Chapter 433: One of the Anomalies of This World

Seris snapped her fingers.

Immediately, another magical projection appeared on the table. The room darkened slightly, allowing the new magical screen to stand out—a huge circular graphic spinning slowly, with detailed diagrams of magical blood in various colors, layers, and compositions. It was like looking at the vital systems of different species, but all connected by a single common thread: mana.

“Let’s start with the basics,” said Seris, walking around the projection with her arms crossed. “What you see here is a complete representation of all the types of magical blood types we know of today. Humans, elves, druids, necromancers, hybrids… and, of course, witches.”

The projection reorganized itself, highlighting a group of circles marked with the word “Witch.” One of them expanded, revealing a translucent body with pulsating channels of light—mana arteries.

“A witch’s body does not function like that of an ordinary human. We are 95% mana and 5% physical blood. And even that blood, which we call ‘vital fluid,’ has about 95% magical concentration.”

Vergil raised an eyebrow. Alice watched silently, mesmerized by the figures of light dancing in the air.

“That is why, for a witch, the body can regenerate, transform, even rebuild itself over time — as long as the flow of mana is intact. We are, in fact, incarnate magical beings. We are born from the most stable mutation of mana within a mortal body.”

Pandora snorted softly, bored with the lesson. Morgana, however, watched with half-closed eyes, absorbing every word.

Seris then ran her hand over another rune in the air, and the projection changed, now showing a direct comparison: on the left, the body of a witch. On the right, that of an ordinary human. The difference was striking. The human body looked opaque, with only small luminous points spinning inside the heart and brain. The witch’s body, on the other hand, was a storm of pure energy.

“Humans,” Seris continued, “have 3 to 5% native mana. Most are only able to activate this power through tools, contracts, artifacts, or potions. This makes them fragile. Dependent.”

She turned and pointed to another graph.

“The reason why almost all witches are women has a simple origin: blood mutation. The witch lineage arose through a genetic and arcane mutation in the first clans of sorceresses. Female blood proved to be the only one capable of accommodating this structure.”

“What about men?” asked Vergil.

“The male body, with very rare exceptions, collapses when exposed to complete mutation. The blood breaks down. The soul burns. We’ve had cases… But they never last.”

Vergil clenched his fists. “What about Merlin?”

The question hung in the air like lightning about to strike.

The projection froze. Seris looked at him for a moment, silent, then touched a rune on the side. A new specter formed in the air—a floating portrait of a tall man with white eyes, mystical marks engraved on his face like scars. An ancient cloak fluttered, made of stars trapped in fabric.

“Merlin was… the exception that broke the rule,” Seris said, with obvious respect in her voice. “He was born human. But he did not die as one.”

The image rotated, revealing internal diagrams of Merlin’s body. The blood was not red. It was golden. It pulsed like liquid fire, and the runes around his body vibrated with indecipherable symbols.

“Merlin underwent a forbidden ritual. A hybrid alchemy. He rewrote his own body… more than once. Some say he fused his soul with an entity of pure mana. Others say he cheated fate itself.”

“And he survived?” insisted Vergil.

“He survived. And more—he thrived. For a time. But the cost was immense. Every cell in his body struggled to exist. He lived in pain. With a body that was not made to house that power.”

Pandora, now curious, leaned forward. “So he wasn’t a natural wizard?”

“No,” Seris replied. “He became one. He forced the world to accept an impossibility.”

Vergil crossed his arms, silent. His eyes returned to Alice, who was playing with the small lights escaping from the projection, unaware of the weight of the discussion.

“But she didn’t force anything,” he murmured. “Alice was born that way. Or rather, I fixed what happened to her body so it wouldn’t corrupt.”

“Exactly,” said Seris, turning to him with a serious expression. “And that’s why we’re here. Because if Merlin had to violate the laws of nature to get to this point… But this little girl broke everything naturally…”

The room fell silent. Even the projection lights seemed to slow down.

Alice laughed softly and snapped her fingers, creating a small flower of light that floated until it landed on Vergil’s shoulder.

“Look, Daddy. I made a little star grow.”

Seris stared at the magical flower. It wasn’t made of ordinary mana. There was something primitive about it… ancient… as if it were made from the very root of creation.

Vergil smiled slightly. “A little star, huh?”

And Seris just whispered to herself, too low for the child to hear:

“Or a supernova waiting to happen.” Seris muttered, then let out a sigh. “Ah… this is going to take a while…”

Seris silently slid her hand over the surface of the crystalline table, and the magical projection responded. The images of Merlin and the previous blood comparisons dissipated like golden smoke, and a new figure appeared in the center of the room.

A singular graph.

Complex.

Pulsating.

It was Alice’s blood count.

Golden and red lines intertwined in a chaotic, almost living ballet. The image of her blood swirled like a miniature galaxy, where two opposing forces collided in unlikely harmony.

Seris said nothing at first. She didn’t need to.

Everyone fell silent.

The graph split into two hemispheres. One glowed with the pure brightness of raw mana—stable, ancient, familiar. The other… was something different. Dark, fiery, pulsating. A red that did not belong to the normal spectrum of blood. A denser, more aggressive energy, but still strangely controlled.

In the center… a thin line separating the two worlds. An impossible balance.

“This…” Seris began, her voice lower than usual. “…is Alice’s blood.”

Pandora leaned slowly in her chair of chaos. Her eyes, which had previously conveyed sarcasm and disinterest, were now fixed on the projection with a strange seriousness.

Morgana just crossed her arms, frowning. Vergil stood still, watching without blinking.

“Alice has exactly fifty percent pure mana,” Seris said at last. “Unadapted, unfiltered. It’s the same essence that runs in the oldest lines of witches.”

She paused, and the graph vibrated subtly.

“And the other fifty percent… is demonic energy.”

Pandora whistled. A low, slow sound that sounded more like laughter stuck between her teeth.

“Well…” she said, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed. “That’s… funny.”

Vergil turned his neck toward her, his red eyes flashing.

“Explain.”

“Funny,” Pandora repeated, with a sideways smile. “Because not even my father—and he’s a damn god of the forge—would create such a complex structure… without it collapsing.”

She stood up, walking slowly toward the projection and turning the graph with a magical touch. The spiral reacted, showing microscopic sections of blood. The molecules were in constant war, but… a choreographed war.

“This,” Pandora said, almost enchanted, “shouldn’t work. Demonic energy is wild, predatory. It devours everything — including pure mana. This blood composition is like filling a matchbox with gunpowder… and holy water. And then asking them to get along.”

Seris confirmed with a slight nod.

“She should be in a coma. Or dead. Or… exploding continuously.”

Morgana cleared her throat, tapping her cane on the floor. “But she’s not. She’s there, making magic flowers in the air as if it were the most normal thing in the world.”

Alice, who was only half listening, looked at Pandora with an innocent smile.

“Can you make magic flowers too, auntie?”

Pandora quickly looked away.

“No, little freak… I mean, charming young lady.”

Vergil took a step forward, the tension in his body more visible.

“So what does that mean?” His voice was low, but it carried the weight of a blade about to be unsheathed. “Is she a bomb?”

“No,” said Seris. “She is… an Impossibility, a Biomagical Error, a Being Unrecognizable to This World. One of the Anomalies of this world.”