The Villainess Returns with a System-Chapter 127: Beatrix Morgan

There was something different about her. The way she looked at them deprived them of comfort, making them feel as if there were a heavy weight on each of their chests.

This was no ordinary young lady; this was someone whose identity in a certain game would rival the main villainess in terms of villainy. Her nickname would be the "Torture Witch."

Beatrix Morgan was the very soul of contrasts: a head crowned with waves of golden hair; eyes of clear blue, not as in the warm summer seas but more like the chilling depths of winter. Her expression, a hard-shelled mask of composure, gave her an air of fragile beauty, like a porcelain doll detached from all human emotions.

Once spoken to, she would tilt her head, but once she spoke, a voice unfitting that air of hers would emerge, and the deepest and darkest thoughts to everybody else were just simple conversational lines for her.

In all manner of words, she was unnerving.

"Unforgivable! Death by a thousand cuts! Choke on a surfeit of thrones! Gurgling blood boiling inside her, rising to her throat!"

Then she said that, and the reason Matilda was not very welcoming to the idea of inviting Beatrix to the party was clear to all.

She is unhinged!

One must not be fooled by the blonde hair and mesmerizing beauty of Beatrix Morgan, as all who interacted with her had to learn how unhinged she was the hard way.

In Valentine’s office, Beatrix stood over Ian, who was still recovering after receiving treatment from Matilda. She examined him and thoroughly inspected his body, tracing back every wound and harm he was subjected to while mumbling all sorts of scary invocations and curses with her hoarse and eerie voice.

"Dear Ian, sweet Ian, to think you were subjected to such torture. Oh, how I will avenge you! How will I make their suffering a hundredfold, a thousandfold?" she said as she was touching his face and moving it left and right, checking on his teeth, and using a light spell down his throat.

"Lady Beatrix, if you may, your brother informed us that you could assist in identifying Ian’s attacker by using your magic on her blood," Edmond spoke as if urging her to quit with her rambling and get the job done.

"My accursed enemy!" Beatrix mumbled as she raised her head and then turned to Edmond with wide, unblinking eyes. "I will get it done... after I heal my dear Ian."

Unlike almost everyone here, Edmond was not unnerved by her, and he looked her dead in the eye:

"With all due respect, Lady Matilda has already done that. That’s not why you are here."

"Matilda? The puppy-eyed Matilda?" Beatrix asked with a scornful tone that shocked everyone before scanning the room with her unblinking eyes. "Oh, it is her. No wonder it was such a primitive healing method. Very backward!"

Every word she said was enough to throw the seven into an instant fit of rage, but for some reason, Matilda started laughing awkwardly.

"It’s alright, Lady Beatrix. I merely invoked my faith in Saint Florence through magic; the rest is as you see," Matilda said without much argument while looking at the others not to escalate the scene with Beatrix, not right now.

"The Saints are dead! I wonder who answers your prayers."

But the next statement from Beatrix was enough to make everyone want to hide under a table and cover their heads.

The Seven Saints are indeed dead, but for them, death was a means to ascension, just like how Saint Arthur sailed to Paradise, how Saint Joan disappeared in the pyre, and how Saint Heimdall died in the same battle seven times and rose seven times. frёeweɓηovel_coɱ

The most extreme of magic casters, like Beatrix, were dogmatically null and agnostic, each with their own set of rational and irrational beliefs. While they might outwardly reject established religious doctrines or traditional magical practices, they often held steadfastly to their own unique and sometimes contradictory principles. For example, Beatrix, despite proclaiming the Saints as dead, still utilized components and rituals that seemed to draw power from similar sources, albeit with her own twisted interpretations. This could manifest as a reliance on personal superstitions, a belief in the power of specific objects or ingredients, or a commitment to unconventional magical theories that defied common understanding. Even in their rejection of established systems, these magic users created their own rigid frameworks of belief, demonstrating the human tendency to seek order and meaning, even in the face of the unknown.

Beatrix returned to Ian and then turned to the end table on the side before taking some items out from her magical storage.

"The scales of salt-water flying eel, heart blood from a stripling Tuskan, a lightning seed harvested during a storm at full moon, and the treasure of my collection..." Beatrix said as she extracted one item after the next until she arrived at something that resembled a tiny knife, "a soul sword from a fairy knight."

"Holy breeches of Arthur!" Valentine, who was sitting behind his desk lazily and watching how it all unfolded, stood up, pointing at the items Beatrix just forked out. "These are no less than 2,000,000 pounds’ worth of ingredients."

As soon as he said so, everyone in the room lost the ability to breathe automatically just as God intended, and all stared at Beatrix with wide eyes, Prince Liam and Edmond included.

"Oh, boy!" Ronald covered his face and shook his head while letting out a sigh.

"Here she goes." Even Matilda was shaking her head wryly at Beatrix’s actions.

As for the lady in question, she looked at them as if they were all simpletons.

"These are the most proper ingredients to heal such injuries, and for dear Ian’s case, this is far from ideal." She turned to Ian and found herself smiling with a strange blush growing on her face. "I am deeply sorry, dear Ian. I find myself lacking a dragonheart string; with it, the process would be much smoother."

"I... I don’t think that is necessary, really. Lady Matilda’s treatment was enough to get me right on my feet," Ian said, a bit flustered by the treatment he was getting... and about to get.

"..."

Beatrix became silent all of a sudden before slowly turning to Matilda, giving her a silent stare, then turned back to Ian.

"Does it mean..." she said, and her voice’s tone became much softer, "...that I am no longer needed?"

Ian was confused and shook his head.

"No, who would say that?" he said, putting on a smile. "We just... needed your magical expertise."

"Alright," she said, with her tone maintaining its soft new pitch. "I’ll see what I can do."

Beatrix seemed somewhat disheartened and was about to turn to the sword, but as she was doing so, she saw Prince Liam approach the end table, where she placed her precious materials, and he seemed to be extending his hand to grab one of the jars.

"Is that thing alive?" the Prince asked as he grabbed the jar of Tuskan heart blood. Little did he know that he had just invoked the wrath of thunder.

"TOUCH IT NOT, SON OF ARTHUR!"

A flash of lightning ripped through the shadows of the chamber, momentarily illuminating its dark corners. Then a voice, guttural with demonic resonance, erupted from her throat. It was not her voice, but a myriad screams of a thousand tormented souls, a legion of hellish whispers crammed into a single agonizing utterance.

It was as surprising as it was terrifying, and the Prince halted his hands with obvious shock, followed by clear anger in his eyes directed at Beatrix. In that peculiar situation, Ronald stepped forward and caught his sister by the shoulders, covering her eyes, and spoke softly in her left ear as she shivered lightly in his hands.

He let her go in a few seconds, and she opened her eyes slowly. Ronald spoke from behind her.

"Apologize to his highness," he said firmly.

"Your Highness," Beatrix spoke with her eyes fixed to the ground, "for my discourteous behavior, I beg for your forgiveness."

"Hmph!"

The Prince was still displeased as he turned away and did not reply, only to stand at the window behind Ian.

"Do what we brought you here for," Ronald said with impatience, watching Beatrix’s behavior turn meek and quiet as she grabs Edmond’s blade slowly and focuses on the blood of the Bloody Swan.

Little did they suspect that fate, a cruel mistress as it always had been, was preparing to unleash its most mischievous jest upon them. Blinded by arrogance, they scorned the likes of the Bloody Swan and Vivian Moore, yet their most fatal mistake lay in dismissing Beatrix Morgan. They saw only a girl consumed by obsession, a mind unhinged, never imagining that underestimating her would become their most imminent undoing and the gravest, most irreversible error they could ever commit.

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