The Witch

Old John had never seen anything so bizarre in his entire life.

The woman had appeared out of thin air. Right beneath the crooked oak tree at the village entrance, the air had warped for a moment, and then she was lying on the ground like a wax figure.

He had been leading a few young men from the village to check on the wheat fields when he witnessed this. He nearly dropped his elm cane into the roadside ditch.

A crowd of people stood twenty paces away, none of them daring to take a step forward.

As the village chief, Old John was nudged from behind by the young men. Left with no choice but to step up, he approached with trembling steps and checked her breath with a rough finger.

She was breathing.

He peeled back her eyelids, but her eyes were shut tight, her eyelashes not even fluttering.

She probably wasn't dead, Old John breathed a sigh of relief.

But she had appeared out of thin air, couldn't be woken up, and was a woman to boot...

“Carry her back to the village first,” Old John directed the young men with a frown.

Just as they carried her to the village entrance, they saw a cloud of dust rising in the distance. It was two soldiers in leather armor driving a rickety carriage.

Old John's heart instantly sank to his stomach—the tax collectors were here.

“Purification Tax!” the leading soldier shouted gruffly, his whip cracking sharply in the air. “The corruption is severe this year. The lords in the royal capital are working day and night to purify it. You peasants have to pay thirty percent more!”

Old John hunched his back and went to greet them, his face squeezing into a sycophantic smile. “My lords, my lords, the harvest was poor this year. The wheat ears...”

“Cut the crap!” A soldier kicked away his outstretched hand. The stiff leather of the boot struck Old John's shoulder. He stumbled back half a step, lost his balance, and fell flat on his back, listening to the soldier's harsh threats. “Three silver coins per household. If you're short by even one copper, we'll take people to make up for it!”

The carriage curtain was pulled aside, and a young man in a white robe poked his head out. His face was twisted in disgust, as if he had just spotted mud on his shoes, his brow deeply furrowed.

“Lord Corey,” the two soldiers immediately changed their tune, bowing and scraping. “This village is filthy. Please don't let it soil your noble feet.”

The young man named Corey ignored them, his neck held high like the only rooster in their village.

“Where is the Wind-whisper Grass I asked for? Can't you even handle such a simple task?”

Taking advantage of the moment when the two soldiers were busy bowing and scraping around Corey, Old John crawled up. He stood to the side, playing dumb and not daring to speak.

The young men carrying the woman started to murmur, unsure of whether to keep holding her.

Standing there was exhausting, and they still had farm work to do!

Their hushed whispers drifted together, drawing attention.

“What's all the racket!” The noble mage glared at them. His eyes weren't large, but his glare carried a sharp intensity he had clearly practiced.

Old John's heart skipped a beat. Fearing the wrath of these high-and-mighty mages, he hurriedly bowed and approached to report, his voice low and submissive. “Lord Corey, we actually need your help to settle something. A woman appeared out of thin air in our village, and we can't wake her up. Do you think this could be some sort of evil entity? Please help us, milord...”

As he spoke, he secretly peeked at Corey's expression. The young man's eyes lit up—not with curiosity, but with the excitement of a hunter spotting prey.

“Out of thin air?” Light flashed in Corey's eyes, and he finally deigned to step down from the carriage. “Take me to see.”

The hem of his white robe swept across the dusty ground, causing his brow to furrow again, but he didn't stop.

On the flat ground at the village entrance, the woman had been laid on a broken wooden door. Corey walked around her three times, his fingers tracing imaginary patterns in the air as he muttered under his breath.

Old John and the villagers shrank to the side, not daring to breathe loudly. Only Auntie Dolly stared in dismay at the broken door beneath the woman—she had planned to chop that up for firewood...

“An awakening witch?” Corey finally stopped, unable to hide his excitement. He could practically see his future of rapid promotions.

Old John's knees went weak, and he almost fell to the ground.

A witch. It really was a witch...

This word had nearly vanished from this land for almost a hundred years, leaving behind only fragments in scary stories used to frighten children—the witch who would snatch you away if you didn't behave, the witch who would knock on your door if you didn't eat your food, the witch who would appear if you played pranks...

“Burn the witch, purify the evil.” Every child knew how to sing that nursery rhyme, but no one had ever actually seen one.

Those distant, wicked legends suddenly became vivid, like a freezing winter wind whipping across everyone's backs. The villagers present instinctively hunched their shoulders.

“Please save us, milord!” Old John's voice trembled. Now, he could only rely on these lords.

Corey didn't bother to reply. He pulled a transmission stone from his robe and reported the discovery of a newly awakening witch to the Mage Association. He spoke rapidly, his voice tinged with uncontrollable excitement.

“You lot, tie her up first,” Corey commanded the peasants, as he had yet to receive a reply from the Mage Association.

Corey paced back and forth nearby. Normally, the Mage Association should have responded immediately upon receiving news of a witch, coordinating with witch hunters to capture her.

But for some reason, there was no reply even after a long while today. He pulled out the transmission stone again to check, confirming that the message had indeed been sent.

He looked up at the sky. The sun was still a bit away from setting, but it wasn't early either. If they couldn't wrap this up before the Silver Moon appeared, there would be big trouble.

He was only a mage apprentice; all the spells he knew combined wouldn't be enough to control a real witch.

“Prepare the pyre immediately.”

Old John's heart bled.

This year was shaping up to be a harsh winter, and the firewood saved by each household was a lifeline. But the lord had spoken, and they didn't dare disobey.

“Every house, bring two bundles of firewood. Hurry,” he instructed, his voice hoarse.

Under the threat of the soldiers' blades, the villagers didn't even dare voice their complaints. A few hung their heads and wiped away tears. This was truly no way to live.

Under the soldiers' supervision, the pyre was built quickly. Corey personally supervised the construction to ensure the stake was sturdy, all while muttering nonsense about a “Purification Circle.”

Old John didn't understand any of that. He only saw that even though the witch was tied to the center of the woodpile, the hemp ropes cutting into her wrists, her eyes remained closed.

“Light it.” Corey pulled out the Purification Declaration printed on the first page of every mage's notebook. He cleared his throat, waiting to begin his pronouncement the moment the fire was lit.

This was a rare experience. Only nobles or true mages had the right to judge a witch. He hadn't expected to run into one here, allowing him to enjoy the privileges of a true mage.

The torch was thrust into Old John's hand. He hesitated for a moment, thinking of his grandson who had died before completing his first month. If the witch truly had evil magic to resurrect the dead... No, no, no, witches only brought harm.

“Hurry up!” A sword hilt pressed against his lower back.

The moment the tongues of fire licked the woodpile, Old John closed his eyes. He heard the crackling of the wood, the villagers shouting slogans to vent their frustration, and Corey starting to read some “Purification Declaration” in a strange, rhythmic tone.

Even if the witch didn't kill them, losing so much firewood meant several households would freeze to death this winter...

Then, he met a pair of eyes.

Looking back now, Old John felt they looked more like two moons. A silver-white light swirled within them, as if they held the mysteries of the universe.

The woman—no, the witch—raised her hand.