[Location]: Yggdrasil Academy · Dormitory [Golden Bough] · Room 302
The comfortable atmosphere of the "Tea Party" evaporated in an instant.
Victoria ceased to be the "Gossip Partner" and returned to being the "Architect of Logic."
The air in the room grew heavy, charged with the static electricity of serious academic intent. The smell of tea was replaced by the cold, metallic scent of ozone.
Victoria waved her hand.
The crimson mana bar diagram flared, expanding until it dominated the center of the room. It cast a harsh, bloody light across the vintage oak table, turning Victoria’s pale features into something sharp and predatory.
"Now that we have restored your dignity and purged the slave mentality..."
Victoria’s finger traced the air, pointing to the very top section of the floating bar. With a precise, surgical motion, she sliced off a small, thin sliver at the peak.
[ ||| ] 15%
The number glowed with a deceptively harmless light.
"This," Victoria said, her voice echoing slightly in the silent room, "is The Witch's 15% Rule."
"In any single engagement against non-Witch entities—be they local gods, interstellar armadas, or demonic incursions—you are strictly forbidden from consuming more than 15% of your total mana pool."
Hathaway blinked, staring at the tiny sliver. It looked like a rounding error.
"That's it?" she asked, her voice filled with skepticism. "15%? To fight a planetary war?"
Victoria looked at her student. A small, pitying smile played on her lips. "Hathaway, do you know the demographics of our civilization?"
"I know there are roughly 4.2 billion Witches," Hathaway recited from her textbook memory.
"Correct. 4.2 billion Rulers." Victoria leaned back, her fingers drumming on the armrest of her chair. "But do you know how many Servant Races we govern? Do you know the population of the workforce that bows to the High Council?"
Hathaway shook her head.
"Over Twelve Trillion."
Victoria waved her hand.
The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to writhe. They stretched and twisted, forming terrifying, silent silhouettes on the walls—billions of bowed heads, billions of bent knees, a tapestry of submission that stretched across galaxies.
"Do not insult our grandeur by thinking we only use Goblins with pickaxes or Orcs with boxes. Those are mere laborers for digging latrines and moving furniture."
Victoria’s voice dropped an octave, resonating with dark authority.
"We hold the iron leashes of Undead Scourges—skeletal tides that can drown entire continents in bone and rot within a week. We command Abyssal Worms the size of mountain ranges that eat stars for breakfast. We have legions of Vampire Lords who manage our blood banks, Dragonkin who act as our air force, and Ghouls who ensure nothing goes to waste."
The silhouettes on the wall seemed to roar in silence, a phantom army waiting for a command.
"In a standard invasion—which we call 'Work'—a Witch does not fight in the mud. She stands on the bridge of her starship, drinking Earl Grey tea, listening to classical music."
"With a single button press, she sends waves of this 'Cannon Fodder' to grind the enemy civilization into dust."
Victoria looked at Hathaway. "Why would you spend your precious mana to break a castle wall, when you can simply drop a million skeleton warriors on it?"
"Wait," Hathaway interrupted, frowning.
The logic made sense economically, but it contradicted everything she knew about the "Witch Personality."
"If we have trillions of servants doing the killing... isn't PVE (Player vs Environment) boring?" Hathaway gestured at the hypothetical battlefield. "I thought Witches were Chaotic Evil? Or at least, Chaotic Hedonist? Don't we enjoy... you know... the screams? The explosions? The personal touch?"
"Oh, we do."
Victoria’s eyes lit up instantly. The boredom of the administrator vanished, replaced by a sharp, predatory gleam that made Hathaway flinch.
"PVE is not boring, Hathaway. It is... Hunting."
Victoria stood up and paced around the diagram, her movements fluid and dangerous.
"Like a noble fox hunt. We let the dogs (the Undead) flush out the prey. We let the servants tire the enemy out. We watch from above as their armies crumble and their cities burn."
