Wednesday stared at him, dark pupils seeming to churn with undercurrents.
She had to admit that the insight and logic Victor was displaying now were completely different from his usual madness.
This contrast was more... alarming, and also more intriguing, than pure insanity.
"The first scenario has a lower probability," she said slowly, her voice like shards of ice clinking together. "If last night's was a fake, his psychokinesis is unexplainable, and his murderous intent toward me was too genuine."
"Therefore," Victor picked up, his smile deepening, "we lean toward the second scenario. The Headmistress, or someone she appointed, played 'Rowan' to cover up a murder that had already occurred."
"A murder they may or may not have known about, but absolutely cannot allow to be exposed," Wednesday added, her gaze icy.
Victor picked up the crocodile wood carving again, his fingertips rubbing its cold wooden scales.
"It seems," he said softly, his tone carrying a dangerous excitement, "our game has gained another layer of obstruction."
Victor noticed the rare, subtle agitation on Wednesday's face, born from the interrupted clue.
He looked at it a few more times, like admiring an interesting crack appearing on a precious piece of art.
"It seems the detective lady's investigation has hit a little snag?" Victor's voice held a hint of teasing.
"Usually at times like these," he drawled slowly, like a magician preparing to reveal his trump card, "the loyal Watson never lets his Holmes down."
He reached into Venom's seemingly bottomless body, rummaged around, then triumphantly pulled out an object—a pair of black-framed glasses.
One of the lenses was shattered, the temples were slightly bent, and the frame even had a few spots of long-dried, darkened blood that were hard to notice.
Wednesday's eyes widened slightly, a flash of genuine surprise passing through her cold pupils.
"Rowan's glasses," she immediately recognized.
"Bingo!" Victor snapped his fingers, and Venom obligingly formed a small applauding hand on his shoulder. "A souvenir I picked up last night. How about it? More practical than a chocolate-flavored surprise?"
This time, Wednesday didn't retort with venomous sarcasm, nor did she withhold her approval.
She gave Victor a deep, inscrutable look, but it did contain a trace of... appreciation.
"Well done, Watson," her voice remained flat, but the weight behind it made Victor's smile grow even brighter.
She reached out and carefully took the damaged glasses. The cold metal frame touched her fingertips, and almost instantly, the familiar, uncomfortable buzzing sensation washed over her!
The dormitory scene before her instantly distorted, faded, and collapsed!
[Psychic Vision]
She saw Rowan alone in an empty classroom, arguing agitatedly with the air, his eyes fanatical and fearful, repeatedly muttering "prophecy," "destruction," "must stop her."
The scene shifted. She saw Rowan hiding in the shadows of an academy building, veins bulging on his forehead, hands trembling with strain, using his telekinetic ability to laboriously, bit by bit, pry loose the base of that gargoyle statue!
His target was clear—the unsuspecting Wednesday passing directly below!
The scene changed again. This time, it was in a dimly lit place smelling of old paper and dust—the non-public library section?
Rowan skulked to the dense bookshelves. With a trembling hand, he summoned a book, a thick, ancient-looking tome bound in deep purple.
He opened it and carefully tore out a page. That page was precisely the prophetic painting depicting Wednesday holding a sword before the burning academy!
Just as Rowan closed the book, Wednesday's "vision" suddenly focused! She clearly saw that on the page before the torn one, there seemed to be the lingering shadow of another prophetic image!
More importantly, she saw the cover of that deep purple book, embossed with a clear, unique watermark—an elegant yet deadly-looking Nightshade plant.
[Psychic Vision Ends]
Wednesday jerked her hand back. She took a deep breath, her pale face even more bloodless from the mental impact, but her eyes were shining brightly.
"Found it!" Wednesday said in a low voice, carrying a suppressed excitement and icy certainty.
However, this declaration did not echo in the cold air but was uttered against a warm "background wall" carrying a faint sweet scent of chocolate and the fresh fragrance of pine.
The dizziness from the psychic vision receded like a tide, and her senses of reality rapidly returned.
Wednesday first felt the firm support of an arm holding the back of her head and spine steady.
And... almost her entire upper body leaning against someone's chest.
The body heat transmitted through the fabric was exceptionally clear.
She snapped her eyes open. Victor's magnified face filled her vision.
He was looking down at her. Those eyes that always danced with a mad light now held a trace of lingering concern, but more so, a playful amusement.
"Good morning?" Victor joked, his exhaled breath gently brushing her forehead.
"Seriously, next time you decide to have a psychic vision, could you find a safe place to lie down first? Or give me a heads-up to lay out a mat? At least don't just stand there and fall backward. My poor heart can't take that kind of surprise."
Only then did Wednesday realize she must have briefly fainted from the mental impact after the vision ended, or at least staggered backward, and had been caught squarely by Victor.
She immediately jerked away from his embrace as if scalded, straightening up and quickly putting distance between them, her movements so fast they stirred a breeze.
She swiftly adjusted her already immaculate collar and hair, trying to erase all traces of the forced close contact.
"I'll consider it."
She replied coldly, her tone flat and unruffled, as if she had merely accidentally leaned against a pillar.
Yet, beneath her icy, composed exterior, the organ in her chest was disobeying most inconveniently, beating with an abnormally intense, rapid, and heavy thumping, loud enough to almost deafen her own ears.
This unfamiliar, uncontrolled physiological reaction gave her a slight pause.
Arrhythmia? Wednesday frowned suspiciously inwardly. An aftereffect of the psychic vision? Or some unknown supernatural attack?
She quickly ruled out poisoning and injury, discreetly placing her fingertips on her wrist to measure—the rate was too fast, but the rhythm was regular.
Not arrhythmia. Just... simple acceleration.
Why?
Her gaze subconsciously flicked toward Victor's arm that had just held her, then swiftly away.
Absurd.
She immediately sternly refuted this utterly illogical association in her mind. It must be due to excessive psychic exertion, a temporary dysregulation of the sympathetic nervous system.
Needs to be recorded and observed. Administer heart rate regulating medication if necessary.
She forcibly pulled her attention back to the matter at hand, tossing Rowan's glasses back to Victor, deliberately putting a bit more force into the motion, as if she could shake off that unexpected interlude along with it.
"The source of that book," she repeated stiffly, trying to drown out the annoying heartbeat with information. "A purple book with a Nightshade watermark, hidden in a non-public library section. That's where Rowan got the prophetic painting."
She looked at Victor, forcing her eyes to rekindle the flame of the hunt.
"I know what to do next," she said, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt, almost eagerly heading for the door, trying to leave those few seconds of loss of control completely behind.
"Need help, detective lady? I promise to be as quiet as a piece of chocolate—silent but sweet!"
"No," Wednesday refused swiftly, even with a trace of barely perceptible finality. "I'll go alone."
She paused, seeming to think her tone was too harsh, and added another icy sentence, more like convincing herself:
"More people mean a bigger target. Solo action better adheres to stealth principles."
With that, Wednesday opened the dorm door and walked out quickly.
She practically speed-walked through the corridor.
The cold air brushed her cheeks but couldn't lower the inexplicably elevated body temperature or the still somewhat disordered heartbeat in her chest.
I need to be alone.
She emphasized again in her heart. I need absolute quiet to analyze and strip away this utterly useless physiological interference. That embrace... that warm, solid embrace carrying a strange yet not unpleasant scent... She shook her head sharply, as if she could shake that sensation out of her memory.