The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis

I hadn't stopped grinning since I changed into a dry robe—still green, still indecent, but at least no longer clinging to my skin like a second one.

Shi Yaozu walked ahead of me in silence, dragging the unconscious assassin over his shoulder like a sack of rice. I followed two steps behind, practically floating, while Zhu Mingyu walked beside me, lips pressed into a grim line, his hand occasionally twitching like he wanted to pull me back by the elbow.

He didn't, though. Because he knew it wouldn't work.

"I don't think you understand how excited I am," I whispered as we turned down an unfamiliar hallway. "Secret chambers? Torture rooms? Forbidden hallways in the dead of night? This is everything I ever wanted."

"You should want a quiet life," he muttered.

"I should want a lot of things," I replied, my voice laced with amusement. "Doesn't mean I do."

He glanced at me sideways, his eyes trailing down the slope of my neck, across the slight part of the robe where it crossed my chest. His jaw tightened. "You shouldn't be here."

"And yet…" I smiled sweetly. "Here I am."

The entrance was through his private study—a room I hadn't been invited into before. Dark polished floors, scrolls in neat rows along the back wall, and a single low desk surrounded by silk cushions.

Yaozu dropped the assassin onto the stone floor with a wet thud and then turned to a large calligraphy scroll hanging along the back. One firm push against the wood behind it and a dull click echoed through the room.

A section of the wall slid open.

My breath caught.

It wasn't dramatic—not like a trapdoor or a grand descent into hell. But it was secret, and that was almost better. The stone behind it led into a narrow stairwell, disappearing into the earth like a throat waiting to be swallowed.

Mingyu held out a hand. "You don't have to come."

I took his hand in mine and brushed my lips across his knuckles. "You're adorable when you pretend I listen to you."

He didn't argue after that.

The stairs were steep and slick with damp, carved directly into the foundation stone. The further we descended, the more the air changed—less perfume, more mildew. Less polished civility, more something else.

Darker. Older.

Real.

At the bottom, a single iron-barred door stood slightly ajar. Beyond it, the chamber opened wide—rough stone walls, iron rings bolted into rock, and a single table lined with old tools and folded cloths. A large brazier in the center gave off a low, orange light. The smell of metal and something burnt hung in the air.

"Charming," I breathed.

Yaozu dropped the man against one of the stone columns and chained him up without ceremony. The assassin groaned once but didn't rouse. His head hung low, blood still dripping from his mouth.

"Let me guess," I murmured, circling slowly around the room. "No name. No crest. Just another blade in the night."

Mingyu sat in a high-backed wooden chair, carved with imperial dragons along the arms. I hadn't noticed it before. It didn't match the rest of the chamber—it looked like it belonged in a throne room, not a prison.

I circled behind him and perched myself on the armrest, legs tucked up casually, my robe falling open just enough to make his throat tighten again. I will fully admit, a nipple slip was entirely possible, and I wouldn't be overly upset either.

"Don't make that face," I said softly. "You're the one with a secret dungeon. I'm just admiring your… decor."

Yaozu knelt in front of the assassin, his voice low and cold. "Who sent you?"

No answer.

Yaozu pulled out a thin blade from his belt and slid it under the man's chin, lifting his face into the brazier light. His eyes were swollen. His lips already cracked.

Still, he said nothing.

"You got lucky," Yaozu murmured. "She was in a good mood tonight."

The assassin smiled, barely a twitch, blood staining his teeth.

"I've broken stronger men," Yaozu said. "I'm happy to start with you."

Still nothing.

Yaozu didn't stop at the throat.

He shifted the blade in his hand—small, wickedly sharp, the kind used for skinning meat rather than slicing clean. Without a word, he dragged the edge across the man's cheek. A shallow line. Just enough to split the skin and draw a fresh bead of blood.

Still, the assassin said nothing.

Another slice followed. A matching cut on the other cheek. Blood ran in uneven rivers down the man's jawline, dripping onto his collarbone.

Yaozu moved like a surgeon. No flourish. No emotion.

"You're not protecting anything noble," he murmured, pressing the knife into the man's shoulder. "Your master would slit your throat the second you failed."

A deeper cut this time—down the length of the man's arm, from bicep to elbow. Not fatal, but painful. The kind of wound that stung for days and left the nerves raw. The man grunted but didn't scream.

"You know," Yaozu continued, voice calm, "if you scream, we stop. For a little while. It's like a reward."

He stabbed the man's thigh.

A clean, hard thrust—not deep enough to sever anything vital, but more than enough to make him flinch and gasp, teeth clenched.

Still… silence.

"Stubborn," Yaozu muttered, stepping back. "Maybe that's admirable."

Or maybe it was stupid.

I glanced over at Mingyu, trying to gauge his reaction. He watched. The kind of watching that kings did, even if he wasn't officially wearing a crown yet.

I watched, too. But I was starting to grow bored.

"Men like him don't talk easily," I said, leaning down so my breath brushed Mingyu's ear. "They think they're the ones holding power because silence is a choice."

"And breaking them is yours?" he asked, voice tight.

I shrugged. "Depends on how long you want to wait."

Mingyu looked up at me—truly looked—and I could see the faint flicker of something behind his eyes. Not fear. But understanding.

Yaozu pressed the knife deeper, and the assassin finally hissed—but still didn't speak.

I sighed and slid from the armrest to the floor, landing without a sound. My feet were bare against the cold stone, and I didn't flinch as I stepped into a sticky patch of blood or crossed over an old, half-scrubbed stain.

I moved slow.

Purposeful.

Green silk dragging behind me like ivy creeping across a corpse.

The assassin didn't react until I was right in front of him. My shadow fell over his bound form. His eyes flickered upward, glazed but aware.

"You really should have opened your mouth when Yaozu was asking you so politely," I purred.

I crouched, my fingers trailing down the side of his ruined cheek, across a gash he'd earned either from me or the table. I wasn't sure which.

"I'm afraid," I whispered, "that I'm really not so nice."