reveal your magical knowledge—I prefer to discover the unknown myself through the exchange of spells.”
“And I thank you too,” Samimi said with a light chuckle. “You’ve shown me this Academy still has some warmth.”
Of course, her words were as snide and sarcastic as ever—thinly veiled jabs.
“But I do hope, Sister, you’ll at least tell me the name of your rare magical talent?” Leo asked.
“The name of my magic?” Samimi tilted her head, pretending to think. “Let’s just call it… Thorn Magic.”
“Thorn Magic… I’ll remember that.” Leo inhaled sharply. He had no idea what it meant, but it sounded dangerous and cool.
Bémore furiously scribbled below. She wrote “Thorn Magic” dozens of times in her notes.
“Would you prefer to duel one-on-one, or two-on-one?” Samimi asked mock-sweetly. “Your pick. Though either way someone’s bound to interrupt us and claim it’s unfair, but hey, gotta follow the process.”
“I want to see your dual casting for myself,” Leo said firmly. “So I’ll challenge your strongest form.”
With a commanding tone, he turned to his companions. “Everyone, off the stage.”
The other students of the Lightning School obediently stepped down to become spectators.
“Rebecca, you go down too,” Samimi said to her own healer. “No point in bringing a cleric to a friendly duel.”
But Niubao remained—ready to shamelessly gang up two-on-one. But hey, Leo asked for it. Can’t say we’re the ones being shady, right?
“Minuo, please protect the Sister,” Rebecca said.
“I swear on my life—she will not suffer even a scratch,” Niubao declared solemnly, her eyes blazing with resolve.
“What are you even saying?” Samimi rolled her eyes. “It’s just a sparring match, not a life-or-death farewell.”
The two girls shared a brief hug before Rebecca reluctantly stepped down from the platform.
Meanwhile, the sneaky Bémore had crept to the edge of the platform, eavesdropping on their conversation—and froze mid-note.
“…”
Her pupils trembled. Her face twisted in disbelief. She rubbed her ears. Had she heard that right?
Did such loyal teammates really exist in this world?
Could there truly be girlfriends who were so sincere, without any ulterior motives? Impossible!
Why were her teammates always scheming little white lotuses and two-faced green tea girls? Why were her instructors just a bunch of hypocritical old farts?
Hmph! She got it now! It was fake! It had to be fake! They were definitely acting!
The power struggles inside the Church were notorious. The friendlier they acted, the more fake they had to be. No doubt about it—they were plastic sisters.
Especially that woman Rebecca. Bémore knew her. She was a total opportunist—no way she’d ever be sincerely loyal to someone else.
She was just a useless failure abandoned by both the Hero’s Party and the Flame School. Clinging to Samimi was probably her last resort.
“Hmph. Rice worm and her guard dog—what a match made in hell.” Bémore scoffed coldly.
Ah, the classic mindset of a socially anxious girl—believing she saw through everything, yet completely failing to see (or admit) her own jealousy, envy, and resentment.