Chapter 499
Chapter 499
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 499
Chapter Title: The Old Witches
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1.
Old Witch.
This term refers to witches who have existed for nearly a millennium, even before the founding of the witch city Gehenna.
The creator of the witch city, the Kether Duke who once led the order of witch society.
The Erelim Duke, head of Gehenna's largest school, the Truth and Names Academic Conference.
The 'Apocalypse Witch', administrator and guardian of the prophecy agency.
The 'Evergreen Witch', who wanders the world at leisure.
The 'Witch of Time', who built her own cradle and shut herself inside it.
The 'Whispering Witch', still active from the shadows, stirring up all sorts of chaos.
The 'Witch of Proverbs', currently missing but once devoured countless witches whole in the past.
The 'Witch of Aquarius', elevated to head of Cliffort only to slaughter several Public Enemies and vanish.
Originally, nine witches including the Deep Sea Witch were called Old Witches, but after being purged by Kether three hundred years ago, only eight remain today.
In truth, if you look back, the title 'Old Witch' doesn't carry much special meaning. It simply denotes longevity.
Yet even Public Enemies revere them, and there are two reasons for that.
First, surviving so long without succession means they possess exceptional talent.
In fact, excluding Lilith whose name isn't even recorded, all are Great Witches, powerhouses who could have vied for era dominance if not for the off-spec Kether.
But if they were merely strong, they would inspire awe, not dread.
The fundamental reason Old Witches instill fear is that they all survived the brutal era of survival of the fittest.
Before Gehenna existed, there was no concept of exiles.
Nor was there any notion of Public Enemies.
Disassembling fellow witches to claim their Stigmata was the surest path to Hierarchy ascent, making kin-slaying a perfectly natural act.
After Kether began earnestly claiming the role of order's guardian, they each guarded their domains, but it was undeniable that all Old Witches were exceptional warriors with mindsets utterly alien to modern witches.
Among them, Clech felt uneasy about seeking aid from one Old Witch—the Deep Sea Witch, rumored long dead by the world.
If Public Enemies are called murderers or lunatics, Old Witches are monsters whose thoughts defy comprehension.
Even conversing via a 'pact' felt somehow off-putting.
"When's she coming?"
Where she stood was the most isolated expanse of the open South Pacific on Earth.
Even those who don't grasp that 70% of the planet's surface is ocean would nod in realization upon arriving here.
Though hovering high in the sky, her field of view held only the vast, rippling blue sea below.
And rightly so.
The Deep Sea Witch Shallit Nukelabi had designated their meeting spot as the South Pacific's so-called Point of No Return.
The nearest uninhabited island was over 2,000 km away in a straight line, far from any shipping or flight routes.
This was a forsaken frontier where one might glimpse civilization only when dumping obsolete satellites or space launch vehicles from orbit.
Even a Great Witch like Clech had struggled to reach it.
"It's already past the promised time..."
Not only had the rendezvous been unilaterally dictated, but thirty minutes past schedule, the Deep Sea Witch hadn't even shown a shadow.
With a witch's eyesight plus this unobstructed vista, she could survey dozens of kilometers at least—meaning an even longer wait likely.
Yet having come this far with such effort, she couldn't just leave empty-handed.
Irritated, Clech crumpled the remote letter in her hand.
At that moment, a dark shadow emerged beneath the blue surface.
Seeing an object surge up at a stylish 45-degree angle like a breaching whale, kicking up rough spray, Clech was left speechless.
"......"
A streamlined hull evoking a whale, a fin-like vertical rudder and conning tower rising from the rear of the flat upper deck.
The identity of this suddenly appearing metal behemoth was a submarine.
Familiar modern gear even to Clech.
Submarines were favorites for all sorts of illicit smuggling, after all.
The problem was its size.
At a glance over 100 meters long, it was unmistakably military-grade.
She knew the Deep Sea Witch had built her workshop in the ocean depths, but who would have guessed it was a submarine?
Entering through the open hatch atop, Clech followed the crewman's guidance down a narrow passage.
And of course, 'crewman' here didn't mean human.
They wore crudely Soviet-era military uniforms, but they resembled the horrific spawn of human-fish hybridization gone wrong.
Dorsal fins bulging from their backs up to their foreheads, thick green scales covering their skin.
Fish-like bulging eyes shrouded in cloudy cataracts without focus, webbed fingers, and constantly gaping gills reeking of brine.
Every body part was grotesquely repulsive, begging to be slain on sight.
"Th-this... w-way..."
Guided by the crewman's eerie voice somehow forming human words, Clech glanced around.
No doubt about it. This submarine had been converted into a witch's workshop.
Mysterious tentacles embedded like plumbing supplied mana throughout, and the pulsing waves from all directions marked the vessel itself as a kind of artifact.
Passing through the engine room corridor revealed an unexpectedly pristine lounge.
About fifty years ago, it might have rivaled a fine hotel lounge, but regrettably outdated, unable to hide its stodgy vibe.
Flanking both sides stood fish-humans identical to her escort, lined up like retainers, while at the center sat a witch arrogantly crossing her legs, chin raised.
"Welcome to my kingdom, 'Akula'."
Her eyes as deep blue as the abyss befitting her moniker, her near-black azure hair framing her—she spread her arms in welcome.
