That evening, Tasha knocked on the door at the far end of the second floor of the inn.
The inn nestled against a sturdy sycamore tree. The second floor had an irregular layout, with a perpetually shadowy small room at the end of the corridor where the innkeeper's younger brother resided. The proprietor fretted constantly over his brother's marital prospects. Tasha needed only to inquire briefly before receiving a lengthy, detailed introduction.
"He's definitely in his room at this hour!" the proprietor declared emphatically. "Honestly, he's always in there—always free! I was planning to have him guide you around, but that girl Abigail took you out first thing this morning..."
He ranted about his brother's aversion to going out, then remembered his sales pitch and hastily added, "He's incredibly talented, you know. Writers tend to have their quirks." He gave a dry laugh, sounding unconvinced by his own exaggerations. Stripping away the matchmaking clichés, the shopkeeper described Edwin as a scruffy, eccentric oddball, while his daughter painted him as a maverick literary genius.
It all sounded suspiciously fishy.
The more I coaxed information from this father-daughter duo, the more Edwin resembled the silhouette of a reclusive wizard. He never left his home, wandering among bookshelves, muttering incomprehensible content to himself. In a world where spellcasters and non-human races alike faced oppression, the mage feigned madness. Under the guise of fiction, he chronicled a lost past. His unkempt appearance and eccentricities served as camouflage. Others' ignorance kept him safe yet filled him with melancholy. So he committed his world to paper, crafting false tales to share with those who still harbored curiosity about spellcasters.
Upon seeing Edwin himself, this conjecture seemed to gain credibility.
Tasha knocked on the door for a long time—a few taps, a pause of several seconds, then more taps. Her knocking was polite yet irritating, with irregular intervals, varying numbers of taps each time, and inconsistent force. This unpredictability made it impossible to dismiss as background noise. She knocked patiently for five minutes. After five minutes, the wooden door swung open, revealing an enraged middle-aged man.
Edwin was five years younger than the shopkeeper, yet he looked haggard enough to appear older than his brother and bore no resemblance to his sibling. His brown, shoulder-length hair was hastily tied back, strands greasy and shiny, suggesting it hadn't been washed in ages. His beard was short and unkempt, clearly untrimmed, shaved short merely for convenience. Beneath the messy stubble, his face remained gaunt, cheeks hollowed, cheekbones high. Thick glasses, as thick as the bottom of a glass bottle, sat on his nose. The round lenses magnified the pronounced bags and dark circles beneath his eyes.
If the shopkeeper resembled a carefree brown bear, his younger brother was a perpetually starved coyote. This gothically styled Mr. Edwin glared at anyone daring to disturb him outside the door with sleep-deprived, irritable eyes. Upon realizing the visitor was an unfamiliar woman, that expression froze on his face, and he instinctively tightened his grip on the doorknob.
"My apologies, did I disturb your sleep?" Tasha smiled apologetically. "The proprietor said I could come see you at this hour."
Edwin frowned, the deep crease between his brows quickly widening—clearly a habitual frown. He regarded Tasha gloomily, saying nothing.
"Look at that rude, pompous face," Victor snorted in Tasha's mind. "Quite the wizardly demeanor, though."
Tasha wasn't deterred by this minor setback. She maintained her gentle smile, seemingly oblivious to the man's unfriendly expression.
"I've heard about your work from Abigail. Though unfinished, the concepts alone are captivating." She infused her smile with curiosity and eagerness. "I've always been fascinated by tales of knightly adventures. Unfortunately, such novels aren't popular nowadays, and true masterpieces are rare. Might I have the honor of reading your masterpiece?"
The furrow between Edwin's brows relaxed slightly, though his face remained as flat as a poker card. He offered no judgment, merely pushed his glasses up and stated, "Not knightly adventures."
"Indeed, it would be too simplistic to lump tales featuring diverse races and colorful professions under the label 'knightly fiction.' I don't consider that an apt description," Tashu nodded. "Perhaps 'sword and sorcery' or 'fantasy adventure' would be more fitting. Such worlds are made brilliant by the presence of magic."
