[Location]: Wooden Tea House
Creak.
The wooden door swung open.
Instantly, the vacuum of space vanished. A wave of aggressive warmth—scented with wolfberry, dried chrysanthemum, and old wood—washed over them, fighting a war against the absolute zero of the surrounding space.
"Come in, children. Close the door, you're letting the heat out."
The voice was slow, soft, and sounded like an old rocking chair.
Sitting behind a kotatsu (heated table) was a girl who looked no older than fifteen. She wore a heavy, padded sleeping robe over her shoulders, her legs tucked under the quilt. She held a thermos shaped like a cat's paw, blowing steam off her tea.
"Nyao~!"
Before Hathaway could even react to the girl, the weight on her head vanished.
The Orange Lantern Cat, which had been shivering in the cosmic void just seconds ago, suddenly perked up. Its nose twitched. It sensed something far superior to Hathaway's body heat.
It didn't care about loyalty. It didn't care about the fried chicken Hathaway had carried for three blocks. It only cared about BTUs (British Thermal Units).
With a happy chirp, the cat abandoned Hathaway without a second thought. It floated through the air, drifting straight toward the girl at the table.
It landed softly on the girl's head.
Then, it circled twice, curled up in her black silky hair, and instantly fell asleep, purring louder than ever before.
Hathaway stood there, frozen.
Her hands were still full of greasy buckets. Her posture was still stiff from balancing the "crown."
But the King had abdicated.
I fed you.
I carried you across a galaxy.
And you dump me for the first person with better central heating?
Traitor.
The girl didn't seem to mind the new orange hat. She didn't even blink. She just took a sip of her tea, her eyes crinkling with amusement as she looked at Hathaway's indignant expression.
But Hathaway's indignation didn't last long. Her [Transmigrator's Intuition] finally kicked in, screaming a warning.
The air inside the hut wasn't just calm; it was dead.
The molecules of oxygen weren't moving naturally; they were frozen in place, terrified to vibrate without permission. This wasn't a teenager. This was a Glacier compressed into human shape.
Cascading over her padded robe was hair as black and fragile as spun silk, pooling around her like ink. But her eyes... her eyes were a living contradiction.
They were not the blue of frost. They were the Tyrannical Orange of a Midsummer Sun. Blazing, molten, and alive. Just meeting her gaze felt like opening a furnace door—a phantom heatwave that burned the retina, clashing violently with the absolute zero aura radiating from her skin.
Winter skin, Summer eyes.
Nyx.
Honorific Name: The Winter Witch.
Class: Arch-Witch.
Holder of [The Mandate of the Fire Dragon].
Hathaway’s heart hammered against her ribs.
She knew what that "Mandate" meant. And more importantly, she knew what it didn't mean.
It didn't mean Nyx was a dragon, nor did it mean she simply killed one. In a world where dragons are harvested for handbags and steaks, claiming a "Mandate" for killing one would be like a soldier demanding a medal for successfully grocery shopping.
No. The "Fire Dragon" in the title was a historic misnomer—a deceptive relic from the Dark Era. The "Mandate" was actually a badge of Planetary Deicide.
It was one of the two supreme "Admission Tickets" to the Arch-Witch class, and the entry requirements were a nightmare of hyper-competition. There were only 23 seats. Strictly 23.
In a society where "Legendary" status is just the baseline, the Mandate is a game of musical chairs played with nuclear weapons. Every five years, the seats are up for "Re-election."
And Witch evolution moves at a terrifying pace. It operates on the logic of Unchecked Power Creep. A "once-in-a-decade" genius in this world isn't just a strong mage. She is a "Version-Defining Unit." She is the kind of "Meta-Defining Monster" that walks into the arena and declares: "I am the New Meta."
In this environment of insane numerical inflation, yesterday's Demigod is today's trash mob. Usually, these new "T0-Tier Monsters" optimize the old guard out of existence within a single term. They bring bigger numbers, faster casting frames, and more broken mechanics.
But Nyx? She has survived 15 consecutive Version Updates.
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For 75 years, she has sat on that throne. She has watched 15 generations of "Game-Breaking" geniuses throw their inflated stats against her frozen defenses, only to realize that she is the bug in the system that cannot be patched.
At 150 years old, she had just entered her Golden Prime. The volatile blizzard of her youth had settled into something far more terrifying: the stillness of a Gentle Grandmother.
As Nyx stood up to welcome them, her porcelain feet touched the wooden floor.
Thrum.
The entire Void outside the window trembled. The distant nebulas shivered.
She breathed in, and the mana in the room vanished.
She breathed out, and the mana returned, denser and heavier.
[Respiration of Life and Death].
The hallmark of a Witch in her Prime—forcing the universe to synchronize with her own biological rhythm.
Despite her delicate, doll-like arms, Hathaway knew that Nyx could likely wrestle a Titan Dragon into submission with one hand.
However...the rumor was that Nyx didn't keep winning those 15 bloody re-elections for glory.
She kept it because the title granted her "VIP Judge Status" at the annual Fire Dragon Friendship Cooking Contest.
To Nyx, that blood-soaked certificate of supreme violence was simply... "The Unlimited Meal Ticket."
It was the only key to access a menu that money couldn't buy. Azure-Rock Dragon Steaks with the widest wingspans in history; Angel Fillets so rare that poaching them is technically an act of war; the Golden Goat-Dragon Tail that only sheds once a season...
For ordinary Witches, these are mythical materials. For Nyx, they are Tuesday's lunch.