"And then..." Victoria stopped. She made a pinching motion with her thumb and forefinger. "When the prey is cornered. When the so-called 'Savior' of the world stands amidst the ruins of his capital, bloody, broken, and screaming defiance at the sky..."
"We step in."
"We descend from the stars. We take the final shot. We enjoy the look of absolute despair in their eyes. We harvest the tragedy like a fine vintage wine."
Victoria smiled, and for a second, she looked exactly like the villain in every story ever told.
"It is fun. It is delightful. But it is Controlled Fun. It is a dessert, not the main course."
"But," Hathaway pressed, "What if the enemy is actually strong? What if it's a High Fantasy world? Like a 'God' of a primitive plane?"
Victoria sneered. It was a visceral reaction, as if she had stepped in something dirty.
"We do not call them Gods, Hathaway. That is a philosophical error. To a Witch, the word 'God' has a strict definition: Omniscience and Omnipotence."
Victoria gestured to the empty air, her voice dripping with cold logic.
"Think about it. Can a truly All-Knowing and All-Powerful being be killed? Can the Creator of the Universe be erased by a tactical orbital bombardment? Of course not. If it bleeds, it is not a God. If it dies, it was never Almighty. It was merely... sturdy."
"So we call them 'False Gods' (Pseudo-Deities) when they are active. And when they cling to their pathetic existence past their time? We call them 'Rotting Gods'."
Victoria flicked the 15% sliver on the diagram.
"They are not eldritch. They are not grand. They are just... Compost. They are overgrown weeds in our garden."
"And you?" Victoria pointed at Hathaway’s chest. "You are fresh. You are bored. And you have 15% of your mana—which is a catastrophic amount of energy—ready to erase him from existence."
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"For a Witch, killing a so-called 'God' is just paperwork. It is taking out the trash. 15% is generous. Usually, 2% is enough to deconstruct their divinity and turn them into a mana battery."
Hathaway swallowed hard.
She realized she had underestimated the scale. On Earth, stories were about heroes fighting monsters. Here, Witches weren't the adventurers. Witches were The Crisis.
"Okay. I get it."
Hathaway looked at the math floating in the air.
15% for the 'Trash Cleanup' and the 'False Gods'. 50% for the 'Lazy Life' and 'Clocking Out'. She did the subtraction in her head. 100 - 50 - 15 = 35.
"That leaves 35% in the middle." Hathaway pointed to the substantial chunk of crimson light sitting between the 'Work Budget' and the 'Survival Line'. "What is this for? Emergency funds? Investment capital?"
Victoria stopped pacing.
She turned to face Hathaway. The playful cruelty was gone. The arrogant sneer was gone. Her expression was deadly serious.
It wasn't the teacher's smile. It wasn't the capitalist's smile. It was the smile of a woman who slept with a loaded pistol under her pillow—and slept soundly because of it.
"That, my dear student..." Victoria leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that chilled the room. "...Is saved for the Witch standing next to you."
Hathaway felt the air in the room freeze. The shadows seemed to lengthen. The silence was absolute.
"To... protect myself from her?" Hathaway asked, her voice trembling slightly.
"Protect?" Victoria chuckled, shaking her head. "You make it sound so fearful. So passive. You are thinking like a mortal again. You are thinking of 'Death' as the end."
Victoria walked over to the window, looking out at the massive World Tree.
"Hathaway, look at me. Witches are immortal. Our only structural weakness is the Spine, the central conductor. If the spine is pulverized, a lesser Witch cannot regenerate instantly. Her physical body will collapse."
Victoria turned back, her silhouette framed by the ethereal blue glow of the Will-o'-the-Wisps.
"But does she die? Does she fade into nothingness? No."
Victoria’s eyes gleamed with a solemn pride.
"She simply sheds the broken shell. She reverts to her primal form. She becomes an 'Egg-bound Spirit'."
Hathaway blinked. "An... Egg?"
