Chương 22: The Purge of the Faceless

[Time]: Day 3 of Enrollment, 08: 25 PM [Location]: Yggdrasil Academy · Dormitory [Golden Bough] · Room 302"Turn the page." The command hung in the absolute, sensory-deprived silence of Room 302. It wasn't a request. It was an algorithm executing a line of code. Hathaway's finger rested on the corner of The Ruthless History. The paper felt heavy, rough, and cold—like the skin of a preserved corpse. Under Victoria's serene, "beautiful" gaze, Hathaway felt a phantom sensation around her neck.

It was the feeling of a noose tightening, or perhaps a barcode being scanned by a laser that knew she didn't belong on the shelf. She knows. The paranoid thought screamed in Hathaway's mind, piercing through the hum of her four processing threads. She implies 'Imposters'. She smiles like that. She is testing me. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat threatening the composure she was desperately maintaining. The False Mandrake root in her left hand seemed to sense her fear.

It vibrated in the stone mortar, its ugly, wrinkled face twitching as if preparing to scream. If I hesitate, I reveal guilt. If I shake, I reveal fear. Turn it. Just turn it. Hathaway grit her teeth, forcing her facial muscles into a mask of obedient neutrality. She exerted force through her numb fingertip. Rustle. The page turned. It sounded like a guillotine blade dropping in the quiet room. Her eyes scanned the new page. She prayed to the unknown gods of this universe for it to be about Goblins.

She prayed for Orcs. She would even accept a detailed diagram of a Slime's digestive tract. But the universe, as always, had a cruel sense of humor. The heading was written in blood-red ink, the calligraphy sharp, jagged, and radiating an ancient, tyrannical aura: [The Era of Chaos: The Purge of the Faceless] Hathaway's breath hitched. She forced her eyes to read the text, treating it as data.

"In the Era of Chaos (Year 400), long before the High Council united the stars, Witches lived as warlords. We were fractured. We were at war."

"Amidst this bloodshed, a parasitic species known as 'Shapeshifters' (Mimics) attempted to infiltrate our ranks. They lacked souls. They were hollow vessels that mimicked our appearance, copied our mana, and sought to replace us." Hathaway's eyes moved to the next paragraph. It didn't mention a Council. It mentioned a Tyrant.

"From the White City of the First District, the 'Rex Mundi' (The World King) rose."

"She did not convene a trial. She did not seek consensus. She issued the [Iron Decree]."

"Over 1. 4 million Shapeshifters were hunted down across the warring states. The World King declared that while Witches may kill each other, we do not tolerate counterfeits who wear our faces."

"They were not granted the mercy of death. They were dissected alive in the White City's plazas, then burned in [Soulfire] to light the World King's throne room for centuries." Dissected alive. Used as living torches. Rex Mundi. Hathaway felt the blood drain from her face. Her hands turned ice cold. She looked at her own hands—pale, slender, elegant fingers holding the pestle. The nails were manicured. The skin was flawless. These were not her hands. This was the body of Hathaway von Ludwig. Where is she?

The question she had been suppressing for three days finally surfaced, sharp as a scalpel. Where is the original soul? Did I push her out? Did I devour her? Or did she simply fade away, leaving this empty shell for me to crawl into? It didn't matter. The mechanism didn't matter. The result was the same. To the Witches, I am not a "Guest." I am not a "Transmigrator." I am a Parasite. I am a "High-Tier Shapeshifter" from another dimension who murdered one of their own and is currently wearing her skin like a suit.

She glanced sideways at Victoria. If Victoria knew that her "student" was actually a weary soul from Earth named [Redacted]... That peaceful expression would instantly vanish. The "Mentor" would become the "Exterminator." There would be no trial. Just Soulfire. I should be scared, Hathaway thought, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. I should be terrified of the pain. But strangely... as the adrenaline flooded her system, she realized it wasn't death she was most afraid of.

It was something far more selfish. Something dark, sticky, and pathetic. She was terrified of Returning. [Memory Playback: Earth - The Grey Suit] Hathaway closed her eyes, and the darkness of the room shifted. The smell of sulfur and parchment vanished. Replaced by the smell of stale sweat, cheap deodorant, and the crushing despair of "Reason." Earth. The 18th Birthday. She saw a clean, modest apartment in the city. White walls. Beige furniture. Everything was sensible. Everything was clean. She saw her parents.

