Among those who walk the path of magic, there is a name they cannot help but know.

The Tower of Sages.

More commonly referred to as the Mage Tower.

Its inverted triangle emblem, a symbol of their identity, was said to rival the imperial crest in prestige within the empire.

The Mage Tower was a gathering of human weapons capable of destroying entire cities single-handedly. At the same time, it served as the cradle of knowledge and technology, advancing the empire’s progress through countless magical engineering innovations.

As the annual academic conference approached, the top of the Mars branch Mage Tower buzzed with discussions among numerous wizards and witches.

“We must present the Triadic Color Theory as our branch’s representative paper.”

“I believe the Shadow Magic Research paper is more suitable. It marks a groundbreaking advancement in a previously overlooked field of magic.”

“That may be true, but the Triadic Color Theory covers a broader scope. Considering its potential influence on the entire field of magic, it holds greater academic value than the Shadow Magic Research paper.”

Around a circular table, wizards and witches engaged in a heated debate with serious expressions. Yet, despite their stern faces, the atmosphere remained amicable. After all, competition among geniuses was something to be encouraged, not condemned.

Their animated discussions went in circles without reaching a conclusion. Finally, the wizards and witches turned to the master of the Mage Tower, who sat silently at one end of the table.

“Master Orgen , we need your decision. At this rate, we’ll never reach a conclusion.”

At their plea, Orgen stroked his glossy white beard thoughtfully, his playful eyes shifting toward the two witches who had remained silent throughout the debate.

“Tuidel , Erfa. You two are truly giving me a headache.”

“You’re too kind, Master Orgen,” replied Tuidel  with a bow, while Erfa simply smiled faintly.

“Both of your papers were excellent. Deciding which one to submit has been no small burden for me.”

Orgen tapped the table with his fingers, the sound echoing in the tense silence. Tuidel swallowed nervously, staring intently at Orgen’s hand.

Finally, after a long pause, Orgen announced his decision.

“This year’s representative paper from the Mars branch Mage Tower will be the Triadic Color Theory.”

Cheers and sighs of disappointment erupted simultaneously.

Tuidel clenched her fists, her eyes squeezed shut in frustration, while Erfa bowed her head silently.

“Tuidel , your paper was remarkable as well. However, this time, Erfa’s work edged out slightly. With more effort, you will achieve even better results in the future.”

“Thank... you,” Tuidel replied, her voice strained as if forced from her throat.

Orgen smiled and rose from his seat.

“You’ve all worked hard during this long meeting. Go and rest now.”

The wizards began to rise one by one from the table, their conversations a mix of admiration and regret.

“It’s a shame the Shadow Magic Research didn’t make it.”

“The Triadic Color Theory is groundbreaking work that will go down in history.”

Soon, the wizards dispersed, leaving only two witches at the round table.

“Congratulations, Erfa. You’re really on a roll,” said Tuidel, her smiling face betraying a voice sharp enough to chill the air.

“Truly impressive. A 25-year-old witch as the next Tower Master? Incredible.”

“Thank you, Tuidel,” Erfa replied, rising carefully from her seat.

Her left face was obscured by a silver mask, and below it, four arms folded neatly against her torso.

“Next time, I’m sure you’ll have better results,” Erfa said, offering a polite smile with the uncovered side of her face.

Tuidel found that smile unbearable.

She hated everything about Erfa.

She despised that Orgen himself had brought her to the Mage Tower as a protégé when she was 15.

She hated how Erfa’s visible half-face was more beautiful than her own freckled features.

She loathed Erfa’s flawless porcelain skin, her larger eyes, her perfect figure.

Tuidel’s hatred burned at the memory of the wizard she loved rejecting her confession to declare his feelings for Erfa instead—only for Erfa to reject him.

She despised losing the chance to present her paper.

She hated that such a genius, younger and brighter, existed within the same Mage Tower.

She hated everything.

“Good luck, Spider,” Tuidel spat venomously.

In private, Tuidel always called Erfa “Spider,” mocking her for her four arms.

Erfa said nothing in response. She merely gave Tuidel a fleeting, pitying glance before leaving the room in silence.

That single, wordless look struck deeper than any insult, leaving Tuidel’s chest seared with unbearable pain.

“Aaagh!!”

Alone at the round table, Tuidel let out a scream of anguish like a demon unleashed.

Returning to her private laboratory, Erfa cautiously drew her wand from her belt and gave it a flick.

The witch’s hat and hood on her head floated off like living creatures, settling neatly on a nearby coat rack.

With another flick, she securely locked the door before approaching the mirror with deliberate steps.

