Chương 122: The Biggest Anti-Fan Gets the Group Autograph

[Time]: Summer Break, Day 29 — Night [Location]: White City · Townhouse 107 The daytime training schedule had rolled over Hathaway's nervous system like a brutal background compiler. Parsing the dense spatial coordinates for [Wall of Ice], combined with the sheer physical toll of repeatedly hijacking dead mana residue for [Echo Casting] all afternoon, had drained her completely.

It had reached the point where she picked up a glass of water, and her exhausted brain instinctively tried to calculate the exact cast-time required to turn the glass invisible. Feat training: progressing. Spell acquisition: progressing. Operator: technically functioning. It wasn't until full dark that she dragged herself up the walkway to Townhouse 107. Just as she reached the porch, the atmosphere shifted: plunged itself, without ceremony, into a classic gothic novel. No hoofbeats. No engine hum.

Not even the faint crackle of spatial displacement that usually preceded a teleportation event. A thick, bone-chilling white fog simply rolled in from nowhere, and from within its depths materialized a carriage stitched together from void and shadow. The two Nightmare horses pulling it had been stripped of flesh entirely: nothing but pale bone structures burning with sickly green ghost-fire, their hollow ribcages faintly luminous in the dark. A faceless silhouette occupied the driver's seat. It didn't linger.

It didn't ring the bell. The carriage manifested for a few brief seconds. A single letter drifted down from the fog like a falling leaf, landing squarely on the welcome mat. Then, with a sound that wasn't quite a whinny, the carriage dissolved back into the night air, taking the green fire and white fog with it. Hathaway bent down and picked up the envelope. Pure black. No postmark, no logistics tag.

Pressed into the wax seal at center was a minimalist silver insignia: a perfect circle bisected by two parallel dashed lines. The official crest of the Ghost Castle. She took it inside to the living room light. Breaking the black seal, a single sheet of exquisitely textured stationery slid out. The edges were hand-deckled. When her thumb brushed the surface, she could feel the faint raised texture of elegant vine-like handwriting beneath her fingertips. From Spectra.

To a Witch, ink and paper weren't just recording mediums. They were the physical interface for anchoring mana and hacking reality. A species that had permanently bound its soul to ink. Hathaway sat on the sofa, staring at the paper in her hands. Across two lifetimes: one spent typing code on a screen while watching others play games she designed, the other spent trying not to die in a world where magic was weaponized infrastructure.

This was the first time she had ever received a handwritten letter from a friend her own age. The parchment weighed almost nothing. The emotional weight was harder to quantify. Being taken seriously. Across half a continent. That's what this is. The letter was a single short page. The gift arrived safely. Holheim's Cathedral of Waning Stars tunes its pipe organs three semitones below standard pitch. By design. The sound during the evening service is difficult to categorize. I have been attending.

Reading this, the tension from Hathaway's grinding, high-bandwidth day quietly bled away. She had never been to Holheim. She could almost hear the deep, intentionally detuned resonance beneath the cathedral's cavernous ceiling. The pipe organ playing something that defied category. The next paragraph stopped her. They practice in the evenings. The compound resonance of five overlapping mana signatures produces a frequency I have no notation for.

When one of them leaves the room, the interval contracts—and then corrects itself within a few seconds. As if the remaining four compensate without deciding to. Hathaway's eyes stopped. A dark, spine-tingling premonition climbed steadily from the pit of her stomach.

"They"? Spectra, who exactly is "they"?! Why does your tone carry this absolute certainty that I already know who you mean?! I don't want to know! I genuinely, categorically do not want to know! But her brain, mercilessly honed over weeks of tactical review sessions, had already supplied the only possible answer. No. No, no, no. Greed Umbrella. Joint training camp. At the Ghost Castle. Right now. Why is this name still hunting me down?!

I am safely behind Milan'thir's borders and somehow their evening practice schedule is arriving in my personal correspondence! And Spectra—Spectra, who is usually aloof and indifferent to every earthly development—is analyzing their mana resonance with music theory like she attended this concert willingly! Did you get converted into a fangirl like Lady Sonia?! You are Ghost Witches! Do none of you have any territorial instinct left?!

Hathaway forced her eyes downward, like a person walking steadily toward the gallows. Enclosed is a return gift: a spell paper, co-signed. Her heart skipped. And then the final line. Standing alone at the bottom of the page, in distinctly darker ink. Wellington was present when the gift arrived. She said nothing. Cardiac. Arrest.

Hathaway could picture it with perfect clarity: Victoria standing in a gloomy gothic hall, watching Sonia place a package into Spectra's hands—something carried back from the White City, watching her lift out the carefully crafted bamboo-tube gift box, her silver-haired roommate simply standing there with eyes devoid of ripples but full of lethal intent. Watching. Saying absolutely nothing. She said nothing.