They weren't abusive. They didn't beat her. They were polite, responsible citizens who paid their taxes on time and sorted their recycling.

"Happy Birthday," her Earth mother had said, handing her a gift bag with a polite smile. Hathaway remembered the weight of that bag. It felt like chains. She opened it. Inside was a Grey Business Suit. Practical. Durable. Boring.

"For your interviews," her father added sensibly, adjusting his glasses.

"You need to find a good job. We spent a lot on your tuition. You need to start building your career path immediately. The economy is unstable. You need to be safe." It was a useful gift. A logical gift. A responsible gift. But Hathaway remembered looking past them, at her younger brother, David, sitting on the couch. David was failing math. David skipped class to play games. David was, by all corporate metrics, a "Bad Investment." But for his birthday last month, he got the latest Gaming Console.

"He's just a boy," her mother had smiled, eyes full of an indulgence that Hathaway had never received—warmth she hadn't felt since she was five.

"Let him have fun while he's young. You are the older sister. You need to be sensible."

"You are our investment for the future." Investment. That was the keyword of her life on Earth. Her parents loved her, yes. But it was a Transactional Love. They loved her grades. They loved her obedience. They loved the "Return on Investment" she provided. She was the "Safe Asset." David was the "Pet." She lived her whole life being sensible. Being the adult. Being the one who didn't ask for expensive shoes because she knew the family was "saving for David's down payment."

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. Be sensible. Be invisible. Be useful. Or be discarded. [Memory Playback: Witch World - The Heavy Velvet Bag] Hathaway opened her eyes in the dim light of Room 302. The coldness of the Grey Suit faded, replaced by the scorching, chaotic heat of the last 72 hours. She glanced at the desk. Sitting there, casting a heavy shadow, was the Velvet Money Bag. 30, 000 Gold Solars.

She remembered the moment she received it. Four days ago. The living room of the Ludwig Manor. Margaret had pulled this bag from under the coffee table and slammed it down. CLANG. The dull thud of metal hitting marble. The sound of reckless wealth.

"Here is your pocket money," Margaret had said with that arrogant Ludwig smile.

"Go buy some lab equipment." Hathaway remembered staring at the bag. She knew the family's financial situation. The credit cards were maxed out. The liquid cash was zero.

"Mom," Hathaway had asked, her voice trembling.

"Where did this come from?" The room had gone quiet for a second. Then, Anna spoke up.

"Oh, I sold the Thunder Roar," she said casually, referring to her Magitech Sports Car. Anna was a former Ace Pilot of the First District. That car was her baby. She spent every Sunday polishing the engine core. It was her pride, her wings.

"Why?" Hathaway had asked.

"The engine wasn't loud enough," Anna shrugged, her tone relaxed.

"It didn't shatter the ground when starting up. I got bored of it. Minimalism is in this season." She lied. She sold her wings so her daughter could have pocket money. And Margaret? Margaret loved jewelry. She was a dragon in human form who hoarded shiny things. But her favorite set—the Polar Sunstone Necklace that shone like captured stars—was missing from her neck.

"And the necklace?" Hathaway had pointed at her bare neck.

"Too heavy," Margaret had waved her hand dismissively, sipping her wine.

"Gave me a stiff neck. Besides, I have glowing eyes. Wearing glowing stones makes me look like a mobile lightbulb warehouse. Sold it to some tacky merchant." She lied. She pawned the stars so her daughter wouldn't have to worry about the price of textbooks. They liquidated their most prized possessions. The "Bank of Truth" swallowed nearly all of it to pay off their manic spending debts, leaving only this small bag of change. But they handed it to her like it was nothing.

Like it was just loose change found in the sofa cushions. They didn't say: "We sacrificed for you." They didn't say: "You are an investment." They just lied to make it seem like they were "cleaning the garage." Then there was Rhode. Hathaway's cousin. The violent, chaotic bully. Hathaway remembered the skyscraper. The window shattering. The wind screaming. Rhode grabbing her collar and jumping off a 10, 000-meter tower without asking. Gravity. It wasn't just a force; it was a law.