The upper left hand of her four arms trembled as it slowly removed the silver mask covering half of her face.

Beneath it, a grotesque sight was revealed—even Erfa herself recoiled at the horrifying image.

Blackened, twisted skin.

Clusters of eyes, densely packed together, evoking an almost primal sense of unease.

One of her lower left hands gently caressed the distorted side of her face.

“Disgusting,” she whispered softly.

“Hideous.”

A monstrosity.

Even to her, this was the most accurate assessment of her left side.

Despite being a genius witch whose magical research—including the Triadic Color Theory—had revolutionized the field, she had never been able to fix this grotesquely deformed half of her face.

No one knew.

Not even Orgen, the Tower Master who had introduced her to magic, was aware of this secret.

By now, Erfa had deduced the cause of her affliction.

She had been born with an overabundance of magical talent—a prodigy whose body contained immense mana from birth. She had begun speaking at just three months old and, by age three, could already see spirits and magical phenomena invisible to others.

Her unparalleled talent, however, had come with a price: her body had grown unnaturally.

At age five, two additional arms had sprouted from her sides. By puberty, instead of acne, her left face had begun sprouting grotesque eyes.

Her parents had abandoned her, calling her a monster. Everywhere she went, she faced rejection and scorn.

So, she had immersed herself in magic, dedicating every waking moment—aside from eating and sleeping—to her studies.

She sought to reverse her abnormality, but even as the world’s foremost expert in body transformation magic, she had failed to fix her twisted face.

Erfa was terrified.

Great talent often inspires envy. Tuidel was not the only one. There were undoubtedly many who secretly resented her and whispered behind her back.

What if she was abandoned again?

What if she was rejected by everyone once more?

Could she endure it?

She shuddered at the thought of how others would react if they saw the grotesque left side of her face.

“There must be a way to fix this,” she murmured desperately.

She had finally found a place where her talents could flourish, where she was recognized.

She couldn’t bear the thought of being cast out again, forced to wander as an outcast.

Resolutely, she donned the silver mask once more.

She swore to herself that she would fix her face, no matter what it took.

Sitting at her desk, she prepared to resume her research.

Among the clutter of research notes and papers she was organizing with her four arms, something caught her eye: the morning newspaper.

Picking it up absentmindedly, she froze when her eyes landed on the headline sprawled across the front page:

The phrase intrigued her. She stopped organizing and unfolded the paper, reading the article slowly.

As she read, her eyes widened.

“Cured rare diseases and genetic disorders on the spot? Is such a thing even magically possible?”

Miracles, bestowed by gods, and magic, created by human effort, were fundamentally different.

But whether it was a miracle or magic, both were ultimately performed by humans.

Erfa had studied countless fields in her quest to heal her face, including miracles.

Yet the scale and consistency of the miracles described in the article were unprecedented.

Tempted, she shook her head to dismiss the thought.

Her research into miracles had taught her one thing: humans were deceitful.

Those claiming to perform grand miracles often used simple magic to exaggerate their abilities—or were outright frauds looking to exploit others.

A Saint of Healing?

Maybe if they were still renowned after a year, she might reconsider.

But wasting time on someone who had just emerged was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Besides, her disfigured face was so grotesque that even this so-called saint might react with revulsion.

“I don’t trust it,” she muttered, setting the newspaper down.

She resolved to rely on magic rather than uncertain miracles.

Returning to her desk, Erfa refocused on her research.

“Saint! Please heal my son!”

“Help my daughter, Saint! Please!”

The slums were packed so tightly with people that there was no space to move.

The crowd’s desperation to be healed was so intense that some were injured in the chaos.

The scene of sick children, patients, and their families screaming and waving frantically felt more like horror than hope.

Jesus…

What do I do in times like this? Please, give me an answer.

Of course, Jesus didn’t respond.

Sleep-deprived and mentally drained, I could feel the weight of exhaustion in my eyes.

On top of that, I couldn’t exactly half-ass the “character customization” either. I had to focus, stitch by stitch, and my energy was at its limit.

There was no end in sight.

Forget witches—at this rate, I was going to die first.

“I need a break,” I said cautiously, trying to slip away.

But the crowd had no intention of letting me go.

“Saint! Have mercy on us!”

“Saint! Please, show compassion!”

I was losing it.

This isn’t right. Just let me rest. I’ll be back after I’ve eaten and slept.

I needed a plan—something subtle that wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Then it hit me.

“Saint! Please!”

Ignoring the pleading voices, I activated another one of my “visual novel” skills:

With this, I should be able to escape unscathed, grab some food, and get some rest.

...Except, damn it.

I couldn’t move either.