A sharp screech of a wooden chair scraping against the floor jolted Matisse from her daze. She abruptly lifted her head, realizing that she had somehow fallen asleep with her head on the desk. As her senses gradually returned, she felt a cold and sticky sensation on her cheek. Looking down, she saw that an ink bottle had been accidentally knocked over, the dark ink slowly spreading across the surface like a snake, devouring the important documents she had painstakingly organized the previous night.
The cold touch of the ink and the disarray before her intensified the anxiety weighing on her heart. She reached out to grab the fallen quill, but in her haste, the chair slid back unexpectedly, causing her to lose balance and fall heavily to the floor. Her back hit the cold ground with a dull thud, and a sharp pain radiated from her tailbone up her spine, making every nerve scream. She clenched her teeth, trying to brace herself against the desk to stand, but her head struck the edge of the table violently. A wave of searing pain engulfed her, and her vision was instantly consumed by a blinding white light, followed by a deep, encroaching darkness. The pain crashed over her like a tidal wave, battering her consciousness. She slumped helplessly against the cold wall, feeling as though she were trapped in this confined space.
Her breathing grew rapid, each breath shallow and strained. The pain in her neck was like a needle piercing her, forcing her to pause and consider standing. Her body trembled from the pain and tension, every muscle seemingly resisting the sudden pressure. Her heart pounded fiercely, every beat threatening to burst out of her chest. The blood coursing through her veins felt cold, and a chill seeped into her bones layer by layer.
The ink spread around her like an endless black night, swallowing her consciousness and dragging her back to the memories she had been desperately trying to escape. Her parents' warm smiles, her brother's determined gaze, and the terror of that night when the soldiers chased her—all these scenes surfaced like a recurring nightmare, tearing at her heart, as if trying to rip her soul from her body.
Matisse's fingers trembled slightly as she clenched her fists, attempting to suppress the surge of fear and sorrow, but her body betrayed her. Tears flowed uncontrollably from her eyes. She instinctively covered her mouth with her hand, desperately trying to stifle her sobs, unwilling to let anyone hear her vulnerability. The emotions she had been repressing for so long poured out like a flood breaking through a dam. Her shoulders shook violently with each quiet sob, and tears mixed with the ink on her face, staining her fingers black.
Her body grew colder, as if all the warmth had been stolen, leaving only a profound chill and an overwhelming fatigue. Her heartbeat remained erratic and fast, each breath feeling like a battle against her body’s instincts. She leaned against the wall, hugging herself tightly, as if trying to isolate herself from the outside world and lock herself in a space free of pain. But the cruel memories and inescapable reality pierced her heart repeatedly like a merciless blade, suffocating her and leaving her powerless.
Silent tears slid down her ink-stained cheeks as Matisse fought the sudden urge to cry out, but her body shook honestly, revealing her inner collapse and helplessness. She leaned against the wall, her hands tightly covering her face, trying to shut out the world and hide in a place without pain. But the flood of memories was relentless, tearing at her heart, leaving her breathless.
In this moment of helplessness, Matisse finally allowed her suppressed sorrow to escape in sound. Her sobs were low and hoarse, like the wind before a distant storm, foretelling an impending tempest within her soul. Her shoulders shook violently with each breath, each one a struggle against fate—a battle she was destined to fight alone.
“Mika, are you in there?” Mrs. Alix's voice pierced through the heavy wooden door, abruptly pulling Matisse back to reality.
She blinked, realizing she had been lost in her deep emotions, and the tears on her cheeks had not yet dried. Quickly wiping them away, she took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. The vulnerability inside her was pushed to the deepest recesses, leaving behind a facade of calm. Matisse tried to make her voice sound steady and gentle, “Is there anything I can help with, Mrs. Alix?”
She opened the door, attempting to appear as natural as possible. However, when Mrs. Alix appeared at the doorway, Matisse could not ignore the red blood seeping through her fingers. Mrs. Alix clutched her left hand tightly over a wound, her expression anxious and pained. “I remember you once said you knew some healing magic. Could you help me with this wound? I accidentally cut myself while moving furniture.”
Matisse’s heart clenched, as if gripped by an invisible hand. Messers’ warning flashed in her mind—using magic meant danger, meant exposure. If she was discovered to be a survivor of the Skykor family, the consequences would be unimaginable. Her thoughts raced, fear, responsibility, and caution entangled into an invisible web that restrained her actions.
