[Location]: Yggdrasil Academy · Dormitory [Golden Bough] · Room 302
The air in the study room was thick with the smell of old parchment and the faint, ozone-like scent of burning mana.
Victoria sat in her high-backed velvet chair, her posture impeccable, a quill floating lazily beside her head. With a flick of her finger, she drew a line in the air. The crimson mana trailed behind her nail, solidifying into a glowing bar graph that hummed with a low, warning vibration.
[ |||||||||||||||||||| ] 100% Total Capacity
[ |||||||||| ] 50% Baseline
The diagram dominated the room, casting a red hue over Hathaway’s focused face.
Victoria tapped the halfway mark with her folding fan. The sound was sharp, like a judge’s gavel.
"We stopped being 'Heroes' from then on, Hathaway," Victoria began, her voice cool and detached. "We stopped giving our all for the abstract concept of the 'Greater Good'. Instead, we evolved. We decided to become Professionals."
She looked at Hathaway, her blue eyes narrowing slightly.
"Listen closely. This is the difference between a Job and a Passion. Of your total mana pool, 50% is the Baseline. In a standard Planetary Conquest—what you would call a PVE scenario—you generally do not dip below this line."
Hathaway blinked, staring at the massive chunk of unused mana. "Half? We keep half in reserve? Is it a safety mechanism? Like... does dipping below 50% damage our core? Like draining a battery ruins its lifespan?"
"Damage?"
Victoria let out a short, incredulous scoff. She looked insulted on behalf of her entire species.
"We are Witches, Hathaway. We are not cheap alchemy batteries. We are the apex disaster of the cosmos."
She stood up and floated slowly around the table, her dress trailing like smoke.
"We don't 'break' when we run empty. In fact, a Witch at 5% mana is often more dangerous than one at 100%. Desperation unlocks potential. We can squeeze miracles out of a dry sponge if we must. We can burn our own blood to fuel curses that would crack a planet."
"Then why stop at 50%?" Hathaway asked, confused. "If we are stronger when desperate, why limit ourselves?"
Victoria stopped. She turned to look at Hathaway, her expression one of utter distaste. She dusted an invisible speck of dirt from her lace sleeve.
"Because," Victoria said, enunciating every syllable, "It is undignified."
The word hung in the air.
"Think about it, student. Conquest is Work. We are clocking in to colonize a dimension. We are there to dismantle their civilizations, execute their 'Kings', and harvest their 'World Trees'. It is a job. It is a transaction."
Victoria looked at Hathaway with the weary expression of a senior manager explaining hygiene to a new intern.
"Would you sprint at full speed, sweating, panting, and ruining your makeup, just to file some paperwork? Would you exhaust yourself, gasping for air on the floor, just to crush a so-called 'Savior' who is wielding a rusty sword?"
Hathaway imagined the scene. A glorious Witch, rolling in the mud, fighting tooth and nail against a local knight.
"No," she admitted. "That looks... pathetic."
"Exactly." Victoria nodded approvingly. "As long as you are above 50%, your passive mana regeneration covers your expenditure. You can cast meteor swarms while drinking tea. You can incinerate their 'Legendary Hero' with a flick of your wrist, without your heart rate exceeding 60 beats per minute."
Victoria smiled. It was a smile of supreme arrogance.
"It is Comfortable. It is elegant. It is effortless. But once you dip below 50%?"
Victoria wrinkled her nose, as if she smelled something rotting.
"You have to actually try. You have to focus on gathering mana. You might even... pant. For a Witch, treating the resistance of a primitive 'Holy Empire' like a life-or-death struggle is embarrassing. It implies the natives are worthy of your full effort. It implies they are Equals."
Victoria tapped the 50% line again.
"So, we treat this line as the 'Clock Out' time. If the native 'Demigods' manage to drag you down to half mana—which is rare—you stop. You retreat to the starship. You let the fresh shift take over. We don't fear running out," Victoria concluded, sitting back down and crossing her legs. "We just refuse to work overtime for free."
"I see..." Hathaway nodded slowly.
Her former corporate soul stirred. The logic was sound. It was beautiful. She tried to translate this high-concept philosophy into terms her Earth-brain could understand.
"So," Hathaway summarized, feeling like she had grasped the essence, "It's like a 9-to-5 job? We clock in, do our eight hours, keep our energy stable, and then go home?"
The moment those words left her mouth, the air in the room didn't just freeze. It died.
Victoria froze. The quill in her hand stopped moving.
She turned her head slowly, distinctively slowly, looking at Hathaway with an expression of sheer, unadulterated horror. It was not the look of a teacher correcting a mistake. It was the look of an aristocrat watching someone squat on the dinner table and start eating raw sewage.
"9-to-5?" Victoria repeated the phrase. Her voice trembled with genuine disgust. "Eight... hours?"
"Uh... yes?" Hathaway shrank back, sensing a fatal error. "Standard working hours? You know, distinct from overtime?"
