Chapter Twenty-One: Little Red Riding Hood and Granny Wolf (In Memory of the Worst Mosquito Push in History)

“Hey, is this the new roommate?”
The towering, burly figure slowly stepped into the circle of gaslight, his deep, rough voice echoing.
Carlos stared in astonishment as the shadow approached, growing clearer with each step, until an increasingly distinct face appeared before him. His expression turned peculiar.
A half-orc?
Standing before him was a robust man, nearly two meters tall, with skin so green it bordered on black. His eyes protruded slightly, their vacant gaze betraying a fierce, primal glare.
“Cook, stop scowling like that. You’ll scare the new roommate,”
Vivian, the girl, called out with a skip, bringing Carlos’s attention away from the imposing half-orc.
He lowered both the gas lamp and his gaze.
With a single glance, Carlos could tell the girl, Vivian, was an elf.
She seemed to have stepped straight out of a storybook illustration: a rosy, round face, dressed in a mauve embroidered skirt, golden hair cascading down her shoulders, her cloud-like locks revealing a pair of large, pointed, and charming ears. Her hands, as smooth as porcelain, rested on her waist, her face always alight with a smile.
Carlos’s eyes brimmed with curiosity, darting between Cook, who now wore a sheepish grin after Vivian’s scolding, and the obedient-looking elf girl, Vivian.
It took him a good while to recover.
Yet sensing their friendliness, his body relaxed, and his startled expression faded into a more natural composure.
“Hello, Carlos Stevenson. Pleased to meet you both,”
Carlos offered his hand politely.
Vivian’s smile never left her face. Seeing Carlos extend his right hand, she shyly let her own small hand briefly glide across his palm before quickly withdrawing, as though unaccustomed to human handshakes.
Cook, the big fellow, lumbered over like a moving mountain, confidently clasped Carlos’s hand with a grip like an iron hammer, and, with restraint, tapped it lightly with his fist.
Only now, in this moment of dazed clarity, did Carlos feel he had truly awakened from what seemed a feverish dream.
“Are you guests of Professor Dubois? Your rooms were locked before, why are you out now?”
Carlos wanted to ask, Weren’t you locked in the Elf Room and Orc Room? But thinking it might offend his new friends, he phrased it differently.
After all, these two seemed nothing like villains.
Vivian replied, “The four of us are just staying here temporarily. Ever since that troublesome witch started causing havoc again, Dubois hasn’t let us out.”
Cook echoed, “Yes, today is an exception.”
Carlos blinked, overwhelmed by the information—he needed to sort it out.

An elf, a half-orc, a human witch, and another creature whose eyes alone betrayed a massive beast—all residing in the home of an eccentric old alchemist, and apparently acquainted with one another.
“So… why are you all here at the same time?”
Carlos’s curiosity peaked.
Vivian answered, a bit vexed, “It’s all the fault of a rotten witch.”
Cook repeated, “Yes, a rotten, wicked witch.”
Carlos could only blink, bewildered.
When Carlos settled back onto the sofa, Vivian perched with her feet up on another, half-reclining comfortably, while the burly half-orc hunched over, sitting on the floor yet still towering above the other two.
Vivian began to recount the tale.
It happened a little over a month ago.
Deep within the Rodney Mountains lived a tribe of bright elves, their long pointed ears, bodies not much bigger than goblins, even smaller, and their temperaments lively and warm. Alongside them were clans of Rodney half-orcs, typically cold-natured, fond of eating raw beasts, brutish and rather foolish.
Vivian set the scene, describing the half-orcs as foolish, prompting Cook to wrinkle his brow and rub his bald, green head in protest.
In short, within the Rodney Mountains, they lived freely and happily until one day, a wicked witch appeared in the heart of the range.
Carlos listened intently, glancing up at the ceiling.
Was this wicked witch the one upstairs?
He didn’t dwell on it—Vivian’s story continued.
One day, Vivian wandered out of the elf village to play, and encountered an unusually cute human girl. Vivian had never seen a human, nor wondered why a fragile girl would appear in a beast-infested mountain. She warned her it was dangerous and urged her to leave quickly.
At first, the wicked witch was indifferent.
She ignored Vivian’s warning and left without a word.
But as Vivian, feeling dejected, planned to return to her village, the witch reappeared, claiming she was being hunted by a terrifying half-orc.
Carlos didn’t need to guess—the pursuer must have been Cook.
Hearing this part, Cook’s eyes widened like brass bells and he grumbled, “I told you she was a witch, but you wouldn’t believe me.”
Vivian glanced apologetically at the disgruntled half-orc, “Sorry, Cook.”
What happened next was simple.
Vivian, naive and kind-hearted, was easily deceived by the witch’s manipulation. In her homeland, Vivian was a gifted elven mage, effortlessly defeating the brute-force-only half-orc, Cook, and vowed to escort the seemingly frail witch out of the mountains, at least away from the patrolling half-orcs.
Cook became a hostage, and the three set off from the depths of the mountains, heading west toward the exit.

Along the way, Vivian learned the witch’s name: Meru Elindale, who claimed to be an intern from the Academy of Black Magic, gathering herbs and lost in the mountains with companions, accidentally straying into its depths.
But bumbling Cook knew it was all lies, for he had seen with his own eyes a pack of lesser magical beasts obediently surrounding the human girl, like pets.
As they journeyed west, Vivian started to worry, sensing her elven magic fading quickly—without the blessing of the elven forest, her powers diminished rapidly.
The rest, Carlos could guess with his eyes closed.
The witch dropped her benevolent facade, ambushing Vivian, who was unguarded and had lost most of her magic.
Carlos couldn’t help but sigh—
It was like an alternate version of the fairy tale of Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf.
Wasn’t the witch just the wolf in disguise?
“Why did you end up here, though? Did Professor Dubois suddenly appear and defeat the witch?”
Carlos was still full of questions.
Vivian shook her head, biting her lip, “We weren’t rescued by someone, but by a magical beast.”
“A magical beast?”
“Yes, an intelligent mutated beast. It broke the witch’s mind control spell over its kin and led them out of the mountains.”
Carlos’s eyes widened—
So the beast tide that swept out of the mountains was truly connected to a mage. Though witches differed from regular mages, they were essentially of the same ilk.
What shocked him even more was that the very people responsible for the chaos in Saltwell Town were gathered right under everyone’s noses, together in Dubois’s alchemy hut.
Carlos pointed at the stairs, whispering, “Is the room upstairs, labeled ‘Beast Chamber,’ home to that intelligent magical beast?”
Cook twisted his thick neck, “Once a beast gains intelligence, it’s disrespectful to call it ‘a beast.’”
Carlos asked, “What word would you use, then?”
The half-orc scratched his bald head with a massive hand, thought a long while, opened his mouth but seemed at a loss for words, staring blankly with wide eyes.
It seemed the question stumped him.
Carlos let it go and turned to Vivian for one last question.
“Vivian, why are you all here, exactly?”