[Location]: District 1 · "The Witch's House"
The rest of the night dissolved into a blur of neon lights, holographic explosions, and the rhythmic clinking of ice against crystal.
The [High Council] deck didn't always lose.
In fact, Hathaway's "Pool Poisoning Strategy" proved to be a toxic masterpiece. Sometimes, the math backfired, she choked on her own unplayable bricks, and got stomped by aggressive aggro decks before turn six.
But other times?
Other times, she successfully dragged the game into a miserable, muddy stalemate. Her opponents would desperately reach into the Shared Void for a cheap combo piece, only to pull out a 10-Cost Titan they couldn't afford. They would stare in despair at their bricked hands, and then, at Round 10, the stars aligned. Hathaway would slam down [The 3rd Seat · Ash] or [Retired 5th Seat · Josephine], and the sheer, absurd stat difference would crush the casual decks of the bar patrons like a hydraulic press crushing a soda can.
She won some. She lost some.
But mostly, she drank. A lot.
The [Deep Sea Ice Moon Sugar]—that deceptive, sweet blue syrup—was long gone.
The [1882 Star-Dust Wine], the bottle Victoria had opened with a casual flick of her finger, had evaporated into their glasses.
And now, sitting in the center of the table like a raid boss, was the finale.
[The Dragon Egg Cocktail]
It was a spectacle. A massive, hollowed-out Prime Dragon Egg served as the bowl. The shell was covered in real, warm ruby scales. Inside, a glowing green liquid—a mix of Absinthe, Fog-Mint, and Gold Rum—bubbled ominously.
Hathaway dipped her ladle into the egg, filling her cup for the fourth time.
Her face was flushed a deep, healthy crimson. Her eyes were bright, unfocused, and swimming with raw mana.
"I am not drunk," Hathaway announced to the air, waving her ladle at a table of Witches nearby. "I am just... highly mana-conductive right now. My brain is overclocked."
Across the table, Victoria sat in perfect stillness.
She was sipping her drink with an elegance that made the cheap bar glass look like fine crystal. She looked completely sober, though her pale cheeks had a faint, lovely tint of rose—like a drop of blood falling onto snow.
"Of course," Victoria replied, her voice cool and steady. "You are merely... experiencing high latency."
"Exactly!" Hathaway slammed her cup down, splashing a bit of green glowing liquid. "Lag! It's just lag! My genius is faster than my tongue!"
Victoria didn't mock her. She simply propped her cheek against her pale knuckles, her silhouette softening in the dim light.
Her azure eyes were unfocused, misty, and beautiful—like staring into a deep, frozen lake. Because of her severe myopia, she wasn't looking at Hathaway. She was looking through her, drifting along with the jazz melody playing in the background.
A faint, almost imperceptible arc of amusement graced her lips—a rare crack in her usual armor of ice.
Hathaway stared at that smile.
In her drunken haze, her thoughts were simple and unfiltered.
She is pretty.
Scary. But pretty.
The automated piano shifted to a slow, jazzy rendition of an old Witch ballad. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, alcohol, and the ozone smell of magic.
Snippets of gossip floated from nearby tables, drifting into Hathaway's ears:
"Did you hear? The Lucas Family heir made a move on the 5th Seat again..."
"To Lady Irene? What was it this time?"
"A tea set. Rumor says it was valued at Two Giant Sky Islands at the last auction."
"...That’s not a gift. That’s a marriage proposal. Did Lady Irene accept?"
"She accepted it. And then she immediately sent back a return gift of the exact same value."
"Ouch. The 'Equivalence Rejection'. Lady Irene is truly uncatchable."
Equivalence, Hathaway thought, the word echoing in her foggy brain.
Witches don't owe each other.
Everything has a price.
She looked at Victoria again.
Victoria sat there, surrounded by the noise, yet isolated in her own quiet world. She was the Third Miss of the Wellington family. She had everything. Money, power, lineage.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
She looks lonely, Hathaway thought. But also very expensive.
Wait. Expensive.
A thought drilled through the alcohol fog, sharp and sobering.
I have been eating her food for a month.
She brings me breakfast. She brews me tea.
She tutored me for 30 days straight—Top 0.1% level tutoring—and I haven't paid a single Solar in tuition fees.
And tonight, she opened an 1882 vintage Star-Dust.
Hathaway sat up straight. A surge of inexplicable, drunken pride rushed through her veins, overriding her common sense.
I am a Ludwig!
I am not a freeloader! I am not a Moocher!
If I don't pay for something right now, I will lose my dignity as a gentlewoman!
"Elise!" Hathaway shouted, raising her hand with the authority of a general commanding a legion.
Space rippled, and the High Witch appeared instantly, holding a tray.
"Ready to surrender, Miss Ludwig? You look like you're one blink away from a month of dreamless sleep."
"Check, please!" Hathaway declared, slapping her personal card on the table.
Victoria blinked. The haze in her eyes cleared for a second as she registered the situation. She reached out calmly.
"Hathaway, the reservation includes the—"
"No!" Hathaway blocked Victoria's hand with surprising speed.
She stared at Victoria with wet, blurry, but fiercely determined eyes.
"You paid for the seat. You paid for the Star-Dust. You paid for my brain cells for the last 30 days."
Hathaway pointed at the empty blue bottle and the giant Dragon Egg with a dramatic sway of her finger.
"But these two... I pay. I am treating you."
"Hathaway," Victoria chuckled softly, amused by this sudden burst of backbone. "It's not necessary. The bill is—"
"I am a Ludwig!" Hathaway puffed out her chest, looking like a proud, fluffy bird trying to intimidate a hawk. "We celebrate victories with... with solvency! I have money! My family dividend is coming next week! 30,000 Solars! I am rich!"
