Chapter 152
Chapter 152
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 152
Chapter Title: Chapter 152 - #32_빚쟁이의 마녀(7)
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 152
Chapter Title: The Debt Witch (7)
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1.
Sharon, who had been drinking with Siwoo until late into the night, finally crawled into bed after what felt like ages.
In the past few days, she'd taken down four homunculi, securing this quarter's tribute payment for good.
She'd stuffed herself with that thing called "chimaek" she'd only heard about before, and for the first time in her lonely life in this foreign world, she'd even made a friend.
Maybe that's why it felt like she could finally drift off peacefully on her bed after months—the first real sleep in forever.
Sharon had always been a witch with a pretty regular sleep schedule.
But ever since that massive debt piled up, she'd been stuck doing part-time gigs, hunting, and all sorts of odd jobs to scrape by. There was no way she could just relax and lie down.
Her sleep time had been completely replaced by magic research hours.
Just paying off the debt wasn't enough.
A witch's true calling was always researching magic—she never forgot that.
Plus, her current rank was the 17th Hierarchy, a full three steps below her ancestor's Evergreen rank.
It was a rare case of "incomplete inheritance" during the Stigma transfer process.
The magical knowledge imprinted in the Stigma hadn't vanished entirely, so she'd regain it someday. But she couldn't slack on her research just banking on that—how could she face her ancestor who had trusted her with the Stigma?
Still, it had been a deep, restful sleep.
What snapped Sharon out of that sweet haze...
-Thud thud thud!
"This is from the Seodaemun District Office! Is anyone inside?"
It was the cold, merciless voice of a man ready to enforce regulations without pity.
2.
Sharon stood there in a daze, clutching her suitcase.
It had originally been propped against the wall as a makeshift closet since she didn't have a proper wardrobe.
She thought she didn't have much stuff, but the suitcase—small enough for her to curl up inside—was stuffed to the brim with her everyday belongings.
"Uh..."
Reality slowly seeped into her mind.
The rooftop room had been her sweet home, the first real place she'd carved out after five years in the present world.
Her first year exiled here, she'd wandered the streets homeless, bouncing between 24-hour cafes and fast-food joints.
Sometimes she'd find a dark underpass, crawl into her suitcase, and catch some sleep there.
From year one to five, she'd upgraded to a semi-basement studio apartment.
38,000 won a month including utilities, no deposit. It reeked of that musty basement mold that clung to your lungs just breathing, and the bathroom was shared—grim and depressing.
From there, she'd hustled extra cash and pounded the pavement to snag this rooftop spot where she'd been living.
50,000 won monthly including utilities, plus a 200,000-won deposit—solid price-wise.
The landlord even offered to knock off 30,000 won if she skipped registering her residency. Perfect score.
Sharon didn't have the spare cash to buy a fake identity like other witches. Her phone and bank account were all under someone else's name—burner phone, burner bank.
Flip that around, and it meant there was zero legal protection if the district office cracked down on illegal structures, the landlord complied, and evicted her.
From the local government's view, she was just an illegal resident.
Talk like "go to the building department with your papers for help" or "you should've checked the building registry" was worthless comfort.
Someone might sneer at the shabby, impoverished digs, but hot water flowed reliably, and she could shower inside. It was a true haven.
And now... illegal building?
"People live here—what's illegal or legal even matter...?"
Sharon kicked a stray can across the floor hard.
It clattered loudly, echoing with sharp pings.
She bit her lip and sank to the spot right there.
The white envelope in her hand crumpled.
It was the 200,000-won deposit the landlord had sheepishly handed her that morning, mumbling apologies.
She almost flung it away in rage but couldn't bring herself to.
All that crossed her mind was the flimsy rationalization that money itself was innocent.
Nothing was going right.
She wanted to do so much, but couldn't.
"...I wanna cry..."
Tears welled up.
What made poverty so brutal was how it shoved harsh reality in your face without even giving you time to savor the sadness.
Finding a decent studio as an illegal resident like Sharon was like plucking stars from the sky.
But she wasn't about to drag her suitcase around and go back to homeless life.
If it were before, maybe. But now that she'd tasted having a place, Sharon refused to return to those days.
She pulled out her phone and installed an app.
It was for booking accommodations.
Sharon scrolled through carelessly, her mouth dropping wider and wider.
"Whoa... insane... totally insane..."
Sinchon was packed with lodging spots—even next to churches and cathedrals, motels lined up. Hotbed of nightlife and young crowds, so it made sense.
Motel seemed perfect as a temp spot till she found a new place, so she'd downloaded the app.
"120,000 won for one night? And check-in at 6 p.m., out at 11 a.m. next day?"
Not even 24 hours, and they charged nearly a third of her monthly rent. Sharon was floored by the motels' audacity.
At first, seeing 30,000 or 40,000 won, she'd thought, "Kinda pricey, but manageable?"
Turns out that was for "day use"—rent a room for 3-6 hours to nap.
So many people casually dropped that cash just to rest or nap.
That shocked her too.
"What the hell am I supposed to do...?"
Sharon promptly deleted the app.
Guest houses, hotels—plenty of options, but one peek at motel rates killed her will to search further.
"Anyway... gotta exchange this before heading to work."
She fished the jingling homunculus crystals from her pocket.
Whatever happened, emergency cash was a must.
"And check the homunculus database..."
Still four hours till her convenience store shift. She could swing by.
Sharon grabbed her suitcase and trudged to the bus stop.
3.
There was an unwritten rule among witches, whether in Gehenna or the present world.
A witch must not reveal her existence to the outside.
