A colossal black shadow with burning eyes crept through the darkness of the room. The needle of moonlight pierced the gap between the curtains, catching the curl of black lips and snow-white fangs. The beast gave a raspy growl, glanced over the sleeping figures, and slipped toward the exit, its claws clicking softly against the floor... And, right on cue, a phone call shattered the fascinating dream. It was the one person the young witch could never say no to. “Mentor? What’s wrong?” “I’ve sent a journalist your way. He’s covering the vandalism at the Marsha Taris estate. Help him out. And look into it yourself. The police will do their thing, but we have skin in the game and need to dig deeper than anyone else. The boy is sharp, so keep an eye on him. I’ve cleared a forty-eight-hour pass for you both—you can clean up and seize any artifacts you find. Use this to your advantage, child.” “As you wish,” Viki mumbled out of habit, collapsing back onto the bed and closing her eyes. The screen of her personal communicator went dead, cutting her off from the Elder Witch’s scrying orb. Of course, like any self-respecting witch, Viki owned a magic mirror—far superior to any modern visor—but that required actually getting out of bed. The palm-sized communicator, however, worked on the same principle and was always within arm's reach. Having spent half the night buried in a book, Viki had no intention of waking up early. She certainly didn't want to waste two whole days babysitting some reporter. When would this smooth talker even show up? No doubt he was already drooling at the thought of getting lucky enough to spend the night with a young witch. Just let him try. He’d quickly learn that when it comes to men, "goats" and "dense bricks" aren't just personality traits—sometimes they’re a literal description. Lulled by these satisfying thoughts, Viki was almost asleep again. But a second ring ruined not just her sleep, but her entire mood. “Speak,” she grumbled. Her sleepy voice and blatant irritation didn't faze the caller in the least. “Vikilina?” a male voice asked, bubbling with way too much enthusiasm for Viki's liking. “Depends who’s asking. What the hell do you want from me at this ungodly hour, human?” “What the hell, or what the heck? Sorry... I’m Oleg Marra, the journalist. Mistress Santara gave me your number,” her energetic caller plowed on. “Right.” Viki swallowed the urge to tell the guy to go to hell. If she actually cursed him, the spell might backfire, and she’d be the one stuck digging him out. It wouldn't be the first time. Besides, the trashing of the house-museum of the Khoras Principality’s greatest witch was a high-profile scandal. You couldn't just let that slide. The bastards had to be taught a lesson... but first, they had to be found. They had vanished into thin air inside that very house, turning her job into an annoying game of hide-and-seek. Or rather, find-the-remains. “I’m running a journalistic investigation into the museum break-in,” the persistent reporter pressed on, “but I can’t go in alone. The police are demanding a magical escort.” “And what exactly are we going to do there?” Viki asked, still blinking away sleep. “Me? I’ll film the story and stay out of your way. You? I don't know, I'm sure you'll come up with something.” “Fine, you win. Give me a minute to wake up, down some coffee, and get dressed.” Viki had no intention of rushing. After all, a fairy is just a witch who actually got enough sleep, had a solid breakfast, and put on her makeup. “Coffee delivery is already at your grace’s door,” Oleg announced with the unshakeable enthusiasm of a happy idiot. “Open up, please! Word on the street is I brew a mean cup.” What a cheeky bastard, Viki thought, instantly swapping her mental plan of ripping him limb from limb for a longer, though not necessarily more humane, plan of studying this specimen alive. Her mentor had told her to keep an eye on him, but hadn't specified what to do afterward. Shoving her feet into fluffy slippers, she trudged to the door. The coffee did indeed arrive first. A silver thermos, gleaming with intricate runic patterns, slid into the hallway, closely followed by its owner. Oleg was a tall guy in a leather jacket that was practically covered in a dozen tiny cameras. They clung to him like bats to a cliffside, ready to take flight and start filming at a single mental command. Viki instantly scanned the stranger’s aura and magic reserves. Strangely enough, despite being quite good-looking, the guy didn't have the aura of a playboy. He wasn't a mage either—a mana level sitting at a flat three meant zero potential for actual spellcasting. It just gave him sharp intuition and a knack for being in the right place at the right time. That was it . No amount of training could turn a regular human into a true mage. Viki knew exactly what he saw right now: a short, disheveled blonde with blue eyes, looking sleepy in a modest pajama set made of light blue flannel covered in bright yellow dandelions. What he couldn't see was her own magic level. A flat fifteen was invisible to anyone unless they were an equal or superior mage—and good luck finding one of those around here. The guy tilted his head, and a controller hoop flashed beneath his hair. It ran entirely on the operator's own bio-energy—no batteries required. These cameras wouldn't stop rolling until his heart stopped beating, and even then, they’d probably drain the last scraps of his life force for another two minutes of footage. How did the Projectorium Registry let a treasure like him go without a tight contract? Viki wondered. Yeah, the mentor was right. I need to watch him. He looks like a harmless lamb, but what’s hiding