Chapter 52

Three days later, at the Brust College admissions office.

As one of the top ten prestigious schools, and among the best in the Research Division, not to mention the undisputed flagship for Alchemy and Architecture, Brust’s entrance was naturally packed with students eager to apply.

After all, applying costs nothing, and failing brings no real loss—why not give it a try? Just treat it as an experience of life.

Many young witches came with exactly this mindset.

Thus, most of the witch students gathered in the open space before the admissions office still looked relaxed; only a few true academic prodigies aiming to enter this school wore serious, slightly tense expressions.

Of course, alongside the prodigies were a group of divine geniuses, who waited calmly and effortlessly—they already held victory in their hands and felt no anxiety whatsoever.

Just then, a commotion suddenly erupted from the crowd behind them.

“Whoa, look, look, there’s a beauty…”

“Pfft, what’s so special about a beauty? Aren’t we all? Wait… damn, she really is a beauty… so gorgeous…”

“Holy shit, a goddess…”

“Sis, look at me, I’m super sweet…”

“Five minutes—I need all her data…”

After all, this was a school full of youth, where teenagers were in the throes of adolescence, yearning for romance and always keenly noticing attractive members of the opposite sex…

Emmm, well, witches didn’t discriminate—anyone good-looking they liked, though of course, what truly matched their aesthetic was still their fellow witches.

After all, no witch was ugly—only pretty, very pretty, incredibly gorgeous, and so on. The average beauty level of witches far surpassed even the famed all-beautiful elf race, approaching that of the flamboyant angels of Heaven.

But then again, beauty is always defined by contrast—without ugliness to set it off, how could rarity be appreciated?

So when everyone was beautiful, those merely moderately attractive were effectively ordinary; those very beautiful couldn’t even float, and only those incredibly gorgeous earned the title of “beauty”—a beauty universally acknowledged must be of a level that could topple nations and overthrow cities.

As for the legendary beauties said to make fish sink, birds fall, the moon hide, and flowers blush…

Emmm, even among witches, there were only a handful.

No way around it—powerful racial traits only raised the lower bound of witch beauty; whether one reached the upper limit still depended on personal destiny.

And now, this beauty who had stirred up such a commotion even among witches—she must surely be of that topple-nation, overthrow-city caliber.

Dorothy, hidden among the waiting crowd, instantly became curious and turned to look toward the commotion.

The Zhaimonv was no longer hiding her face as she had before. After all, three days ago, Sophie Lya’s uproar had turned her previously unremarkable “country bumpkin” look into campus fame—red-hot, beyond red.

Just log onto the Magic Web and enter the witch college forum, and every corner was flooded with posts like “The Dominant President Falls for a Country Bumpkin,” “The Angel’s Unassuming Little Wife,” “Even the Unremarkable Can Shake the Whole Campus,” “Shocked: The President’s Fetish Is Exactly This,” and so on—some seasoned writers had already begun penning fanfiction based on the incident.

Pfft, you gods? How come you witch deities are so gossipy? Show a bit of divine dignity, will you?

Dorothy recalled the curious glances from the Student Union members when she’d processed her paperwork, their reverent attitude toward her as if she were the president’s forbidden treasure, the absurdly fast speed at which they’d issued her documents…

Instantly, the lazy witch’s eyes lost their sparkle.

So for these three days, she’d stayed holed up at home, too afraid to step out—even her beloved Magic Web had lost its charm.

Who wants to go online and see nothing but fanfics where she’s the protagonist? Bastards, why the hell am I the submissive one, the little wife? Doesn’t the president herself only get to wash dishes at home when she’s with me?

Just thinking about the flood of rumors made Dorothy shiver despite the room’s constant temperature—could this world not be kinder? When would little witches ever rise up?

So she turned her fury into motivation and dove headfirst into the Magic Web’s grand library to study.

Yeah, she’d train hard, then one day stun everyone—then those bastards would finally understand who was on top and who was on bottom.

