Chapter 287
Chapter 287
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 287
Chapter Title: Poison Grass Witch
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1.
The Sahara Desert, which blankets most of North Africa, spans a staggering ten million square kilometers.
Even setting aside the fact that it's expanding year by year due to ongoing climate change and desertification, its size already rivals that of the contiguous United States.
Social and environmental infrastructure is utterly lacking, to say the least.
But for public enemies desperate to safeguard themselves, this vast wasteland serves as an ideal hiding spot.
Without any countermeasures, charging in bare-handed, Amelia might still be wandering the dunes in search of the Witch of the Scorching Heat.
In fact, one reason even the immensely powerful Tiphereth Duke struggled with public enemy hunts was the sheer difficulty of rooting out foes who had dug in deep in such remote wilderness.
Yet in Amelia's hand was the hit list.
This ledger, marking the public enemies' hideouts with near pinpoint accuracy, had made her "hunt" proceed smoothly.
After slaying the Witch of the Scorching Heat, Amelia roamed the desert further, taking down three more public enemies in quick succession.
'I know I messed up! But this is too much...!'
One had thrashed desperately to the end, trying to sink its teeth into Amelia's heel.
'Eek! Hiiik! P-Please, spare me...!'
Another had lost the will to fight at the mere sight of her prowess, fleeing only to meet its doom.
But she killed them all.
At least outwardly, Amelia showed no hesitation.
Like a snowball that had begun rolling down a slope, it refused to stop.
Having crossed the line she herself had drawn, Amelia's actions carried no further pause.
She fully grasped the consequences of her deeds.
Taking another's life.
It wasn't just a matter of the present—it shattered the "wish" that had endured for hundreds, even thousands, of years.
That realization gnawed at her heart like poison.
Her lack of hesitation stemmed not from numbness or absence of feeling.
Rather, guilt and sin had paralyzed her, much like a body part frozen on the verge of necrosis.
Amelia tolerated her growing emotional detachment—or the appearance of it.
"So you're the witch who's been hunting down homunculi and public enemies on sight...?"
And now, a witch stood before Amelia, facing death with composure.
Her golden hair had withered to a sallow hue, courtesy of nature magic's effects—like an herb gone limp.
The Witch of the Poison Grass, her lower body scattered into petals after a fierce clash with Amelia, leaned against a dune and offered a wry smile.
A string of brutal battles in short order.
Amelia had emerged unscathed against three public enemies before, but today...
Caught in a psychological and physical corner, she had let slip a venomous strike.
"Cough!"
Amelia dropped to one knee, hacking violently.
Dark crimson blood splattered across the sand.
The Witch of the Poison Grass's intangible toxins had already burrowed into her body.
Yet victory and defeat hung in clear balance.
The Witch of the Poison Grass had lost half her form.
Though her spirit body's tenacious vitality kept her breathing—for now—without intervention, death would claim her in ten minutes.
Amelia's poisoning, meanwhile, wasn't fatal.
Her autonomic defenses had kept the toxins from vital organs like her heart, brain, and womb.
Amelia hauled herself upright.
"......"
"Rumors had you pegged as some fierce young lady like Tiphereth. Go figure..."
The Witch of the Poison Grass—Merrill—gaped in disbelief bordering on absurdity.
She had stolen other witches' lives under the banner of advancing magic.
All the while, never forgetting she might one day lose her own.
But this end was nothing like what she'd imagined.
She'd expected merciless eyes devoid of pity.
A gaze brimming with righteous certainty and contempt.
Instead, she faced a pitiful expression struggling to hold back tears.
The most pathetic part was her own crushing defeat at the hands of this green novice, who hadn't even steeled herself properly.
Perhaps she'd let her guard down because of that very lack of resolve.
That face had been her constant through the fight.
"What's your name?"
"......"
"It's my last road—don't be stingy. Keep me company."
Was it that fact which stirred not rage, but hollow laughter?
Merrill found her tension ebbing, her words tumbling out in a jovial lilt.
She harbored no naive hope of mercy.
p>Anyone hunting in such a battered state clearly had their reasons.
Besides, no facilities in this desert could mend a spirit body this ruined.
"...Amelia Merigold."
"No way... That Merigold? The Perfume Witch? The baroness?"
Amelia's silent affirmation left Merrill genuinely stunned.
Baroness Merigold was the laid-back witch tinkering with perfumes from Gehenna's back rooms.
She'd venture into the modern world now and then, but never as some aggressive hunter.
"...Yeah."
Meanwhile, Amelia found Merrill's chummy demeanor alien and awkward.