behind the mask? Even the thermos he was holding over her doorstep deserved a second look. “A dissipation rune? Protection against water, earth, fire... and air? Who scared you this badly, reporter?” Viki studied the fine script. Upon closer inspection, the abstract lines dissolved into a complex runic matrix. “You’d be amazed by what flies around these days!” Oleg laughed, holding out an ID card embossed with a falcon's eye. “Even your grace might hit me with... let's see...” He glanced down at his wrist. “Darkness or decay.” “It wouldn't work on you anyway,” Viki noted, eyeing the protective runes painted onto his face in transparent ink. “Unless I decide to poke you with a kitchen knife.” Oleg didn't even flinch when a knife, snatched from the counter by her telekinesis, floated right in front of his nose. He simply sidestepped the floating weapon, pressed his back against the wall, set the thermos on the kitchen table, and draped his jacket over a chair. “Mistress Santara didn't say a syllable about your talents! No mention of magic, let alone telekinesis.” “That just means she doesn't love you. Otherwise, she would’ve warned you that waking me up is a workplace hazard.” Viki turned away from her overly comfortable guest, who was already pouring the coffee, and headed for the bathroom. “Since you’re here, make yourself useful. Whip up some sandwiches while I get washed.” “How about something more substantial?” he called out after her. “Bold,” Viki muttered. “If you know your way around a stove, fry some eggs. With sausage. And listen closely: if I find out you filmed me before I’ve brushed my hair, that will be the last interview you ever take.” She slammed the door. “The cameras are asleep!” Oleg’s voice drifted through the door, accompanied by the clatter of pans. “Man, what a wasted scoop. 'Young Journalist Falls Victim to Witch After Failing Breakfast Quest.'” “That’s exactly why ancient witches used to roast stray princes,” Viki muttered to herself. “He better not ruin my breakfast, or he’s the one ending up on the frying pan.” To her surprise, the fried eggs were spectacular. The sausage was perfectly crisped, the yolks were perfectly runny, and the guy had even skillfully chopped fresh greens onto a separate little plate. “You should eat too,” Viki said, watching him sip coffee with a sandwich he had clearly brought with him. Cautious one, aren't we? “Relax, it’s not poisoned. I don't mix potions in the kitchen. I have a separate lab for that.” “As if it’s that hard to sneak something in...” Oleg began, but catching her pensive glare, he threw his hands up. “I’m shutting up, I’m shutting up! So, what do you usually slip into people's food?” “I’m a fan of the classics,” Viki boasted playfully. “What’s better than a sleeping potion laced with a laxative? Only a levitation potion as a cherry on top. It’s the ultimate human dream: soaring through the clouds and crapping on everyone below!” Judging by his face, Oleg was deeply impressed by the mental image. After breakfast, he stacked the dishes in the sink. Viki, flexing her skills just a bit, whispered a spell. Instantly, the perfectly clean plates and cups floated up and neatly stacked themselves on the shelf. Oleg opened his mouth to say something, looked up at the ceiling, and wisely stayed silent. It seemed the glorious vision of the flying, crapping bird-man was still haunting him. Breaking all stereotypes about women taking forever to get ready, Viki grabbed her go-bag and jacket and announced she was ready. It wasn't far—just an hour’s walk. However, a compact off-roader was waiting for them at the building entrance. The journalist had his own wheels. And unlike Viki, he was definitely not traveling light—the back of the SUV was packed with everything from water canisters and a winch to heavy-duty sleeping bags. “Well, aren't we prepared,” the witch noted, eyebrows raised. “You never know when you’ll have to drop everything and bolt,” Oleg explained. “I can basically live out of this thing if I have to. Ready to roll? Destination: adventure!” He offered a cheerful wink, but Viki responded with a deadpan grimace. “This is the house of a former Supreme Witch,” she grumbled. “I’d prefer it if we had zero adventures. Quiet and peaceful. Take it from an experienced sorceress.” The museum met them with a front door jammed back into its broken frame, held together mostly by police crime-scene tape. The cop on duty tumbled out of his patrol car, yawning heavily. He checked their permits, dissolved the magical security seal, and ushered them inside. Once he saw they were through the door—and that Viki had used a quick burst of household magic to seal the frame behind them—the cop practically sprinted toward the nearest café. The poor guy was utterly sick of sitting in a car guarding an empty house, praying his superiors would call to say the vandals had been caught so he could go back to his usual, comfortable routine of chasing local drunks. The moment Viki saw the overturned tables and shattered flasks inside, her blood boiled. During the dark years of the magical purges, the old witch Marsha had managed not only to survive but to train an entire generation of young acolytes. She was a fighter, an icon, the pillar of their small community. And now, her legacy looked like a pigsty. Dull, talentless hacks had dared to desecrate this place. If Viki got her hands on them, their own mothers wouldn't recognize their auras. Over time, Marsha’s house had become more than a museum; it was a cultural center where young witches could study ancient potion-making and history. Viki had once been lucky enough to attend a lecture here by Professor Adelina Ratkan on medieval