Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 1329: The Grand War Begins

Late that night, Roland drove everyone back to Six Li Pavilion—the street where Scroll had first arrived in the Dream World.

Like the apartment estate, Six Li Pavilion was an old neighborhood that had aged into commercial life. Convenience stores, bars drawing their regulars, a KTV and an internet café; all small establishments, all lit against the dark, their customers largely office workers and students from nearby. The environment was a little cluttered, a little dingy. For Scroll’s purposes, it was ideal—a place where no one asked questions.

The passageway of the link was on the sidewalk, looking from the outside like any ordinary iron door. Whether it had always been there or had appeared the moment Scroll crossed into the Dream World, Roland could not say. But its location mattered enormously. He was already turning over the possibility of using the Association’s connection with the Clover Group to purchase both of the neighboring shops.

Scroll could only bring one God’s Punishment Witch into her domain at a time. If she were marked by multiple Fallen Evils, the exposure would create real danger—and she was too important, the knowledge she carried too irreplaceable, to risk. Stationing ten or more God’s Punishment Witches in the streets surrounding the link would change that calculus substantially.

While the streets were quieter than usual, Roland ran the final test: the interactions between the two Realm of Mind domains.

The result was straightforward. When the Dream World stopped operating, Scroll would be ejected from wherever she was and returned to her Archives—the small gray room—regardless of how far she had wandered.

This was the sharpest difference between her and the God’s Punishment Witches.

When a God’s Punishment Witch’s consciousness returned to her body, her position within the Dream World was preserved exactly as she had left it. That was why Roland had told them to enter and exit primarily from the Rose Café or the warehouse—to avoid anyone simply vanishing from the middle of a street.

Scroll’s situation was more constrained. In an emergency, a God’s Punishment Witch could maintain a seamless passage by entering and leaving at precisely the same moment as Roland. Scroll had no such option. Every entry began in the Archives; every exit ended there.

Not an insurmountable problem. All that was needed was a phone call before waking—confirming that both of them were in the right place—and Faldi’s flying insects maintaining their continuous watch over the district.

The same logic applied in reverse. If Scroll left her territory in the Realm of Mind, anyone inside her domain—Roland, the God’s Punishment Witches—would be automatically ejected as well. Scroll would wake in her body in the real world; the others would reappear outside the iron door. It was, by all accounts, an unpleasant experience. Like being thrown off a roller coaster mid-loop.

The final discovery was one Roland had not anticipated.

After Scroll vacated the Realm of Mind, the iron door remained standing—but behind it was not a wall or the narrow gray room. It was a red void.

Erosion.

According to Garcia, erosion fissures did not appear at random. The locations where they existed were carefully guarded by professional members of the Association. Which meant this particular fissure had to have originated from the Archives itself.

So the two territories did not simply occupy a fixed arrangement—one containing the other. They were both part of the Realm of Mind, both drawing on the energy of the Origin of Magic. This was likely the most accurate interpretation. It also aligned with what Lan had told him: if the Dream World swallowed more cores, the odds of breaching god’s territory would rise accordingly.

A question followed, as questions always did.

If he allowed the territories of other high-ranking demons to fall within the range of his key’s light beam, what would change? Could they appear in this city—the way Scroll had appeared?

The next day, Roland received the latest news from the front.

Two letters. The first was from Wendy—a brief account of the witches’ current situation, followed by a more significant note near the end: Nana Pine had finally reached her Day of Adulthood.

Like Lucia, Mystery Moon, and the others before her, Nana’s magic had condensed on that day. By the Witch Union’s classification, she was now a true high-level witch.

The letter offered no details on her specific ability. Perhaps they were too busy to test it. Perhaps the ability was too precious to spend carelessly. Either way, Roland did not mind waiting for the particulars. What mattered—the only thing that had mattered since the letter began—was that Nana had crossed that threshold safely.

The second letter was considerably thicker.

Inside were a report from the First Army and a strategy proposal from the General Staff’s advisers. This was a standing disadvantage of their current communication system—the front lines accumulated their dispatches before sending them, which meant a single envelope might contain intelligence spanning several days or half a month. The writing on some pages might already be weeks old by the time Roland read it.

He flipped to the final page. His brow drew together.

“Did something happen?” Nightingale stood at his side, watching his face.

“The demons launched a full-scale attack on the First Army.” His voice was level but quiet. “It happened last week.”

Gust Castle, Kingdom of Wolfheart.

The emergency siren shrieked over the city for the third time since dawn.

“Damned monsters.” Jodel spat on the ground and dug through the inner folds of his coat. He shook the paper bag for a long moment. Nothing fell out.

“Here.” A hand reached toward him from the side. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

He turned. Farry stood there, holding a small white pill between her fingers.

“You—don’t need it?” He hesitated before taking it.

“I’m not as weak as you.” Her expression was flat. “Missing a day or two of sleep isn’t a problem for me. Besides, I distrust those things—no one will tell you what’s in them. I’d suggest eating less of it if I were you.”

“You might be right.” Jodel exhaled slowly and placed the pill on his tongue. “But it keeps me alive. For now.”

The bitterness hit before the pill had fully dissolved—sharp and pervasive, coating the inside of his mouth. Then, following close behind it: warmth. The biting cold retreated. The dizziness and exhaustion that had taken up permanent residence behind his eyes thinned and withdrew. His stiff fingers flexed again. He felt, for the first time in what seemed like days, like himself—like the hunter he had been before this war started, not the hollowed, ragged thing the siege was making him into.

This. He raised his long-barreled gun and mounted it at the firing point.

Half a month ago, the pills had arrived in every soldier’s hands as standard issue. Their official designation was Delaying Agent; what the soldiers called them was the Unfallable Pill. One pill blocked out all physical pain for several hours, until it wore off and the pain came back to collect what was owed.

There had been resistance, initially. Some of the Sand Nation fighters drew a firm line between the Delaying Agent and the Pills of Madness that had circulated through older, darker campaigns. But resistance faded quickly, for several reasons: the First Army had not made them mandatory; the packaging carried explicit warnings about side effects and repetitive use; the northerners received the same pills; even the officers took them. Rumors could not gain purchase against that kind of even-handedness. Someone had even pointed out, with a kind of dry amusement, that the pills could have been made sweet—that the astringent bitterness was an intentional deterrent against casual overuse.

And then the demons’ unrelenting assault had settled the question for good.

Against attacks that lasted all day without break, Jodel could not have held his firing point for tens of hours at this pitch without the pill. He had been a veteran hunter long enough to know the difference between entering battle rested and sharp, and being dragged into the next engagement still bleeding from the last. The difference was the difference between living and not.

As long as he didn’t die the moment he swallowed it, he could accept any side effect, however severe.

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