Geralt had stumbled into an unexpected hunt in another world, but no one knew.
In the days that followed, with teachers gradually arriving, the school finally hummed along.
Some advanced courses lacked instructors, but the basics were covered.
Take Natasha—she wanted to learn ballet. Su Ming saw no harm in dance; better than doing calisthenics in a pinch.
Cable was the cautionary tale.
So, he hired dance, music, and art teachers for electives.
Morning calisthenics stayed, a daily break ritual.
Some girls, like Dottie and the older ones, wanted to hone their killing skills.
Su Ming couldn't outsource that. He trained daily to stay sharp, so he let them observe.
But not mimic—his regimen would turn them into muscle-bound warriors.
His legendary mercenary techniques outclassed their old instructors. The girls found his methods creative and less gory.
Su Ming was at a loss for words. He'd just ripped a dummy's head off barehanded. Less gory? Only because the dummy didn't bleed.
As for Lorraine, she was too swamped to notice Su Ming's antics.
She taught PE, foreign languages, driving, shooting, and etiquette, barely touching the ground.
She had qualms about shooting lessons—some girls were too young for guns.
Su Ming countered with skewed logic.
"This is elite education. A proper lady must shoot. The Queen hunted in royal grounds as a youth."
Lorraine was stumped. It… made sense?
"A proper lady flies planes. The Queen does."
"A proper lady masters disguise. Doesn't the Queen wear makeup?"
"A proper lady operates telegraphs. The princess assembles tractors."
Su Ming's demands piled up, always sounding reasonable.
At night, Lorraine played nanny, handling the girls' daily issues.
Busy, but happy. The girls had shed their tragic pasts, trusting her like family.
She noticed Principal Hamir's chaotic private life. Daily, glamorous women giggled into his office at dawn, leaving by night.
After weeks, they stopped coming, as if gone.
Lorraine, ex-spy, imagined wild scenarios.
The principal's salary must be huge—month-long parties with beauties? That's pricey.
In truth, Hamir did nothing. He just opened portals for the sorceresses.
His life was calm: reading, gardening, calligraphy, and cooking for Su Ming.
But otherworldly ingredients weren't always tasty.
"Remove the head, and it's edible," they say. Good luck finding the head on some monsters.
Su Ming swore off snake-like creatures. Tentacles? No bones to spit, but the taste was indescribable.
He considered taking the principal role himself, sending Hamir to China for medicinal cuisine training.
Hamir's normal cooking was stellar, but alien ingredients turned weird.
Done. With the sorceresses settled at Kamar-Taj, Su Ming sent Hamir east to study.
Ciri bonded with the girls, a college-aged kid running around with middle-schoolers, playing childish games.
She learned fast, a traverser's gift, already driving.
Her swords stayed behind, swapped for two pistols: steel-core bullets for humans, silver for monsters.
Su Ming figured silver was useless in Marvel unless facing werewolves or vampires.
Marvel's vampires outclassed Witcher-world ones.
As long as Ciri stayed in New York, Su Ming had the city under control. No vampire rumors.
Superhero news was spiking. The Daily Bugle had war correspondents tailing Captain America's team.
Enemy-lines reporting? Bugle journalists were nuts, risking life for scoops.
Captain America, Howling Commandos, and Monarch were celebrities. "Avenging Angel" and "Magic Prince" graced papers daily.
The "Fantastic Four" name was clunky, so Old Man Roosevelt dubbed Steve's team the Invaders.
One masked hero or several—it was all propaganda. Just sideline the creepy Namor.
Photos always hid Namor's face.
Group shot at a Nazi factory ruin? Namor's face "accidentally" blocked by a tank barrel.
Triumphant return, stepping off a plane? A bird "happened" to obscure Namor.
Welcome ceremony? Namor's face hidden by tossed hats.
Team dinner? A turkey leg covered Namor.
War meeting? A folder blocked him.
Su Ming marveled at this world's proto-Photoshop. The edits screamed amateur to him, but people here bought photos as truth, blaming blurry focus.
Newspapers became Su Ming's joy. Each morning, he checked the Bugle for the day's editing creativity.
Green Arrow wasn't the worst off—forgotten, but Batman kept him as a Justice League reserve.
Namor was truly screwed, deliberately erased by the government.
Su Ming got Roosevelt's logic. Namor wasn't American, barely human—an Atlantean with pale blue skin.
"Mr. President, who's Namor?"
"He's from Atlantis, under the sea, hence the blue skin."
Boom. The public would riot with conspiracies. Better to marginalize him.
Headlines read "Captain America and His Invaders," Namor's name rarely mentioned.
One day, likely due to a lazy editor, Namor's face was a glowing holy light.
Su Ming roared with laughter, sending Vodka to negotiate a Bugle buyout. This paper was gold—mastering Photoshop and holy-light censorship? It was destined for greatness.