Her hand froze in the air, instinctively wanting to cast a spell to help Mrs. Alix, but reason forced her to stop. Her gaze shifted from Mrs. Alix’s wound to her own hands—hands that had cast spells countless times but now trembled with fear.
Noticing her hesitation, Mrs. Alix spoke with a hint of concern in her voice, “If this is too difficult for you, I can handle it myself…”
“No, it’s not a problem,” Matisse quickly interrupted, trying to make her tone sound more relaxed. She turned swiftly, heading to the corner where she kept her potion bag. Despite her racing heart and the worry swirling in her mind, she knew she needed to stay calm.
She took out a bottle of healing salve, her fingers trembling slightly as she carefully poured it onto a clean piece of cloth. Returning to Mrs. Alix, she spoke softly, “This might sting a bit. Please bear with it.” She gently applied the salve to Mrs. Alix’s wound, then wrapped it with gauze.
As the bleeding slowly stopped, Matisse felt a slight relief from the tension in her heart, but a lingering unease remained in her mind. She forced a smile, “It’s really nothing serious, Mrs. Alix.”
Mrs. Alix sighed with relief, noticing that Matisse's eyes were red and swollen. Despite her attempts to hide it, Mrs. Alix had sensed her emotional turmoil. She shook her head and smiled gratefully, “Mika, thank you. You're not only kind-hearted but also skillful.”
“It’s nothing, Mrs. Alix,” Matisse replied, trying to maintain her smile, even though she still felt a chill of fear from her earlier struggle.
“I know you've been going through some tough times lately, but don't worry, everything will get better.” Mrs. Alix comforted her softly and then took out a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Matisse, “I left some white chocolate cookies on the table for you. Make sure you eat them.”
Matisse took the handkerchief and gently wiped the ink from her face, watching Mrs. Alix leave. The house returned to silence, but her heart was still restless. She knew that just moments ago, she had almost been consumed by fear.
Her gaze fell again on the potion bag, filled with a mix of emotions. She carefully flipped through the bottles in the bag, her eyes lingering on a familiar recipe note. The handwriting on the back of the note made her heart race; it was strikingly similar to the handwriting on Saen's pocket watch.
A tumult of emotions rose within her, but she knew this was not the time to think about whether she had some kind of guardian. Messers' warning still echoed in her ears, and the pressures of reality made her realize that she needed to find a way to survive in this tumultuous era, and such a path lay right before her.
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She took a deep breath and decided to seize this opportunity, using these potions to seek a way out. She began planning how to make and sell potions, initially hoping that these potions could help her sustain herself, but she quickly realized that lacking a legitimate license made this path fraught with difficulties.
Matisse knew that to find her footing in this chaotic land, she needed to find trustworthy partners, people who could help her sell these potions. After much thought, she listed some potential contacts and decided to visit them one by one. Although still uneasy, she knew she had no other choice.
“Sarnor is a well-known potion maker in Nova,” Matisse muttered as she closed her notebook, as if trying to bolster her courage. “Although magic has become prevalent, leading many to abandon potions, he might still be a good choice. But I’ve heard he has a bit of a temper.”
She walked down the bustling streets of Nova, the crowd around her bustling with activity. Children’s laughter echoed occasionally in the alleyways, mixed with the calls of street vendors. Matisse felt heavy-hearted, each step seeming to deplete her courage.
When she entered Sarnor's potion shop, the air inside was thick with the strong scent of herbs. Sarnor stood behind the counter, dressed in a luxurious robe, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting a cold light in the candlelight. Matisse approached, trying to sound confident as she proposed a partnership.
However, when Sarnor learned she was once a mage, his face darkened instantly, his gaze sharp and disdainful. "I'm an expert in this field,"
he said coldly, "Outsiders cannot understand. Don’t loiter in my shop; you don’t belong here."
Matisse felt a stab of pain in her heart. She lowered her head slightly, feeling the air in the shop grow heavier, her presence seeming out of place. Sarnor continued his work, as if she were nothing more than an insignificant shadow.
Quietly, Matisse left the shop, squinting against the blinding sunlight outside. The street seemed even more crowded than before; people hurried by, paying her no mind. Her steps grew heavier, each one making the path ahead seem narrower.