brewing, complete with a live demonstration. The professor had somehow managed to brew a fully functional glamour using nothing but primitive, historical tools. The students had watched with bated breath, profoundly grateful they didn't have to face those kinds of brutal trials in modern times. Now, ancient grimoires with pages stained by sticky, unknown substances lay ruined on the floor among cast-iron cauldrons and shattered retorts. Even the rare herbs, old and dried, had been kicked into messy piles across the dust. The burners were smashed. The witch’s primary workbench lay flipped upside down in the center of the laboratory, and the chairs had been hurled into the hallway, splintering against the walls and leaving deep gashes in the paint. Viki remembered the mix of awe and horror she had felt when realizing her predecessors worked without temperature regulators, microscopes, or spectrometers—when the most precise scales used physical weights and pans rather than a digital sensor that could weigh a speck of dust. Standing in the wreckage of the lab, she felt a sudden, deep ache. It felt as though a vital piece of history had been ripped away from her. It was a part of her own identity, something deeply precious. She picked up a heavily battered book, its pages practically detached and covered in dirty boot prints, carefully smoothed it out, and set it on the windowsill. With a soft hum, the cameras uncoupled from Oleg’s leather jacket and took flight. A dark Heads-Up Display screen descended from the metal hoop over his left eye, giving him a distinctly high-tech pirate look. With a single gesture, Oleg sent the drones scattering through the house, tracking their feeds by tilting his head. He pulled out his laptop, set it on the windowsill, and pulled up several live video feeds. The cameras glided seamlessly over cabinets and across the floor, peering into every dark corner. Watching him work, Viki realized the guy was squeezing every single drop out of his measly three units of magic. The equipment obeyed him flawlessly. One of the drones squeezed into a narrow gap beneath a secretary desk, emerging coated in thick dust and clumps of bright pink fuzz. It hovered back to its master, who carefully dusted it off before sending it back into the fray. “So, what’s the verdict?” Viki asked, glancing up toward the second floor. “Same story upstairs,” Oleg said, his tone almost apologetic. “It was a man’s work. Someone strong, aggressive, and highly focused.” “Four of them. Four people broke in,” Viki corrected coldly. “And not a single one ever walked out.” The cameras continued their frantic sweeping. Viki watched the monitors, trying to shake the knot tightening in her stomach. The sense of dread that had hit her the moment they crossed the threshold was growing heavier by the second. Looking for a distraction, she focused on the laptop screen. A camera panned across the floor, and suddenly, the pieces clicked together in her mind. “Freeze!” Oleg whirled around, and the video feeds instantly locked in place on every screen. “Give me a wide shot of the lab from the ceiling angle. Now,” Viki commanded. Two drones darted into position, providing two different angles of the room. “A bit more to the left...” The journalist adjusted the feed, unable to hide his questioning glare. “If you want to be useful, stop staring and keep the cameras steady,” the witch advised. “I thought we were a team here,” Oleg muttered softly. “I play bodyguard, I gather the footage.” “Do that again and I’ll kill you,” Viki countered, though her eyes danced with dark amusement. “Alright, my grand protector. Just don't get under my feet if things go sideways.” She walked in a slow circle around the scattered glass shards and spilled powders, deep in thought. “Oleg, can you strip the color feed? Show me everything in black and white. Including the flipped table.” “Sure thing.” The monitor feed instantly drained into monochrome. “Care to clue me in on what we're looking at?” “How’s your knowledge of runes?” “I only know the basics. Why?” “This line here is Fan—the rune of Awakening,” Viki pointed to a thin trail of crushed glass lying next to two uneven, elongated piles of pulverized herbs. “And over there is Iriv—the rune of Control.” “Control?” the reporter echoed. “Specifically, control over otherworldly entities.” “Then that table in the middle of the wreckage...” Oleg’s eyes widened as the realization hit him. “It’s an altar? The legs are positioned like that to tie down a sacrifice? I’ve seen an array exactly like this back in Vursh.” Viki knew all about the Vursh incident. It had been a bloody disaster involving high-tier necro-creatures and a perfectly coordinated breach from the Beyond. The attack had been so flawlessly executed that the entire local population was wiped out before they could even trigger an alarm. The sole survivor was a borderline insane journalist who had locked himself inside an artifact vault, live-streaming the entire invasion to the outside world. It was his raw data that allowed the military to counterattack and destroy the breach. The hero himself had been pulled out at the absolute last second, barely surviving terminal dehydration. A keeper like him is way too valuable to pass up... Viki murmured to herself, a slow smirk spreading across her face as she picked up another ruined book from the floor. Yeah, a specimen like him was way too valuable to let go. “But there's no blood anywhere,” Oleg noted, leaning over the table to inspect it without touching the surface. “Blood isn't required for this specific ritual. The array just demands that the sacrifice dies in agony,” Viki explained. She examined the wooden legs of the flipped