[Time]: 9:30 AM
[Location]: Ludwig Manor · The Cloud Suite -> Front Garden
Hathaway didn't spend too much time on her outfit, though the guest wardrobe presented a challenge.
The maids had unpacked her luggage, which her mother, Margaret, had packed. This meant the closet was filled with enough sequins, gold thread, and lion crests to blind a dragon.
"Seriously, Mom?" Hathaway groaned. "I'm just going for breakfast, not a coronation."
The complaint came out on its own, and muscle memory did the rest, steering her past the flashy "battle gear" to the very back of the wardrobe, where the plainest thing she owned was waiting: a sharp black and gold color-blocked trench coat, a white silk shirt, and shorts she could actually run in.
The buttons were still gold lion heads. Small ones. Progress.
And for shoes...
She ignored the rows of twelve-centimeter crystal heels her mother had insisted she bring. Instead, she fished out a pair of black boots from the bottom corner of her trunk.
These boots didn't even have a brand name. They were just "Quarterly Standard Issue" (commonly known as safety work boots) from the Ludwig Family Alchemy Workshop. However, the material was the softest belly leather of an adult Void Dragon.
The Witches' highest alchemy techniques had processed this top-tier divinity material, enough to drive mortals insane, into a dull matte black finish without one flashy enchantment effect on it, then put it under somebody's heel like common synthetic leather.
This is the arrogance of Witch Civilization, Hathaway thought as she laced them up, her skin prickling. Skinning a mythical creature just so their ankles can be slightly more comfortable. And the scariest part? This body thinks it's normal.
Walking out of the bedroom and down the long corridor lined with portraits of past matriarchs (whose red eyes glowed like motion-sensor lights), Hathaway followed the scent of food to the dining hall.
Click.
The dining hall door didn't open. It was rammed open.
A young girl stood in the open doorway wearing a classic black and white maid outfit and a frilled headband, carrying a heavy magi-tech broom that was almost as tall as a person on her back.
She balanced a massive silver platter on one hand. She stared deadpan at Hathaway and said flatly:
"Knock, knock. Good morning, Milady. Breakfast is served."
Her name was Betty. Head Maid of the Ludwig family, and a High Witch, which meant the woman holding that breakfast tray could have taken this dining hall apart with her hands in her pockets.
She was doing it to fund a limited edition alchemy figurine habit.
Hathaway watched her work, the corner of her mouth twitching.
"...Good morning, Betty. Next time, maybe knock before you kick the door open."
"Understood, Milady. No problem, Milady."
Betty answered with lightning speed, her tone so sincere you couldn't pick a fault in it, but Hathaway would bet good money she’d do it again next time. After all, in this house, except for that "Demon King Incarnate" Rhode, no one cared about these details. As long as the salary was good, Betty would probably be willing to launch fireworks to hype up the atmosphere while serving dishes.
"But I suggest you focus your attention on the table."
Betty slammed the platter onto the table with a heavy metal CLANG.
"Based on your Wake-Up Grumpiness Index and last night's moon phase, the Head Chef deduced you are in a 'Gluttony Phase' today. So, we prepared Set B."
Hathaway looked down.
Holy cow.
This wasn't breakfast; this was feeding time for a T-Rex.
A basin of ice-chilled deep-sea blue shrimp as thick as her arm, a mountain of buttered bread, and a slab of red ribs the size of a paving stone, sizzling with oil, radiating heat and a smell you could lean into.
"This is..." Hathaway pointed at the piece of meat larger than her face.
"Charcoal-Grilled Prime Dragon Ribs."
Betty expressionlessly pulled out a jar of pepper and sprinkled it wildly like she was dusting crops with pesticide. "Airlifted last night from the farm in Hortania. Tender, and rich in residual mana."
Hathaway looked at the meat on the plate, then looked down at the Void Dragon leather boots on her feet.
Okay, the logic loop is closed. Since she was stepping on a Void Dragon capable of destroying worlds, having Prime Dragon ribs for breakfast seemed pretty reasonable, right?
"Lady Rhode ate two whole dragons for breakfast," Betty added. "If you can't finish it, the Wellington family will hear about it and mock the Ludwigs for being 'too poor to afford dragon meat'."
Hathaway stopped talking. The awe of "I'm eating a dragon" was losing badly to something older and much louder.
She elegantly sliced off a piece of dragon meat that flowed with red fire-element fluorescence.
However, the moment the silver fork pierced the meat, something bizarre happened.
The top-tier rib, originally plump and rich in mana, extinguished the moment it touched Hathaway. Like a neon sign with the power cord yanked out.
The meat shriveled at a visible rate, as if its essence was vacuumed out by some domineering suction force, leaving only a piece of gray-white residue. Even the ice cubes in the high-concentration mana orange juice next to it melted into a puddle of lukewarm water, their mana forcibly stripped away.
Betty's hand, still sprinkling pepper, froze in mid-air, and her eyes, usually holding the dead-fish stare of a corporate wage slave, widened for exactly one fraction of one second.