A witch must live shrouded in mystery.
A witch must not meddle in history through magic.
A witch must not sow social chaos with magic.
That was it.
Why this unwritten rule?
Some said it was a superstition that "mystery" loses meaning when secrecy fades. Others pointed to pacts with the Tree of Sephirot, tied to governments worldwide.
But to Sharon, the biggest reason witches restrained their power was Duke Keter's existence.
History was full of witches who rampaged, trusting their power or chasing their ambitions.
A few major examples...
The "Plague Witch," who spread pestilence across the 14th century collecting deaths, was purged by Keter after a three-day-and-night battle.
In the 17th century, the 12 witches of the "Silver Dawn Society," denying Gehenna outright and rising to create a witch-ruled world, fled to the present world and built their kingdom—only to be slaughtered two days later by the pursuing duke.
The "Dragon Witch," deeply involved in America's 18th-century War of Independence, got thoroughly scolded by Duke Keter and meekly retreated to the desert.
In the 19th century, the Qliphoth operatives' massive incursion into Gehenna was crushed when Duke Keter emerged from seclusion.
Like that, Duke Keter deeply disliked witches intervening too much in the present world with magic and always maintained balance.
The witches he crushed were top-tier powerhouses of their eras—who'd dare defy him?
Sharon thought of him like a dragon from fantasy myths.
Ignored trifles entirely, but incinerated foes with fiery breath the instant they crossed the line.
Even underworld syndicates or cartels run by major offenders always tiptoed around Duke Keter's mood...
Anyway, that unwritten rule applied even to this tiny Gehenna outpost, the Waypoint. The Gwanghwamun branch masqueraded as a private insurance company in a downtown high-rise. Only the top five floors operated as the Waypoint.
As soon as Sharon entered the gleaming office lobby, a sharply dressed security guard came to greet her.
"Good day, Evergreen Witch."
"Here to exchange."
"Yes, right this way."
The guard greeted her as a witch like it was the most natural thing—civilian hire for the Waypoint.
Witches were too busy with research for grunt work, so they borrowed agents from pre-vetted governments for various tasks.
This guard seemed like intel agency staff, but details were fuzzy.
Stepping out of the elevator on the top floor, the Waypoint interior looked surprisingly like a normal office.
Employees on phones coordinating somewhere, others shredding stacks of documents.
The only oddity? A few women were stunningly beautiful, almost unnaturally so.
Nothing weird about it.
The Waypoint wasn't for magic research anyway.
Sharon headed straight for the exchange counter.
"Change all this to cash, please."
She placed the five crystals from her pocket on the dish.
A banker-suited teller took them inside.
Exchanges were quick: verify authenticity, weigh on digital scale, hand over prepped cash.
Total from a week's hard hunting: 5.12 million won.
A much fatter haul than usual—Sharon, who'd been sinking into gloom, could breathe a bit easier.
She stopped by the downstairs admin support office to pay this quarter's 6.5 million won tribute.
Then flipped through the homunculus bestiary in the public archive room, but zilch on a "perfectly identical homunculus."
Debating reporting it up the chain, Sharon shook her head.
"Sigh... later. Time for my shift now."
Today, she just wasn't feeling motivated.
As she shut off the archive computer and headed out...
Sharon ran into the one person guaranteed to sour her already rotten mood even more.
"Ha... fuck..."
The curse slipped out on reflex.
Honestly, she was innocent for that.
Didn't you curse automatically seeing a cockroach?
Same vibe.
The one always picking on her, making her life hell, was always "Della Redcliffe"—the red witch right in front of her.
"My, how crude. Got a rag in your mouth or something?"
Della tilted her chin up elegantly as she spoke.
True to her title "Ember Witch," she evoked a red tulip.
Her short, curly ginger bob, the sharp, predatory glare like a fighting cock, the mocking eyes looking down at Sharon—all burned fiery red.
"Sorry, you startled me. Wasn't aimed at you."
Zero remorse, but she apologized anyway—no need to spark friction.
Because the longer she talked to this woman...
"Judging by your look, still scraping by like a gutter rat, huh? How many flyers did you post yesterday? Wait, lemme guess."
...the more she'd brazenly provoke.
Sharon gnawed her lip, glaring at Della.
"Ten? Twenty...? Or... oh! No way, a hundred?"
Ever since that hunting ground dispute, Della sought her out every chance to mock.
And despite her refined, elegant facade, she really knew how to grate on nerves.
If her magic matched half her snark, even Duke Keter might struggle.
"Your face says a hundred. Wow~ congrats! Means you paid off ten thousand more overnight, right?"
"I'm leaving. Move."
Sharon shoved past Della, who was mock-clapping to taunt her, desperate to escape.
She knew she couldn't beat Della right now.
Would she have endured ten years of this crap otherwise?
Sharon had already challenged Della to a duel once and got crushed.
A 17th vs. 20th Hierarchy was elephant vs. jackal—no choice but to flee like a coward.
But Della didn't budge.
She stepped right up, faces inches apart.
Already half a head taller, plus heels—Della loomed a full head above, looking down.
Sharon held her ground in the staring contest, but her eyes wavered first.
She was starting from a losing position in intimidation.
"C'mon, didn't I say I'd hook you up with easy money?"
Della's hand slithered up like a snake, tickling Sharon's chin with feather-light touches.
The blatant teasing sent chills prickling across Sharon's skin; she smacked the hand away and bolted for the elevator.
"Crazy bitch! Crazy bitch!"
Sharon spewed curses, fleeing desperately.
Della watched, her lips twisting into a sour smirk.
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