table, finding no signs of rope friction. “Tell me, how would you bind a person to a table without leaving physical marks on the wood?” “Easy,” Oleg shrugged. “You wrap the legs in thick cloth first, then burn or discard the cloth afterward.” Checking through the debris, Viki found a small pouch containing a shimmering silver powder. She dissolved it into a bottle of water and began painting precise, glowing lines along the baseboards and cabinets. “What’s that for?” Oleg asked, tracking her movements. “Cleaning up the magical fallout. As for you—go stand in a corner and try not to look pretty. Got it?” Viki snorted. “You know, in web novels, witches are always portrayed as sarcastic but secretly affectionate little kittens,” Oleg sighed. He retreated toward the stairs leading to the second floor, strategically using a doorframe as a shield. His caution was entirely justified—a swirling orb of concentrated darkness had just materialized out of thin air above Viki's head, hovering like a targeted missile right at him. “Ever ask yourself why witches have a terrible reputation in the real world?” her voice floated from behind the door. “Keep distracting me, and you can find out firsthand via live experiment.” “The novels lied,” Oleg muttered to himself, heading up the stairs toward the old witch's bedroom. “That’s two witches I know now, and both have the empathy of a brick wall and the charm of a swamp viper.” “You haven't met our Supreme yet!” Viki called up from the ground floor. Oleg wisely shut his mouth. If the books lied about a witch’s charm, they certainly weren't lying about their capacity for vengeance. The bedroom was in an even worse state, but to a reporter's eye, the chaos here had a clear narrative. This wasn't mindless vandalism; it was a desperate defense. Someone had frantically barricaded themselves using the furniture. Chairs, tables, and even a massive bed had been dragged across the floor and partially flipped. The heavy wardrobe had been violently upended, its door completely ripped off its hinges and tossed aside. Oleg knelt and tried to lift the discarded wardrobe door. The sheer weight made him respect the perpetrator; even for a trained man like himself, moving this wood required serious physical effort. Witches preferred ultra-dense, precious hardwoods. They were incredibly heavy, completely fireproof, and highly receptive to mana conduction. Sliding a heavy wardrobe like this and tossing it around the room, judging by the deep gouges in the floorboards, shouldn't have been humanly possible. The culprit was either a freak of nature or acting under the influence of raw, primal terror. “Or maybe the thing tossing the wardrobe wasn't human at all,” Viki’s voice cut through the silence. Oleg gasped and spun around. The witch was standing right behind him. “Can you read minds?” “You think too loudly. Come on, let’s go film some actual magic. Otherwise, you’ll complain to your editors that I kept all the good stuff for myself.” Downstairs, the laboratory floor was now completely outlined by a thick, unbroken silver line and covered in glowing symbols. “Position your drones so they don't capture the exact runic formulas,” Viki ordered. “Can I keep the focus on you?” Oleg asked cautiously. “Yes. Focus on me,” Viki agreed. “The floor array is classified. A total amateur wouldn't know what to do with it, sure, but it’s better not to give the uninitiated any bright ideas. Disasters happen that way.” “Got a story to go with that warning?” the journalist asked, instantly fishing for a scoop. “A scary bedtime story? It’s a deal. For later.” “Can we make this next part spectacular?” Oleg requested, checking his angles. “The viewers love visual effects.” “Easy. Just lock the cameras onto me the moment I give the signal.” Viki did a final check of the silver lines, placing several small artifacts on the open nodes of the array. She stepped into a designated circle painted in the far corner of the room. Pointing to an identical circle in the opposite corner, she nodded. “Get in that one. Move!” Oleg pointed his drones at her face, but his eyes stayed glued to the floor. The painted silver lines were slowly bleeding into a deep, bruised crimson light. The glow expanded outward, literally consuming the scattered debris on the floor as it crept toward his feet. A primal urge to drop everything and run screamed in his head. Fortunately, the moment the crimson light hit the boundary of his designated circle, it split, flowing harmlessly around the perimeter without breaking inside. And then, Viki screamed. The sound made Oleg violently jump. It was a blood-curdling, piercing shriek that rattled his teeth and made his ears ring. Viki’s blonde hair snapped upward, writhing and twisting through the air like a nest of living snakes. Under her continuous, deafening scream, the strands braided and unbraided themselves in mid-air. Flashes of colored light rippled through her hair, forming chaotic, shifting mosaic patterns. Then, total silence. It hit the room like a physical blow, deafening in its suddenness. Oleg looked down. The entire laboratory floor was now perfectly clean, covered only by a fine, uniform layer of sterile black ash that completely obscured whatever had been underneath. “Cut the feed,” Viki ordered calmly. The drones floating in the air drifted back, settling onto Oleg’s shoulders and back like trained hawks. “Spectacular enough for your audience?” “Incredible!” the journalist breathed, genuinely awed. “What kind of high-tier spell was that?” “If you strip away the vocal dramatics? It’s a basic household charm for flash-drying hair and modeling a complex hairstyle.” Oleg’s face fell. “I feel deeply