The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis Chapter 104: The King Behind the Curtain

The bleeding girl had barely been carried out when the entire mood of the brothel shifted.

The Madam’s painted smile faded into sothing tighter. Her pupils dilated—not in fear, but in recognition. Around us, the dancers froze mid-step. The guards who had moved to flank the room stopped without being told, their hands lifting subtly away from their blades.

Everyone was still, except for one boy.

He appeared without sound, a waif of a thing with wide eyes and robes too big for his limbs. No one had seen him enter. One blink and he was at the Madam’s side, whispering sothing into her ear that made the color drain from her face.

Then he turned toward .

"The King of Hell will see you now," the boy said, bowing low before vanishing back into the shadows he’d crawled out of.

The Madam swallowed hard. "Second floor. End of the left corridor. Do not touch anything."

I didn’t reply. I simply walked.

Shi Yaozu followed in silence, though I could feel his unease tightening behind every step.

The corridors weren’t designed for comfort—they were ant to disorient. One turn beca another, and each wall was draped in violet silks that rippled like water, giving the illusion of motion where there was none. Music drifted in from unseen sources: not the flirtatious strings of the lower floors, but sothing slower. Lower. Almost intimate.

We reached a tall lacquered door with golden edges and a mural of twin foxes curled in a yin-yang embrace across its center.

Shi Yaozu raised a hand to knock, but the door opened before he could.

Warm air spilled out, rich with perfu and spice and sothing sharper beneath it... sothing that made my nose wrinkle.

Inside, the room was dim—lit by hanging lanterns in red and violet hues. Silk hung from the ceiling like jungle vines. Incense burned in tall, spiraling braziers. And in the center, sprawled lazily across a throne-like chair draped in fur and velvet, sat the man they called Yan Luo.

He was shirtless.

Silk sleeves fell loose from his shoulders, his robe pooled around his waist. A single gold chain hung from one ear, catching the light as he turned his head. His skin was a shade paler than I expected, unmarred, but his body was lean with the wiry strength of soone used to violence. Tattoos curled like smoke over his ribs and shoulder, inked in black and crimson. His dark hair was tousled, as though he hadn’t bothered to fix it—or had just co from soone else’s bed.

One leg was draped over the arm of his chair. The other rested lazily against the floor, toes bare, a wine cup balanced perfectly on the edge of his knee.

And his eyes—his eyes were not what I expected.

They were warm brown. Amused. Alert. Dangerous. Not cold, not cruel, but sharp with a kind of cunning that couldn’t be taught.

"Now this," he purred, voice rich and slow, "is not what I expected."

I didn’t answer him right away.

He grinned, teeth white against his dark lips. "The Witch of the West. In my house. Uninvited, unannounced, and already putting knives into my girls. You really do live up to your reputation."

He shifted in his seat, the robe sliding further down his shoulder like it had a mind of its own. "You’re bold. That’s good. I like bold things. They’re more fun to break."

I raised a brow, utterly unimpressed. "You’re not the first man who’s tried."

He laughed—soft, indulgent, and genuine. "Mm. I imagine I’m not. But I do believe I’m the first who’s offered you wine and a seat instead of a collar."

He gestured to a low chaise across from him. "Sit. I insist."

I walked past Yaozu and took the seat, legs crossed, hands in my lap. I didn’t lounge. I didn’t fawn. I simply existed there—still and silent in his den of shadows.

"I’ve heard things about you," he murmured, leaning forward slightly. "That you walk with mist in your veins and leave ruin in your wake. That you’ve buried whole battalions and burned warhorses to ash. That your smile is a curse, and your touch is death."

He tilted his head, studying like a curious collector. "But you don’t look like death. You look like a storm that hasn’t broken yet. And I like storms."

"Is that why you agreed to see ?" I asked. "Because of the rumors?"

"I agreed to see you," he said, swirling his cup, "because no one marches into my house, bleeds one of my girls, threatens my Madam, and lives unless I find them interesting."

He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "And you, little ghost, are fascinating."

I t his gaze evenly. "Then let return the favor. I’ve heard of you too. That you rule the black markets like a god. That you kill with a smile and never leave a body where it can be found. That the nobles call you a stain, and the beggars call you a saint. That even the Emperor’s dogs can’t sniff you out."

He chuckled again, the sound like a warm blade drawn from silk. "All true. But flattery isn’t necessary, my dear."

I shrugged. "Wasn’t ant as flattery. Just an observation."

Sothing sparked in his eyes then—like fire caught briefly in glass. "You really aren’t afraid of , are you?"

"No," I said honestly. "I’ve t the King of Hell. And you’re not her."

The room went silent.

Then slowly, his grin returned, wider this ti.

"Delicious," he whispered. "Absolutely delicious."

He took a long sip from his cup, then set it aside.

"So tell , Witch. If I’m not the King of Hell, what am I?"

I tilted my head. "Soone useful. Possibly soone who knows what’s happening in Baiguang. Soone who can get answers."

Yan Luo rose from his seat in one slow, sensual movent, letting the robe slip even further down his torso. He was the picture of leisure—of control disguised as carelessness.

He ca to stand just in front of , towering without crowding, his voice soft as velvet.

"And what makes you think I’ll give them to you?"

I t his gaze. "Because I’m not here as a beggar."

He blinked. "No?"

"No." I stood, now eye-level with him. "I’m here as a storm."

The air shifted between us. The ga had begun.

And neither of us intended to lose.