For 75 years, she hasn't been defending a title. She has been defending her seat at the buffet table.
"Entry Permit?" Nyx asked, her voice light and airy, taking a slow sip of tea.
"Uh..." Hathaway fumbled in her pocket, instinctively reaching for her student ID card first.
Nyx glanced up, her pale, starry eyes sweeping over them. She waved a slender hand, stopping Hathaway from pulling out the plastic card.
"No need for the ID card," Nyx smiled, but for a split second, the cozy warmth of the room dropped to absolute zero. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze dissecting them like a scalpel.
She pointed a slender finger at Hathaway's eyes.
"Crimson kaleidoscope pupils... fracturing light into rigid geometry... A Ludwig."
She shifted her gaze to Victoria.
"Unfocused blue stare... seeing three dimensions at once... A Wellington."
She sat back, and the scent of warm tea returned, as if the terrifying pressure had never existed. Nyx chuckled, a sound like cracking ice.
"You two are walking family crests. Your eyes are louder than any plastic ID card." She extended her hand. "Just show me the note."
Hathaway blinked, realizing the depth of the Senior Witch's observation. She pulled out the Greasy Napkin.
"We have... this. From Professor Heidi Lucent."
Nyx took the napkin. Her pale, porcelain fingers didn't mind the grease stains. She looked at the scribbled handwriting.
A slow, amused smile spread across her face, melting the frost in the room for a fraction of a second.
"Heidi..." she chuckled, a sound like cracking ice. "That reckless child."
She tapped the napkin, her eyes narrowing slightly with academic disbelief.
"Assigning a Sector Zero paradox theory to a freshman? Does she expect a first-year student to deconstruct 11th-dimensional causality? That is not education. That is like asking a toddler to pilot a Star Dreadnought. It's simply absurd."
Nyx shook her head, stamping the napkin with a glowing blue rune.
[Access Granted]
"Go on then."
Nyx pointed to a velvet tray on the table. Lying there were two sleek, silver bands etched with suppression runes.
[Mana Dampening Bracelets]
"But first," Nyx said, adjusting the sleeping cat on her head so it wouldn't slide off. "Put on the cuffs. No active mana flow allowed inside. It prevents accidental spell misfires, and more importantly, it prevents Copyright Infringement. No recording spells, no duplication magic."
Victoria stepped forward. She didn't hesitate.
She clasped the silver band around her left wrist.
Click.
The runic light dimmed. Victoria’s aura, usually sharp and vibrant, was instantly muffled. She looked at Nyx, bowed slightly, and stepped back.
Hathaway swallowed hard.
She picked up the second bracelet. It felt cold to the touch.
She clicked it around her wrist.
Hum.
The sensation was immediate.
It felt like being unplugged. The constant, roaring hum of 40,000 mana she had gotten used to since reincarnating was suppressed. Her internal radar went dark. Even standing in front of Nyx, she could now only sense a faint, unnatural distortion instead of a blinding sun.
She felt heavy. She felt weak. She felt Human.
My mana output is capped at... maybe 1,000 M-Units?
But in the next second, a strange clarity washed over her. Hathaway looked at the thin silver band.
Wait.
The suppression isn't absolute.
It feels like a dam holding back a flood. The bracelet is rated to suppress a standard High Witch.
But my reserves are abnormal. If I really wanted to... if I spun my mana core to maximum velocity...
I could shatter this bracelet in a millisecond.
It was a Civilian Lock meant for honest citizens, not a Military Shackle meant for monsters.
She glanced at Victoria. The Third Miss of Wellington remained calm, but her muscles were slightly tense. She likely realized the same thing.
This wasn't a prison.
This was a Gentlewoman's Agreement.
It was a ritual of civility: I have the power to break your rules, but out of respect for the Library (and the monster guarding it), I choose to bind myself.
"Good girls," Nyx smiled, sipping her tea, seemingly unaware (or simply unbothered) by the fact that she had just handcuffed two walking mana-bombs.
She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner.
11:00 AM.
She held up one finger.
"One hour."
"You arrived at a slightly awkward time. At 12:00 PM Sharp, the Library undergoes its Weekly Deep Freeze."
"Don't worry about the books," Nyx explained, seeing the question in Hathaway's eyes. "It is not physical cold, but Entropy Stasis. It halts time and decay, keeping the pages crisp and killing any bookworms instantly."
Nyx's eyes curved into amused crescents.
"However, for biological visitors... it is less pleasant. You will be frozen into statues for the duration of the cycle—usually 12 hours."
She pointed to the ceiling with her teaspoon.
"The locals know better. That is why they are hiding."
Hathaway looked up.
The rafters of the tea house were... occupied.
Dozens of Lantern Cats—mostly warm whites, soft creams, and glowing ambers—were drifting aimlessly near the ceiling like helium balloons that had gained too much weight. They bumped into each other softly (bonk), meowed lazily (nyao), and squeezed into the warm corners of Nyx's domain, waiting for the storm to pass.
Among them, the Orange Traitor on Nyx's head was sleeping soundly.
It wasn't just safe; it had secured the Premium Heated VIP Suite atop the Winter Witch's head. It had already melted into a liquid state, draping over Nyx's hair like a furry, glowing wig.
"So," Nyx took another sip of tea, her tone shifting from grandmotherly to strict.
"If you are not out in 60 minutes, I will have to come in and defrost you manually. Being rescued by me is... chilly. Try to avoid it."
You now have 60 minutes.
(To leave a rating. Nyx's rules, not mine.)