Chapter 12: Would You Catch Air Force in Miss Weng’s Bathwater?

“Most likely—he’s alive.”

Weng let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good.”

After all, if the Sword Saint were dead, wouldn’t that mean the plot was officially kicking off? She’d have to start running around, busy as ever. If he’s alive and Sadin City still fell, does that mean it was his choice? Communication in this era was far too inconvenient. Be it war or information, learning anything required considerable effort.

She suddenly remembered something else, something too important to hold back, so she shamelessly spoke up. “Do you know where I can find Dragon Vein Stone?”

“You want that… to nurture a dragon egg?” Vik, still pondering why she cared about that name, snapped back with a guess.

“Uh… how did you know?” Weng didn’t confess, just went along with it.

“What dragon egg?!”

Vey, clueless, didn’t grasp what they were talking about. How did the conversation suddenly shift to such a creature? She’d seen a purple egg before but didn’t dare assume—or rather, didn’t want to. In storybooks, those were always greedy, evil beings.

“Dragon Vein Stone can nurture dragon qi and is a rare material for forging and enchanting. I once used it to make a weapon, so I know a bit. It’s scarce and expensive on the market, but not exactly top-tier.”

Vik easily recalled that dragon egg. He was certain because he could distinctly sense its aura, identical to a certain dragon’s. He even felt like he’d been dragged into this mess for no reason.

“If you want some, I can find you a bit next time.” He stood, yawning, his whole demeanor languid. “Consider it part of the payment for saving me.”

“I didn’t do much.”

But she didn’t deny saving him either.

Before parting, Vik mentioned wanting to borrow fishing gear, and Weng agreed. It was a small matter, no need to hesitate. Vey planned to head back too—after all, the dishes were done, and her teacher had nothing pressing to do.

“Teacher, try that fruit! It’ll shrivel if you leave it too long!” the girl called, waving from the edge of the wheatfield path.

“Got it.”

The soft hum of magic carried her reply, gentle as an unspoken goodnight.

Weng returned to the treehouse. Peach, the pink slime, was sprawled on the platform’s railing, basking in the moonlight, glowing faintly. She grabbed it with both hands, gave it a good squish, then tossed it into a basket with the dragon egg, locking them outside.

Time for a bath.

Magic heated the water quickly, bubbling with a soft gurgle. Hmph, the water boiled so fast in her presence! She slipped off her clothes, gave them a quick sniff, and tossed them aside. No odor—just a faint floral scent. Truthfully, she didn’t need to bathe; she just loved soaking, feeling her body slowly relax, warm and cozy. It was the kind of comfort that made you want to close your eyes and sigh. Everyone should enjoy something in this long life.

Sadly, without convenient bathing facilities, she had to maintain the water temperature herself. While soaking, she sometimes stared at her body, lost in thought. The modeling was detailed, though not deliberately exaggerated. She wondered if the difference in size would feel significant to the touch. It was a question she’d pondered for ages, but Weng wasn’t a creep—she’d never touch her students, even for “research.”

At first, transmigrating here felt strange. After all these years, was she used to it? Not quite adapted, nor numb. It was more a lucid detachment, a disconnect between mind and body. A barrier she couldn’t cross. The more she avoided it, the more it persisted, solidifying over years of indifference. Time smooths everything, even her longing for her “second brother.” Perhaps her real struggle was simply how to live in this world. Yet, here she was, living just fine…

The warm water washed away her tangled thoughts. The lampfruit by the tub dimmed slowly until she tapped it, coaxing it back to a soft orange glow. At night, she meditated instead of sleeping, vaguely sensing a flow of matter or energy—present yet intangible, elusive. She felt it, perhaps in another dimension, flowing toward a single direction. Weng noted the direction and opened her eyes. It led deep into the mountains.

Sunlight filtered through branches, slipping into the quiet room. Silver hair sprawled messily across the bed, the witch curled up, the lampfruit by her bedside absorbing light to store energy. Moments later, Weng sat up, stretching lazily. As expected, she couldn’t resist slacking off. Why not enjoy the moment? If she couldn’t rest when tired, how was this any different from a corporate slave’s life?

Barefoot, she stepped out of bed, her pink toes curling slightly, feet pattering softly on the wooden floor. After a quick tidy, she opened the wardrobe, revealing rows of identical black robes. Her life was indeed a bit spartan. Below were stacks of mostly snow-white undergarments. Simple, like her lifestyle. Weng grabbed one, slipped it on, and pushed open the creaky wooden door.

“Forgot to fix that…”

Muttering, she leaned lightly against the platform’s railing. The warm sunlight danced through her silver hair, scattering dazzling rays. “Another day full of hope~” Humming a tune, she ate breakfast, grabbed Peach and a fishing rod, and set off. Peach perched on her head as she carried a small bucket, strolling toward the village.

The church’s style stood out from the village houses, unmistakable at a glance. Weng wondered if Vik was awake. Judging by the light’s angle and the season, it was likely just past six in the morning. But with a transcendent’s sharp senses, she’d already heard the whoosh of a wooden sword slicing the air.

“Good morning, Mr. Vik.”

The man turned to look. Outside the fence, the girl stood with hands behind her back, her deep black robe making her silver hair even more striking. The pink slime sat obediently on her head, not slipping even when it tilted.

“Morning.”

Vik lowered his sword, wiping sweat.

“Here’s what you asked for.”

“Thanks for bringing it so early.”

“I’m up early every day,” Weng said, setting the gear aside. “Just passing by.”

“What’s that on your head?” He couldn’t resist asking.

“A slime, named Peach.” She lifted it down, cradling it.

Peach seemed to understand, letting out a couple of squeaks.

“That color’s pretty rare.”

Slimes were low-level magical creatures, and variants were even rarer. Few transcendents bonded with familiars, and a slime familiar? That was a first. But choosing Peach—could that really be a positive? Vik didn’t get it but respected it.

Weng had no clue about familiars. Peach was just something she’d picked up, no contract involved. They didn’t dwell on it. In the silence, Vik spoke up. “Miss Weng, know any good fishing spots?”

“Uh…”

The question stumped her. Fishing was such a mystical art. She used to catch fish often, but how long ago was that? She could barely recall. But—there had to be fish in the lake, right  ? She’d seen them, though saying it aloud felt oddly unconvincing.