"Yes. A conscious, thinking, indestructible soul wrapped in a conceptual shell. If you 'die' here, in the Inner Sea of Star, do not panic. You will be met by a Civil Servant from the Afterlife Bureau."
"Think of them as 'Grim Reapers', but they wear uniforms, carry clipboards, and complain about overtime." Victoria gestured casually, as if describing a taxi service. "These agents will guide your Egg to the Netherworld—which, I remind you, used to be an independent divine realm until Ash paid them a visit during the Ovelia War."
"Now? It is just another colony."
"It is a bustling place, Hathaway. It is filled with Native Necro-Witches and Civil Servants processing paperwork. You will simply float in the Springs of Eternity, chatting with your ancestors, while the waters slowly regrow your physical body. It is less 'Death' and more... 'Mandatory Spa Leave'."
"But," Victoria’s expression shifted. The humor vanished, replaced by a fierce, burning intensity. "What if you 'die' in a foreign dimension? If you are beaten by a False God in a galaxy far away?"
"Then you wait in their Underworld."
"You stay in your Egg. You do not move. And you wait for Us."
"Because a Witch never abandons her own. Even if it takes a thousand years, even if we have to burn that galaxy to ash to find the entrance to their Hell... We will come to pick up your Egg. We will break down the gates of their Afterlife and bring you home."
Victoria spread her arms, as if embracing the inevitability of it.
"So you see, Hathaway? To a Witch, Death is not a tragedy. It is not a termination. It is merely... The start of a different Great Adventure."
Hathaway sat there, stunned.
Her heart was pounding, but not from fear.
On Earth, she had lived in constant, low-level terror. Fear of losing her job. Fear of sickness. Fear of the inevitable, cold end where the screen goes black and the credits never roll. She had been a leaf floating in a river, waiting to drown alone.
But here?
I am not alone. If I die, they will come for me. Even if I am a stranger from another world, wearing this skin... The moment I accepted the name "Witch," I inherited this promise. If I fall into the deepest pit of an alien hell, the sky will tear open, and my sisters—women I might fight with over a lunchbox—will burn the galaxy to bring me back.
Because I am Theirs, and they are Mine.
It was arrogant. It was violent. It was terrifying. But it was also the most romantic thing she had ever heard.
For the first time, Hathaway felt the true weight of the name "Witch." It wasn't just magic. It was Immunity to Tragedy.
I want to see that, Hathaway thought, a strange heat rising in her chest. I want to see the galaxy burn for me. And I want to be the one holding the torch for them.
"Therefore," Victoria concluded, breaking Hathaway's reverie, "The threshold for violence among us is extremely low. We don't fear hurting each other. We don't fear 'killing' each other."
Victoria’s eyes gleamed with a fanatical light. "In fact... We Enjoy it."
"Invading worlds is boring. It is a chore. It is PVE. The enemies are stupid; they run on simple scripts. But fighting another Witch? Fighting an equal who understands high-level syntax? Who can counter your curses in real-time? Who can reflect your hexes back into your face?"
Victoria clenched her fist.
"That is Sport. That is the only game worth playing."
"The Caroshadel Witches lost the Civil War not because they were weak," Victoria explained, her voice dripping with historical weight. "They lost because they spent this 35% on the Devils. They exhausted themselves on the boring PVE content."
"So when the Casendiara Witches decided to start a PVP match... Caroshadel was empty. They couldn't play back. That is the tragedy."
Victoria stopped behind Hathaway, her hands resting on the back of the girl's chair.
"It wasn't a duel. It was a beatdown. And for a Witch, being beaten down without the ability to retaliate is the ultimate humiliation. It's like being spawn-camped while you are AFK."
"So," Hathaway realized, a cold sweat forming on her back. "The 35% isn't just for safety. It's for... Fun?"
"It is for Dignity."
Victoria corrected, her mana flaring up for a split second—a terrifying, dense wave of gravity that made the windows rattle and the tea set shiver.
