The Sorcerer's Handbook

"Ah!"

The moment the chandelier plummeted from the ceiling, the substitute yanked Lys back just in time. The massive square light fixture smashed violently onto the floor right in front of her, sending out a spray of sharp fragments that cut into her small feet through her white stockings.

Lys barely registered the stinging pain. She anxiously asked, "Are you okay?"

Unlike her, the substitute would instantly dissipate at the slightest hint of fatal damage. If Lys were currently a helpless doll, the substitute would be pure foam.

The clone didn't answer. It simply scooped Lys up, carried her over the glittering sea of shattered glass, and continued its silent, loyal flight down the corridor.

Behind them, the cold Black Knight pursued at a measured, unhurried pace. Its scale-like armor clung tightly to its frame, the ebony helmet was adorned with sweeping crow-feather plumes, and its dark silver boots thudded heavily against the carpet. Every step it took pressed down with a heavy finality, like a stroke of thick ink bleeding into paper.

The figure wasn't particularly tall, nor did its armor make it look overly muscular, yet the sheer, wordless pressure it exerted was enough to suffocate any prey. It carried no weapons. Instead, it merely cradled a heavy volume bound in black and silver—a Book of Gospel.

As the substitute carried Lys past a row of windows, the Black Knight flicked a finger. The glass instantly shattered into a million fragments. Had the substitute not instinctively lunged forward to shield Lys, they would have been shredded by a storm of razor-sharp shards.

The thirteenth time. This was the thirteenth "accident" Lys had encountered.

Every time Lys spotted the Black Knight appearing in her room, the substitute would immediately scoop her up and run. Strangely, the Knight never attacked them outright, always allowing them a few steps of headway as if testing a patient's resilience.

Whenever they managed to gain some distance, Lys would almost wonder if the Knight had simply walked into the wrong room, until the next "accident" inevitably triggered.

And these mishaps were always on a catastrophic scale, like a family outing gone horribly wrong.

Falling chandeliers, exploding fire extinguishers, shattering windows, collapsing plaster, splintering doors. The very building housing the Senheiser family's core personnel had suddenly transformed into a lethal funhouse, riddled with deadly surprises.

Just moments earlier, as Lys tried to flee toward the stairwell, she watched the sturdy walls crumble into piles of rubble, blocking the fire escape entirely. In comparison, the elevator shaft fared only slightly better; it was merely an ancient death trap, smoking itself into an early retirement.

It was clear the Black Knight had no intention of killing her, but it also had no plans to let her leave this floor, so Lys had to either hide in another room and play a deadly game of tag or jump out the window.

And even ignoring the Knight's extraordinary talent for "hide-and-seek," which Lys had witnessed firsthand a few days ago, any attempt to escape with the Book of Gospel meant facing a brutal, calculated pursuit. Even for a child, cheating with Gospel Points didn't make the game feel any less terrifying.

Lys was at a total loss. She wanted to consult her sisters, but when the Knight first cornered her, they hadn't appeared in the vanity mirror. The Little Witch quickly realized that their silence meant that if they revealed themselves, it would only put them all in danger.

Now, it was her turn to protect her sisters.

Lys scrambled onto the substitute's shoulders, weeping as she screamed at the Black Knight. "Why are you chasing me?! I don't even know you! I haven't done anything wrong! Why are you doing this?! My feet hurt from the cuts... my hands hurt from earlier... waah..."

Tears streamed down Lys's face. She bit her lip in raw frustration, rubbing her eyes with her fists and smudging her face in the process. Her hairband had been torn away during the frantic escape, leaving her snow-white hair to fall in disarray over her trembling shoulders. Her nose ached, and the harder she cried, the angrier she became, violently swinging her tiny fists at the distant Knight.

She had to act completely, flawlessly innocent. This was the one role only she could play. Her older sisters could never pull it off.

The Black Knight paused, seemingly contemplating Lys's protests and tears. Then, it drew a pen from its robes and began to write and sketch inside its Book of Gospel.

Suddenly, a speaker in the corridor crackled to life, broadcasting a mechanical, monotonous voice, "The white mist has dissipated. You have not been affected."

Lys froze. Looking out the window, she saw that the centuries-old mist surrounding Vanmura had quietly withdrawn, letting the sultry night air creep back into the city.