"Miss Ludwig." Victoria floated closer, her eyes scanning Hathaway's pupils as if searching for signs of severe brain damage or goblin possession. "I knew you were eating those dreadful Goblin biscuits... but I didn't realize you had adopted their Slave Mentality as well."
"W-What?"
"9-to-5 is for the Servant Races!" Victoria hissed, offended to her very core. She looked like she wanted to cast a purification spell on Hathaway’s mouth. "It is for Goblins who mine coal! It is for Orcs who carry heavy boxes! It is for the Humans in the lower colonies who need to be managed! We are Witches!"
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Victoria gestured grandly at the ceiling, her mana flaring up in indignation.
"We are the Rulers of the Inner Sea of Stars! We are the Architects of Reality! Do you honestly think a Witch—a being of infinite power—would subject herself to eight hours of labor a day? That is barbaric! That is torture! That is something only a Necromancer does to her zombies!"
Hathaway was stunned. She felt like she had just insulted the Pope in the Vatican.
"Then... then what is a Witch's schedule?"
Victoria composed herself, smoothing her black lace dress with aggressive elegance. She clearly needed to correct this dangerous misconception before it stained her student's soul permanently.
"Let us look at the gold standard of 'Civilized Society'—My home, Holheim (District 2)," Victoria said, her chin lifting slightly. Her tone implied that everywhere else—especially District 1—was basically a barbarian wasteland.
"The commute to the Invasion Frontline takes an hour by Ghost Carriage. Not because of the distance, but because the 'Morning Tea' served onboard needs exactly 55 minutes to steep properly to release the flavor of the Void Flowers. The return trip takes an hour. That leaves roughly six hours of 'Activity'."
"Do you think we work for those six hours?"
Hathaway hesitated, afraid to guess. "...Half of it?"
"Zero." Victoria held up a perfect circle with her thumb and forefinger. Her expression was one of absolute professional pride. "We arrive at the Frontline at 11:00 AM."
"First, we cast [Shadow Simulacrum] or deploy [Clockwork Butlers]. These proxies are sent to the trenches to handle the noise, the mud, the screaming, and the killing. The main body then proceeds immediately to the Officer's Lounge for a Strategic Brunch."
Hathaway’s jaw dropped. "Strategic... Brunch?"
"Yes. It is vital," Victoria nodded solemnly. "We spend ninety minutes discussing 'Grand Strategy'. Which usually means critiquing the tacky, over-polished golden armor of the Milan'thir Witches who are posing for paintings in the next trench over."
Victoria paused. She turned her head slowly, her blurry eyes fixing on Hathaway with a pointed, aristocratic smirk.
"Your people, specifically."
"We place bets on how long it takes for a Milan'thir Witch to stop casting spells and start posing for her commemorative oil painting. Honestly, Hathaway, do they think the demons care about 'Lighting Composition' or 'The Golden Ratio'?"
Hathaway’s expression twitched. She felt a complicated mix of tribal defensiveness and resignation.
So... slandering my hometown is literally part of the Holheim official schedule? And the worst part is... knowing Margaret and Rhode... she's absolutely right. They would definitely pause a planetary invasion to fix their hair.
"We... value morale," Hathaway muttered weakly, trying to defend the honor of District 1.
"You value mirrors," Victoria corrected dryly. "Anyway," Victoria continued, listing the itinerary like it was a sacred ritual. "After brunch, we might read poetry, play a round of 'Void Chess' using the enemy's generals as pawns, or simply nap."
"Even the so-called 'Workaholics' of Fusang (District 7) only work three hours a day," Victoria scoffed, shaking her head. "And half of that is spent polishing their katana collections. Any Witch who works more than that is either a Slave or a Necromancer who forgot to turn off her own zombie motivation spell."
"Then, around 2:00 PM, comes the most important part of the day."
Victoria smiled, her eyes softening for the first time. The sharp angles of her face melted into something genuinely warm.
"A visit to a Lantern Cats Café."
Hathaway’s heart skipped a beat.
The image flashed in her mind: Day 1 of Enrollment. The Dragon Bus ride. She had seen them floating along the streets of the White City. Round, fluffy spheres of fur with glowing bellies and tails that shone like soft will-o'-the-wisps. They bobbed in the air like balloons, meowing with a sound that melted the soul.
Lantern Cats. The inseparable companion species of Witch-kind.
"We go to the café," Victoria described, her voice dreamy. "And we bury our faces in the belly of a Lantern Cat for at least an hour to recharge our 'Mental Health'. It is a medical necessity. The Work is dirty. Cats are pure."
Hathaway felt a surge of pure, unadulterated longing.
On Earth, she was a corporate drone. She loved fluffy things. She watched cat videos on the subway at 11 PM, exhausted, wishing she had the time or energy to keep a pet. But she couldn't. It would be cruel to leave a pet alone for 14 hours a day while she slaved away for a boss who hated her.
