Chapter 638
Chapter 638
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 638
Chapter Title: City of Night
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1.
“When are they coming?”
The Silence Witch glanced at the pocket watch dangling from the silver chain inside her cloak while staring at the portal.
It was the portal leading to Hexennacht—their means of escape from this desert and their new nest.
Sweat born of impatience beaded on her forehead.
The promised time was five minutes, but she never truly believed it would be filled to the brim.
And who could blame her? Who was the Sword Witch, after all?
Back when Clifford reigned supreme.
Even in those days, when they might have triumphed over Gehenna in the war if not for Keter, she was a force whose name echoed far and wide.
It simply didn’t add up that a powerhouse like Rinne would be stalled by a mere single male witch.
Having partnered with the Sword Witch for years, the Silence Witch had witnessed her in battle several times.
Stealing the hues of her foe’s magic to smother them, while she herself grew stronger amid that very domain...
No matter how she racked her brain, no counter came to mind. It was the pinnacle of one-trick mastery.
At the time, the Silence Witch had wondered if anyone short of Duke Ererim—the highest-ranking witch known aside from Keter—could stand against Rinne.
But then she had witnessed it.
Duke Tiferet, calmly deflecting Rinne’s razor-sharp slash amid the combined assault of the Corpse Witch and the Silence Witch.
Of course, Rinne had reserves left in her at that moment, but it proved the Duke’s storied prowess—having buried countless feats—was no fabrication.
If a Duke Tiferet at full throttle clashed with a Rinne unleashing everything, the battle could very well drag on just like that.
“What’s there to see, anyway.”
The Silence Witch currently held the artifact sustaining the labyrinth.
Yet with its usage still unfamiliar, peering inside remained impossible all the same.
Time left: a mere thirty seconds.
As she debated slipping through the portal first...
“Withdraw, posthaste.”
Rinne emerged, ripping through the space severed from the labyrinth.
Dangling limply from her shoulder was a blood-soaked man, swinging like a ragdoll.
As expected, she had subdued him decisively and brought him along.
“Why’d you take so long? I nearly left without you.”
“Unforeseen complications.”
“Unforeseen? Eh, whatever. You’re here now.”
The Silence Witch levitated the sack—stuffed with the three witches she’d scooped up effortlessly moments ago—using telekinesis.
Only then did she spot it, belatedly.
“Huh?”
It was Rinne’s right arm, hanging utterly slack.
Blood dripped steadily from its tip.
The black martial robe had concealed it.
This wasn’t some superficial nick on the fingertip; the wound was grievous enough to drench the sleeve in crimson.
On the opposite side from where she’d slung the man, seeping from within—no splatter, that much was clear.
“What happened? Another witch?”
“...”
“No way... You, of all people, in this state. Must’ve dropped your guard, huh?”
“...You talk too much.”
Dropped her guard? Absurd.
Rinne replayed the recent clash in her mind.
The man who, eschewing petty tricks, had brazenly goaded her into a head-on brawl.
By all reason, charging straight at an opponent primed for a counter was folly.
Yet Rinne had welcomed the bait, committing her full might.
That was simply how she fought.
And this was the outcome.
Not a direct strike, but her shoulder had been grazed in the exchange.
Had she been a fraction slower...
Or if his left arm hadn’t felt oddly leaden compared to the rest, it might have pierced something far more lethal.
What then? Could her blade still have sundered that ironclad armor and severed the carotid?
Her heart pounded.
A thrill long absent.
The razor-edge instant of blades crossing, every hair on her body bristling in unison.
Who but Tiferet could have granted Rinne such a rush?
“...”
She’d pegged him as mere bait to draw out Tiferet.
A man forged directly by Tiferet’s hand.
Such prowess, mere months after becoming a witch.
He might prove far more useful than she’d imagined.
“Let’s head back.”
“What’re you on about? You’re the one who’s late... Preparations are already done.”
The Silence Witch and Rinne gathered their trophies and stepped into the portal.
2.
With Duke Keter—the linchpin of order in witch society—out of commission, the tides were turning.
Wanted witches rampaging unchecked, exiles seizing the chaos to commit crimes and earn their notoriety anew, location points under siege, rogue witches hunted down by united covens.
Small wonder, then, that exiles with no taste for trouble flocked to location points, while those venturing into the modern world retreated to Gehenna.
Yet those bracing for the turmoil weren’t limited to Gehenna loyalists and location-point witches.
Exiles and wanted of every stripe were readying themselves for the shifting winds.