Hathaway tensed, the silver fork pausing in her hand. I don't even know how to explain this—
Betty took a slow, deep breath. The maid blinked once, and through sheer corporate willpower, manually rebooted her expression back to factory settings. Hathaway could practically read the mechanical process on the maid's face: recognizing a miracle, calculating the unpaid overtime required to report it, and aggressively choosing ignorance.
"...Milady," Betty finally spoke, her tone completely devoid of the awe or terror appropriate for a sudden Arch-Witch awakening, heavily saturated instead with professional criticism. "Although you didn't stain the tablecloth, this kind of 'predatory feeding' is really tacky."
"What?" Hathaway shoved the meat into her mouth and chewed. It tasted like sawdust. No flavor at all, just a pure stream of heat rushing into her stomach.
"You weren't 'eating' the food just now," Betty pointed disdainfully at the plate of ingredients that had completely lost their luster. "You sucked them dry directly. Like an uncultured Abyss Slime. The elegance of the Ludwig family lies in tasting, not being a water pump."
Betty sighed, snapped her fingers, and a teleportation circle replaced the ruined food.
"It seems your body is so starved it has begun to automatically plunder free-floating mana from the environment."
She glanced at the clock on the wall.
"I suggest you fill that bottomless pit quickly. Lady Rhode has been waiting at the gate for ten minutes. She just released a 'Solar Flare' out of boredom, which not only blinded three Dark Elf gardeners, but also caused them to 'accidentally' prune the Madam's prize-winning [Midnight Epiphyllums] into firewood in their panic."
Turning back to Hathaway, she remarked as casually as offering up biscuits or cookies with tea, "The Butler is currently calculating the damages. If you don't go out soon, she might start burning the main mansion next."
Ten minutes later, Hathaway finally filled her stomach (and incidentally sucked dry three plates of dragon meat).
She wiped her mouth, feeling the heat settle in her stomach like a banked furnace. The hunger was gone, replaced by a buzzing energy.
"Understood," Hathaway said, standing up. "I'm going."
She headed for the main gate. Outside, the Golden Lion was waiting, and if the rumors were true, she was hungrier than any dragon.
Hathaway stepped out into the front garden and instinctively squinted.
There were two light sources in the garden: the sun in the sky, and the black beast parked next to the fountain.
It was a Heavy Griffon Carriage that screamed the Ludwig family aesthetic (read: expensive, domineering, and extremely traditional).
The pitch-black carriage body was crafted from unknown magical beast bones and black gold. The door was emblazoned with the striking family crest: A golden roaring lion on a bright scarlet background, surrounded by red and white roses, with a faint underlay of a white briar sea.
Pulling the carriage were two fully armored Thunder Griffons. They were draped in heavy mithril barding. With every snort, blue electric sparks exploded in the air.
And Rhode von Ludwig was leaning against the carriage door.
She wore welding-grade ultra-black sunglasses to suppress the red glow in her eyes. Her loose T-shirt printed with the word "GLORY" and the flip-flops on her feet formed a tragic contrast with this solemn, noble carriage.
"You're lagging, Hathaway."
Rhode, with a lollipop in her mouth, slapped the carriage door impatiently. "If you didn't come out, these two beasts were going to dismantle the fountain. They're molting recently, so they're grumpy."
Hathaway was about to apologize when Rhode took off her sunglasses, ready to board. However, the moment those 150-Lumen High Beams swept over Hathaway, Rhode's movement froze.
She looked like she was staring at an elephant with no trunk. Her high-brightness red pupils contracted violently.
"...Hathaway?"
Rhode leaned in, practically pressing her face against Hathaway's.
"Where are your lights? Where's your brightness? Why did you... flame out?"
Hathaway blinked. Her deep crimson pupils, filled with intricate geometric patterns, looked dark and quiet under the sunlight, not leaking a single ray of light.
"Uh." Hathaway's eyes went to the fountain. "Maybe it... mutated?"
Rhode's expression staged a full five-act production in that instant.
"Not glowing anymore?" Rhode stroked her chin, her tone sour with envy. "So you don't have to wear those triple-layered lead sleep masks anymore? ...Tsk, that's actually kinda convenient."
But immediately after, Rhode frowned, giving Hathaway the look a master swordsmith reserves for a blade someone's been using to butter toast.
"But... don't you feel it's a loss? If your eyes aren't bright, how are you going to flash your high beams at those blind bats from the Wellington family during an argument? That tactical deterrence of 'I'm not speaking but I'm glaring you to death' is completely gone!"
Hathaway shrugged. "Maybe I can try hiding in the dark and jumping out to scare them?"
"Too damp and gloomy. Too Holheim. Not rock and roll at all."
Rhode shook her head in disgust, put her sunglasses back on, and pulled open the carriage door. "Whatever, get in. The sorrow of 'losing the family's traditional talent due to genetic mutation' can only be soothed by spending money."
It's a joke to her, Hathaway thought, a cold knot forming in her stomach as she climbed in. A harmless genetic hiccup.
The eyes changed because the soul inside changed.
I'm an alien ghost squatting in a high-end account. If a powerhouse like Rhode finds out... she won't be buying me dessert. She'll be exorcising me.