Black Witch
Black Witch
It happened without warning. The woman who had been sipping wine and glancing around for Aslan was the first to notice.
A scream tore through the hall. Not her own. Ereta set her cup down and turned toward the sound.
A priest stood there.
"Ah...?"
Her lips parted. An ordinary Warrior Monk would not have fazed her, but this was no Warrior Monk.
It was a priest of the Poison-spitting Dragon.
Several of them, clutching spears slick with venom. Ereta blinked, then traced the scream to its source.
Bodies lay sprawled where the priests had struck, deep puncture wounds still weeping—poison or trauma had left them utterly still.
The guards were nowhere to be seen. Or rather, some of the priests wore the guards' own uniforms. Those false sentries were already swinging halberds and spears, cutting and stabbing through the banquet.
"Aaaagh! Monsters! They're monsters!"
"Where are the guards?!"
Panicked shouts. Ereta took in the sight of guests shoving past each other to flee, priests closing in from every side, and finally grasped the situation.
Somehow, for some reason, priests of the Poison-spitting Dragon had infiltrated the castle.
The reason was easy enough to guess. The Three Evil Gods' priests were weak, but they barely deviated from human form—ideal for infiltration.
Even Ereta herself had relied on that same tactic constantly when she was a high priest. So had they, it seemed.
'They've been quiet for a while. Turns out they were cooking this up.'
She narrowed her eyes as a priest charged her.
A spearhead dripping venom. A shallow scratch would be fatal.
Ereta watched the blade close in and hurled her wine cup.
Crash!
The cup took the priest full in the face just as he drew his spear back to thrust. Wine and shattered porcelain sprayed across his features, and through the shards she glimpsed a face twisted with pain.
Before that face could relax, Ereta moved. She reached out, snagged the priest by the scruff of the neck, pulled his cool green-scaled throat toward her, leaned in, and kicked him away.
The violent motion tore the side of her dress with a sharp rip. Her long white leg drove in, and the priest flew backward and tumbled across the floor.
The fallen priest did not rise. His comrades turned their attention to her, their eyes burning with an eerie violet light. Ereta's own eyes flared violet in answer as she smiled faintly.
"I'm a Master myself, you know."
She answered a question no one had asked, and the priests rushed her.
She had no proper weapon, but she was a Master, and she was not truly empty-handed.
Her hands slipped beneath her skirt and emerged with a weapon in each.
A hand axe and a hammer. Two small arms that fit neatly in her palms.
She gave each a light spin, tightened her grip, and charged to meet them.
The halberd-wielding priest came first. Strangely armored in helm and plate, he thrust his weapon straight at her. Ereta twisted aside, letting the halberd aimed at her forehead whistle past.
Wheesh. The strike carried more force than she expected from a priest—and his stance wobbled. Ereta's eyes narrowed. She drove the hammer up into his jaw.
Crack. The man collapsed, teeth scattering. Ereta knocked aside the next priest's strike with her axe, then swayed low as a spear stabbed toward her throat.
Something was off. As she twisted and swayed through the barrage, the dissonance gnawed at her.
Clang. She hammered aside a spear aimed at her throat and frowned.
'Damnably weak. And their numbers keep growing.'
The Three Evils' priests were adept at disguise, but this many was excessive. As though they were being manufactured on the spot.
And for all that they were priests, they were laughably weak. Only one explanation fit.
Someone was throwing hastily made priests at her to kill her here.
More than that—Tiyamal, Angie, Rumel, Aslan, and Fay were nowhere to be seen. Just an endless tide of priests surging toward her. At least the ones she put down stayed down.
'This is a trap and I'm the target.'
The reason escaped her. Only the phenomenon itself existed. Ereta clubbed another charging priest's head with her hammer, then seized his crumpled helm and trampled him underfoot.
'I don't intend to die here.'
She exhaled slowly, the breath she had been holding, and glared at the advancing priests.
At that moment, a flank of the encircling horde collapsed as though it had been blown apart.
Three figures strode through the gap. Two bare-handed priests, and one wielding a mace that dripped venom. The priests who had been closing on Ereta faltered, then wheeled and charged these newcomers instead.
The attackers' blades gleamed a sickly green. Ereta hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden infighting, and the foremost of the three newcomers rushed forward and body-slammed her.
Arms tucked tight, a simple straight-line tackle—and yet the effect was tremendous.
Kwaaang!
Weapons and armor crumpled as priests were hurled backward. Ereta's eyes went wide.
Since when did the Poison-spitting Dragon's priests possess that kind of monstrous strength?
Not in her knowledge. A Giant's Priest, perhaps.
She stared at the priest wielding that inexplicable power, and a sudden unease prickled at her.
It didn't add up. The Poison-spitting Dragon's priests had multiplied out of nowhere, while the guests who had filled the hall minutes ago had dwindled. Not dead—simply gone, without a trace. They had not fled; the door lay behind the three newcomers.
Ereta, a former high priest who had survived countless battles, began to piece it together. As the cowed priests shuffled backward, she pushed toward the three newcomers.
Her lips pressed thin, her posture tight with tension. The tallest of the three approached her.
What if she was wrong? Her face hardened with worry just as the tall priest reached out.
The hand settled on her head. The texture of scales was distinct against her scalp.
She clutched her axe. The priest stroked her hair.
White strands brushed between scaled fingers. Ereta recognized the motion. Aslan's touch, unmistakably.
The violet haze drained from her eyes, and the illusion shattered.
The world resolved. The three priests were not priests at all.
Aslan. Angie, who had been pummeling guards. Emperor Ileina.