Edwin finally met Tashar's gaze—previously, his eyes had never met hers, instead resting somewhere around her shoulders, whether out of wariness of her movements or sheer arrogance. His expression shifted slightly, but even Tashar found it difficult to decipher what it meant.
"Magic," he murmured, "yes, magnificent magic." His words seemed both a reply to Tashar and a private soliloquy. Edwin's lowered gaze, obscured by beard and shadow, swallowed his emotions, rendering him as elusive as the flickering candlelight in the room.
"Hope he's not a prophecy mage," Victor muttered irritably. "Talking to a prophecy mage is like sleeping with Sarro."
"I didn't know you'd done that," Tasha remarked.
"What?" Victor froze in confusion, then quickly let out a disgusted sound. "I didn't! That was just a metaphor!"
"I thought demons prided themselves on corrupting sacred beings."
"There are many ways to corrupt someone! What the hell is going through your head?! I'm not a succubus! I have standards—Saro?! Ugh, I... I perform for my art, not my body!" Victor's voice was practically covered in goosebumps. He was so furious he couldn't control his words, and Tasha nearly cracked up inside.
"I never said you did anything," Tasha said innocently. "I was talking about just chatting under the covers. You're the one who took it down there."
"&￥@!" Victor exclaimed.
While his public conversation with Edwin was mostly a dull monologue, listening to Victor's private banter was pure entertainment. The Book of Dungeons stomped its feet in protest at this "disgusting slander" before pulling him back to the task at hand. It muttered, " Can't confirm this guy's a mage, but the vibe he gives off is strikingly similar to a type I've encountered before... Can't quite place it right now."
The former Archfiend began racking his brains for mage archetypes he'd witnessed, which surprised Tashar, as she too felt Edwin's aura eerily mirrored certain figures she'd encountered.
Tashar was certain she'd never seen such a presence in Erian; the remaining possibilities lay solely on Earth. Where would a mage come from in that world? Was he some gloomy wizard from a movie, or a stereotypical character from a book?
The conversation continued even as they recalled. Tasha tossed Edwin numerous subtle probes—to ordinary ears, just the words of an enthusiastic reader, but to spellcasters or otherworldly beings, her olive branch was clear. Edwin's wooden face gradually softened, and finally, he nodded.
"Wait a moment," he said.
The somber middle-aged man vanished into the doorway, reappearing shortly with a thick notebook in hand. Tash opened the book; the handwritten text was neat and orderly.
The first page read: "On this night of the first quarter moon, a brave, weathered, handsome, magnificent, towering, red-haired wizard sat in the seventh seat from the entrance at the Red Claw Tavern. His sharp eyes scanned the doorway, not directly facing the entrance, as he sipped a glass of wormwood flower. listening to the surrounding conversations, awaiting the imminent arrival of the mysterious, perplexing figure who had sent him a letter—a being whose allegiance, humanity, or species remained unknown."
This was the first sentence.
The entire first page followed this style, as did the second and third pages.
To recite a single sentence from this journal in one breath would likely exhaust even the finest minstrel. The opening paragraphs drone on for dozens of lines, detailing the tavern's clamorous atmosphere—from the innkeeper's newly set gold tooth to the ancient scratch on the glass the bartender polishes, leaving no detail overlooked. If one truly had the patience to read it all without getting dizzy, it could perhaps be called "highly visual"—oh, and don't forget, finishing the main text doesn't mean you've seen the whole scene. Each page has footnotes longer than the main text, so only a third of each page is actual plot.
This is a novel that plunges every reader who opens it before the author, bathed in their expectant gaze, into deathly silence.
If it can even be called a novel.
Even Victor fell into a momentary silence. In a single breath, Tasha silenced the endless stream of "..." filling her mind, reminding herself this wasn't a novel at all—just an excuse for a spellcaster. Who said mages needed to be great writers? She skimmed through it like a rookie report, extracting useful information and cross-referencing it with Victor.
