Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 241: Liberation

Two thousand people filled the square, and still the air crackled like ten times that number. Echo’s ability was extraordinary — the crowd’s energy reached every corner without loss, without distortion, each voice finding the back row as cleanly as the front.

Roland had chosen these three deliberately. Not one was a noble. Iron Axe was Mojin Clan, a Sandperson from beyond the Southern Border. Kyle Sichi was a common man’s son who had climbed from apprentice to chief alchemist through sheer tenacity. And Nana — Nana was a witch.

An alien, a civilian, a witch. The phrase that would have come naturally to his former world was political correctness, and the instinct behind it was the same: Border Town would judge a person by what they did, not by what they were born.

Iron Axe came forward first. Roland had engraved the gold medal himself — Graycastle’s tower ringed by wheat ears, pinions along the edge. The moment Iron Axe’s fingers closed around it, the First Army raised their hands in a single motion, and the rest of the square broke into whistling and shouts.

“His name should already be known to you,” Roland turned to face the crowd. “Commander of the First Army’s Firearm Team — Iron Axe.” He paused for the noise to crest and fall. “Before the Months of Demons, he was one of many hunters in this town. But when Border Town needed defending, Iron Axe was never absent. Last month, he led the First Army all the way to King’s City and brought back six thousand refugees besieged by the demonic plague. Six thousand people. All of them are here because of him.”

The refugees themselves answered loudest. Their voices broke over the square like something that had been held underwater for a long time.

Iron Axe’s composure was failing him. A man of the Mojin Clan in a foreign kingdom — there were things he had surely never expected to receive, and Roland could see him managing them. He gave the First Army salute first, clean and precise, then went down on one knee in the Graycastle knight ceremony. He might have continued into a Sandpeople rite if Roland hadn’t touched his shoulder.

“As a soldier, the military salute is enough,” Roland said quietly.

“Thank you —” Iron Axe’s voice caught on something. “Your Highness.”

Roland placed the bag of a hundred gold royals in his hand and signaled Kyle Sichi forward.

“This man you may be seeing for the first time,” he said. “He came to Border Town from the Central Region — former chief alchemist of Redwater City’s Alchemic Workshop. Mr. Kyle Sichi.”

The murmur that moved through the crowd carried genuine amazement.

A chief alchemist? Those are people even kings treat with courtesy.

Higher than an astrologer, at least — prophecies may fail, but an alchemist produces something real.

And from Redwater City’s Workshop at that — only the King’s City one can compare.

In the four kingdoms, alchemists held a status that even powerful lords could not casually dismiss. The crowd’s reaction told Roland the choice had been correct.

“Mr. Sichi did not fight on the front lines,” Roland said, raising a hand to quiet the murmuring. “But without his chemical laboratory, there would have been no improvement from single shot to salvo — and without the products his work produced, Border Town’s victories would not have been possible. The laboratory is currently accepting trainee alchemists.” He let that sentence land before continuing. “Any person who has completed the Primary Education course and passed Border Town’s citizen inspection may apply. A generous salary — and the chance to become something like the man standing beside me now.”

The crowd erupted again. Sichi himself wore the expression of a man who had been dragged away from something important.

“You called me here for this?” he said when he took the medal, low enough that the crowd would not hear the annoyance under it. “I could have finished two more experiments by now.”

“This is the finest advertisement you will ever receive,” Roland replied, equally low. “Didn’t you complain about being short-handed?” He raised his voice and added, “Once your apprentice numbers double, I intend to write Advanced Chemistry and teach it to you.”

Sichi went still. Then, with no trace of his earlier impatience: “Thank you very much, Your Highness.”

Fostering successors was not a secondary concern. The broader the foundation, the easier the work — that was as true in science as in anything else. Roland never left an advertising opportunity to chance.

The final name was Nana.

She came to his side with the stiffness of someone concentrating on not trembling. Roland felt the quiet ache of it — how different this was from the months when he had kept them hidden, when showing a witch’s face in daylight would have brought only danger.

Nearly six months of preparation had brought them here. Border Town had been ready for some time; he had been waiting for the town to know it too.

Nana was the right choice. Every soldier in the First Army called her an angel. Her reputation within the barracks ran second only to his own — and throughout the town, the people who had received her healing had simply developed the habit of going to her first, the way one goes to anyone who has reliably mended what was broken. Mine accidents, machine injuries: the angel could help.

The theater had done its work with the serfs. Witnessing a witch’s suffering and a witch’s courage, over and over across the run of Witch Story, had built something that arguments never could. The refugees who had survived the plague because of Lily’s ability were another matter — one did not easily denounce the hands that had reached into the dark and pulled you out.

And as for the Church: in Border Town and the Western Region, they held no power to start a wind. The Longsong Stronghold church was gone. The nearest priests were in Fallen Dragon Ridge or Redwater City. Any follower who wanted to make noise would find there was nowhere for the noise to go.

Roland did not even have time to finish the introduction.

The square broke open.

“Miss Nana, Miss Nana, the young lady has come!”

“Young Angel — you cured my husband, thank you!”

“Little girl, come to my house when you have time! I raised two chickens — stewed or steamed, whichever you like!”

“Nana looked at me!”

“No, she looked at me!”

Nana covered her mouth. Her eyes went bright with tears she was not quite fighting. Roland understood, without needing to say it, that the other witches felt this moment in their own way, wherever they stood watching — the long weight of the Church’s naming, laid down at last. Walking under the sun like anyone else.

He patted her head gently. “You don’t need to be afraid. Just say a few words back to them. Don’t forget — from today, you are the representative of the Witch Union.”

She sniffled. Wiped her face. Bowed to the crowd with everything she had.

“Th — thank…” Her voice broke and rebuilt itself. “Thank you!”

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