Chương 47: How to Die While Simping

[Time]: Day 32 of Enrollment, 07: 55 AM [Location]: Yggdrasil Academy · Lecture Hall 7 Without a second thought, Hathaway's legs moved on their own. Not because she desired the academic prestige of the front row. Not because she wanted to challenge the hierarchy. But because her "Thirst Radar" was shrieking like a siren. I must sit there. I must be the meat in that sandwich. She adjusted her crimson coat and strode down the aisle. The chatter in the hall quieted down slightly. Heads turned.

The Cat Witch stopped grooming her tails. The Fox Witch looked up from her book. Even the Tentacle Witch stopped writing her thesis. They watched with a mix of confusion and pity as this silver-haired freshman walked straight toward the "Suicide Zone."

"Is she new?" a whisper floated through the air.

"She's walking into the Thermal Shock Zone without a shield. Brave."

"Or stupid. Five solars says she passes out before the first break." Hathaway ignored them all. She reached the front row. She didn't hesitate. She didn't ask for permission. She simply plopped herself directly into that empty seat. Whoosh. The moment her butt touched the chair, she understood why it was empty. She was now sandwiched between two existences that were not just rare—they were Singularities. To her left: A Balor Witch.

[Rarity: SSR / Threat: Catastrophic] She possessed skin like polished obsidian and eyes of molten gold. Unlike the chaotic, brutish Balors of legend who leaked magma everywhere, her aura was restrained and elegant, like a dormant volcano wrapped in a designer combat suit. Looking at her, a complicated mix of profound awe and intense, bitter envy washed over Hathaway. Barely two days ago, she had shamelessly poked Rory's unhatched egg, begging the universe for a Balor sister.

She had dreamed of a tiny, fire-breathing toddler who could cast [Meteor Swarm] before learning to walk, carrying her to galaxy-conquering glory. But fantasy was one thing. Sitting inches away from an actual, living member of the Top 3 lineages was another. The reality of this completely broken game balance hit her right in the face. If Life were a game, the Balor Class would be banned from competitive play. Why? Let's look at the data. Take the Original Hathaway for example.

Before the awakening, her body had a mana reserve of 8, 200 M-Units. In the outside world—in a standard public academy or a minor district—8, 200 at age 18 was considered "Excellent." She would be the Honor Student, the pride of a normal family. But here is the cruelty of the Witch World: "Excellent" is not enough. Especially not for a Ludwig, and definitely not at Yggdrasil. In this circle of monsters, 8, 200 was the poverty line. It was the level of "disability." And a Balor Witch?

They exit the womb with a Base Mana of 6, 000+. A screaming newborn needing a diaper change possessed nearly the same raw output as an adult Native Elite. She didn't need to painstakingly grind or study to hit the Arch-Witch Threshold (45, 000 M-Units). She just had to breathe, eat, and successfully survive puberty. She didn't learn Fire Magic; she was the Fire. A literal Raid Boss playing on Easy Mode. I was absolutely right to pray to that egg, Hathaway thought, her gamer soul weeping.

Who wouldn't want to team up with that? Too bad I have to compete against one instead. But right now, Hathaway's eyes were drawn to the most dangerous part of this Raid Boss: The Tail. It was a magnificent, thick appendage covered in deep crimson scales. But as it brushed against the back of the chair, it didn't clank like armor. It moved with the fluidity of a living muscle. Hathaway had read about this. The scales weren't bone; they were a high-density, colloidal Mana Gel structure similar to a dragon's tail.

It was soft to the touch, warm, fuzzy, and squishy—like a premium memory foam pillow. However, lurking beneath the edges of those cute, soft scales was a matrix of mana vascular lines. Once injected with mana, that "soft jelly" would instantly harden in a nanosecond, transforming into a "Decapitation Sword" sharp enough to slice through enchanted steel. Furthermore, deep within the tail's core lay a mana nerve specifically evolved for combat. Tail, wings, horns, flame whip, magma blade, and claws.

If a Balor Witch got serious, she wasn't a caster; she was a mobile fortress equipped with six Natural Legendary Weapons. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Currently, this terrifying creature had her tail elegantly wrapped around her waist like a belt—a habit of civilized Witches, distinguishing them from their primitive ancestors who let their tails drag on the ground. Hathaway stared at the "tail-belt," her mind oscillating between fear and desire.

It looks so soft. But it can chop my head off.... I kind of want to touch it. Hot. Literally and figuratively. To her right: A Ghost Witch. [Rarity: Ultra-Rare / Danger Level: Silent Death] If the left was absolute heat, the right was absolute cold. She was a masterpiece of pale aesthetics, dressed in complex black lace mourning attire. Her skin was translucent, glowing with a faint, sickly blue light. Her hair was as black as ink that had been spilled into water, floating slightly even without wind.

Her pupils were a deep, mesmerizing dark green, like an abyss covered in moss. Hathaway shifted in her seat, instinctively pulling her coat tighter. The air conditioning hadn't changed. The chill she felt was Evolutionary Terror. Ghost Witches aren't just a race; they are a statistical miracle. Only one is born for every 100 million Undead. Even with the vast population of the Underworld, maybe only 12 to 24 are born a year. That scarcity breeds arrogance. Any Witch can name her manor "Shadow Keep."

