It was not until the moon stood high overhead that the Phantom Troupe finally returned to the alchemy room at home.
Sitting in his armchair, the boy reflected on the stormy events of the day. The more he examined himself, the more lingering fear he felt—especially over his final encounter with the sorceress, where every step had been fraught with danger.
Other powerful transmigrators might have switched straight into flirt mode on the spot. After some divine maneuvers, they might not even have needed to return home tonight.
Unfortunately, such opportunities did not belong to him.
He was Victor of Bell Town, not Geralt of Rivia; a fledgling apprentice, not a master of consummate skill.
Without the reputation built over a century-long career, without strength that no one could ignore, did he want a sorceress to give him a second glance and then have some stories too scandalous to tell? He might as well go to sleep early. Dreams had everything.
"At this moment, Victor never imagined that today had merely been the prologue, and that the countless entanglements between him and Keira Metz were only just beginning."
"...!?"
The boy in the armchair slowly tilted his head, shooting the girl a sidelong glare. Her eyes rolled about as she put on an innocent expression. "Angoulême, I'm warning you one more time: when I'm thinking, don't randomly add narration!"
A fire burned in the center of the alchemy room, and the cauldron gave off the scent of lavender. Its sweet freshness could relax the mind, ease mental fatigue, and bring a harmonious sense of security.
"Hehehe." Her smile was downright lewd—an impolite way to describe a girl, perhaps, but it fit perfectly here. "Vic! Are you really saying you never thought about it at all?
"My God, she was such