Chapter 32: Sophialya

The perspective returned to the arena.

From the opposite gate, Sophialya instantly comprehended the entire arena’s situation.

“Is this a mountain map?”

The angelic witch thought to herself.

But in truth, it made no difference to her what kind of map it was—her Catastrophe Race template allowed her to adapt effortlessly to any terrain; no terrain could meaningfully hinder an angel, for her strength was already sufficient to ignore such factors entirely.

Yet in this duel, Sophialya was not the only witch with the Catastrophe Race template—her opponent, the teacher’s own daughter, possessed it too, and was a dragon descended from the same source as the teacher.

The teacher’s strength was unquestionable; that nearly invincible power had been etched into the angelic witch’s heart since childhood, and in her eyes, the teacher was a being worthy of comparison with legendary gods, someone she had adored and looked up to since she was young.

She wanted to be the teacher’s pride.

This had been Sophialya’s goal since the night ten years ago when she first met the teacher.

And she had truly achieved it—under the teacher’s meticulous guidance, she had fully realized her potential; even in the Dragon Kingdom, where the strong were countless and geniuses abounded, this foreign angelic witch had outshone her peers and become the brightest star among the dragon clan.

Yet the dragon clan was deeply exclusive, and the dragon witch, despite her own dragon template, was no different—a living angel among dragons was inevitably ostracized, and over the years Sophialya had faced no shortage of hostility, but she barely cared; she cared only for the teacher’s opinion of her.

And the teacher was undoubtedly fair—her gaze held none of the rejection seen in her own kin, only appreciation and expectation; Sophialya could feel it clearly: the teacher truly recognized her as a disciple.

Yet even so, one thing had troubled Sophialya for many years: whenever she achieved something significant, after the teacher joyfully celebrated with her, she would always retreat into solitude, lost in melancholy.

That time belonged solely to the teacher; even Sophialya, the teacher’s most beloved disciple, could not intrude, not even a little.

Once, when Sophialya woke in the middle of the night for water, she saw the teacher sitting alone on the dark living room sofa, smoking, the ashtray on the table piled high with cigarette butts. Her appearance startled the teacher, who turned to look at her—but Sophialya could distinctly sense that in the teacher’s eyes, her reflection was not there; instead, another figure floated within the pupil’s depths.

Sophialya knew who that figure was—after all, she had grown up beside the teacher and had heard the story of how the teacher once had a daughter, who later vanished.

She even understood clearly why she herself had not been annihilated with her wicked family in the teacher’s rage, but instead was mercifully taken in: likely because her age matched that of the teacher’s lost daughter, and it had stirred the teacher’s compassion.

She might always have been nothing more than a replacement for that person—Sophialya knew this all too well, and she had accepted it, or rather, she had once believed she could accept it.

She knew the teacher had never given up searching for the lost daughter; the teacher’s relentless pursuit of power and expansion of territory was all to gather enough strength for this needle-in-a-haystack quest—but when, just a few days ago, the teacher, usually so emotionally detached, had laughed joyfully and said to her, “Sophialya, I’ve finally found that child—my daughter,”

She, Sophialya, had still felt sour.

Even though she knew such sourness was wrong, unjustified, it was still there—she couldn’t control it.

Thus, with complicated emotions, Sophialya had followed the teacher to this cheap little island village; before formally visiting, the angelic witch had felt restless, so she left the teacher’s side and wandered the island alone, just to clear her mind.

Yet fate was cruel—Sophialya never imagined that a simple trip to a bookstore would lead her straight to the original.

She couldn’t be mistaken—the girl named Dorothy radiated a scent nearly identical to the teacher’s, and this remote island village could hardly harbor a second dragon witch.

At that moment, Sophialya was utterly bewildered; she wanted to greet her, but when she spoke, her words sounded strangely off.

In the end, that accidental encounter faded into nothing.

“I probably can’t get along with this person.”

That’s what Sophialya had thought back then.

And even now...

The radiant six-winged Archangel soared through the sky, a glorious sacred halo of faith circling her head, her body clad in a high-grade battle armor forged from precious materials, wild magic swirling around her, her innate aura forcing all things to bow before her.

The angelic witch Sophialya descended like a god.

Though she knew deep down that even if she won this duel, it meant nothing—she could not alter the fact that this opponent was blood-bound to the teacher, and as an outsider, she would likely never become the teacher’s pride—she didn’t care anymore.

All she wanted now was to fight this person fairly, just to vent.

Soon, her opponent’s presence appeared in Sophialya’s perception from the far end of the arena—but the sight of her made the angelic witch freeze, then flare with anger.

“Why isn’t this person wearing armor? Do they look down on me so much?”

Her opponent, aside from holding a lavish staff, remained exactly as before: her messy braid, oversized black-rimmed glasses, and the scarf covering half her face—all the appearance of someone hiding from the world, utterly lacking the dignity befitting the teacher’s daughter; she would only bring shame upon the teacher’s name.

And as a warrior entering the battlefield, this person wore only her everyday robe, not battle armor—how much did she despise me? Did she think she could defeat me without armor? Or did she assume she’d lose anyway, so armor was unnecessary?

Regardless of the reason, fighting without armor in a duel was a grave disrespect to the opponent.

In that instant, the angelic witch’s fury surged. She thought for a moment, and her ornate battle armor dissolved into light; she extended her hand, and a golden-white two-handed greatsword staff, wreathed in holy flame, appeared in her grasp.

A proud angel never takes advantage—since you won’t wear armor, neither will I; you have only 10,000 mana, so today I’ll use only 10,000 mana too—I will defeat you fairly, before the teacher’s eyes.

Pointing her sword at her opponent, Sophialya made this decision.

The countdown above the arena finally reached zero.

In that exact moment the countdown ended, before either combatant’s health bar even appeared, the angelic witch swung her greatsword.

She would win this battle—after years of the teacher’s training, she could never lose to this person, this crude, lazy, disrespectful fool—why was she the teacher’s daughter? She refused to accept it; this person was unfit, utterly inadequate.

The angelic witch trembled with rage—she would give this person a lesson.