Chapter 38: The Witch of the Library

Gentian stood at the entrance to the fourth floor, her gaze sweeping over the silent, towering rows of bookshelves.

How truly strange.

She had distinctly sensed a presence earlier, yet now, she could grasp nothing.

Even the staff, it seemed, had inexplicably vanished from this place.

The lingering auras felt as though they had been utterly erased, leaving behind only an empty, profound silence.

She took a single step forward.

No sound emanated from beneath her feet as expected. There were no footsteps, no breaths, yet her own heartbeat echoed with remarkable clarity.

Mist.

Imperceptibly, a pallid haze began to creep into the edges of her vision. This was no ordinary fog; it was a murky, putrid mist, slowly surging from the depths of the bookshelves as if imbued with life.

Gentian halted, her grip tightening on her staff.

Her surroundings began to blur. The once sharp outlines of the bookshelves, the neatly arranged spines, all seemed to be veiled beneath a thin gauze.

She narrowed her eyes, attempting to pierce the gloom, but only encountered an ever-thickening expanse of white.

“Hmph—hiding in the shadows, are we?”

A smirk played on her lips, no longer the casual smile she had worn moments before.

She raised a hand, and the vintage court gown she wore shimmered with a violet luminescence. As the light flowed, her attire underwent a transformation—a deep purplish-blue asymmetrical off-shoulder mini-dress, a black leather corset, and high-heeled boots. This was the proper stance for battle.

Deep Violet Domain: Scourge.

A deep violet aura abruptly radiated outwards from her, spreading in a powerful wave. The light carried a piercing killing intent, like countless tiny blades, tearing open a raw wound in the encroaching mist.

Within the domain, everything became crystal clear.

Yet beyond its confines, the mist surged even more violently, as if in a fit of rage or perhaps, mockery.

“Screech, screech, screech—”

A chorus of shrill cries erupted from all directions.

Innumerable pale shadows burst forth from the mist. Were they… bats? Yet, they were unlike any bat she knew. These creatures possessed no eyes, only mouths ripped open to their earlobes, filled with countless tiny, needle-sharp teeth.

They descended upon Gentian, reeking of potent blood and decay.

Gentian’s wrist flicked, and a long whip materialized in her hand.

A flash of violet light, and the first few white shadows were severed at the waist, dissolving into mist. But more surged from the fog, relentless and unending, as if impossible to fully eradicate.

The stench of blood intensified, growing so浓 it was almost nauseating.

Gentian furrowed her brows. The odor was more than just foul—it was insidious, eroding her senses and clouding her judgment. Each breath felt like swallowing chunks of decaying flesh.

“You only hide in the dark and send out these petty tricks?”

She gritted her teeth, her voice laced with fury.

“If you have the guts, come out and fight me head-on!”

Her only answer was a greater influx of white shadows and an ever-thickening mist.

Just then—

“Past, emerge.”

A languid voice, tinged with a faint sigh, drifted from behind her.

Deep violet light flared from another direction, intertwining with Gentian’s domain. The glow was gentle yet resolute, like a lamp ignited in the darkest night.

Memory Spirit Domain: Tracing.

A thick, ancient tome materialized out of thin air, its pages turning without a breeze, its edges shimmering with a faint golden light. Centered on the book, another deep violet domain rapidly unfurled, overlapping and interweaving with Gentian’s own.

Where the two domains converged, the frantically surging mist seemed to be suppressed by an unseen force, beginning to recede and dissipate.

Gentian turned, spotting a figure in a deep violet off-shoulder gown approaching from the stairwell. Her light purple hair was loosely styled, a feather quill hairpin tucked diagonally into her tresses. Her eyes were half-closed, her expression as languid as if she had just woken, yet the magic book in her hands pulsed with an undeniable magical fluctuation.

Gentian narrowed her eyes, her long whip subtly raised.

The figure stopped just in time, raising a hand. Her expression remained unhurried, but her tone held a hint of resignation:

“What are you doing? Look closely before you strike. I am Magical Girl Ziyuan.”

Gentian stared at her for two seconds, then pouted.

“…Ziyuan?”

“Mm.”

Ziyuan walked over to her side, her gaze sweeping across the misty area still lingering ahead.

“Dressed like that,” Gentian scoffed, “I thought you were a witch.”

“Witch style and a witch are still different,” Ziyuan replied calmly, adding nothing further.

She raised the magic book in her hands, its pages rustling softly.

Ziyuan’s Library: Read.

“Record, analyze.”

A faint golden light streamed from the pages, spreading like tiny threads in every direction. These threads pierced through the mist, through the bookshelves, and through the hidden presences in the shadows, feeding back information little by little.