In that woman's vocabulary, "saying nothing" carried ten thousand times the destructive payload of a direct death threat. The letter ended with Spectra's signature. No "goodbye," no future plans. It closed abruptly, like a piano sonata coming to a sudden halt mid-phrase. Hathaway sat without moving for a full ten seconds. Then, moving like a machine whose motion sequence was still executing after the operator had checked out, she tipped the black envelope upside down.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. A translucent slip of specially crafted spell paper, its surface flowing with a faint silver halo, slid out and landed quietly on her lap. She looked down. The first thing that caught her eye wasn't writing at all. It was a stamp pressed into the lower right corner: a seal in deep vermilion ink. A plum blossom. To an ordinary Witch in Milan'thir, it might have read as a simple botanical decoration.

But Hathaway recognized the cultural weight it carried in Fusang. This wasn't just an ornament. This was the symbol of a scholar blooming in the cold that sealed the mountains while everything else stayed dead—unyielding, solitary, not competing for the spring, suffusing the air with a hidden fragrance that required no announcement. The seal alone was enough. Wei Changqing. The handwriting beside it had been executed with a brush. Hathaway visually traced the path of the ink.

The sharp edges of the strokes were entirely retracted, hidden like a sheathed weapon, yet the structural strength holding the characters together was startlingly rigid. It was the weight distribution that caught her attention. It was erratic—certain lines pressed down with decisive force, while others skimmed past as light as a breath. Such chaotic pressure should have ruined the aesthetics.

But because the underlying "bone structure" of the characters was so exact, the uneven ink flow looked perfectly coordinated. It was the handwriting of a genius, not a grinder. The writer had executed these strokes with a completely relaxed grip. She had likely been turned toward Flandmira or Cecilia, engaged in whatever chaotic conversation had started beside her, letting her hand operate on pure, monstrous instinct. Right next to it, a massive, sweeping cursive spilled generously across the page.

Hathaway visually weighed the thick, ink-saturated strokes. The writing carried the inherent, uncontested expansion of a star filling a room. Every finishing line snapped upward with a bouncing, elastic tension, yet the sheer density of the ink anchored the flamboyance firmly to the page. It had weight. This is just her baseline frequency. It was the effortless projection of a born performer, naturally calibrated so the back row would always witness the show.

Her gaze caught on the final, oversized loop of the signature. Tucked neatly inside the curve was a perfectly drawn, microscopic musical note. Hathaway stared at it. An intentional anti-counterfeiting watermark? Or simply something she adds every time, in every signature, whether anyone catches it or not. Flandmira. Next came a flowing, immaculate script. Hathaway's initial visual sweep registered pure gentleness—a soft, yielding elegance steeped in aristocratic conditioning.

Then her gaze locked onto the landing point of a single consonant. The ink strike was too fast. Too final. Hathaway leaned in, automatically recalculating the visual data. The generous line spacing provided an illusion of tranquil breathing room, but the actual angles of the pen meeting the paper possessed a razor-like, unconventional precision. It radiated an innate, natural certainty that completely consumed the rote mechanics of formal calligraphy training.

Every finishing stroke retained a residual kinetic energy. The ink carried a lingering, forward momentum at the tail end of the beautiful curves. The writer possessed the exact technical mastery to execute a perfectly contained, textbook aristocratic finish. She simply chose to let her own momentum run its course. Hathaway traced the complete signature. In heavily disciplined handwriting, there was always visual friction—micro-hesitations where a person forced their hand to obey a formal standard.

This script had zero friction. The yielding elegance didn't look like an imposed corset or a rigid mold the writer had been poured into. It looked like her native architecture. The absolute softness of the curves and the sharp, unbroken certainty of the pen strikes didn't contradict each other; they were executed in the exact same breath. A perfectly gentle surface, held up entirely by its own unbending spine. Cecilia. In the deliberate open space Cecilia had left, the fourth ink spill defied immediate reading.

Hathaway's pattern-recognition stalled. The letters had been fundamentally reorganized. Half the consonants and vowels had been deconstructed, their structural integrity seamlessly converted into interlocking aesthetic symbols. It functioned entirely as a high-concept graphic asset. She visually traced the final, sweeping arc anchoring the composition. The geometry of the curve was exact. A line this optimized is a final production asset.

It requires a hundred iterative drafts to achieve this level of frictionless perfection. Then, her brain finally deciphered the interlocking symbols. Karula. The moment the identity slotted into place, Hathaway's entire logical deduction collapsed. She stared at the ink. Because she knew exactly whose hand had written this, the physical evidence took on a terrifying new context. There were no practice drafts.

The unbroken fluidity of the stroke wasn't muscle memory; it was the sheer, localized enforcement of an aesthetic will. No iteration. No grinding. Just a masterpiece of effortless arrogance from a mind that treated perfection as a baseline. Squeezed into the smallest remaining gap, the fifth signature hovered on the page. The ink strokes were the thinnest of the group, possessing an ethereal, zero-gravity lightness.