Their main focus had been tracking the Gospel Incarnation, but in the process, they had inevitably collected a wealth of intelligence about Vanmura itself.

Lys hadn't bothered to memorize the complex social upheavals caused by the Beauty Mist. She only recalled one crucial, terrifying fact: once a person stayed in Vanmura for more than six hours, leaving the dense mist required strict, specialized medical procedures. Otherwise, severe withdrawal reactions would occur. This wasn't caused by leaving Vanmura itself, but simply by leaving the mist-covered zone. Even if a person remained within the city limits, a sudden drop in the mist's density was enough to strangle them with withdrawal symptoms.

Lys had always found the research terrifying. Withdrawal reactions left ordinary people vacant, with empty eyes and drifting consciousness. Some even lost control of their bodily functions. She had once asked Ashe how to handle it. His solution had been to prepare diapers. That was when Lys first realized the limits of a single-parent household, knowing the stepmother had to be scheduled well in advance.

Suddenly, she remembered the few maids lying in the corridor just moments ago. At first, she had assumed the Black Knight had attacked them. But none of them bore any wounds. Their eyes were blank, and drool slipped from their mouths, presenting textbook withdrawal symptoms.

No wonder the Senheiser household was so quiet. Perhaps everyone except her had already lost control, and she could only hope someone had remembered to prepare diapers.

So why am I completely fine?

"So what!" Little Witch snapped, bracing her neck. "Why can't I be unaffected? Is it a crime to be unharmed? You're fine too, aren't you?"

The Black Knight continued writing and drawing, its voice mechanically echoing through the corridor speaker. "You said your wound hurts. Is that true?"

"Can it even be fake?" Lys yelled, waving her fists. "My hand's still bleeding!"

Boom!

With a flick, the Black Knight shattered the ceiling above Lys and the substitute. Massive chunks of stone and dust cascaded downward, threatening to crush her and obliterate the substitute.

"Get down!"

The substitute could not speak, so it could only obey.

It curled into a tight ball on the floor. Debris rained down beside it, yet not a single stone touched it.

Still, it was not truly unscathed. Tiny beads of blood spread across its face, mixing with the dust into a dirty, viscous paste. It looked up, and its gaze fell upon a tiny, delicate figure that looked like a sculpture of jade and porcelain.

Lys spread her arms to shield the substitute. A stone larger than her own body slammed into her back. Her head seemed to take the brunt of the impact, and crimson droplets traced paths through her dust-laden white hair, leaving a streak across her delicate brow before splattering onto the substitute's face. Her knees bent under the weight. Her white stockings were shredded, and rusty-red stains seeped from her wounds, blooming like roses on snow.

The fragile, crystalline child now stood as an unyielding fortress, bearing every blow alone to protect a mere wisp of existence.

"Take me with you," she said.

The substitute immediately hoisted Lys and fled, narrowly dodging a second collapse. Lys clung tightly, her gaze burning with hatred at the Black Knight.

"You don't feel any real pain. With your injuries, you should have passed out."

Rage clouded her mind, and Lys screamed, "Die! Die! Die! I'm not scared of you! I won't faint! I'll call Daddy to come and crush you!"

The Black Knight ignored her outburst, speaking in its measured, methodical voice, "Initially, I doubted it, but now I am certain. Your so-called pain is a fabrication. Hormones and neurons cannot truly affect you.

"You are unaffected by the white mist because you cannot imagine withdrawal effects.

"You remain conscious despite your injuries because you refuse to faint.

"As long as you do not care, as long as you do not imagine it, it does not exist."

For some reason, hearing the Knight analyze her so clinically sent an indescribable wave of fear through Lys. She suppressed the urge to reach for her hand mirror and gripped the substitute's neck with all her strength, her nails nearly piercing its flesh, as if she were terrified the Knight's next word would take everything from her.

"What... exactly are you saying!"

Crack!

Another window shattered. The substitute shielded Lys from a shower of glass shards. Amid the chaos, the Black Knight wrote a phrase in the Book of Gospel. Its voice sounded cold and declarative through the corridor speaker.

"You are not the master of this body. Therefore, this body cannot affect you.

"You are not even human.

"You are merely a spirit."