The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis
Chapter 81: Get Out Of Her Way

Chapter 81: Get Out Of Her Way

Surrounded by screams and the rising stench of burning flesh, Zhu Deming rode into the heart of the Chixia army. The heat was staggering—dry and suffocating—clinging to his skin beneath layers of armor. His sword was already slick with blood, his breath ragged beneath the metal of his half-mask.

But still, he pushed forward. After all, there was no rest for the weary until the end.

And death, perhaps, was the only peaceful rest left.

Men broke around him like waves against stone, falling to his blade or something far worse. The mist—her mist—moved like a living thing across the field, curling between armor plates, slithering beneath helmets. It did not scream. It did not roar. It simply ended whatever it touched.

He didn’t know where she was, not at first.

Only that the fire came from somewhere ahead. And the silence. A terrifying, deliberate silence between bursts of carnage.

He pressed forward, his heart thudding in his chest—not with fear, but with certainty. She was here. Somewhere. Moving like a storm through chaos.

A Red Demon officer shouted for him to fall back.

However, Deming didn’t even turn his head. Instead, his eyes continued to scan the sea of bodies, hoping that he could see where she was.

He spotted her finally, just beyond the edge of a collapsed Yelan line—mist curling like fingers around her ankles, fire flickering in her wake. The green dress she wore had darkened to something near black, shimmering like wet obsidian as it clung to her form. Her hair was unbound, windless yet moving, threaded with ash and something darker.

She was not fighting.

She was walking.

And the battlefield bent around her.

He urged his horse forward. Another man, a Chixia soldier, charged him with a scream. Deming deflected the spear, twisted in his saddle, and buried his blade in the man’s throat. The body fell without resistance.

He didn’t stop to watch it drop.

An arrow hissed through the air.

Instinct took over. He flung himself from the saddle just before the shaft struck. It tore through the empty leather of his reins where his chest had been a heartbeat before. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and came up in a crouch.

The horse, terrified, galloped off without him.

Deming ignored the sting of dirt in his eyes, the ringing in his ears, and ran forward. To stop meant death, and while he had accepted it as a potential outcome, knowing that Zhao Xinying was on the battlefield changed things for him.

He had to get to her. To protect her. To keep her safe.

And then he had to go back and kill Shi Yaozu for letting her be put in danger.

She stood in the clearing now. And it was only a clearing because everything around her had fallen. The enemy no longer charged. They hung back in a circle around her and watched. Paralyzed. Afraid.

But still waiting for their moment to strike.

Even the fire seemed hesitant to burn too close.

Deming pushed forward, his sword dragging slightly behind him, forgotten. Her back was to him, her gaze locked on something far beyond the battlefield. The air around her shimmered like heat off black stone.

He moved without thought, boots sinking into blood-soaked earth. When he reached her, he didn’t speak.

He wrapped his arms around her.

She didn’t move. Her skin was fever-hot beneath his gauntlets. The mist didn’t lash at him. The fire didn’t rise. She allowed the contact—not like prey, not like a woman rescued—but like a queen permitting something rare.

"You’re safe now," he murmured into her hair, not knowing if it was for her or for himself. "I’ve got you."

Still, she didn’t speak.

But the mist paused. The fire settled. The weight of the battlefield seemed to shift, just slightly.

"I’ll always protect you."

The words were quiet. Meant for no one else.

But someone else heard.

"You really don’t get it," came a voice behind them.

Deming didn’t need to turn. He knew the voice. Flat. Sharp. Disapproving. Shi Yaozu stepped into view, both swords still drawn, both dripping with blood. His black sleeves were torn, his face streaked with blood and ash.

"She’s not the one who needs protecting," he said, tone matter-of-fact. "It’s not herself she’s worried about."

Yaozu’s gaze swept the field. "It’s us. If you didn’t insist on following order, she never would have had to come in after you."

Deming slowly stepped back. He looked at her again—not the girl who once tossed snide comments across a palace table, but the force of nature standing before him now. Her eyes were still gold. Her pupils didn’t seem to be human anymore. The mist curled protectively at her back, twitching like a beast ready to strike.

And she was calm.

Not detached. Not lost.

Focused.

She looked between them as if confirming they were still intact. Her hands didn’t tremble. Her breath didn’t hitch. She wasn’t unraveling.

She was in complete control.

"You’re both still alive," she said finally, voice dry, mildly exasperated—as if she were checking on misbehaving pets rather than men covered in blood.

"Barely," Yaozu replied, wiping his blade clean. "You took your time."

"If you want something done right..." she muttered, eyes drifting toward the front line. The remaining Chixia forces were backing up now, panicked. She raised a single hand.

The mist moved.

It didn’t surge—not at first. It slid. Targeted. Hungry. Men dropped, convulsing. Horses screamed. Arrows that flew at her turned midair, catching their own archers instead.

Deming didn’t reach for his sword.

Yaozu didn’t raise his guard.

They both stood where they were, letting her move ahead.

Shadow reappeared beside her, his tongue lolling out of the side of his eye and his yellow eyes glowing with happiness. He looked up at her once before sprinting toward the enemy.

She followed. Calm. Measured. Every step was deliberate. A coronation in blood.

The army didn’t collapse all at once.

It simply stopped being.

The Red Demons behind them began to advance, but now they moved more slowly, less confident. They were watching her just as much as the enemy was. Sun Longzi barked orders, pushing them forward, unwilling to lose momentum, but even he looked down at the battlefield and didn’t speak.

Deming turned slightly to Yaozu. "She really doesn’t stop."

"No," Yaozu said, eyes on the battlefield. "And thank the gods for that. Because neither do they."

He gestured to the reinforcements on the horizon—Chixia banners multiplying, more soldiers flooding in from the southern ridge.

Deming’s jaw tensed. "Then we hold."

Yaozu snorted. "No. She holds. We follow and hope to not get in her way."

And far ahead of them, where the screams had already begun again, Zhao Xinying carved open the battlefield with her mist, her fire, and her silence.