Chapter 8

In the movie Dorothy watched in her previous life, there was a fascinating rule about wands: it is not the wizard who chooses the wand, but the wand that chooses the wizard.

In the witch world, a similar belief exists, but in essence, it simply means that divine weapons possess sentience and automatically select their masters—though this rule applies only to non-human spellcasters, not to witches.

Because no unclaimed wand would ever reject a witch as its master.

Well, when you’re exceptionally gifted, you can do whatever you want.

Just as a billionaire might agonize over which luxury car to drive out of his garage, witches also suffer from the frustration of not being able to rely on a wand’s automatic selection like other spellcasting races do.

Thus, at this point, listening to the advice of a master wandmaker becomes crucial; these masters select the wand with the highest compatibility based on the witch’s unique talents from their own creations.

According to Alice’s introduction, the elderly gentleman shopkeeper, Alder, is precisely such a master wandmaker—his recommendation had given her her own wand, and after years of use, she found it perfect: every spell flowed as smoothly as silk, with no resistance in magical flow, and Alice gave it a flawless five-star review.

Seeing her younger sister so enthusiastically praising the old man’s craftsmanship, Dorothy naturally felt a quiet anticipation for what wand he might recommend to her.

To be honest, it was embarrassing—witches her age, nearly an adult, still using beginner wands without a personal one were truly rare, almost unique, since wands were essential tools for any spellcaster, used constantly; using an ill-fitting one was as irritating as an old phone that kept freezing and crashing in her previous life.

Over the years, Dorothy had thought many times about replacing her wand, but she always held back.

First, she was still, as in her previous life, a net addict, spending most of her day immersed in the Magic Net Virtual Realm, with little time returning to reality; there, as a top-tier player clad in divine gear, her real-world wand was merely good enough to get by.

Second, casting spells with this old companion was itself a form of training—she had deliberately improved her control over magic and spell precision, and the constant caution required to prevent her wand from exploding genuinely aided her cultivation.

But now, such training was useless to her; even if she cast spells in her sleep, half-asleep and stumbling, she could perfectly control every ounce of her magic, never risking a spell explosion or breaking her wand.

With no need for further training, she was now genuinely curious about the legendary “wand and witch as one” sensation Alice had raved about.

Dorothy watched eagerly as the old man took her old wand, wondering what he intended to do with it.

The old man offered no explanation—he merely examined the entry-level wand carefully, then nodded approvingly at Dorothy.

“Well maintained. It’s clear you care for her deeply, Dorothy. She told me she loves you as her master.”

The old man’s words left Dorothy stunned; she stared at him in shock.

“She? You mean you can talk to wands?”

Even knowing this was a fantasy world, the idea of conversing with an inanimate object still startled Dorothy.

Yet after a moment of surprise, she understood.

“So my wand has become sentient?”

Dorothy felt a surge of delight.

In the magic world, inanimate objects becoming sentient was not hard to comprehend—objects imbued with their owner’s emotions, if left long enough in a magically rich environment, might awaken; though the probability was low, and the emotional attachment needed to be exceptionally strong to raise it.

As a spellcasting tool, a wand naturally absorbed ample magic and was crafted from sentient materials inherently rich in spiritual essence; yet even so, truly sentient wands remained rare among witches, for the kind of emotion required to awaken an object was simply too difficult to cultivate.

Dorothy had certainly cared for this long-time companion, but she didn’t feel she had cherished it especially—she was merely a normal user, with no particularly tragic or complex past; that her wand had become sentient anyway surprised her, and left her conflicted.

After all, she had come here intending to replace her wand; if it were merely an object, swapping it would be no issue—but now that it had become sentient, it was a living spirit, and replacing it now felt like abandoning a loyal partner for a younger, prettier lover, filling her with guilt.

Maybe she should just keep it—after all, with her level of magical control, whether she changed wands or not didn’t matter much; it was just a slight boost, and she wasn’t a combat-oriented armed witch anyway, so lacking the boost wouldn’t hurt.

Dorothy thought this over.

“Don’t worry, Dorothy.”

The old man seemed to sense her inner conflict; he smiled at her, his admiration deepening.

“For a spirit-being, the spirit is the true self; the physical form is merely a shell. If you can’t bear to part with its spirit, you can use it as the intelligent core of your new wand—wasn’t that precisely what you came here to buy?”

“Oh! So you can do that? Then please, I’d be grateful.”

Hearing this possibility, Dorothy beamed and bowed deeply to the old man in thanks.

“No need for such formalities. Serving someone who treasures their wand as you do is my honor—and sentient wands are rare even for me. I’ll craft her a superb new body. I have a feeling this will be the pinnacle of my life’s work.”

The old man waved dismissively, then paused, remembering something, and asked again.

“Custom wands differ from standard ones, so regarding the cost...”

At the old man’s question, Alice’s expression turned uneasy—her twin pistols were custom wands, and she knew their price well; they had been a gift from her two mothers when she entered school, back when their relationship was still intact, and their witch household had been wealthy—but even then, the custom order had drained them significantly.

This time, though her mother had given her plenty of money, enough for standard wands, for a custom one...

The young witch reached into her bag, rummaging through her savings to see how much remained, wondering if she should lend it all to her sister—but her empty wallet left her helpless.

She was never a hoarder-type witch; quite the opposite—she was a chronic paycheck-to-paycheck spender, laughably broke, with nothing in her pockets but this month’s allowance from her mother, far too little.

“Guess I’ll have to contact Mother.”

Alice thought.

But before she could act, Dorothy pulled out her identity card and shoved it toward the old man, speaking firmly.

“Please use the finest materials. Price is no concern—see if this is enough. If not, I’ll find more.”

Though her voice was resolute, the expression beneath her scarf and goggles was twisted in agony.

It hurt—she sensed this would be a massive financial hemorrhage.

Fortunately, for years she’d been a hoarder, saving for a future home—thousands of days of saving now paid off; this was the moment those damned savings mattered.

Of course, if this still wasn’t enough, she’d have to start selling gear on the Magic Net.

She hoped it wouldn’t come to that—those were all limited-edition collectibles she’d painstakingly gathered over the years.

Dorothy silently prayed.

The old man took her card and inserted it into the mouth of a brass mechanical cat on the counter, and a number appeared only in his glasses.

At that moment, his hand trembled slightly; the old gentleman glanced at Dorothy in surprise, then withdrew the card and returned it to her.

“More than enough. I can only make a high-grade wand at most—not a legendary one. You don’t need this much.”

Without another word, the old man turned and walked into the back warehouse to prepare materials.

Alice stared at Dorothy, dumbfounded.

Huh? My sister’s a billionaire?

The young witch was stunned.