defrauded...” he muttered. “And what about the sonic screech part?” “Pure showmanship, manufactured strictly for your reportage,” the witch smirked. She gathered her artifacts and offered a playful wink. “Want a little more special effects? Resume filming.” She flicked her wrist. A miniature water vortex tore from her palm, swept across the floor to gather every grain of black ash, and shot straight out of the broken window, rocketing vertically into the sky. A few seconds later, a wet, heavy splat echoed from the street below, followed by a torrent of angry, colorful swearing. “The local market vendor always walks to work at exactly this time,” Viki noted with a satisfied grin. “Last week, the bastard sold me a rotten apple.” “Well, at least the books were right about one thing,” Oleg chuckled. “Witches hold a grudge. Shall we check the study next? Maybe they left some graffiti there too.” The destruction in the study was just as severe. Viki carefully knelt to retrieve a slashed portrait of the old witch. A large, precise section right out of the center of the canvas had been cleanly cut away. Oleg, meanwhile, was gathering loose sheets of a scattered manuscript from the floor. He flipped through the torn pages, his brow furrowing. “Hey, what exactly is the MTM Theory? Man, this handwriting is atrocious...” “What did you say?” Viki snapped. She laid the ruined portrait flat on the floor, staring in absolute disbelief at the gaping hole in the canvas. “They stole the familiar just for that?” “Wait, the familiar was painted?” Oleg pulled an incredibly expensive, top-tier three-crystal communicator from his pocket. He flipped the screen open and barked at the dark, waking interface of the artifact: “Marsha’s official portrait, archived copy. Display!” The screen flickered, revealing the official portrait. In the painting, the imposing Supreme Witch was cradling a cute, incredibly fluffy creature about the size of a kitten. For some bizarre reason, the beast was a soft, pastel pink. “Does the master require further parameters?” the communicator’s artificial voice chimed politely. “Run a comprehensive search on Mistress Marsha’s familiar or any combat beasts registered to her name. Give me everything on her personal retinue,” Oleg commanded. “Include local folklore and horror stories?” The communicator’s mirrored surface flashed, reflecting the journalist's grim expression. “Stick to official chronicles and contemporary legends from her era. Filter out modern internet myths.” “Nice gear shreds,” Viki noted as the screen went dark, the artifact deep in its search. “When your life depends on a direct uplink to a central scrying mirror, you don't skimp on hardware,” Oleg waved it off, sinking cross-legged onto the floor beside her. “Do you really think this entire high-profile break-in was committed just to steal a pink scrap of fur?” “The MTM Theory... how do I explain this to a layman...” Viki bit her lip thoughtfully. “Standard magical orthodoxy states that during Mass-Transmatter Shifting, total physical mass must remain relatively balanced. You can't turn a grizzly bear into a tiny hamster, and you can't turn a hamster into a warhorse. The sheer energy differential would literally tear the biological vessel apart mid-shift. But Marsha claimed she had cracked a mathematical formula that allowed matter to be compressed and reshaped into absolutely any form without mass constraints.” “And you think these amateurs were trying to extract and shift a painted mouse?” Oleg asked, incredulous. “That’s no mouse. That’s a high-tier familiar that remembers and possesses nearly every scrap of forbidden knowledge Marsha accumulated over a century,” Viki said, a hint of genuine envy slipping into her voice. “Everyone assumed the creature passed away alongside its mistress. But if it didn't... a living archive of that caliber is worth starting a corporate war over.” Viki traced her fingers along the clean edge of the cut canvas. “But there’s zero trace of residual mana here. It’s a mundane, physical cut.” “Then I don't get it...” Oleg’s communicator chimed, and he eagerly expanded the holographic screen. “Ah, here we go.” He scrolled through data streams at a speed that left Viki's eyes swimming. Suddenly, he locked onto a specific passage, tapping the screen triumphantly. “Look at this. An old chronicle states that Marsha's political enemies frequently disappeared, their bodies later found mangled by 'the fangs of an unknown monster.' That’s it. No descriptions, just old scary stories.” “They couldn't possibly be stupid enough to think they could breathe life into a literal painting,” Viki said, shaking her head. “You vastly underestimate human desperation, my dear.” Oleg checked his watch and stretched. “Let’s hit a café, grab some food, and clear our heads. After that—” “We come back here, finish the cleanup, and pull an all-nighter,” Viki interrupted firmly. “Who knows what else might crawl out of the woodwork after dark.” Oleg looked at the determined set of the witch’s jaw and chose not to argue. A stakeout it was. Besides, playing bodyguard to a pretty girl wasn't the worst way to spend a night, and he might just catch an award-winning scoop on camera. Furthermore, despite her prickliness and her hair color—Oleg historically couldn't stand blondes—Viki was proving to be a remarkably solid partner. She was dependable, sharp, and easy to talk to. As long as he stayed out of range of her transfiguration curses, they’d get along fine. At the café, Oleg ordered their meals to go and bought several heavy crates of bottled water. He had no intention of getting barricaded inside an old mansion without rations; he had checked that box once in his life