Even a maelstrom has its rhythms, much as witch society had endured as order woven from chaos.
With Keter—the greatest pillar—immobilized, this unrest was mere foreplay.
Vast upheavals, dwarfing all that came before, loomed near.
Everyone sensed it: the law of the jungle wouldn’t cut it anymore.
Hexennacht was one such bulwark.
The rabble culled, Clifford’s elite remnants banded anew to weather the storm.
To avoid being swept aside at history’s pivot.
To surf the deluge of change toward a new ‘order’.
Old grudges shelved, they forged a colossal pocket realm akin to Gehenna—their own society.
This setup promised a measure of security.
Wanted factions, once picked off piecemeal, now clustered to thwart purges.
The same reason Duke Tiferet tallied few feats in South America.
An obvious notion—why unrealized till now? Simple: easy in theory, brutal in practice.
Even venerable Gehenna saw annual catastrophes as routine.
Gather witches who’d do ‘anything for magic,’ and mayhem follows.
Forcing them to ‘play nice’ in one spot? Laughable.
Thus Clifford reined Hexennacht twofold.
Outside its bounds: act freely.
Within: sacred neutral ground. Sow discord, and Clifford exacts judgment.
A safe haven under stark power’s rule.
Enticement enough for witches sans citizenship.
In months, it drew infamous wanted, fresh exile-turned-wanted, and those shrugging at infamy—all cheek by jowl.
A true City of Night. City of Death. Witch Wasteland.
“But why me here...”
Yebin Smirna dabbed at her sniffles.
A Japanese-style manor, tatami-floored.
Half-shuttered window framed an eternally starless, pitch-black sky.
The sprawling garden boasted ever-blooming cherries to the owner’s whim, petals drifting lazily—but she spared it no glance.
Her future felt as lightless as that void.
Needless to say, she hadn’t come of her own accord.
Kidnapped, confined for months on end.
What a wretched twist of fate.
Med school drudge turned branded exile, then witch.
Lured by tales of curing the incurable, trailed her master through war zones for coerced aid work.
Ideals crumbled against reality.
Her predecessor Smirna looked sane enough—but harbored a mad doctor’s soul.
Repulsed by viewing humans as lab rats, Yebin yearned to aid multitudes with her gifts... yet.
Brand inherited, but her 19th Hierarchy bore scant combat chops, forcing a hermit’s life in the poles.
No true research. No societal boon.
Idle years dragged—till fortune struck.
Gemernai Count Family sought a human male’s treatment, dangling exile amnesty.
Name: Si-woo.
A man wielding magic in male flesh, shielding an apprentice witch from vile wanted.
“Impressive... yeah, in every way...”
Well, anyhow.
Treatment’s trials cleared, city hall backed her Tarot Town clinic.
“Ahh... those radiant days...”
Daily fulfillment in self-actualization.
Free meds and heals for citizens, hailed as saintess.
Worlds beyond snowbound Netflix binges with beer.
Alas, magic couldn’t conjure all cures; budgets starved.
Not stinginess—magic was a money pit.
Asthma relief: mundane pills, one gold coin tops.
Magic equivalent: a gold bar minimum.
Procuring stock drew Yebin to the modern world—where unimaginable horror awaited.
The Sword Witch.
Hiding in mundania, she’d memorized wanted rolls for survival.
Battle fiend reluctant to spare foes.
Slayer beyond tally.
Sight meant death—yet she lived. Curse or blessing?
Merely hauled to Hexennacht, caged in this antique oriental pile.
Workshop granted, food and garb aplenty.
No overt freedom curbs.
Reflection: reserve potion stock, likely.
Yet for her, trapped amid wanted and wannabes—a tragedy pure.
Days till escape: counted religiously.
“Hopeless... utterly hopeless...”
19th Hierarchy or not, the Healing Witch Yebin Smirna healed and naught else.
Sweats to leave the manor; spy thriller amid airborne apex predators? Preposterous.
“No prince to whisk me away...?”
Such lamentations—
—BAM!
“Eek!”
Door shattered inward; the stoic witch—months cooped together, yet nary a proper word.
Host Rinne Samakiel, arrived.
“Doctor. Follow.”
“Pardon?”
No chance to process.
Curt command tossed, she pivoted.
Yebin, stunned, trailed after.
Sliding doors lined the hall, her oddly hasty gait leading.
—Shff...
Rinne slid the door; Yebin entered.
On plush futon atop tatami lay one man.
“Heal him. Fail, and you die too.”
Si-woo, pallid as the grave.