Witch Hunt (3)

“Never mingle with humans.”

Morone, the witch, still remembered her late mother’s dying words. Stay far away from humans. It was a lesson etched into her very bones, taught from an early childhood so distant it felt like another lifetime.

“Because humans hate us.”

She never knew the exact reason why. Despite witches never truly causing them any harm, humans had despised their kind for thousands of years. Driven into the deepest thickets of the forest, witches had scraped together a meager, precarious existence on the fringes of the world.

At least, that was how it had been until the Great War broke out.

“What are we supposed to do now?”

“The demonic beasts are invading the forest!”

“We’re running out of potions to hold them off…”

When the Alliance collapsed in defeat during the Great War, tides of demonic beasts swarmed into their sanctuary. Although witches could hold their own for a time using defensive potions and curses, no one could withstand relentless waves of monsters forever. In the end, they had no choice but to melt into human society, disguising their identities to survive.

“There is no other choice…”

Morone had been one of them. Surprisingly, life among mortals hadn't been unbearable at first. With her vast botanical knowledge of herbs and a discreet touch of magic, she had even earned a respectable living. Trouble, however, struck without warning.

“She’s a witch! I saw it with my own two eyes!”

The village clergyman pointed an accusing finger straight at her. In that single moment, Morone felt her heart drop into a bottomless abyss.

How? How could he possibly know?

She had never practiced a shred of witchcraft in public. She hadn't brewed forbidden concoctions, let alone cast curse magic—which she had always despised in the first place. She had dedicated herself to treating the sick and helping the townsfolk, steadily building a spotless reputation. Yet, the clergyman had never ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠actually seen through her disguise.

“The suspicion of witchcraft is overwhelming! Drag this vile woman to trial immediately!”

If a witch trial resulted in a conviction, the witch’s entire estate was legally forfeited to the accuser. It was nothing more than a calculated extortion scheme orchestrated between the greedy clergyman and the cardinal, both drooling over her modest fortune. Whether an actual victim existed was entirely beside the point.

“My arm… look, it’s turned pitch black!”

After all, fabricating a victim was the easiest thing in the world.

Branded a witch on fabricated charges, Morone found herself hauled onto the execution pyre alongside two ordinary women who had been rounded up under similarly flimsy pretexts. Ironically, out of the three tied to the stakes, she was the only real witch.

“I don’t want to die…”

“Why me…? I didn’t do anything wrong! I was the victim here…!”

Staring at the two innocent women weeping in raw terror, Morone turned her gaze up toward the overcast sky. A bitter, agonizing truth finally settled into her chest.

It never mattered whether I was truly a witch or not.

They simply needed a scapegoat to direct their hatred toward, and she happened to fit the bill. A cursed existence, fated to be rejected wherever she went. When an all-powerful cardinal decreed that she must burn, she had no choice but to perish like a swatted fly.

Just as she prepared to close her eyes and surrender to the encroaching flames—

Above the sky, however, lay the vast expanse of the cosmos.

An existence perched unfathomably higher than any earthly cardinal.

Into Morone’s life of unceasing torment, the Head Moderator crashed down like divine intervention.

In broad daylight, the cardinal’s corpse was discovered.

The remains were grotesque beyond description—multiple warped arms sprouted unnaturally from his torso, and the flesh had been incinerated down to brittle, soot-blackened bones as if he had been roasted alive on a pyre. It was an assassination reeking of concentrated malice.

Given the cardinal’s vile track record and rampant corruption, not a single soul wept over his gruesome demise. Still, murder was murder. There was no telling when stray embers might leap from the fire and consume innocent bystanders.

Knowing with near-absolute certainty who the culprit was, I couldn't simply look away. It didn't take long to track down the relevant user's account, and I pulled up her Gallog post history first.

“Hmm…”

Reading through her posts, she hardly came across as someone prone to cold-blooded slaughter. More than anything, I had never seen a witch post publicly in the Gallery before. Witches never created public threads, nor had a single person ever outed themselves as one. That silence was naturally born from the overwhelming anti-witch sentiment deeply ingrained in human society, though the historical reason behind that blind hatred had always eluded me.

That is, until my resident ancient sub-mod chimed in.

When people imagined a wizard, crisp, luminescent blue typically sprang to mind. In contrast, the mana radiating from witches took on a dark, somber shade of bruised violet.

…So what about it?

Did that particular shade carry toxic radiation or harmful biological effects on humans?

Turns out there was no grand hazard at all. It was literally just a visual hue.

Make an issue out of nothing, and it becomes an insurmountable wall. Wizards formed the orthodox establishment, while witches were relegated to the fringe. The initial spark that ignited millennia of relentless persecution had literally been nothing more than the color of their mana.

“How does that even make… wait, actually, that tracks.”