already, and once was more than enough. At lunchtime, Viki’s communicator flashed. It was Mistress Santara. The Elder Witch dropped a few none-too-subtle hints that Viki needs to show some romantic initiative, pointing out that after the trauma of the Vursh incident, a guy like Oleg wasn't going to court a witch on his own. “What exactly happened to him in Vursh anyway?” Viki asked, curious. “Nothing major,” Santara replied airily. “I personally dragged him out of that artifact vault by using a Greater Devourer’s severed head to batter down the blast doors. I might have used some colorful language during the rescue, but I needed him functional so I could get his report.” You poor bastard, Viki thought, sending a look of deep sympathy toward the journalist across the table. Knowing her mentor, "putting him back in service" probably involved a couple of heavy slaps to the face and a booming command: “Stop crying like a maggot, mortal, and report!” “Well, he isn't exactly helpless if he called me specifically just to gain access to the crime scene,” Santara noted venomously. “Look, I'm not ordering you to fall in love with the boy. Just be gentle with him.” “I am a vision of absolute grace and charm,” Viki lied smoothly before hanging up. When they returned to the mansion, a commercial cleaning van was parked near the gates. Viki’s brow furrowed. Until she had thoroughly swept the premises under the cover of night, no mundane cleaning crew was setting foot inside Marsha’s house. She still hadn't observed the mansion’s ambient shadows, and more importantly, she still didn't understand how the intruders had vanished. The fact that they were gone was certain. None of the neighbors had seen anyone exit the front gates. Then again, nobody had seen them enter either. “It’s the neighborhood,” Oleg remarked, noting her confusion. “I absolutely loathe respectable, high-society districts. These people are perfectly capable of ignoring a brutal murder right on their doorstep if acknowledging it threatens their precious peace of mind.” They spent the rest of the afternoon working in the study, carefully salvaging the damaged books and loose manuscripts. The vandals had torn through the paperwork with a distinct sense of erratic rage, as if venting their frustration after failing to locate whatever specific file they were hunting for. Oleg was incredibly meticulous, gathering individual paper fragments and matching their torn edges like a jigsaw puzzle so the restoration mages could fuse them back together later. It was a tedious, mind-numbing task, but his inherent perfectionism wouldn't let him just shovel the scraps into a box. It was a habit that frequently made his life miserable. Within an hour, half the study floor was neatly carpeted with reconstructed pages. Hunting for a stray scrap that had drifted away, Oleg dropped onto his stomach and slid his arm deep beneath a towering oak bookshelf. He instantly yanked his hand back with a sharp hiss, his fingers brushing against jagged glass. Ensuring he wasn't bleeding, he cautiously reached back under the dark shelf. “Viki, I’ve got something!” he called out. He walked into the bedroom a moment later, cradling a handful of thick crystal shards tangled with a few distinct, pastel-pink hairs. “It’s a broken toy,” Viki identified them instantly. “Marsha used to keep a heavy crystal snowglobe with a tiny, fluffy pink figurine inside on her desk. She adored the color. That specific globe was cleared by guild inspectors a thousand times; it carried zero active enchantments.” “Wait, were her clothes pink too?” “Not all of them. She wore a lot of black,” Viki replied absentmindedly, rummaging through the antique wardrobe. “With pink accents?” Oleg pressed. Viki paused her sorting of the vintage dresses, pulling a heavy garment from its hanger to show him. The dress was an austere, almost funereal black fabric, but pinned prominently to the lapel was a single, stylized brooch—a vibrant pink pin shaped like a tiny beast. She pulled a second dress; it featured an identical pin. “Like I said, she was obsessed with the color. One of these little accents was on literally every single outfit she owned. Or rather, used to be. Most of them were snapped off and trampled by those animals.” “A dark witch with a terrifying global reputation, who outlived every single one of her mortal enemies... and she spent her free time hoarding pink plushies,” the journalist grinned. Viki didn't rise to the bait. “...pink plushies...” Viki murmured, her eyes locking onto a vintage powder puff sitting on the vanity. It was backed by a bright pink downy pom-pom. “Think about it. The intruders wanted to find the legendary familiar. What if... they actually succeeded?” Oleg dropped onto the edge of the bed, staring wearily around the semi-cleaned room. Manually restoring an entire mansion that had been systematically demolished by a squad of heavy-handed thugs was grueling work. “And what if the thing they found was ancient, starving, and instantly turned them into dinner?” Oleg offered, voicing his thoughts. “That would perfectly explain the bedroom scene. They weren't vandalizing the place; they were frantically throwing furniture at something, trying to keep it away from them.” “Exactly,” Viki picked up the thread, her eyes widening. “They tore through the study first while hunting for clues. Then they went down to the lab to force open the containment array. And then...” She paused, mapping the timeline. “The creature broke free, cut off their escape route, and systematically hunted them up to the second floor, cornering them in the bedroom. And that’s where it ate them. That’s what happens when untrained hacks try to claim a Supreme Witch's legacy.” “That is an incredible headline,” the journalist laughed, already framing the narrative in his head. “The Pastel Predator: A Witch's Secret Legacy.