Ah pfft, who the hell even wants to be on top? I’m just angry and confused—I’m completely innocent with Sophie Lya! That angel who always sneers at me with “Miss” and “Lady” nonsense? Let her have her! If it weren’t for Mom’s sake, I wouldn’t even spare her a second glance.

Still, though she no longer wanted to go out, today was Brust College’s entrance exam day, so Dorothy had no choice but to leave home.

And since the heat from the incident three days ago hadn’t cooled, to avoid drawing attention, Dorothy changed her appearance before stepping out.

She owed this to the fact that she’d always gone out fully armored before—so even if that unknown country bumpkin witch from three days ago had become a campus celebrity, what did that have to do with Dorothy?

As for the problem that her real face was too beautiful and leaving home would be unsafe—no need to panic. Didn’t she still have the Four Evil Arts from her past life?

Making yourself beautiful was tricky, but making yourself ugly? That was easy.

Today, for the exam, this straight male in a past life—now a straight female—spent a full half-hour awkwardly applying makeup in front of the mirror. Though magic could’ve handled it—illusion magic being the best makeup—wouldn’t walking around with an illusion on your face just scream, “My face has problems”? Most witches wouldn’t be so rude as to break your illusion, but what if one was?

So traditional makeup was still more reliable. Witches still wore makeup, after all—this ancient art had simply upgraded its ingredients from ordinary to precious spiritual materials. Thus, even the most mischievous witch wouldn’t deliberately splash remover on someone else’s face.

Dorothy, a straight male in her past life and a straight female now, had no idea how to apply makeup—but not knowing how to do it had become an advantage. After a wild, chaotic smear job, she was unrecognizable.

The messy, uneven curls looked like someone had spilled dye all over her head, turning it into a rainbow of colors; heavy death-black eyeliner; strange golden-star contact lenses; glittering, flashing nails that sparkled like broken fireworks; and her skin painted dark as sun-baked bronze…

Whatever looked most garish, that’s what she went for—and the final result…

Staring at the mirror at the unexpectedly decent-looking goth-glam black-skinned girl, Dorothy fell into deep thought.

Holy shit, she’d really tried her hardest to ruin her face—so this is what they mean when they say beautiful people look fashionable even wrapped in burlap?

Whatever. At least her beauty had dropped from maxed-out to “very pretty.” She’d done her best.

Though she now looked like a rebellious bad-girl type—likely to be shunned as a weirdo by classmates—it was still far better than being labeled the president’s wife.

Dorothy finally satisfied herself by imprinting this makeup as a spell—now, next time she wanted this look, she’d just snap her fingers and the cosmetics would activate themselves.

After all, this look was a random mess—now that she’d washed it off, she couldn’t even recreate it herself. She didn’t want to show up at school every day with a different face—that’d be too weird.

Hmm, this is the new magic of the Forest Witch: the Witch’s Makeup Art.

Whatever, when she had time, she’d develop the Four Evil Arts of the Witch—she’d probably make a fortune in library points.

In short, today, Dorothy was still doing her utmost to be an ordinary little witch.

But just as there were those with social anxiety, there were also those with supreme social confidence.

Dorothy turned her head toward the commotion behind her—and was met with boundless beauty.

Oh my god, there really is a succubus witch? Wait—what’s with the fox ears and nine tails?

Holy hell, she’s a succubus-fox hybrid. Your parents must’ve been geniuses—were they trying to create a creature that could topple nations and ruin empires?

Fie! What demon are you, daring to disturb my composure!

With iron will, Dorothy forcibly tore her gaze away from the enchanting witch whose every movement could bewitch all beings. She took several deep breaths to calm her racing heart, then silently retreated behind the crowd, putting distance between herself and this terrifying beauty, the very embodiment of allure and desire.

Pfft, someone like this is clearly a trouble magnet. My campus life is already wild enough—I absolutely cannot get entangled with such a demon.

That’s what she thought.