But here?
Commute two hours (drinking tea).
Work zero hours (outsourced to shadows).
Eat for three hours (gossiping about my people).
Play for two hours.
Spend an hour inhaling the scent of a floating, glowing cat.
"And finally, a Ninety-Minute Dinner." Victoria continued. "By the time dinner is over, it is 4:00 PM. The 'Work Day' is done. We recall the shadows, sign the conquest report (claiming full credit), and go home. And the best part?"
Victoria smirked.
"If you feel slightly bored the next morning? You open your journal and write: 'Melancholy from yesterday's grey sky. Taking the day off to contemplate existence.'"
Hathaway sat there, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.
It wasn't sadness. It was Salvation.
She looked at her hands. They were trembling.
I don't have to work overtime? I can have a cat? I can live like a human being... no, like a Queen?
She wiped her eyes quickly, composing herself. She couldn't let Victoria see her cry over something so basic. She had to act like a Ludwig who had simply... forgotten herself.
"Teacher," Hathaway said solemnly, her voice shaking with relief. "I apologize. I don't know what came over me."
She pressed her hand to her forehead, feigning a headache.
"The stress of the A1 Exam... it must have clouded my judgment. For a moment, I actually believed that 'Hard Work' was a virtue. I was thinking like a Goblin. It was a moment of weakness," Hathaway declared firmly. "I have regained my sanity."
"Good." Victoria nodded. "Remember: The 0-Hour Workday is not laziness. It is Efficiency."
Hathaway nodded, absorbing this gospel. But then, a contradiction popped into her mind. She remembered the woman she met at the Hotpot Restaurant. The one drowning her sorrow in chili oil. The one who looked like the physical embodiment of Monday Morning.
"But... Teacher," Hathaway hesitated. "What about Miss Alucard?"
"Alucard?" Victoria paused, her teacup hovering mid-air.
"She is a Milan'thirskaya, isn't she?" Hathaway asked. "The First House. The Royals. Even the Ludwigs show respect to them. By your logic, she should be floating on a cloud, eating peeled grapes served by angels."
Hathaway shuddered, recalling the dead, grey eyes she saw across the table.
"But when I met her... she looked like a corpse reanimated solely to stamp documents. She is one of the Rulers of the White City! Why is she living worse than a goblin miner?"
Victoria’s expression shifted.
She sighed, a sound of deep, exhausted empathy. It wasn't pity. It was the look of a survivor raising a glass to the one comrade who stayed behind to hold the line.
"Ah. Alucard. She is... the Victim."
Victoria set her cup down.
"The Milan'thir family has a simple, terrible division of labor." Victoria held up four fingers, then curled one down—representing Alucard. "The Eldest Sister, Ash (3rd Seat), is a War Junkie. She hasn't been home in sixty-four years. She treats the Invasion Frontline like an infinite arcade game. She refuses to clock out because she prefers the silence of the Void over the noise of politics."
"The Second Sister, Tasia, is a Professional Mascot. She walks the streets to let the people worship her. She looks beautiful and regal. But she treats 'Governance' like a dirty word and refuses to touch paper."
"The Youngest Sister, Lyan, is a Dueling Star. She literally ran away to District 7 to play Pro-League. She sends autographs home, but she never helps with the budget."
Victoria pointed at the empty space on the table.
"Ash plays war. Tasia plays Empress. Lian plays sports. Someone has to stay behind to actually run the city. Alucard is the Designated Adult."
Victoria leaned forward, her tone grave.
"She eats Ghost Skull Peppers raw just to feel enough pain to stay awake during the Budget Committee meetings. She sacrifices her hairline so her sisters can keep having fun. It is a tragedy," Victoria deadpanned. "But mostly, it is a warning. Do not be like her."
"If anyone ever asks if you know how to organize a spreadsheet, you say 'No'. You say it loudly. Be a Ludwig. Be loud. Be destructive. Make the mess that Alucard has to clean up."
"Because honestly? If you don't give her work to do, she might actually have time to realize how miserable she is."
Hathaway recoiled physically. "I... I promise! I will never touch a spreadsheet!"
"Good."
Victoria nodded, satisfied that the lesson on 'Class Consciousness' had sunk in. She cleared her throat. The brief moment of camaraderie and gossip vanished instantly. The "Sister" was gone; the "Teacher" returned. The air in the room cooled, snapping back to the stark, academic atmosphere of the lecture.
"Enough gossip," Victoria said, her tone professional. "We have digressed."
She floated back to the diagram, her eyes gleaming with a new, sharper light.
"You have learned how to Rest (50%). You have learned how to avoid Slavery (0-Hour Workday). Now, Miss Ludwig..."
Victoria pointed to the very top sliver of the red bar. The section that looked like blood.
"It is time to learn how we Kill."
real power fantasy in this story is the 0-Hour Workday and Mandatory Cat Snuggling!