To face her executioner with such casual warmth.
Did she think it'd earn her a reprieve?
Or was it a bid to meet her end with dignity?
Neither made sense, leaving Amelia at a loss.
"The world's changed a lot while I was holed up... Got a smoke? Mine were in my pocket, as you can see."
Merrill gestured to her obliterated lower half with a theatrical flourish.
Amelia eyed her warily but fished out a cigarette, placed it in Merrill's mouth, and lit it with magic.
Merrill inhaled with the utmost satisfaction.
"Sss... Haa... Been too long. Perfect. Local smokes gotta taste just bland enough. Cigars are decent, though."
Amelia wanted to bolt.
She was the survivor.
The victor.
Yet she felt overwhelmed, crushed.
She craved no more talk.
Amid that unease and revulsion...
Amelia realized how long it had been since she'd conversed with anyone.
How rare it was to face someone without enmity.
This wasn't like the days after losing her master, when she'd barricaded herself in the cabin.
Back then, she'd bottled it all up and endured.
Now, she knew warmth—what true connection meant.
How precious conversations, happy times, and shared moments were.
Thus, loneliness cut deeper.
Even this awkward exchange sparked a tiny flicker of relief in her heart.
"So, why's the great Baroness Merigold roaming the modern world, bagging public enemies?"
"I owe you no explanation."
"Harsh! Sure, I've done bad stuff to survive... but I wanna know why I'm dying."
For an instant, Amelia felt a cold blade plunge into her chest.
It was guilt over taking a life.
The sin she'd dodged till now.
Should've ended this chat sooner.
As Amelia fell silent...
"Really... such a poor talker..."
Amelia's lips twitched as she watched Merrill's head droop sleepily.
Even now, what was she trying to say? What did she seek from this talk?
Was she diluting the guilt of killing by playing last companion to this public enemy?
"If I don't kill you... someone dear to me... dies."
Merrill's flickering eyes, like a dying ember, crinkled in amusement.
The cigarette butt dropped from her lips, scorching the petal-strewn sand at her feet.
She laughed—for no one in particular.
After a long fit, Merrill spoke.
"What? You're just like me, then?"
Amelia froze at the sharp, mocking jab.
She intuited Merrill's point all too well.
Merrill, who'd slain three witches in duels for magic's sake.
Amelia, killing witches to pay for Siu's life.
To Merrill, both were the same: claiming lives for a goal.
"That's not...!"
She could refute it easily.
A calm rebuttal would dismantle that shallow self-pity, that accusation.
Or perhaps it wasn't accusation at all.
Maybe Merrill had simply voiced her honest impression.
No malice, just her take.
"......"
But Merrill's head had slumped fully now.
No twitch of movement.
Only viscous blood dripped from her half-open mouth.
No retort would draw a reply.
The fight was over.
Amelia remained.
Yet Merrill died with a relieved smile, leaving nothing behind—while Amelia merely persisted.
Could this truly be called victory? Success?
Amelia had no answer.
The unspoken rebuttal twisted back on her, posing questions anew.
Too frail, too broken for her to bear.
Wasn't this murder?
If judged by results alone, what set her apart from the four public enemies she'd slain?
"If only..."
If she could end it all here.
Like Merrill—forsaking everything, closing her eyes in peace.
Would this pain cease?
Mana began to stir.
Particles dominating the area flashed like warning lights, converging on Amelia.
Once a witch surpassed the 15th rank, magic and instinct merged.
Her mana responded to her death wish.
A self-destructive urge overriding survival instincts.
Amelia didn't resist the flow.
She was exhausted.
She just wanted rest.
That was all.
"Wait!!! "
Then a booming voice pierced the swirling particles as someone barreled in.
Like tackling a rooftop suicide jumper, the figure wrapped around Amelia's waist, tumbling wildly across the sand.
Needless to say, an insanely risky move.
Hurling oneself through unknown magic—lethal magic at that—courted death.
Amelia lay sprawled, staring blankly upward.
"What were you about to do?"
A youthful witch's face hovered there.
Deep blue eyes brimmed with concern; russet hair, tied in a ponytail, reached her ankles despite the bind.
"Good things happen in life. Chin up!"
She looked fresh out of puberty, still deep in apprentice basics.
Yet no mere apprentice could breach Amelia's spell.
"No bad thoughts—come to my nest."
Amelia started to speak, but the russet-haired witch yanked her arm, dragging her along.
Her identity remained unclear.
Possibly a public enemy from the list.
But right now, it didn't matter.
Amelia followed the sudden savior to her workshop.