It couldn't be called a watered-down novel, despite its length. In fact, it contained a wealth of substance, evident in the dense annotations. He detailed the layout of taverns centuries ago, the calendars of that era, and the traditions of mages and mercenaries—all matching Victor's knowledge of that bygone age. Yet as he read on, Victor shook his head.
"No, it's ridiculous," Victor said. "The protagonist calling himself a 'Betrayer of the Abyss'? That's usually a mocking term used by those at odds with mages, or a self-deprecating taunt and threat from some dark-robed sorcerer. The mage in this story is a red-robed one. Red-robed mages prefer the origin story of the 'Seekers of Mystery'—they'd never introduce themselves like that."
The book's research was otherwise quite reliable, yet it contained absurd errors in such subtle yet crucial details.
Tasha lifted her head, meeting Edwin's intense gaze. He stared at her, quickly averting his eyes when she looked up, then pushed his glasses up and resumed studying her shoulders.
"Quite impressive," Tasha remarked. "For such an epic work, this notebook could only record the beginning, couldn't it?"
"Forty-seven more," Edwin nodded swiftly. "I'm writing the forty-eighth. The protagonist defeats the evil lich, gets entangled in a court intrigue, and meets..."
His words cut off abruptly. His brow furrowed again, looking thoroughly annoyed with himself for speaking. After a moment's silence, Edwin blurted out, "I'll fetch the second one."
Tasha had a bad feeling about this.
After Edwin entered, she'd swiftly skimmed the entire notebook. Her eyes scanned the pages, absorbing every piece of useful information into her mind. The adventure stories in the notebook were poorly written, the plot progressed slowly, and everyone's actions had an awkward theatricality, like opera singers performing on stage with heavy makeup. As a historical manual, it was passable; as fiction, it was dreadful—probably only good enough to fool uninformed children. But Tasha was never a sincere reader. She found the section describing spellcasting. Sure enough, the protagonist's battles were described in excruciating detail, just like the rest of the text—from the ingredients and hand gestures to the specific incantations, every part was meticulously recorded.
"It's real," Victor exclaimed in astonishment. "This is a mage's most closely guarded secret. Who would write this down openly? Mages guard their traditions fiercely. Academy spellbooks are never lent out; knowledge passes only through oral transmission between master and apprentice. And he just hands this to you? Does this guy seriously plan to submit this for publication? Anyone with basic magical knowledge can tell this is the real deal—no, anyone with magical aptitude who tries it themselves will see the spells actually work!"
The bad feeling grew sharper.
Tasha scanned the entire notebook in mere seconds. She pushed open the door the minute Edwin entered and stepped inside.
The inn's corridor was lit by soft, bright lamps, comparable to small inns on Earth. Yet the room itself was dimly lit, with no lamps burning—only candles flickering. Tasha could slip into the shadows with ease. Her night-vision eyes scanned Edwin's room, whose atmosphere clashed sharply with the inn and the capital city.
Tasha herself stayed in the inn, whose rooms were saturated with the capital's magical technology—water-powered lighting and such conveniences. This room, however, was different. It was too... too classical, too perfectly aligned with Tasha's newly arrived fantasy world expectations.
Walls were studded with assorted picture frames and scrolls, layered densely over every inch of wallpaper. Stacks of notebooks and scrolls littered the floor, narrowing the passageway. Along the way, ancient shelves held jars, pots, and dried plants. Tasha exchanged a glance with a skull-shaped glass bottle filled with green liquid, then turned to spot a butterfly with hummingbird wings. A crucible hung above the fireplace, and higher still was a map of Erian.
Victor chuckled.
It was absurd. To an outsider like Tasha, this was the quintessential "wizard's room." But to Victor, who'd dealt with real mages countless times, the scene was laughably ridiculous.