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Where do I even pitch this? A supernatural investigative docuseries, or a midnight culinary special called 'Unusual Ingredients'?” Oleg pulled a surviving wooden crate down from a high shelf. “I suggest we gather every single pink object in this house, lock them in here, and bury it for the night. Just in case the thing is still hungry.” Viki looked at the heavy wardrobe she had needed high-tier telekinesis to lift, then at the reinforced bedframe made of solid ironwood. She mentally calculated the sheer physical force required to splinter those structures, added the raw kinetic energy derived from a living sacrifice plus three devoured adults, and slowly nodded. “You know what? Let’s gather absolutely every anomalous item in the house, box them up, and seal them in the deep cellar. It’s better to have one heavily fortified danger zone than to look over our shoulders in every room.” “Agreed. One chokepoint is much easier to defend,” Oleg nodded. They didn't have enough containment crates, so Viki put in an emergency order through a magical courier service. The delivery arrived in record time. She forwarded the steep bill directly to Mistress Santara's account, classifying it under 'essential forensic containment and structural preservation.' Oleg anchored one of his surveillance drones to the ceiling centerpiece, meticulously labeling each sealed crate with its contents and origin coordinates. His final addition to the secure boxes was a preserved bouquet of roses held in absolute stasis. They looked as vibrant and fresh as the day they were cut. And they were, naturally, pastel pink. Working together, they hauled the heavy crates down into the kitchen, navigating the narrow stone stairs into the reinforced root cellar that had once been used for cold food storage. They slammed the heavy iron-reinforced door shut and wedged an antique nightstand tightly against the handle. If anything tried to push its way out, the screech of those wooden legs against the stone floor would give them plenty of warning to prep their weapons. By the time the final box was secured, night had completely fallen. Oleg brought in the heavy-duty sleeping bags from his SUV and set up camp on the floor. Neither of them even considered sleeping on the old witch's bed. Viki walked through the house alone for a while. In the night shadows, the rooms looked entirely different. The walls seemed to expand, revealing the faint outlines of a teleportation arch—alas, dead and locked beyond their use. Viki felt the residual cold of the stone as she brushed her fingers against the silent runes. The secretary desk gleamed maliciously with broken glass shards, and the wall mirror hissed softly in the dark. “What really happened here?” Viki whispered to the shadows. But the ancient artifacts remained stubbornly silent. Her young power wasn't enough to bend them to her will. In fact, the entire coven had failed multiple times to unlock the secrets of this house, leaving them with nothing but frustration. Accepting defeat, she returned to the bedroom, where Oleg had already laid out their sleeping bags on the floor. Seeing her grim expression, the journalist made a welcoming gesture. “No point in both of us staying awake. Go to sleep, I'll take the first watch.” “Think you can handle it?” Viki asked. On one hand, the guy was a seasoned veteran of the Vursh incident, immediately understanding that the witch’s bed was off-limits. On the other hand, he was still just a mortal civilian. Without a word, Oleg reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a multi-round Gauka pistol. He systematically unclipped the standard yellow ammunition intended for humans, replacing it with incredibly expensive, high-tier universal rounds etched with complex runes of death and destruction. “And here you claimed you didn't know your runes,” Viki muttered, checking her own firearm—a compact, lady-sized Gauka that was no less lethal. “I told you I only know the ones that matter. And what's more essential than keeping myself alive?” Oleg stated with the quiet confidence of a veteran soldier. Viki wasn't entirely sure what woke her. Her instincts fired first, raising a localized defense shield before she even sat up and opened her eyes. A pale, thin morning light was just beginning to filter through the windows. Oleg was sitting perfectly motionless on the floor, his weapon locked onto the bedroom door. “Is it here?” the witch asked, her lips barely moving. Oleg turned his head, and Viki nearly let out a low whistle. The happy idiot from yesterday was completely gone; looking back at her were the cold, steel eyes of an experienced warrior. He looked steady, alert, and entirely prepared to shield her. It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation—and surprisingly pleasant. Usually, mortals sprinted in the opposite direction the moment they realized she was a witch. “Strange sound coming from downstairs,” he whispered, his voice almost completely silent. “The surveillance feeds show nothing, but there's a heavy shadow sliding across the floor. A large one.” “The cellar?” “The door opened. It wasn't forced. The thing moved the nightstand through the air.” A soft creak echoed from the floorboards below, followed by a dry, rasping scrape. Something was physically scratching at one of the doors on the ground floor. “It’s at the front entrance. It’s too dark down there; the lenses can't resolve it,” Oleg breathed. “Shall we?” “Lead the way,” the guy