Her youthful visage was surprisingly immature.
But the imperious aura forbade complacency; as Clech swallowed and mustered a greeting—
"I can see you're deeply impressed by my workshop. A fitting reaction. Anyone beholding such an overwhelming workshop would naturally feel their heart shrink."
"No..."
"Quite so. Displacement 48,000 tons submerged. Length 172m, beam 23m. Truly befitting the name 'submarine cruiser', wouldn't you say?"
Without giving Clech a chance to speak, the Deep Sea Witch launched into boasting about her workshop.
It had undergone refits to dive to 5km despite its size, was now heading to 2km depth, boasted perfect internal amenities, evaded radar and even fixed sonar with stealth capabilities.
She even spilled backstory: secretly bought during the Soviet collapse, 'bottleneck-modified', armed with 20 ICBMs carrying 10 MIRV nukes each, plus hard-won latest torpedoes.
"......"
Clech fought the urge to snap, What's that got to do with anything, you otaku?
Don't fall for it.
This could be a sophisticated tactic to overwhelm with pointless chatter and seize initiative.
Swallowing her curses with effort.
"Impressive. Amazing. Got it, so stop."
"I still have thirty more minutes of explanation..."
The Deep Sea Witch pouted, sealing her lips discontentedly.
This is an 'Old Witch'?
Even straining to view it as psychological warfare, the image clashed too hard.
Clech herself was often called childish, but this was like a kid bragging about toys...
"To business. No time to waste."
"Business... Ah, that pact thing?"
"Yes. Your predecessor Asmode staked her life to save you. One life for one life. Time to honor the promise sworn on Nukelabi's name."
Clech stated her purpose and named the male witch she wanted killed.
Shallit listened sprawled on the sofa, interest visibly waning, pondered briefly, then refused without hesitation.
"So kill that man..."
"I refuse."
"......"
"By the way, do men become witches these days too?"
Clech felt her head spin.
Truthfully, her vengeance target was the Tiphereth Duke.
But shifting to the easier Shin Si-woo was hedging against even a 'pact' failing against the Deep Sea Witch in a life-or-death clash.
Thus, pushing the convenient Si-woo forward.
Plus, if Tiphereth realized the beast's identity and challenged her to duel, it'd play into her hands too.
But flat-out rejected.
Clech asked coldly.
"Why? As I explained, Kether Duke won't move. He's barely entry-level Great Witch at best. Your magic could kill him discreetly without effort."
"True, my master received a favor from Asmode and swore the pact. But I hate fighting. And master taught me: don't strut and die pointlessly—live long and thin."
Master?
That sudden word clicked everything into place.
Why the Deep Sea Witch, said to exude mature queenly grace in records, looked so girlish.
Of course, she was a full adult woman.
Yet lacked the ripened poise and gravitas of years.
A frivolous, flighty personality unbecoming an Old Witch of near-millennial age, capped by that mismatched imperious speech.
"What's your name?"
"Lurie Nukelabi. As you guessed, I inherited the Stigma ten years ago."
The Deep Sea Witch she'd painstakingly sought.
She wasn't a true Old Witch.
The Stigma had already been succeeded.
She'd even brazenly refused cooperation, unsure if she'd even heard of the pact.
Murderous intent flickered in Clech's eyes.
Plan derailed. Then opt for plan B.
Lurie became a witch a mere ten years ago—precarious for wielding an inherited Stigma proficiently.
No combat experience to speak of.
Snatch her life and Stigma here, scheme later?
"Impudent notion."
As Clech snapped to, a chilling beastly roar echoed in her ears.
A profound bass, yet skirting audible high frequencies.
In the aberrant lifeform's heart-icing roar, like a tongue licking her cheek, Lurie declared loftily.
"Dare you brawl on my stage?"
This was a submarine.
Even now diving into ocean depths.
Not even Clech would foolishly challenge the 'Deep Sea Witch' in mid-ocean abyss.
She dispersed the gathered mana, hands raised, signaling no intent to fight.
In this hopelessly tangled mess, Clech ground her teeth.
"Baring fangs in my august presence, where deepest reverence demands bowed head—treason meriting death by life. Yet this once, I shall overlook it."
"How terribly grateful."
"Dirtying hands with blade is butcher's duty, not empress's. Yet for a benefactor bearing blade aboard, honoring guests and upholding pacts is empress's charge."
"You mean...?"
A bluish orb formed in Lurie's palm and floated to Clech.
"I bestow my Aquarium. That vile man you spoke of? It shall dispatch him lightly and discreetly, like a lunch set."
At a glance, an unremarkable small orb.
Yet she sensed inexpressibly dense, cold mana condensed within its pinky-nail size.
And how could she not.
This 'Aquarium' was the core relic of the Deep Sea Witch's Autonomic Magic.
"Thanks for this much, at least."
Though no direct aid from the Deep Sea Witch, considering her uncooperative stance, this was the best outcome.
"One piece of advice."
As Clech calmed her churning chest, Lurie murmured.
Advice?
Naturally assuming handling instructions for the relic.
"Lovers' quarrels are like stormy seas. Acting on momentary passion to kill may prove foolish."
As expected.
Utter bullshit.