The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 144: Purifying The Well

The air around the well seemed to hold its breath, as if the entire village was waiting for something grand to happen.

A mixture of awe, skepticism, and silent curiosity hung thick in the air. The villagers stood in tight clusters, eyes trained on Cyrus. Some whispered among themselves, others barely breathed.

Cyrus, standing just a few paces away from the well, extended his hands over the water, his posture calm and composed.

His fingers hovered above the surface, just a hair’s breadth from the clear liquid, and the faintest shimmer of light began to glimmer at the edges of his palms.

It wasn’t much at first—just a soft flicker, like a distant star trying to peek through the fog. But that small flicker grew, expanding slowly, gradually.

It was so subtle that most of the villagers didn’t even notice at first. It was as if the magic were a quiet pulse, something too soft and ethereal to be noticed unless you were paying close attention.

The tips of his fingers began to glow faintly, a soft white-blue light that stretched in wisps toward the water, like threads of moonlight being drawn down to touch the surface. Still, no one dared move. Not even a whisper broke the air.

Isabella stood off to the side, watching with narrowed eyes. She felt something stir in her chest, a strange mixture of admiration and... something else she couldn’t quite place.

Despite knowing that Cyrus had the power to use magic, seeing it with her own eyes was different. There was something almost serene about the way he approached it—no rush, no arrogance, just a quiet determination.

Opehlia, standing beside Isabella, was wide-eyed, her mouth slightly agape as she watched the scene unfold. She was in awe, not just of the magic but of Cyrus’ composure.

He didn’t even seem to notice the way the villagers watched him like he was some sort of miracle. He was so... ordinary in his demeanor, yet the magic spilling from his hands was far from ordinary.

"Is he really doing it?" Opehlia whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Isabella didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she turned her attention back to the magic, her thoughts shifting.

Cyrus was quiet, but his power was undeniable. It wasn’t even the intensity of the magic that was striking—no, it was the way he made it look so effortless.

So calm. It was like he was weaving something delicate and intricate, but he wasn’t worried about it. He was just... doing it.

The murmurs around them grew louder. More and more villagers began to whisper amongst themselves, their voices a soft hum in the background, but their gazes never wavered from Cyrus.

"Impossible... He’s using magic?" one of the older men muttered under his breath.

"I thought he was just a weakling... How is he doing this?" another villager asked, the words barely more than a hushed whisper.

"I’ve never seen anyone without stripes able to use magic," came the voice of a woman, her tone dripping with disbelief. "Not even half of the strong Beastmen can do it."

"There’s something strange about him," another whispered. "He doesn’t look like he has any markings, yet here he is, using magic like it’s nothing."

Isabella caught snippets of their words. It wasn’t surprising that they were reacting this way—magic was rare in this village. Rare and almost mythical.

Most people, including the villagers, had long ago given up on the idea of cultivating magic for themselves.

The thought that someone like Cyrus—someone who came from nothing—could possess such power was mind-boggling.

Isabella’s lips twitched in an almost imperceptible smile. She didn’t care about the whispers.

She had always known that Cyrus was different. There was something about him that was beyond simple appearances.

It was why she had never doubted his ability to use magic. But even so, seeing him work his magic was still something special.

Opehlia shifted beside her, still staring in amazement at Cyrus. "How is he... doing it?" she asked, her voice barely above a breath. "He’s so... calm. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing."

Isabella glanced over at her, her eyes softening. "He’s a mystery," she said quietly. "But that’s part of what makes him... Cyrus."

Opehlia opened her mouth to respond, but her words were swallowed by the growing intensity of the scene before them.

The light from Cyrus’ hands brightened, expanding further, and the water in the well shimmered.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the murky surface seemed to clear. The thick, dark liquid began to ripple, its color slowly lightening, as if Cyrus’ magic were coaxing it to purify itself.

It was a painstaking process. There was no flash of bright light, no explosion of power. Just steady, subtle magic, working its way into the well.

Isabella’s gaze flickered between the water and Cyrus. She was impressed by how methodical he was, how patient.

He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing too hard. He was letting the magic take its time, letting the well heal at its own pace.

As the minutes ticked by, Isabella couldn’t help but feel the weight of the villagers’ silent eyes.

They were still whispering, still incredulous. It was clear that they had never seen anything like this before.

Isabella couldn’t help but feel a little proud. Proud of Cyrus, proud of herself for seeing through all the doubt.

In a place where no one believed in magic anymore, Cyrus was proving them all wrong.

And for a brief moment, Isabella allowed herself to feel a surge of warmth—of satisfaction. She had chosen well. She had believed in him when no one else would.

As the minutes passed, something else caught Isabella’s attention. Glimora, who had been quiet for some time now, was standing still beside her.

The little creature was staring intently at Isabella, her big, blue eyes wide and full of adoration.

She was completely silent, her small body motionless, except for the slight swish of her tail.

Isabella couldn’t help but chuckle at how focused Glimora was. "What’s up, Glimora?" she asked, looking down at her little companion.

The creature blinked, her gaze never leaving Isabella’s. The way Glimora was staring at her was so intense, so pure, that Isabella couldn’t help but smile.

It was a look of utter admiration, as if Glimora saw her as the greatest thing in the world.

"Are you... still watching me?" Isabella asked teasingly, her voice soft but playful.

Glimora let out a little huff, her tail flicking once before she finally took a small step forward, gently nuzzling against Isabella’s leg.

Isabella giggled, leaning down to scratch behind Glimora’s ears. The little creature purred, closing her eyes in contentment.

"You’re such a good girl," Isabella cooed, her heart swelling with affection for her pet. "My little star."

Without thinking, Isabella leaned down and kissed Glimora on the nose, a quick, soft peck that made the creature’s tail wag happily. Glimora chirped in response, clearly pleased, before sitting back down on her haunches, still keeping her gaze fixed on Isabella.

Opehlia, watching the interaction, smiled fondly. "You two are really something else," she muttered to herself, her eyes softening as she watched the bond between Isabella and her pet.

The scene was peaceful, a strange contrast to the tense, whispering villagers, and for a moment, Isabella allowed herself to be caught in the simplicity of it.

The magic, the bond with Glimora, the strange but comforting presence of Cyrus nearby—it was enough to make her forget the doubts and the whispering for just a second.

But the moment didn’t last long. The faint hum of Cyrus’ magic grew louder as the purification process neared its end. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

The water in the well was pure clear now, the last traces of any dirt fading away as the magic continued its work.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Cyrus stopped. He lowered his hands, and the light around his fingers dissipated.

With a calm and measured expression, he turned toward Isabella. "It’s done," he said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of pride in his quiet tone.

The villagers, who had been watching in silent awe, now turned their eyes toward Isabella, awaiting her next words. She was the one they looked to for judgment. And she knew that whatever came next would change everything.