Chapter 4
Chapter 4
The deaths of the brother and sister were forgotten quickly and quietly by the village.
It was the village chief’s decision.
If the witch heard about what had happened to them, she might take offense.
The witch had never made cruel or wicked demands like the ones from stories and fairy tales.
But something rotten had already taken root in the hearts of the villagers.
Like the butterfly effect, where the flap of a butterfly’s wings could cause a storm far away—
the witch’s small gestures had slowly worn away at the hearts of the people.
The witch effect.
Rebecca’s death settled over the village like silent fog.
Yet no one dared speak of it.
If merchant caravans continued passing through, the village was destined for prosperity unlike anything it had ever known.
The deaths of Rebecca and Tony were tragic.
They should have been mourned.
But no one could bring themselves to drive away the witch, who had become, even indirectly, the root of all this.
They had received too much from her.
And they had grown used to this life.
There were even rumors that driving away a witch would invite her curse.
That fear drove itself like a nail into the hearts of the villagers.
The witch’s curse had already begun.
Even if the witch had killed Tony—
that would be Tony’s fault.
And Rebecca’s fault for failing to keep watch over him.
By the time the Verdandi Merchant Group returned after finishing trade with the Holy Kingdom, the village had become known as fertile land blessed by the nameless god.
A perfect chance to spread that reputation further.
On their return journey from the Holy Kingdom, the Verdandi Merchant Group stopped once more at Gariril Village.
The merchants and their mercenary guards spent their heavy earnings without restraint, enjoying the village’s abundance.
Barum, the merchant leader, and the village chief sat together discussing trade between the Kingdom of Verdi and the Holy Kingdom, along with Gariril’s future.
The mercenary captain hired by Barum and Joshua’s father, Jack, listened closely.
Both imagined a brighter future ahead.
“Now that I think about it,” Barum said after drinking enough to warm his face, “I haven’t seen that girl Rebecca around.”
His mood had risen with the alcohol, and memories of that night returned to him.
The way she had struggled beneath him, trying desperately to satisfy him.
That awkward desperation had stirred something in him.
And if fortune smiled—
perhaps tonight could be another enjoyable night.
The village chief and Jack’s expressions darkened for a moment before quickly recovering.
“Rebecca…”
The chief began, but Barum interrupted.
“She came to my room boldly that night, didn’t she?”
Barum raised his voice proudly, like a man recounting a heroic tale.
“She asked me to deliver a letter for her in exchange for a silver ring. Wanted it sent to the person closest to her in the Holy Kingdom. In all my years, I’d never heard such a request.”
“And… what happened?” Jack asked carefully.
“What else? I told her a silver ring wasn’t enough.”
Barum laughed.
“My connections aren’t something you can buy with a little ring. I’m Barum, master of the Verdandi Merchant Group. Why, I even have ties to the heresy inquisitors of the Holy Kingdom.”
It was a lie.
A drunken exaggeration to make himself sound more important.
Judging by their expressions, Rebecca must have been well-liked in the village.
So he couldn’t exactly admit that he had accepted her body as payment for delivering the letter.
“That’s all. She just came to mind.”
The village chief slowly explained Rebecca’s story.
A carefully edited version.
One with the witch removed.
A tragic story everyone could accept.
The villagers had already agreed on it, so there was no risk of contradictions.
“And so, Rebecca and Tony were buried together, so they could remain side by side even in death.”
Barum lowered his cup.
“To think there was such a sad story behind it.”
He stood.
“We leave early tomorrow. I should rest.”
With Rebecca’s death hanging over the mood, the banquet lost its energy.
Barum and the mercenary captain left first.
The chief and Jack remained seated.
“A letter… to the Holy Kingdom?” the chief muttered.
“Why would Rebecca do that?”
Jack’s face turned pale.
“We heard rumors, didn’t we? The Holy Kingdom has started witch hunts.”
Rebecca had been born and raised in Gariril.
She had no connections in the Holy Kingdom.
That meant—
she had resorted to that desperate method.