On Earth, Gravity was the ultimate Authority. It was the crushing reality of rent, of aging, of the 9-to-5 grind. It pulled you down, held you in place, and eventually buried you. Falling from that height, Hathaway's Earthly brain had screamed: Death. Inevitable Death. But then, something happened. Her "Spinal Cord"—the biological legacy of the Witch race—revolted against her brain. It detected the fall and simply refused to accept the outcome. It didn't calculate a spell. It didn't chant. It just... Flexed.

Hathaway remembered the sensation. It felt like her soul had expanded, exploding out of her pores. She remembered slamming into the air about a meter above the ground. She didn't float gently. She crashed into the air molecules, compressing them into a solid wall through sheer force of will. BOOM. The sonic boom had flipped dumpsters. The landing had cracked the pavement. It was ugly. It was loud. It was a brute-force rejection of physics. But when she stood up, shaking, amidst the dust... she looked at Rhode.

Rhode was licking a lollipop, looking at her with that expression of tolerant boredom, like watching someone amazed by a door handle. Rhode's expression said everything. Defying gravity was as natural as breathing to her. But for Hathaway? She looked at her hands that day. I kicked the lid off Newton's coffin. I broke the rules. That moment was the antithesis of the Grey Suit. Hathaway's grip on the pestle tightened until the stone groaned. On Earth, her parents were Responsible. They balanced the books.

Their love was "Safe," "Fair," and ice cold. ("Be sensible. We are saving for David.") Here? Anna sold her car. Margaret sold her jewels. Rhode threw her out of a window and watched her destroy the pavement. They were Financial Disasters. They were reckless. They were liars. But their love was Unconditional. They didn't want a "Return on Investment." They didn't care that the original Hathaway was lazy. They didn't care that she spent her days opening blind boxes instead of practicing spells. They didn't push her.

Why would they? She was a Witch. She was eighteen. She hadn't even hit her Second Growth Spurt — mana grows whether you earn it or not, for centuries. She didn't need to be a "Prodigy" right now. She had centuries to be great. So they let her play. They let her be mediocre. They let her be happy. The love in this world was Toxic. It was High-Temperature, Radioactive, and Financially Ruinous. But it was HOT. It burned. It made her feel Alive.

For a corporate slave whose soul had been frozen by the cold light of computer screens for years... this heat was addictive. She was like a moth that had found a bonfire. She knew it might kill her, she knew she was an imposter, but she couldn't turn back to the dark. I don't want to go back, Hathaway realized, a lump forming in her throat. I don't want to go back to the subway. I don't want to go back to the grey suit. I don't want to be Employee #427 anymore. A dark, possessive greed surged in her chest.

It was the greed of a starving wolf protecting its first real meal. She looked at the "Shapeshifter Purge" section again. I am a thief. I am a spy. I stole this life. But the original... she wasted it. She had this fire, and she slept through it. She had this potential, and she let it rot. Hathaway wiped the corner of her eye. The hesitation of the "Earthling Soul" vanished. She didn't want to find the original Hathaway. She didn't want to apologize. She wanted to Keep this.

I will play this role perfectly, she vowed silently to the empty air. I will be more Hathaway than the original. I will take this family, this debt, and this reckless love, and I will protect it with everything I have. Call it despicable. Call it shameless. When a starving beggar finally steals a seat at the King's banquet... who in their right mind would leave? BZZZT. The vibration cut through it. Hathaway jumped, her knee hitting the underside of the obsidian desk. The False Mandrake screamed again. SQUEAK!

Victoria stopped writing. Her pen hovered in the air. She turned her head slowly toward Hathaway's desk.

"You have an incoming communication," she noted, her voice flat.

"It is breaching the Sensory Deprivation Field. High Priority." Hathaway looked at the corner of the desk. Her Communication Crystal—a jagged piece of purple quartz—was glowing. It pulsed with a chaotic, demanding rhythm. She touched the crystal. Who would call her at this hour? Was it the Academy Police? The Council Exterminators? She touched the crystal. The projection flared to life. But before the audio could blast through the room, a shimmer of silver light enveloped Hathaway's desk.

[Privacy Barrier: Active] Hathaway blinked, looking up. Victoria hadn't turned around. She was still facing her book, her hand raised casually in a casting gesture.

