Chapter 4
1594words
Her expression froze.
Her arms were utterly empty—not just the purse gone, but not even a single thread remained.
"Where's my money?"
After a moment of stunned silence, an ear-splitting shriek erupted through the void.
"WHERE—IS—MY—MONEY?!" She roared like a wounded lioness at the empty expanse. "My hard-earned consulting fee! That massive bag of gold! Did you fucking eat it?!"
The witch materialized before her, expression as impassive as ever.
"Matter cannot cross world barriers. This is a fundamental law."
"I don't give a damn about your fundamental laws! I've been robbed! This is fraud!" Anastasia jabbed her finger at the witch's face. "I want to file a complaint! Who's your manager? I demand to speak with them! I want labor arbitration! Why did my earnings just vanish?!"
"Your earnings haven't vanished," the witch explained with practiced patience. "They've been converted to Correction Points and deposited in your account. Those 150 points constitute your actual compensation."
"Can Correction Points buy designer gowns? Can I exchange them for gold?" Anastasia stomped her foot in fury. "What's the exchange rate between points and actual money? One-to-one? One-to-ten?"
"Correction Points are your sole means of survival. They have no exchange rate."
"So you're telling me that after risking my neck, all I get is worthless video game points?" Anastasia finally grasped the full picture. She felt like an intern scammed into unpaid labor, and her rage boiled over. "No way! For the next job, I want something tangible I can actually keep! Otherwise, I'm on strike!"
"Excellent. This demonstrates your evolving understanding of mission incentives." The witch seemed to deliberately misinterpret her threat, nodding with satisfaction. "Prepare for your next assignment."
"I said I'm going on str—"
Anastasia's protest died as a new scene materialized before her.
A bleak landscape appeared—skeletal villagers with vacant eyes sat outside crude huts, the entire settlement draped in the heavy cloak of starvation.
"New world: 'The Candy House,'" the witch announced, beginning the briefing.
"Background: Three years of famine have rendered the land barren."
"Core Darkness: Deep in the forest, a witch constructed a gingerbread house to lure starving, lost children—whom she consumes."
"Mission Objective: Prevent the witch from killing Hansel and Gretel."
As Anastasia absorbed the briefing, her anger morphed into profound contempt.
"Eating children?" she scoffed as if hearing the most idiotic concept imaginable. "I've seen dumb business models, but this takes the cake. First, it's one-and-done—zero repeat customers. Second, the meat-to-effort ratio on kids is pathetic—barely worth the trouble. Finally, the risk exposure and potential blowback are astronomical! Did this witch suffer brain damage?"
"Your analytical framework is... unique," the witch remarked after a pause. "Now apply that unique perspective to solve the problem."
Before she could respond, Anastasia was engulfed by the now-familiar vertigo. This time she didn't even bother screaming, focused on a single thought—this time she WOULD secure some tangible assets!
She opened her eyes to air thick with dust and mildew that triggered a coughing fit. She stood on a dirt path in a crumbling village. The locals—all gaunt and jaundiced—regarded her with dead-eyed stares.
"Tsk, definitely not prime real estate," she muttered disdainfully, brushing imaginary dust from her clothes.
From a nearby ramshackle hut came the sound of hushed argument.
"...We've used the last pinch of flour! If we don't get rid of those two brats, should all four of us starve together?" a shrill female voice demanded.
"But they're my children..." a man replied, anguish evident in his voice.
"Can we eat children? Tomorrow you'll take them deep into the forest and leave them! It's our only chance!"
Anastasia listened without a flicker of empathy. She straightened her dress and marched directly toward the cottage.
The door groaned open, startling the quarreling couple. They stared fearfully at this well-dressed stranger who seemed utterly out of place in their destitute village.
Anastasia's gaze swept past the hard-faced stepmother to settle on the troubled woodcutter.
She lifted her chin and spoke with deliberate condescension, as if offering a rare gift:
"I have a proposition that will keep you and your children fed for the foreseeable future."
A spark of desperate hope flickered in the woodcutter's eyes.
"However," Anastasia's lips curved into a calculating smile, "my services aren't free. Care to hear more?"
The woodcutter and his hard-faced wife gaped at the well-dressed woman before them, momentarily speechless.
"Fee?" the woodcutter finally managed.
"Naturally." Anastasia folded her arms with an air of self-evidence. "My time and expertise are valuable commodities. However, given your dire financial situation, I can offer what we call an 'angel investment' arrangement."
"Angel... investment?"
