Millennium Witch

Book 3: Chapter 218: The More You Look, the More Intriguing

Elective enrollment runs during the first two weeks of the first term.Because Yvette Loxivia forbade her from choosing anything in the College of General Studies, Lucia suddenly lost all excitement—and any goal—regarding electives. Her eyes went dull and she drifted with the current. Within two days, under Anya’s prodding, she half-willingly signed up with her for a fire-magic course in the Elemental Sanctum.

It was a very practical choice. Since both Lucia and Anya practiced fire-type combat arts, adding an understanding of Fire Magic would boost their pass rates and improve their strength.

Flami, however, unexpectedly didn’t choose with them; she picked the Beast Spirit College instead. Not surprising—contract beasts are indeed a major path to upping one’s combat power.

For most people, though, to sign a successful contract with a beast you need to do it right after the creature is born, when the odds are higher; you also need a good breed. After that comes long-term care and training. It’s time-consuming, labor-intensive, and costly. Without some money and energy, most folks simply can’t afford a contract beast.

“Flami, your family isn’t super rich, is it?” Anya couldn’t help asking after hearing her friend’s very different choice.

“Not really. I just simply like keeping pets.” Flami gracefully tucked her long hair behind an ear, revealing a slender neck.

Then she clapped lightly with a smile. “Oh, right.”

“What?” Anya asked.

“I just passed the bulletin board at the school gate—the Disciplinary Committee recruitment has started.” Flami glanced at Lucia, who was face-down on the desk and still looked listless. “Lucia, weren’t you always interested in the Disciplinary Committee? Want to go take a look together?”

That counted as something fairly important, and Lucia roused herself a little, nodding a quiet mm.

A little over a week later, elective enrollment at the Academy of Truth came to an end.

On a cool morning of the new week, Yvette was already in the classroom for Demonkin Studies. She picked a seat in the corner; within minutes, students kept filing in. They were from all years—some freshmen, some upperclassmen coming to review.

Because she’d come a bit late, empty seats were limited. Her gaze skimmed the room and then paused on a chestnut-haired girl lounging lazily in the corner.

A few seconds later, she went over and sat beside Yvette, saying casually, “We meet again, Miss Loxivia.”

“Just call me Yvette.”

“Mm. Then you can call me Nixia.”

“Alright, Nixia.”

Seeing how naturally Yvette started using her name without any honorific like “senior,” Nixia kept her expression easy and smiling but was actually a bit miffed. This junior is awfully forward—are we that close? And I’m the senior here.

Insolent human!

But then she remembered how, a couple days earlier, Yvette had so naturally spoken that name and hinted at lightning and earth magic. Nixia felt she had to figure out why the girl had said those things.

There had to be someone special—or some force—behind her.

And what was that force’s purpose in sending the message? A gesture of goodwill? A warning?

And this chestnut-haired girl herself? An important figure—or just a mouthpiece?

She’d shown up again today. What was she planning to say this time?

With that constant whir of speculation in her head, Demonkin Studies began.

Nixia listened without a flicker, expecting that when class ended there might be a conversation—maybe a deal, maybe the outline of a major conspiracy.

Instead, to her surprise, when the bell rang, the chestnut-haired girl beside her simply stood, gave her a small gesture, gathered her books, and walked straight out.

Nixia was taken aback. What was that supposed to mean?

She’d clearly come looking for me—so why say nothing? Don’t tell me she’s genuinely interested in this course?

And so, in a calm where nothing at all happened, the day’s classes ended.

Standing by a window in the College of General Studies’ teaching building, watching the utterly ordinary, short-haired chestnut girl melt into the crowd like a grain of sand into the desert, Nixia began to suspect the other side was playing hard to get—deliberately baiting her.

She had to keep her cool. Once the other side got impatient, she could seize the initiative in this odd dance of probes and parries.

Over the next half month, Yvette’s campus life went on as usual.

By day she still attended her Continental Humanities major courses, then her elective. She saw Nixia several times a week. At noon she reliably showed up in the library, almost always buried in the archaeology stacks—day after day, like clockwork.

She was just like an ordinary girl interested in Demonkin Studies—head to toe, not a single hint of anything unusual.

Nixia, on the other hand, would sometimes lose patience and deliberately bring up sensitive topics—cults, churches, and the like—to test Yvette’s stance and infer which forces she might belong to.

But it got her nowhere. On religious matters—especially obscure, seldom-known ones—Yvette often played dumb, to the point her knowledge seemed no different from an average student’s. Plainly intentional.

Faced with such insincerity, Nixia’s interest evaporated at once.

She also tried to revive the topic from their first meeting—asking whether Yvette had found the person she was looking for. Yvette’s response was flat: if she hadn’t, she hadn’t—no hurry at all.

As time went on, Nixia even began to wonder whether she’d misread something. Maybe the things Yvette had said that day really were just a coincidence? Maybe she truly was just an ordinary girl keen on Demonkin Studies?

Alright, that’s impossible. The world isn’t that coincidental. So their contest of patience had to still be underway.

The days ticked by.

In each ordinary slice of daily life that followed, Yvette remained tranquil: focused on lecture content; if her mind wandered, she’d stare out the window or sneak a catnap—and no instructor said a word.

Most of the time, though, she listened quite intently. She was a first-year, after all; the material in Demonkin Studies was fresh to her. Nixia was different: a second-year for whom the course was review—much duller by a mile.

So when she had nothing better to do, she’d steal glances at the chestnut-haired girl’s profile beside her.

At first she only wanted to see whether Yvette was really paying attention, or—like her—just putting on a front while waging a long, drawn-out tug-of-war. But the longer she looked, the more she felt that this junior named Yvette, plain as she was, had truly good presence—like a still pool in autumn. Under that presence, she somehow grew more and more intriguing.

Of course, she absolutely would not—against her conscience—call the girl pretty. No matter how much she looked. That was the bottom line of her aesthetic standards.