The air turned cold.
“We need to find that letter,” the chief said.
Jack narrowed his eyes.
“You believe the merchant?”
The chief trembled.
Fear gripped his body.
Jack leaned closer.
“To be honest… the day Rebecca died, I searched her house.”
The chief’s eyes shook violently.
“There was nothing worth selling except that silver ring. I planned to sell whatever I found when the merchants came back.”
Jack’s voice hardened.
“But there was nothing. Not the ring. Not anything. Just a few worthless coins.”
He stared into the chief’s eyes.
“Do you understand what that means?”
Jack clenched his fists.
“That bastard lied to us.”
That letter—
it had to be about Gariril’s secret.
No.
It couldn’t be.
If the Holy Kingdom found out about their agreement with the witch—
the chief alone dying wouldn’t be enough.
The entire village would be wiped out.
“If that letter reached one of Barum’s ‘great connections’…” Jack muttered.
There were only two choices.
Two ways to escape the nails and hammer of the heresy inquisitors.
Jack’s face twisted with fear—
and madness.
“Either we find the witch and kill her…”
His hand shook.
“Or we abandon the village and run.”
“How are you planning to kill a witch?!” the chief shouted.
“If we don’t, the heresy inquisitors will kill us all!”
Their voices rose.
Jack didn’t care if he died.
But he had a wife.
And Joshua.
“I warned you,” Jack growled.
“You shouldn’t have left Rebecca alone.”
The damage was done.
The inquisitors could arrive tomorrow.
Regret meant nothing now.
But if he could go back—
he would have buried an axe in Rebecca’s skull himself.
“Either way, whether we die by the witch or the inquisitors, it’s the same.”
Jack’s bloodshot eyes were wild.
The chief had to calm him.
Fast.
No ordinary man had ever killed a witch.
Rushing into it might bring disaster.
The chief held onto what little reason he had left.
“Your fears make sense,” the chief said.
“But listen.”
He steadied his breath.
“If killing the witch is an option… then before that, why not ask for her help?”
Jack froze.
“She saved the children before. If we speak carefully, she may help us.”
“And if she refuses?”
The chief’s face darkened.
“Then do as you will.”
Jack nodded.
“We leave at dawn. I’m going with you.”
Morning came quickly.
Before sunrise, the merchant caravan fled the village like hunted prey.
No farewells.
No goodbyes.
They simply vanished.
Jack cursed himself.
He should have cut off Barum’s legs and held him hostage.
If the inquisitors came, maybe Barum’s so-called connections could at least save his family.
“Do you know where the witch lives?” Jack asked.
His eyes were sunken from staying awake all night.
An axe rested on his back.
The chief answered.
“Who do you think made the deal with her? Don’t worry.”
Jack wore a thick mask.
A superstition said witches couldn’t curse you if they didn’t know who killed them.
Just in case, he also carried poison he had bought from the merchant caravan.
It made him feel slightly safer.
Was the witch’s blessing even real?
Maybe the harvests had only been their own hard work all along.
Once, Jack had praised the witch more than anyone.
Now, he wanted her gone more than anyone.
It almost made him feel like a heresy inquisitor himself.
“Chief. Let’s go.”
“Yes.”
Just as the chief reached for the door—
Bang!
A violent impact exploded through it.
The door shattered inward and crushed the chief beneath it.
Jack froze.
Through the broken doorway stood a group of armored figures.
Armor engraved with the lion emblem of the Holy Kingdom.
White eyes that seemed blessed by the gods themselves.
A cold voice spoke.
“Pray.”
The woman stepped forward.
“Pray until dawn.”
Her white eyes burned like the rising sun beneath platinum hair.
The Third Sword of the Holy Kingdom.
A witch hunter personally ordered by the Pope—
Lucia.
She frowned as she felt traces of witchcraft throughout the village.
Especially from the old man crushed beneath the broken door.
The smell of it was enough to make her sick.
“Arrest them all.”
Her voice was merciless.
“The witch trial begins now.”