Useless plants were dried to mimic the shapes of herbs; birds and insects dissected and pieced together into mock magical creature specimens, accompanied by imaginary dissection diagrams and earnest instructions detailing how to use these creatures as spellcasting ingredients. The so-called map of Erian depicted a vast continent that had never existed even centuries ago, complete with a walking route marked upon it. "Crossing the birthplace of the Naga? With a red-robed mage not even close to legendary rank, a bard, a princess who's more ornament than anything, and a knight who's clearly lost his mind—all relying on their love and courage?" Victor sneered. "Ah, love and courage might add a touch of fun to their final moments."
Tasha sighed. Her worst fears had been confirmed.
This wasn't a mage at all—to draw an Earthly parallel—he was a research-obsessed nerd, a failed literary hack, an over-the-hill history buff stuck in perpetual adolescence. Tasha recalled where she'd seen similar types before. A child in her extended family suffered from social anxiety—his hands trembled when speaking, introverted and tongue-tied around strangers, appearing sullen and unapproachable. Edwin's gaze fixed on her shoulder wasn't arrogance or wariness; he simply couldn't meet anyone's eyes when talking!
Thinking this, Victor must have encountered similar souls too. A demon with a collector's obsession for artistic souls had undoubtedly encountered a social misfit or two.
Edwin, rummaging through the bookshelves, finally located the second volume of the novel. Turning around, he startled at Tashan's sudden entrance. His lips moved, unsure how to respond, and he dismissed the question of her abrupt arrival, simply placing the notebook into her hands.
"Volume two," he said, pushing his glasses up and watching Tasha expectantly.
This time, Tasha didn't bother with normal speed—she flipped through it rapidly. Like the first volume, the spells and racial lore within were meticulously crafted.
"The world you've created is incredibly mature and well-developed," Tasha remarked. "To conceive so many intricate spells and races from scratch—you're truly remarkable."
Edwin gave a hurried laugh, as if slightly embarrassed by the assessment. He stammered, "It's not entirely original..."
"Did you draw inspiration from something?" Tasha asked, feigning difficulty. "If you referenced another novel without attribution, that wouldn't be fair to the original author."
"No!" Edwin blurted out. "I'm drawing from historical records—there's material to draw from... references, references to some sources. The Great Library has plenty."
"Including spells?" Tasha pressed. "I thought the Great Library didn't house spellbooks."
Not only did it not house them—spellbooks had vanished entirely. Long after being declared forbidden texts and destroyed en masse, people ignored them, forgot them.
Edwin fell silent.
Now he grew genuinely wary. As if aware of his own clumsiness with words, he chose silence. Edwin reverted to the uncooperative, gloomy oddball he'd been at the start. But Tasha had gleaned nearly everything she needed to know.
This couldn't be a spellcaster—at best, an imitator.
The hermit mage theory collapsed, replaced by the image of a fanatical history buff. The innkeeper claimed Edwin had spent his childhood buried in the library, eventually losing himself entirely to his own world—perhaps he was right. The mysterious, brilliant uncle Abigail spoke of was likely nothing more than the product of a young girl's romanticized imagination. More likely, Edwin had stumbled upon a spellbook by accident and become utterly captivated by it. He likely possessed no magical talent whatsoever and lacked the necessary ingredients. Even with the most precise gestures and incantations, he couldn't complete a single spell.
Could the inn's protective array have been created by his accidental mishap?
No. If Edwin could successfully deploy and regularly maintain a magical array, he wouldn't merely be a hack writer using spellbooks as reference material.
Someone else cast the spell.
The question was, how to find that person.
"Kill him, destroy the spellbook," Victor said casually. "There must be a connection between the continuously maintained protective array and whoever handled that spellbook."
"Don't be ridiculous," Tasha retorted. "I'm not here to make enemies."
"Then destroy the protective array. This time I'm not joking," Victor insisted. "Whoever maintains the array will sense it the instant it's breached. Luring them to you couldn't be simpler."
It wasn't exactly a brilliant plan, considering this protective array...
Tasha abruptly halted.
In the distance, the fairy lantern that had remained motionless for ages stirred once more. Tiny spores clinging to the train car walls danced in the air. As the sealed compartment doors swung open, they swiftly drifted inside.
Carrying Tasha's gaze with them.