Elise looked at Victoria, raising an eyebrow. 'Let her pay?'
Victoria sighed, but the smile on her face deepened. It wasn't mocking. It was soft, almost indulgent.
"Very well," Victoria withdrew her hand, leaning back. "If the 'Head of the Ludwig' Family insists on displaying her wealth."
Elise grinned and swiped the card.
[Transaction Receipt]
[Deep Sea Ice Moon Sugar]: 3,400 Solars.
[Dragon Egg Cocktail]: 4,000 Solars.
Total: 7,400 Solars.
Beep.
[Transaction Approved.]
Hathaway's little treasury—the startup capital given by her mothers, which had dwindled to about 14,000 after a month of expenses—was instantly slashed in half.
She was now down to her last few thousand.
But Drunk Hathaway felt no pain.
She only felt Glory.
She grabbed the receipt and waved it at Victoria like a trophy.
"See? I got this."
Victoria took the receipt from her hand, glancing at the numbers, then back at Hathaway.
"I see," Victoria nodded, her voice gentle but carrying the poise of a noble accepting a tribute. "Thank you for the drink, Miss Ludwig."
Hathaway grinned—a bright, silly, unburdened smile that she rarely showed when sober.
"You're welcome!"
She tried to stand up.
The world tilted 45 degrees to the left.
"Whoops."
She stumbled, her knees giving way.
But she didn't hit the floor.
Victoria stood up gracefully. She moved with the fluid precision of water, stepping around the table to Hathaway's side.
She didn't grab her arm roughly. She didn't support her shoulder like a crutch.
Instead, Victoria extended her hand, palm up.
The long, black silk glove emphasized the elegance of her fingers.
An invitation.
"Shall we go home?" Victoria asked softly.
Hathaway blinked, staring at the gloved hand.
Her brain was mush, but her instincts were screaming.
Take it.
It looks safe.
She smells like winter and old books.
Hathaway giggled. She placed her hand into Victoria's.
The grip was firm, cool, and surprisingly strong.
Then, with the boldness that only alcohol could provide—a sudden surge of desire to bridge the distance between them—Hathaway leaned in.
She remembered the phone call from yesterday.
She remembered the voice of Cecilia Wellington—the only person who could make Victoria smile like that.
She remembered the name.
She leaned close to Victoria's ear, whispering the forbidden nickname she had heard over the line:
"Let's go home, Vicky."
...
The air around them seemed to freeze for a fraction of a second.
Victoria stiffened.
Her head turned slightly, her unfocused eyes narrowing. The smile vanished, replaced by a cool, assessing neutrality. The temperature dropped.
For a moment, the atmosphere wasn't 'drunk friends'. It was 'Two Noble Witches negotiating a boundary'.
Victoria stood there, processing the audacity.
Yesterday, she had allowed Hathaway to listen to the call. A gesture of trust. A shared secret. But using the name herself? Assuming the intimacy of a sister after only one month?
It was presumptuous. It was... too fast.
Victoria let out a short, sharp breath through her nose.
"You are drunk, Ludwig," she said, her voice icy but not lethal. "And you are getting ahead of yourself."
She closed her fingers tighter around Hathaway's hand, pulling her upright—firmly, but not unkindly.
"That name is not for you to use. Not yet."
Hathaway beamed, too inebriated to sense the nuance of the rejection, only feeling the warmth of the contact.
"Okay!"
Victoria led her out of the bar.
The cool night air of the First District hit Hathaway's face, but the warmth of the hand holding hers kept the chill away. Elise watched them go from the bar counter, wiping a glass with a smirk.
At the entrance, under the neon-lit bamboo, a vehicle was waiting.
It was a Griffin Carriage.
Two majestic, white-feathered griffins pawed the ground, their golden beaks gleaming under the streetlights. Behind them was a sleek, black carriage with silver trim—classic, aristocratic, and screaming 'Old Money'.
A driver—a Witch dressed in a sharp, Victorian-style coachman's coat—hopped down. She placed a wooden step-stool by the door.
"My Lady," the driver nodded to Victoria, ignoring the stumbling drunk attached to her hand.
Victoria nodded back politely. She stepped onto the stool, still holding Hathaway's hand, and guided the Ludwig up the steps.
"Watch your step."
They settled into the velvet seats of the carriage.
The door clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the city.
In the sudden quiet of the dark cabin, Victoria gently released Hathaway's hand.
The loss of warmth was sudden.
Hathaway wanted to reach for it again, but her eyelids were so, so heavy.
The carriage rocked gently as the griffins took flight. The rhythmic motion was the final straw.
The seat is soft.
The air smells like Victoria.
Safe.
The darkness rushed in to claim her. The world faded into a comfortable void.
But just before her consciousness completely dissolved, in that liminal space between waking and dreaming, she heard a voice.
It was soft, velvety, and carried a hint of complex emotion she was too drunk to decipher.
"Impatience is a flaw, Hathaway..."
The whisper drifted through the dark cabin, hanging in the air like smoke.
"...Not yet."
Not yet?
Hathaway's brain tried to process the words, but the thought slipped away like sand through fingers.
She mumbled something incoherent about "beautiful eyes," and then, finally, the lights went out.
Victoria sat in the opposite corner, her posture impeccable.
She watched the sleeping Ludwig, a faint, unreadable expression on her face. Outside the window, the lights of District 1 blurred into streaks of gold, leaving the two Witches suspended in the quiet, private night.