"You have to let them know. You have to signal to every Witch in the room: 'I may be tired from work. I may have just nuked a planet. But look at my aura. I still have 35% left. That is enough for three Insta-Cast Forbidden Spells.'"
"'If you want to fight me for this loot, Sister, it won't be a quick robbery. It will be a glorious, messy, hour-long Deathmatch that destroys the entire continent.'"
Victoria summarized with a brutal elegance:
"So-called Unity in the Witch Council isn't built on conscience, Hathaway. It's built on 'Mutually Assured Destruction' (MAD). If I am empty, you will bully me. That is boring for you, and humiliating for me. If I have 35%, we will destroy the landscape together. That is fun, but costly."
"Only when everyone knows that everyone else is armed and ready for a sport... will everyone sit down, behave politely, and split the lunchbox calmly."
Hathaway stared at the glowing numbers in her mind. The logic clicked into place. It was twisted, it was violent, but it was incredibly stable.
15% Work Budget. (For the "False Gods" / The Chore)
35% PVP Budget. (For the "Friends" / The Sport)
50% Comfort Zone. (For the Work-Life Balance)
It wasn't fear. It was Etiquette.
I work efficiently so I have energy left to fight my friends.
"I get it," Hathaway whispered.
She finally understood why the Modern Witch was invincible. Because they treated the multiverse as a workplace, and they treated Civil War as their favorite hobby.
Victoria waved her hand.
Snap.
The glowing numbers vanished. The map rolled itself up into nothingness. The oppressive red light faded, returning the room to its warm, studious gloom.
"Good."
Victoria walked back to her high-backed chair and sat down. She picked up her tea, which had gone cold during the lecture. With a casual flick of her finger, steam rose from the cup instantly—burning maybe 0.001% of her mana, well within the 'Comfort Zone'.
"This concludes the 'Theoretical Foundation' of the 15% Rule."
Victoria took a sip, her eyes scanning Hathaway.
The warmth in her gaze was gone. It was replaced by the cold, mechanical precision of a mechanic diagnosing a broken engine.
"You understand History. You understand Politics. You understand Trust. Your [Thread D]—the thread of your mind listening to me—performed adequately."
"However..."
Victoria’s gaze sharpened. She pointed a pale finger at Hathaway’s hands resting on the table. "I don't need mind-reading to see a system crash, Miss Ludwig."
Hathaway looked down. Her hands were still. Too still.
"While you were getting angry about the 'Lunchbox Incident', your left hand stopped tapping the rhythmic cadence for the Alchemy Stirring Simulation."
Victoria pointed to Hathaway's eyes.
"Your eyes, which should have been diverging to visualize the Rune Structure in the air, completely converged on my face. You diverted all your bandwidth to 'Anger'. And then to 'Shock'. And finally to 'Admiration of Laziness'."
Victoria sneered, leaning back in her chair.
"A veteran Witch can plan tonight's dinner, calculate a ballistic trajectory, gossip with her friends, and listen to a boring lecture—simultaneously—without anyone noticing a drop in performance. But you? You looked like a machine that blew a fuse."
"You are running four cores, but you are managing them like a drunk driver crashing into a wall."
Hathaway felt a flush of shame creeping up her neck. She hadn't even realized she had stopped the simulations. The story was just too engaging, the scale too massive.
"We have Twenty-Six Days left until the A1 Exam."
Victoria tapped the table with her fingernail. The sound echoed in the quiet room like a metronome.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"From this moment on, the 'Story Time' continues for [Thread D]. But I expect your hands to keep moving. I expect your eyes to stay split. I expect your mana to remain stable—no matter how shocking the history lesson is."
"Do not let the threads bleed into each other. If you stop tapping, I will add an hour to the session. If you lose the rune visualization, I will add two hours."
Victoria grinned.
It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a slave driver cracking a whip over a four-horse chariot. It was the smile that built empires.
"Synchronize your watches, Hathaway. All four of them. We start the Grind."