Is It Weird for a Guy to Apply to a Witch School?

After that first shift, I’d gotten the rundown on my two seniors—Ying Shiqian and Tang Yihan—and we’d clicked enough to swap some basics.

It turned out they’d both finished Witch School. Not graduated, mind you—finished.

There was a difference, and they’d made sure I understood it loud and clear.

Here was the deal with Witch School: it was a decade-long haul.

First, you had three years of standard classes—your basic witchy boot camp.

Then you picked a mentor, figured out your specialty, and spent five years shadowing them.

After that, it was two years of solo research on a topic you chose.

If you nailed it in time, you were done—officially “finished.”

Ten years, start to finish, just to call it quits.

But graduating? That was a whole other beast.

To graduate, you had to hit transcendence—become a full-on transcendent witch. It didn’t matter which phase you were in—year one or year nine—if you pulled it off, the school threw you a cap and gown and called it a day.

“Want to stick around and keep studying after?” they’d say. Fine, you could. The point was, transcendence was the golden ticket for graduation.

I was miles away from that.

Meanwhile, Ying Shiqian and Tang Yihan had their completion certificates in hand, which let them hang out at Witch School indefinitely if they wanted.

If you didn’t finish that final research project, though? Tough luck. You didn’t lose your mana core.

No worries, it would still be in you for life—but you were banned from using it.

Still, even that wasn’t a total wash. A dud mana core was useless to you, but it was gold to the freshmen. Plenty of newbies would’ve forked over cash or resources to get one.

So yeah, those two might not have graduated, but they were set for life—cozy and connected.

That chat had opened my eyes to the game I’d stumbled into. It also cranked up the pressure.

I’d been out there solo, no family, no stash of resources. What if I couldn’t even finish, let alone graduate? That would’ve been a disaster—total embarrassment for a transmigrator like me. I’d be the transmigrator who flunked out. Ugh.

Bored out of my mind, I’d slumped over the front counter, elbows on the register.

There’d still been no customers. Seriously, how had this bakery not gone under? The only action we’d gotten was the occasional delivery girl swinging by for a pickup.

I’d handed off a boxed red velvet cake to one of them—a harried senior who’d barely glanced at me.

Before I could’ve even mustered a “Have a good one,” she’d checked the order and bolted, leaving me with my awkward, plastered-on customer-service smile.

“Senior Tang,” I’d said, sidling up to Tang Yihan as she cleaned up. “Why’s this place so dead?”

She doesn’t look up from scrubbing her mixing bowls. “Fewer people, less work. What’s the problem?”

“Huh. Fair point,” I’d said, nodding.

She hadn’t been wrong—quiet shifts meant easy money.

I’d already earned a few bucks just standing there, even if it hadn’t hit my account yet.

Ying Shiqian had promised to set up a card for me, linked straight to my school-issued phone.

Once that was sorted, I’d be paying for stuff with a tap. Sweet.

After I’d gotten the rundown on that first shift, I’d scooted closer to Tang Yihan, itching for something to talk about.

“Hey, Senior Tang,” I’d said, “is our red velvet cake, like, super popular or what? Every order that’s come in has been for that.”

Standing around doing nothing had made me feel like a total slacker—I’d figured I should at least look busy, right?

Before Tang Yihan could’ve answered, Ying Shiqian had jumped in from where she’d been lounging nearby.

“Nah, it’s just the only thing on our online menu,” she’d said, smirking. “Red velvet being a hit? Please.”

“Wait, what?” I’d blinked at her, then glanced at Tang Yihan for confirmation.

“Yup,” Tang Yihan says, shrugging as she wipes down a spatula. “Manager’s call. She’s not big on making money—don’t ask me why. Her deal, not mine.”

Okay, so the mysterious manager—Xia Li, I’d learned from earlier chats, the same one who’d told me to drop by for the interview—had been loaded and couldn’t have cared less about profits.

That had screamed rich-girl vibes.

I hadn’t met her yet, but I’d already started plotting how to get in her good graces. A laid-back, loaded boss like that? Total goldmine.

Just as I’d drifted off into my thoughts again, the order machine had buzzed to life. It hadn’t been the usual hum, though—this time it’d let out a sharp, clear ding, like some fancy alert.

A ticket had popped out, and since I’d been closest, I’d grabbed it.

Red velvet cake. Again. But not a slice or two—this had been a whole damn cake. I’d remembered those cost over a hundred bucks. Big spender, huh?

“Big order alert!” Ying Shiqian had sung out, practically leaping over the counter. She’d snatched the ticket from my hands before I could’ve reacted, her excitement way overblown for what I’d figured was just a pricey cake.

I’d hovered nearby, peeking over her shoulder. A whole cake had been neat, sure, but had it really called for this much fuss? Neither of them had seemed eager to explain. Ying Shiqian had just shot Tang Yihan a look, and Tang Yihan had dashed to the back without a word, grabbing a stack of raw ingredients.

Hold up. The order had already been in—why had she been starting from scratch? There’d been finished cakes right there in the display case! I’d opened my mouth to say something, then shut it. Where would I have even begun with that?

“Uh, Senior Ying,” I’d finally blurted, “what’s with the ‘big order’ drama? Why’s she baking it fresh from the ground up?”

Ying Shiqian grins, waving the ticket in front of me as she breezes past. “Big orders get the VIP treatment. They’re dropping serious cash—got to give them the full show, you know?”

The ticket had zipped by too fast to read, but I’d caught a glimpse of the notes section—packed with custom requests.

And the price? My brain had slammed on the brakes.

Ten grand? Who the hell charged ten thousand bucks for a cake?!

Ying Shiqian must’ve noticed my jaw drop because she’d chuckled.

“Relax, Yuehan—ten grand’s just the ’entry fee.’ Look, this place would’ve tanked ages ago without some side hustle. But you’re just part-time, so don’t sweat it. You won’t touch the weird stuff—just do your job, and we’ll keep the paychecks coming, promise.”

Her words had sent a chill down my spine. Day one, and I’d already tripped into something shady.

“Uh… okay,” I’d managed, forcing a smile and keeping my hands stuffed in my pockets. What else could I have done? This gig had been a breeze—pun intended—and the money had been too good to ditch over a little strangeness.

Still, I couldn’t have shaken the nerves. Safety first, right? You don’t mess with cash you might not live to spend. “Senior Ying,” I’d said, dropping my voice, “this stuff’s cool with the academy, yeah?”

She doesn’t flinch, just gives me a reassuring nod. “Kinda? It’s more like they look the other way. We’re not dumb enough to push their limits—don’t worry about it.”

Look the other way? That hadn’t been a solid “yes.” I’d swallowed a groan, keeping it inside.

Suddenly, that stack of old uniforms in the changing room had made a lot more sense. How many newbies had walked into this job before me?