It looked as though the writer had simply drifted past, allowing the pen tip to casually graze the surface in passing. Hathaway zoomed in on the microscopic line weight, and the biomechanical reality was plain. Maintaining a line this terrifyingly thin required the absolute, tyrannical suppression of physical force.

The writer had to actively suspend the entire natural weight of her own hand, executing intense, micro-level control for the duration of every single curve, just to manufacture the illusion of weightlessness. It was a highly calculated performance. The other four signatures on the page revealed their writers' true shapes in the margins—the exact moments where their formal discipline ended and their instincts took over. This fifth signature operated on an entirely inverted logic.

There were no accidental leaks of personality. The extreme, invisible control was the personality. Every single molecule of ink was a conscious decision about what the audience was allowed to see. The writer possessed a vanity rivaling the grandest stage actors, treating her own identity as a meticulously rehearsed role. She had engineered a perfectly distinct, weightless persona, and she was plating it for the viewer with effortless execution.

She was demanding that you admire exactly how beautifully she could float. Maria. Hathaway recognized all of them. She arrived at an absurd calculation. As the self-proclaimed biggest anti-fan of Greed Umbrella on the planet, the sworn opponent, the one who had watched their qualifier footage with the grim intensity of someone studying enemy troop movements, she had just received their full-roster autograph.

And given how this particular team operated, this was quite possibly the first complete group signature they had ever produced. Wow. No emotion. Just the word, voice-acted flatly in the back of her head. She stared at the spell paper on her lap, uncertain what to do with it. Incinerate it? It was a gift included personally by Spectra. She couldn't. So she extended her arm, holding the spell paper slightly further away from herself.

At that exact moment, as the perspective pulled back and the individual letters blurred, the macro architecture of the page became suddenly readable. The spatial relationship between the five ink spills. Flandmira's massive script sprawled across the center. The strokes were completely unshielded. She had left her flanks entirely exposed, generating a loud, explosive radius with zero defensive borders. Cecilia sat immediately beside her. She hadn't drawn back, nor had she used negative space to build a wall.

Her flowing, yielding lines simply wrapped along the chaotic edges of Flandmira's ink. The wide, generous intervals of her letters acted like a shock absorber, catching that reckless, sprawling momentum so naturally that the explosion simply dissolved into elegance. Karula's highly engineered signature was positioned explicitly next to Cecilia. The extravagant, mathematically flawless arc of her final letter was designed to be a self-contained, perfect circle.

But right before the loop closed, the geometry abruptly snapped inward. It broke its own solitary symmetry, dipping down just to let its sharp tail-end graze the softest curve of Cecilia's name. Maria didn't look for an empty margin. Her weightless, microscopic ink threaded directly into the claustrophobic, zero-distance overlap between Flandmira and Cecilia. She had her own axis with the loudest ink. She had her own axis with the softest. By settling exactly there, she quietly turned a line into a closed loop.

And then Wei Changqing. She didn't compete for the center. She took the absolute bottom edge. Her casual, vigorous brushstrokes sat underneath the other four, effortlessly catching the entire top-heavy, chaotic visual weight of the composition. And then, the heavy vermilion plum blossom. It struck the paper not as a decoration, but as a final, undisputed mechanical lock. Hathaway drew a sharp breath. She wasn't looking at five separate names sharing a piece of paper.

She was looking at a closed, self-sustaining mechanical loop. One ink spill burning outward with complete abandon, trusting blindly that the soft lines beside it would catch the blast. A flawless, solitary geometry actively breaking its own shape just to tether itself to that same softness. A weightless presence at the convergence point, with its own pull toward both extremes independently — the element that closed the line into a loop.

And a heavy foundation sitting quietly at the bottom, catching the disastrous, collapsing weight of the entire structure before a red seal slammed down, locking the chaos into an unbreakable equilibrium. If you removed even a single stroke, the entire visual architecture would violently collapse. But together, they formed a terrifyingly stable ecosystem. Hathaway suddenly didn't know what to say.

All her fear, all her sharp-edged readiness to perform elaborate mental commentary on Greed Umbrella: upon encountering this silent social map, it landed like swinging at fog. The force went in and found nothing to push against. She sat in silence for a long time. Then she stood up and placed the spell paper carefully in the center of her desk. Right next to the bamboo-tube gift she still hadn't sent. Outside the window, the night fog had thickened again, or perhaps it had never entirely left.

Hathaway looked at the two objects side by side. She could not stop Spectra's final line from cycling, unbidden, through every available processing thread. Wellington was present when the gift arrived. She said nothing. In the dead silence of the room, Hathaway decided she probably wasn't going to sleep tonight.