Ziyuan closed her eyes, as if reading an invisible book.

A few seconds later, she opened them.

“Northwest corner, at your nine o’clock position,” she stated. “There’s an ‘Eclipse’ there, but it’s most likely a decoy.”

Upon hearing this, Gentian, without a word, surged towards the northwest.

Ziyuan parted her lips, intending to speak—to warn her not to be impulsive, to tell her it might be a trap—but the violet figure had already vanished into the mist.

She let out a soft sigh.

Never mind. There was no stopping her.

Gentian charged into the mist, her long whip lashing through the air, shattering every white shadow in her path. Her speed was like a violet bolt of lightning, her skirt flaring behind her like a blooming flower.

Northwest corner.

A grayish-black shadow huddled in the corner between a bookshelf and the wall, its form indistinct, its aura faint—at most a low-grade R-tier ‘Wandering Spirit,’ not even capable of ‘Coalescence.’

Gentian froze.

That was it? Was this really what Ziyuan meant by ‘Coalescence’?

The moment she was distracted, the dark shadow abruptly contracted, slipping away from her like smoke, vanishing into another patch of mist.

“A decoy,” Ziyuan’s voice drifted from behind her, unhurried. “I told you.”

Gentian gritted her teeth.

Just then—

A far more powerful aura suddenly descended.

The presence was heavy, chilling, reeking of decay and death, surging from all directions, so oppressive it was almost suffocating. The mist, in that instant, grew even denser, the grayish-white fog seeming to gain weight, pressing heavily on their shoulders.

Ziyuan’s magic book vibrated softly, its pages turning faster than before.

Mid-grade SR…

Or even higher.

“What a beautiful night.”

A faint, ethereal female voice drifted from the mist. The voice was soft, languid, like someone whispering after just waking up.

But within that softness, there was an indescribable coldness.

“Yet you, why must you… wake me?”

Gentian gripped her long whip, her body tensing slightly. Ziyuan closed her magic book, her half-lidded eyes finally opening a little wider.

The mist slowly parted.

A figure emerged from the fog.

It was a woman in a tattered, grayish-white long dress. The hem was ragged like decaying leaves, with scorched, black marks along the edges. Translucent, dark gray mist coiled around her, like an unwillingly lingering phantom. Her pale, messy hair spilled loosely, obscuring half of her face.

The visible eye had a dark red pupil.

Behind her, clusters of dark shadows floated silently. These ‘Eclipses’—of varying sizes and forms—followed obediently, like well-behaved children.

She gently raised a hand.

A thick, grayish-black grimoire materialized out of thin air, its cover inlaid with dark red gems. When its pages turned, it emitted a low, mournful moan, like countless people weeping.

“I am Magical Girl…” she began, her voice still soft, yet infused with an unspeakable chill, “Oh no, now I am a witch.”

She tilted her head slightly, her dark red eye falling upon Gentian and Ziyuan.

“Witch, Ghost Orchid,” she said, as if introducing herself, yet also like reciting a eulogy. “Good evening, everyone~”

The final ‘everyone~’ rose in pitch, like a young girl playfully teasing.

But coupled with her pale face, her dark red eye, and the silent dark shadows behind her—

It was only a chilling dread.

Gentian stared at her, the long whip trembling slightly in her hand. Not from fear, but from exhilaration.

“A rare witch, and one who speaks voluntarily?” she said, a curve gracing her lips. “How interesting.”

Ziyuan remained silent. She simply took a half-step back, her magic book opening to a new page.

Ghost Orchid looked at them, and suddenly smiled.

But that smile made the surrounding air grow several degrees colder.

“Have you… ever been abandoned?”

She asked softly, as if posing the most ordinary question.

Without waiting for an answer, she raised her hand, and the grimoire opened.

Mist of Oblivion: Cage.

Grayish-white mist surged from the grimoire, like a living entity, instantly engulfing the entire fourth floor.

This mist was thicker, colder, and more despairing than before. It didn’t merely obscure vision—it burrowed into one’s heart, involuntarily dredging up the memories one least wished to recall.

Those forgotten solitudes.

Those moments of abandonment.

Those silent questions of ‘Why me?’

Gentian gritted her teeth, long whip in hand, yet for a moment, she didn’t know where to strike.

Ziyuan opened her magic book, and a faint golden light attempted to dispel the mist, but could only barely protect herself.

Ghost Orchid stood still, the dark shadows behind her hovering quietly.

She bowed her head slightly, looking at the grimoire in her hands as if at an old friend.

“Let me see…”

She murmured softly.

“Your pasts.”

Ghost Orchid’s Whisper: Listen.

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