The first activated spore transmitted a murky image: within the dim, lightless carriage, massive canvas tarps shrouded all the cargo. Numerous pairs of military boots stepped through the open doors. As soldiers pulled back the canvas, the cargo beneath was finally revealed.
The first spore camera failed. The second replaced it, pressing tightly against the enormous object. It towered taller than two soldiers stacked together—and that was before it even stood upright. Its shoulders were incredibly broad, its arms so thick that its overall width and height appeared nearly equal. Metal gleamed coldly in the moonlight, casting the shadow of a soldier's cap onto the cargo hold. The shadow's arm rose. A group of soldiers moved behind the cargo, fiddling with it for a moment. Then, light flared within the hold.
Two crimson beams shot forth from the cargo's square head.
Tasha remembered this—or at least something similar. In iron-gray dreams, beside the dwarf craftsman endlessly hammering his anvil, countless steel golems stood silent.
The steel golem rose within the carriage and stepped out, one foot after another.
Countless canvas sheets filled the train carriage.
An army of robots? Tasha sighed inwardly. The lullaby that had once worked wonders would likely prove useless on the battlefield.
There was no time left for careful searching.
Edwin watched the female passenger approaching the window in astonishment. He resented her taking liberties in his room but didn't know how to stop her. After wrestling with himself for a long moment, he gathered his courage and asked, "What are you doing?"
By the time he spoke, the passenger had already withdrawn her hand. Whatever she intended to do was already done. Edwin saw two fingernails, painted with blood-red dye, snap together with a crisp crack, crushing something cleanly.
In the dim light, Edwin couldn't make out what she'd crushed, but he couldn't help but shiver involuntarily, a subtle chill running down his spine. Was it because the action was so blatantly sharp? He didn't know, but... well, no buts about it. The woman brushed dust from her hands, revealing a smile that seemed different from before. "Just a bug," she said.
With that, she offered a brief farewell, set down her book, and left.
The array nodes outside Edwin's window were merely the beginning of tonight's task.
The protective runes were sufficiently concealed, but they offered little in the way of defense. Most nodes could be severed with a single pinch. Even the tougher ones could be destroyed using a small knife or blood. Seven were in the paulownia tree, seven on the ground and stones outside the inn, seven on the load-bearing pillars, seven on the ceiling... Forty-nine nodes lay exposed before the former demon's eyes. It took Tashan only half the night to eliminate most of them.
The fortieth node lay in the basement.
The basement door wasn't locked, but no lights were installed here. Dust and cobwebs covered every corner. This rune was buried beneath numerous crates. Moonlight streaming through the skylight illuminated the pile of large boxes. When Tasha moved to shift them, her shadow fell upon the wall behind her.
A tall, dark shadow watched her. Even as Tashar bent down, the shadow remained standing.
The shadow writhed in the darkness.
It had no thickness, no mass. Its movement was silent, its touch imperceptible. The female silhouette on the wall slowly extended a hand, its nails longer than Tashar's own. They formed a ring, encircling Tasha's slender neck.
A strange force gripped her throat, yanking her off the ground until her feet dangled in midair. Air refused to fill her lungs. Finger indentations quickly appeared on her skin, yet the hand clutching her throat touched nothing. It was a living horror scene—a person about to be strangled to death by their own shadow in a dusty basement.
The next instant, Tasha spread her wings.
Powerful dragon wings abruptly unfurled, tearing her coat and shadow to shreds—the reflection on the wall began to warp subtly, as if attempting to sprout wings, but the vast dragon wings swiftly burst it apart. The shadow sorcery hadn't detected the wings behind Tasha, meaning its mimicry and possession were inherently incomplete. As Tasha's true form unfolded, the failed imitation shed from her body.
Tasha folded her wings. The floor beneath her feet lay bare. The shadow of the woman on the wall no longer connected to her. They locked gazes, and Tasha nodded to her counterpart.
"Pleased to meet you," she murmured, a faint smile playing on her lips, her breathing steady and unbroken. "This witch."