"I have no interest in listening to the Ludwig family drama," Victoria said, her voice muffled as if coming from underwater before fading out completely for Hathaway.

"I am activating the Soundproofing Protocol. Tap the barrier when you are finished." With that, the silver-haired witch returned to her reading, sealing herself off from the noise. She offered Hathaway the ultimate luxury in a dormitory: Privacy.

"Hello?" Hathaway whispered, her voice tight with fear. A holographic screen exploded into the air, filling the dark room with blinding light. It wasn't an official document. It wasn't a police officer. It was a face. A strikingly beautiful face framed by cascading silver hair that shimmered like moonlight. And the eyes. Crimson Eyes. They weren't just red; they were glowing with the intensity of high-beam headlights (approx. 150 lumens), cutting through the darkness of the dorm room like two miniature suns.

"HATTIE!!" Margaret von Ludwig screamed into the crystal, her voice distorted by background explosions, clinking glasses, and manic laughter. She was holding a glass of wine, her face flushed with the specific euphoria of a gambler who had just bet the house and won.

"Baby! Guess what? Your mother just won a bet!" Margaret laughed, a sound of pure, chaotic joy.

"I was playing cards with Lady Beatrice—you know, that lucky witch from the Fifth District? The one who always brags about her luck? She pulled out That Card to show off! Can you believe it?" Margaret leaned into the projection, her glowing eyes wide.

"She had it! ['The Witch of Eternal Slumber' · Ovelia]! Limited Edition! The Foil Version!" Hathaway froze. The memory of the "Original Hathaway" flooded back. It wasn't just her obsession. It was a Family Obsession. For three years, the three of them—Margaret, Anna, and Hathaway—had sat around the living room table, opening endless booster packs until the floor was covered in foil wrappers. She remembered the humiliation of wearing last season's dress to the ball. She remembered canceling her spa membership.

She remembered drinking filtered tap water instead of the "Deep Sea Glacial Water" just to save 50 Solars a day for one more pack.

"I saw it, and I thought of you, baby!" Margaret screamed, her voice cracking with excitement.

"I remembered you drinking that nasty tap water for three years! I remembered you crying when we didn't pull it on your birthday!"

"So I went mad!" Margaret pounded the table in the hologram, the wine in her glass splashing out.

"I slapped the deed to the Summer Villa on the table and told her:'One hand! Winner takes all! My House against your Card!'" Hathaway gasped.

"You... you bet a Villa on a single hand? Against a Luck Witch?"

"It was the only way to make her accept the duel!" Margaret grinned, looking like a triumphant villain.

"She thought she couldn't lose! But she forgot one thing!"

"She plays with Luck. I play with CHEATING!" Margaret held up the card. It sparkled with rainbow light. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

"I swapped the deck while Anna distracted her with a fake explosion! HAHAHA!" Margaret laughed, the sound vibrating through the crystal. But then, she stopped. She looked at the card in her hand, then looked at Hathaway through the projection. Her manic, gambler's expression softened into something profound, quiet, and fiercely doting.

"Open your hand, baby," Margaret commanded softly.

"What?"

"Why wait for the mail?" Margaret pressed the card against the "surface" of the holographic projection.

"I didn't win this for the family collection. I won it so you never have to drink tap water again. Take it." ZZZT. Space twisted. A small, unstable warp ripple distorted the air above Hathaway's desk. Slap. A physical object fell out of the void, landing squarely on the cold, leather cover of The Ruthless History. The hologram flickered and died. The connection cut off. The room returned to silence. Hathaway stared at the object. It was the card.

[The Witch of Eternal Slumber · Ovelia] The Rainbow Foil surface shimmered in the dim light, refracting a mini-galaxy of colors. Hathaway picked it up, hand trembling. It was Warm. It carried the residual heat of Margaret's hand, a physical trace of the woman who had just bet a house to make her daughter smile. Hathaway clutched the warm card to her chest. Margaret was a Witch. Greed was written into her genetic code.

But the moment she snatched the Holy Grail she had coveted for years, she didn't lock it in her vault. She didn't even keep it for a night. She sent it across space, instantly, because she couldn't bear for her daughter to wait one more second. It was reckless. It was a financial disaster. But feeling the warmth of that stolen card against her skin... Hathaway felt a heat spreading through her chest that no sensible investment could ever provide.