She stopped at a street corner, clutching her notebook tightly, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over her. Across the street, a group of children laughed around a street performer, but Matisse felt her smile had long faded into distant memory. She sighed softly, forcing herself to suppress the feelings of disappointment, and turned toward the next potion shop.
The second shop had an old wooden sign hanging over its entrance, carved with mysterious runes. Inside, dim light filtered through the worn curtains, and the air was filled with a sleepy fragrance. The owner, Aldric Talvin, stood behind the counter with a calm demeanor, his deep eyes seeming to see through everything.
Matisse stepped forward and proposed a partnership. However, Aldric merely laughed disdainfully, a hint of scorn and arrogance in his tone. “I'm sorry, Miss Bekara, but I don’t think an amateur like you can grasp the essence of potion-making. You're not qualified to talk to me about a partnership.”
Matisse felt a tightness in her chest, trying to remain composed, but Aldric’s indifferent attitude made her feel as if she were blocked by an invisible barrier. Her voice sounded weak in the small shop, fading away in the air.
As she left the shop, her steps grew slower. She wandered aimlessly down the street, the scenes around her gradually blurring, as if the whole world were distancing itself from her. She passed a dilapidated fountain, its water splashing intermittently, a pigeon pecking at crumbs by the water’s edge. Matisse paused, staring blankly at the bird, until a numb, prickling pain shot up her left leg. She stood up and began walking toward home. It seemed to be another day of failure.
Just as she felt overwhelmed by helplessness, a familiar voice called from behind, "Professor Bekara!" She stopped and turned, seeing a young man running toward her. It was one of her former students from the magic academy—Charles.
“Professor, how have you been lately?” Charles asked with concern. Matisse tried to muster a smile, but her lips felt weighed down, barely moving. She could only shake her head weakly. She shared her recent experiences with Charles, her voice filled with fatigue she couldn’t hide.
After listening, Charles thought for a moment, his gaze firm as he looked at her. “Professor, if you need a way to sell potions, my family owns a hospital; maybe we could help.” He spoke sincerely, “But I have a request—please teach us magic!”
Matisse’s heart stirred, then filled with unease. She understood the risks of this request. Teaching magic in Nova was a serious crime, and she didn’t want to put these children in danger. “Charles, I understand your desire, but teaching magic is too dangerous now. I don’t want you to face imprisonment.”
But Charles did not back down; instead, he became even more determined. “Professor, don’t worry. We’ve found a secret place where we’ll never be discovered. We really need a good teacher, and you are our only hope!”
The defenses in Matisse's heart gradually crumbled, reason slowly yielding to the sincerity in Charles’s eyes. She knew their desire to learn magic was genuine, and her refusal might extinguish their hopes entirely.
“All the other students admire you very much. We truly want to continue learning magic,” Charles pleaded, his eyes sparkling with hope.
Looking into Charles's eyes, filled with anticipation, Matisse finally sighed and nodded slightly. "Alright, I’ll agree." Her voice was low but firm. Despite a lingering hesitation in her heart, she decided to accept—perhaps as a concession to life or perhaps because she didn’t want to see such a promising group of children abandoned by an unforgiving era.
In the days that followed, Matisse’s life became extraordinarily busy. During the day, she taught magic to her students in hidden corners, while at night, she brewed various potions under the dim light. She only managed to sleep five to six hours a night, but she felt a sense of fulfillment that she had not experienced in a long time. As the sales of her potions increased, her life seemed to be improving. Yet, behind this flurry of activity, Matisse's heart had never truly found peace.
One evening, the sky was overcast with heavy clouds, hanging so low it seemed one could reach out and touch them. The dark clouds loomed over the city. Inside the classroom, the yellow light was dim, reflecting the shadow that loomed over Matisse's heart. She was guiding her students through an ancient book of magic, but images of the Skykor family kept surfacing in her mind, making it hard to focus.
“Uh, Professor Bekara, I don't quite understand… Was the Skykor family really as evil as they say in the propaganda?” a student cautiously raised his hand, his voice tinged with hesitation.
Matisse felt a chill rising from deep within her. She paused, took a deep breath, and gazed out of the window at the darkening sky. Raindrops began to fall, tapping softly against the windowpane, as if knocking on the wounds in her heart that had yet to heal.