was on his feet in a single fluid motion. “I'll go first.” “No,” Viki objected firmly. “You’re too tall; I won't be able to target anything over your shoulders. Stay behind me; you can fire over my head if things go bad.” She realized with sudden clarity that she really didn't want to lose this guy. No matter how good a shot the journalist was, a high-tier familiar was a witch's domain, far too dangerous for an ordinary human. “Understood,” Oleg agreed instantly without arguing. “Don't fire unless I give the command. I’m going to try to bind and claim it,” she ordered on the move. “Damn it, it’s a shame my offensive spells don't work on familiars yet!” Descending the stairs, Viki mentally praised her own perfectionism three times. Because the floor was perfectly clean, not a single loose scrap or piece of glass creaked beneath their boots, keeping their approach entirely silent. The front hallway appeared vacant, the shadows merely thickening near the door frame as the scratching continued. The witch conjured a small orb of magical fire, launching it into the gloom. Snow-white fangs and a wide, open maw flashed for a split second before the flame was instantly snuffed out. The beast gave a low warning growl but didn't leap—two heavy Gauka pistols leveled at its skull were a formidable threat even for a stray familiar. “Careful,” Oleg whispered. “That jaw is the size of a grizzly’s.” “Come here, my sweet,” Viki crooned, dropping onto one knee and manifesting a small, concentrated orb of darkness on her palm—premium sustenance for a creature of its tier. With its mistress gone, the familiar was an unclaimed masterless entity. Binding a legendary beast like this wouldn't just give her an incredible guardian; it would give her direct access to the vast archives of forbidden knowledge stored within its memory. With that kind of power base, she’d easily secure her spot as the youngest Supreme Witch in their history. She extended her glowing palm toward the shadow, offering the lure. “We won't hurt you. Here, try a taste.” The beast gave a short, dismissive bark and slammed its massive paw against the entry door. It wanted out; entering a new contract was clearly not on its agenda. “Do you think it's sentient?” Oleg asked, trying to resolve the dark mass with its glittering crimson eyes. “Completely. It was smart enough to systematically devour four adult men, after all,” Viki noted, before addressing the monster directly. “You did a wonderful job. Those bastards deserved to be eaten; nobody is angry with you. Come on, step into the light...” Realizing the timber door was magically locked and wouldn't budge, the beast took a slow, calculated step toward the intruders. The shadow shifted forward, and a massive, wolf-like head and heavy, fur-covered shoulders emerged from the dark. The creature growled, dropping low to the floorboards as if preparing to pounce— And then, heavy boots stomped outside. A loud mechanical click echoed through the frame as an unlocking artifact forced the door open, revealing a highly stressed police officer with his weapon drawn. But where a massive predator had stood a mere microsecond prior, there was nothing but a swirling cloud of bright pink, fluffy down drifting lazily through the air. “Freeze!” the cop roared. Scanning the room and finding no immediate threat, he lowered his weapon slightly, utterly bewildered. “Uh... kids? Is everything alright here?” “Everything is... perfectly fine,” Viki said, her voice dropping into a flat, deadpan cadence as her eyes tracked the draft catching the pink fuzz, carrying her grand dreams of becoming the next Supreme straight out into the street. “Completely fine. Of course.” Behind the officer's back, a shimmering slipspace portal tore open, and the pink down rushed into the vacuum, vanishing without a single sound into the night sky, leaving the sleeping city entirely undisturbed. Oleg glanced up, noting that his two ceiling drones had captured the entire exit on camera. Man, the high command is absolutely going to skin me alive for this footage, he thought. No amount of press freedom or journalistic privilege is going to protect my badge after this scoop leaks... The policeman waited for a moment, realized these two weren't going to volunteer an explanation as to why they were aiming heavy combat pistols at an empty doorway, and slowly backed out, pulling the door shut. Everyone was alive, and that was more than enough for his shift logs. “Are we going to hunt it?” Oleg asked. “Unless you possess high-tier telepathy and a map of alternate dimensions, there's no point,” Viki replied serenely. “It came from the Beyond, and that’s exactly where it returned. Looks like my ascension to Supreme will have to wait.” “Well, at least we proved that pink wolves actually exist. Or whatever that fluffy thing was.” Oleg let out a massive yawn, waving a hand toward the empty air. “Goodbye, Fluffy. Enjoy your freedom out there!” He turned back to the witch, a practical smile returning to his face. “Come on, let’s go sort through the camera feeds. There are a few skeletons in this house that are definitely better off staying inside their closets.” “Let’s do it,” Viki agreed, recalling her mentor’s strict directive to keep a close eye on the boy. Mistress Santara was right. The guy was dependable, sharp, and hadn't flinched once in front of a legendary monster. “But first, let’s order a massive breakfast. We can review the footage over some hot food—we’ll decide exactly what to air for your viewers and what needs to be permanently deleted from the archives. After all, we still have a full forty-eight-hour pass for this estate, so...” Viki offered a warm, anticipatory smile. The End