But only this clan dares to call their home, quite simply, "The Ghost Castle." They don't need adjectives. They monopolize the definition. Currently, this "Aristocrat of Death" was calibrating a magitech microscope. She didn't turn the screws. Her pale, slender fingers simply Phased—turning intangible like water—and passed directly through the brass casing to adjust the lenses from the inside. [Racial Talent: Phasing] No friction. No sound. Just a Silent Precision that mocked the laws of physics.

As a "Brute Force" type Witch who solved problems by smashing them, Hathaway felt a crushing sense of intellectual oppression. But the real problem wasn't the phasing. It was the Hunger. Hathaway glanced at her own arm. The fine hairs were standing up. To other races, a Ghost Witch's aura is a lethal plague that withers the soul. To Witches, it is a persistent, annoying Caloric Void. She recalled the practical warnings from the Journal of Necromancy:"Students seated within a 1.

5-meter radius of a Ghost Witch experience a 300% increase in metabolic burn due to Thermal Siphon." Simply put: She is a walking heat sink. A standard Witch's breakfast is designed to last four hours. But sitting here? That energy would be sucked dry in 90 minutes. If this girl were to actively Phase through Hathaway's body, Hathaway would likely pass out from instant starvation. But even just sitting passively next to her was dangerous. This explains the high morbidity rate in the "Bureau of Necromancy."

The staff there don't die from curses. They get sick because they are chronically malnourished. They essentially forget to eat enough to compensate for the "ghosts" draining their batteries. Great. I'm not just cold. I'm going to be hypoglycemic before the first break. And then, the smells hit her. From the left: Faint sulfur mixed with high-end sandalwood. Dry, smoky, and dangerously hot. From the right: Cold formalin mixed with midnight epiphyllum.

Clean, antiseptic, yet carrying a dark, floral sweetness that hinted at funerals. Fire and Death. Warmth and Void. Hathaway sat in the middle, her olfactory nerves bouncing frantically between the two extremes. Left is a radiator. Right is a refrigerator. And I am the perishable food item in the middle. Then, she heard the sound of a chair being pulled out behind her. A familiar, precise aura locked onto the back of her head. And behind me is Victoria, the Anxiety Generator.

Hathaway sat in this "Triple Threat Zone," glanced at the Ghost Witch's dark green pupils, then at the Balor Witch's fuzzy-yet-deadly tail. Worth it. Hathaway adjusted her collar, happily accepting her fate. If I faint from hunger, I faint. At least I'll perish surrounded by waifus. Victoria did not sit in the suicide zone of the front row. Perhaps sensing the biological hazard on the right or the thermal hazard on the left, she made a sensible judgment befitting a Wellington.

She elegantly took the seat in the second row, directly behind Hathaway. Clink. The crisp sound of metal tools being arranged came from behind Hathaway's ears. Victoria pulled out a set of incredibly expensive calibration tools engraved with the Wellington crest, completely unfazed by the monsters sitting in front of her. Hathaway finally tore her eyes away from her neighbors and looked at the empty podium. Her excitement cooled slightly as specific data surfaced in her mind.

"Nino Lucent." Among the 351 tickets to the top tier of the Starry Sea, there was a track called [The Axiom of the Water Dragon]. It represented the pinnacle of academia and truth. To get it, translated into mortal terms, meant you had to win the Nobel Prize in Physics, the Fields Medal, and the Turing Award simultaneously, and then apply those results to practical combat. And the person she was meeting today was a Nominee for that very ticket.

In that family of insufferable academic aristocrats where everyone was a professor, Nino was the only tyrant who dared to point a finger at Heidi Lucent and scold her for "criminally squandering her genius." Hathaway silently placed her Aether-Membrane Scalpel on the table. It was pure, transparent, and undeniably high-quality. Amidst this chaos of Elemental and Spectral power, the scalpel lay there. Cold. Sharp. Absolute. Hathaway pressed her finger against the handle. The sensation was grounding.

Physical is good. Physical is the Anchor. In a room full of monsters, the one thing that connects the abstract to the real is the blade that cuts through both. She didn't need to be a radiator or a vacuum. She just needed to be the Surgeon. She sat straighter, her red eyes narrowing with professional focus. She wasn't a tourist. She was the one holding the knife.

"Enjoying the view, Ludwig?" Victoria's cool voice whispered from behind, laced with a mix of amusement and warning.

"You picked the most expensive seat in the house. I hope you can afford the price." Hathaway grinned, her fingers drumming a silent, confident rhythm on her scalpel.

"Don't worry, Wellington. I plan to get my money's worth." Just as Hathaway hardened her resolve, the air in the lecture hall suddenly shifted. The heavy iron doors slammed shut with a finality that sounded like a prison cell locking. The lights dimmed. Click. The crisp sound of a high heel tapping the podium floor echoed through the silence. It was extremely faint. Yet, it acted like a Mass Silence Spell.