"It means I won't demand payment upfront," Anastasia removed her least valuable hairpin and tossed it onto the table. "Consider this a deposit. You'll do two things for me: First, guide me and my 'sister' to the legendary gingerbread house in the forest. Second, afterward, spread word throughout the village about a benevolent fairy living in the forest whose candy house can feed everyone."
"But that's a child-eating witch!" the woodcutter gasped in horror.
"That was the old business model. We're rebranding," Anastasia waved dismissively. "Don't overthink it—just follow instructions. When we're done, I guarantee your family will have meat on the table daily."
Under the irresistible promise of regular meals with actual meat, the woodcutter relented. He led Anastasia and his two children—Hansel and Gretel—into the shadowy forest.
Deep in the woods, they discovered a small cottage constructed entirely of candy, cookies, and chocolate, its cloying sweetness hanging heavy in the air.
"It's real!" Hansel and Gretel gasped in unison, eyes wide and mouths watering as they prepared to rush forward.
"Freeze!" Anastasia snatched them back by their collars.
She approached the cottage herself and, like a professional appraiser, rapped on the wall, broke off a piece of chocolate window frame, and sampled it with deliberate consideration.
"Hmm..." She smacked her lips like a sommelier. "Roughly seventy percent cocoa butter content, silky mouthfeel, though the finish is slightly bitter. The gingerbread has excellent structural integrity—viable as actual building material, indicating superior baking technique. Overall, the product shows strong market potential."
Just then, the cottage door creaked open, revealing an elderly woman with a deeply lined face and predatory eyes. Spotting the children, her gaze instantly sharpened with hunger, her face contorting into a rigid approximation of warmth.
"Sweet children, are you lost? Come inside quickly—I have endless treats for you."
"Stay put." Anastasia thrust her arm protectively before the children, then turned to the witch with a practiced, professional smile.
"Good afternoon, madam."
The witch eyed her suspiciously. "Who are you?"
"Just a business consultant passing through." Anastasia's smile brightened several watts. "I've sampled your 'product,' and the flavor profile is exceptional. However, if I may be candid—"
Her smile vanished instantly, replaced by withering contempt.
"—your business model is absolute garbage!"
The witch blinked in shock. In centuries of existence, she'd never encountered such an assessment.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Am I wrong?" Anastasia launched into her critique like a merciless efficiency expert. "Your target demographic is children—smart choice, the youth market is incredibly lucrative. But your execution? You capture your customers, fatten them up, then consume them! It's the most asinine customer relationship management I've ever witnessed! One-time transactions, zero repeat business, and flagrant regulatory violations across all jurisdictions. Your liability exposure is off the charts!"
The witch looked dazed by this barrage of incomprehensible terminology.
"I... I was just hungry," she stammered.
"Hunger is no excuse for a failed business model!" Anastasia fired back. "You're sitting on a renewable resource that produces high-calorie, addictive confections, yet you're fixated on the most inefficient, primitive 'hunting' strategy imaginable! You're disgracing the noble profession of witchcraft!"
"Then... what would you suggest?" the witch asked, unconsciously drawn into the conversation.
"Complete brand reinvention!" Anastasia snapped her fingers decisively. "Starting today, you're no longer some backwoods cannibal—you're the founder and executive pastry chef of 'Aunt Griselda's Enchanted Confectionery'!"
"Gri... what?"
"Listen!" Anastasia launched into her business pitch. "What's happening outside? Famine! Mass starvation! We'll package your confections as premium products and sell them in the village! Not as luxury items—as fast-moving consumer goods with thin margins but massive volume! We'll corner the entire famine-relief market with magical candy!"
"You and I," she pointed first at herself, then at the witch, "will build an empire that monopolizes the entire region's confectionery supply! You'll amass mountains of gold, acquire multiple castles, employ armies of servants! Take daily milk baths! Why hide in this miserable forest eating children when you could live like royalty?"
The witch's breathing quickened, and for the first time, a spark of ambition ignited in her cloudy eyes. Yet doubt lingered.
"Why... why should I trust you?"
"Because I can make you rich." Anastasia's tone carried absolute conviction. "And because you have no alternatives. Do you want to continue this miserable existence—constantly hunted, never knowing when your next meal arrives—or join me and become a respected, legitimate, obscenely wealthy... businesswoman?"
She extended her hand to the witch.
"Trust me, my friend. Hunger makes you a monster. Greed makes us partners."
The witch looked from Anastasia to the confused children behind her, as if seeing reflections of her own countless hungry nights. Finally, her heart—dormant for centuries and reduced to mere hunger—awakened to a more primal yet sophisticated desire.
She slowly extended her gnarled hand and clasped Anastasia's...