Reflecting on human history back on Earth, people had slaughtered each other across generations for equally trivial differences. Of course, in modern times, anyone with half a brain understood that the color of one’s magic carried zero moral weight, but…

She laid it bare with dry, clinical detachment, having observed the exact same tragicomic cycle unfold across centuries.

“Man, that makes it kind of awkward to just crack down on her.”

Witches had essentially been playing 'Endure Revenge Challenge Lv. 99' for countless generations. Driven into a corner with every exit barred, the suppressed dam was bound to collapse into violent retribution sooner or later.

While I was turning the matter over in my head, another murder thread popped up on the board. This time, the slaying had taken place in a rural village far removed from the city center.

The very priest who had coveted her modest savings and filed the bogus report had been discovered dead. That made two strikes.

Before things spiraled completely out of hand, I opened a private direct message with the user in question.

I cut straight to the point without dancing around it. She had already openly proclaimed her intention to seek vengeance earlier, after all.

PotionMasterWannabe made no attempt to deny it.

At this rate, there was zero chance she could evade execution once captured. The real problem was that she didn't seem interested in surviving at all.

Witches living in the wilderness had long evaded demonic beasts by consuming stealth and camouflage draughts. I assumed she could carve out an existence in the wilds using those exact concoctions, but the reality of the world was far harsher than I had imagined.

The bottleneck, as always, came down to production costs.

Witches were already destitute outcasts. Following the Great War, wildlife had become practically extinct across the ruined lands. Even if one somehow scavenged through the wilds, gathering three full kilograms of fresh animal entrails was an impossible chore. On top of that, catching a thousand bugs—and worse, procuring a whole kilogram of refined sugar—was an outright fantasy. The potency of witch alchemy was legendary, but the exorbitant cost of raw materials made it hopelessly impractical.

“Yeah, scavenging that in an overgrown wasteland is pure hell.”

Even if one lived in an imperial metropolis, finding a whole kilogram ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of refined sugar was a luxury fit only for high nobility. And pure cooking oil wasn't much cheaper.

“Being a witch? Truly living on hard mode…”

Classical magic was already an elite pursuit reserved for the privileged few who possessed both innate talent and mountains of gold.

“And yet witches have it even worse?”

The material costs for crafting witch potions were on par with, or perhaps even higher than, standard high-tier magical rituals. That realization sparked my curiosity.

Even the most accomplished imperial mages couldn't concoct a true perception-blocking stealth potion. If raw reagents weren't an issue, just how far could a master witch push the craft?

“What?”

A true Recovery Potion…? Wasn't that the single most vital, game-changing commodity in a brutal post-apocalyptic fantasy world?

“?”

Black pepper and table salt?

Not knowing what was running through my mind, PotionMasterWannabe seemed to have jumped to the worst conclusion, assuming I had tracked her down to deliver admin justice. Watching her half-resigned resignation on the screen, I typed out a reply.

A heavy silence hung between us. The chat log froze for several long minutes before ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a frantic message finally popped up.

Even someone who claimed to have surrendered to fate would leap at a lifeline if one presented itself. It was basic human nature.

“And she can’t possibly be the only witch out there.”

Even if their surviving population was minuscule, gathering a handful of skilled alchemists under one banner would yield monumental returns. There was nothing more to ponder.

“I have to lock this down right now.”

Witch stocks were about to hit the absolute stratosphere.

In a damp, shadowy clearing deep within the ancient woods, Morone stood before a crumbling wooden cottage.

“I never imagined I would return to this place…”

It was her ancestral home, the very cabin where she had lived with her mother before she passed away. Abandoned and forgotten ever since the Great War, she had believed she would never set foot here again. Brushing a gloved index finger across the thick dust gathered on the weathered doorframe, the Head Moderator’s promise echoed in her mind.

“He told me he would provide everything…”

Exorbitant, unimaginable quantities of rare ingredients. The Head Moderator had offered them with casual generosity. Having been deceived by humans countless times and nearly burned alive at the stake, half of her remained suspended in sheer disbelief. It wasn't that she doubted the Head Mod’s benevolence, but could he genuinely mean it? Even an archduke of the human empire would struggle to procure such vast reserves of precious spices on a whim.

“Well, it’s not like I have any other path left.”

Morone let out a self-deprecating chuckle. She had resolved to enact her vengeance and quietly perish. Yet, with a few casual words from that mysterious figure, she found herself yearning to cling to life once more. Was it because, for the first time in her entire life, she had tasted warmth extended by another being? A strange, tingling tickle blossomed gently within her chest.

“!”

The system chime chimed softly in the stillness of the forest. Startled, Morone carefully stepped toward the massive wooden crates that had materialized out of thin air beside the porch. Slowly, holding her breath, she cracked open the lids.

“G-Good heavens…”

Resting inside were mounds of glistening treasures.

“I-It’s real pepper…?”

A mythical luxury beyond the wild dreams of commoners, and a treasured commodity that even supreme monarchs hoarded like gold. There it lay, piled before her in staggering, mountain-sized heaps.