And the "priests" Ereta had been battering were guards and the household troops of visiting nobles.
They lay sprawled with teeth knocked out and eyes rolled back, some shuddering on the floor. None were dead, but most of them would struggle to chew food for the foreseeable future.
Ereta, knowing full well who was responsible, laughed awkwardly and slid her weapons back beneath her skirt.
"Aslan. It's been a while. Have you been... well?"
She averted her eyes with a mortified expression, and Aslan smiled slightly.
"Let's go."
"...Yes."
*
With the party reunited, Aslan moved quickly to sweep the castle for the others.
The priority was clear: several of his companions were capable of catastrophic collateral damage if they fell prey to illusion magic. And he needed to locate Rumel, whom he had sent ahead.
He searched the castle hoping Tiyamal had not shot anyone dead, that Fay had not snapped anyone's neck.
He soon learned he needn't have worried.
Tiyamal and Fay's senses were too acute. The illusion magic had never taken hold.
Inside the vast guest chamber where he finally found them, the two answered his questions in turn.
"Cheap tricks like that don't work on this old-timer. Same for the runt, I'd wager."
"Right? What I see and what I feel don't match. Fay's not dumb enough to fall for that. You just shut your eyes tight, then open them again!"
"Exactly. If it doesn't match what you feel, you notice. Simple."
The pair exchanged offhand remarks as if their methods were obvious. They were not. Aslan smiled wryly and turned to Rumel as she approached.
"Sir Aslan, I subdued and gathered them as you ordered."
The huge room held many people. Some, like Frida and the chairman, were lucid. Others still trembled with violet light swimming in their eyes. Those afflicted all bore signs of having already been knocked unconscious once—missing teeth, lumps on their heads.
Angie had dragged in a few more on the way, still lost in the illusion. Rumel followed Aslan's gaze and spoke gravely.
"But... the magic will not break. Sir Fay and Sir Tiyamal have tried telling them it's an illusion, even physical contact, but they only seem more frightened. We have exhausted everything we could think of. Nothing worked."
Aslan turned with a gentle smile. Across the room, Emperor Ileina was shaking her subordinates by the shoulders. Angie kept stealing glances his way.
He waved at Angie and spoke to Rumel.
"I'm not surprised. Rowena's illusion magic is extraordinary. It deceives every sense. Unless you possess heightened senses like Tiyamal or Fay, there is almost no way to break free on your own."
In truth, it was not merely senses but raw stats.
In the game, fighting the Black Witch had always been a brutal gate check. You either had enough Luck or Fighting Spirit for partial illusion resistance, or enough Magic Power to dispel it—otherwise, you simply lost.
Which explained why Angie, whose mental stats were all ones, had succumbed while Tiyamal and Fay had not.
"Then what will you do?"
Ereta slipped into the pause, pressing close enough to cling to his forearm as she asked. Aslan resolutely ignored the sensation.
"I'll have to kill the caster, or force her to withdraw."
And in this case, the caster was Rowena.
He knew where she would be.
"I'll handle it. The rest of you, stay here and watch over those still affected. Be ready in case more enemies appear."
"...You mean to go alone? Wouldn't it be better to go together...?"
Rumel started to object, but fell silent when Aslan shook his head.
"I'm the only one here who can withstand Rowena's magic. The moment we get close, she'll blanket the area in illusions. Standing up to that requires both exceptional senses and magical ability."
The others accepted this with reluctant expressions. Rumel's face remained hard.
"Is that the truth?"
Aslan paused, then told another lie.
"It is."
"I see. Then... go. We'll hold things here."
Rumel had seen through him. The others believed it. Aslan smiled ruefully, then ruffled Angie's hair as she finally reached him.
"Huh? What? Where are you going? I should—"
Rumel caught Angie by the arm and held her back. Aslan left his companions behind and stepped into the corridor, making for the spiral staircase that led to the tower's summit.
A breath seeped out of him, long and tired. In truth, he had not needed to go alone. The illusions were real enough, but surviving them did not strictly require magical ability. Fay and Tiyamal could have managed just fine. Taking at least those two would have been the rational choice.
He had chosen otherwise. He had lied to his companions and accepted Rumel's wordless understanding—because if anyone else came, Rowena would flee without a word.
Aslan climbed the seemingly endless stairs and drew out the talisman.
An invitation, in a sense. A love letter requesting a private meeting.
He clenched the talisman in his fist and told himself this was the right call. Some part of him was still attached to Rowena, yes. But past that attachment, the opportunity mattered more. This meeting was his only chance to extract information about the hidden hand behind everything. To understand the board.
A disadvantageous encounter. A lie told to Rumel. Necessary, he told himself.
He banked on that conviction not crumbling before this was over.
The Emperor had spoken of a tower that opened onto a vast Hanging Garden.
At last he reached the top and pushed the door open, stepping into the wind.
Petals swirled on the breeze. In the dim moonlight, a woman sat perched on the tower railing, her body angled toward him, her head tilted sideways to watch the moon.
A veil covered her face. A dress revealed not a sliver of skin. And yet the moment Aslan saw her, a painful sense of familiarity washed over him.
Even the fragrance was familiar. Damp and pleasant, like earth after rain. The scent that had always clung to her.
As the wind atop the tower shifted, her black hair scattered and the veil slipped aside.
The face beneath: violet eyes, a languid and alluring cast to her features. Half-lidded and drowsy, those eyes flicked sideways to glance at him. Then she turned her head fully.
A sultry smile curved her lips. Their eyes met.
"Hello, Hyun-woo. Been a while."
Lee Hyun-woo lowered his gaze and smiled—a sad, gentle smile.