“The peculiar thing about a dictatorship,” she began slowly, her voice carrying a hint of coldness, “is that the dictator must ensure everyone aligns with their absurd understanding of the world. After all, who needs diversity or critical thinking? As long as everyone agrees with the dictator, the problem is ‘solved.’”
Her tone was calm, yet it was filled with deep resignation and frustration. Outside, the rain grew heavier, the water running down the glass blurring the view beyond, much like the suppressed emotions clouding her vision.
“What do you think about the Skykor family being purged?” another student pressed on, a touch of unease in his voice.
Matisse's fingers instinctively massaged her temples, trying to alleviate the pressure building inside, but the invisible pain only grew more distinct. Her gaze shifted from the rain outside back to the pages spread open before her, but her vision blurred with emotion.
“The books only record the number of those killed,” her voice trembled slightly with emotion, “but they were all living people. Solfin Skykor, Sorilde Skykor, Cecily Skykor…”
She paused, suddenly feeling her heart contract sharply, as if an invisible dagger had stabbed deep into it. Images of her former self flashed in her mind—sitting in a lavish study, casually flipping through war reports, unaware that behind every number was a broken family, a vibrant life. Back then, she had perhaps summarized coldly in her heart: “Just numbers.”
Now, having become part of the stories behind those numbers herself, she realized the indescribable pain that lay within. The dead were not mere cold statistics; they were her family, those who had lived with her day and night, fought alongside her.
“I don’t understand what they did to deserve such an end, to be scorned by the world even after death,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice thick with pain. The classroom fell silent, with only the sound of raindrops tapping against the window gently echoing in the stillness.
The students sensed her distress, and concern appeared on their faces, but no one dared to ask further.
“Professor, did you ever meet anyone from their family?” Charles suddenly broke the silence. “I heard that the Skykor family had a particularly capable Countess, about your age. Have you heard of her? I think her name was Matisse or something like that.”
Matisse's face instantly turned pale, as if the blood had been drained from her body. Her fingers trembled slightly, tightly clutching the pages of the book. The air in the classroom seemed to freeze at that moment, while the rain outside beat against the windows more urgently.
“How is she?” Charles continued, “I heard she once helped my family. It would be such a loss if someone so kind had truly died!”
Charles’s words pierced Matisse's heart like a sharp blade. She suddenly stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, resonating with every heart in the room. Her eyes burned with a mix of emotions, as if she was suppressing immense pain and anger.
“I’m going to tell you all a secret, and I ask you not to tell anyone else.” Her voice was low and tense, filled with an unyielding determination. As she spoke, she slowly removed her glasses and brushed aside the hair covering her forehead, revealing her violet eyes. Under the shocked gaze of the students, her violet eyes gradually returned to their natural blue color.
“My real name isn’t Mika Bekara. My true name is Matisse Skykor.”
A deathly silence fell over the classroom. The students’ eyes were filled with shock and disbelief. The air seemed to freeze; all sounds vanished, and everyone held their breath, waiting for more revelations.
Matisse’s voice rang out again, this time carrying an unshakeable resolve: “Yes, I am the last survivor of the Skykor family, misunderstood and hunted by the world. I have been living under a false name, searching for a way to restore my family's honor.”
Every person in the classroom could feel the deep pain and helplessness in her heart, as if they could see the countless dark moments she had lived through and the faint, desperate hope she held for the future. The students exchanged glances; some showed sympathy, others fell into deep thought.
Charles was the first to respond, speaking in a low voice: “I’ve heard of Countess Matisse’s great deeds. I never thought I would one day be her student.”
Another student couldn’t help but speak up: “We’ll keep your secret. We’re grateful that you’ve shared this with us.”
Matisse nodded in relief, though her heart still surged with tumultuous emotions. She knew that these children genuinely supported her.
Although her busy days gave the appearance of stability, her heart had never been at peace. The social turmoil continued to escalate, and she remained concerned about the risk of currency devaluation. Therefore, she converted her earnings into various precious metals, believing this was the only way to preserve their value—after all, gold was universally recognized as a solid currency.
However, the world is unpredictable, and as Matisse had feared, secrets eventually leaked. Her clandestine teaching of magic was reported to Aldric. Seeing an opportunity to strike against a competitor, Aldric wasted no time in betraying her, exposing Matisse’s identity and actions to the harsh light of danger.