Rewrite That Witch
CH639 · Rewrite
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Chapter 639: Isabella

Without the shackles, Isabella might have forgotten she was a prisoner.

After she’d told Roland’s witches that the God’s Stones of Retaliation embedded in the cell walls couldn’t suppress her ability, she’d been moved to an ordinary bedroom with guards posted at the door. Back in the Western Region, a similar arrangement had awaited her: no damp, no standing water, no stone floor seeping cold into her bones. This room was spacious enough for a bed, a bench, and a curtained toilet alcove. The windows were barred with iron strips, but morning light still came through them in warm slant lines. The conditions were better than anything the Pivotal Secret Authority had ever offered its own people.

She was also aware that she was considered a beautiful woman, and she had prepared herself for what captivity sometimes meant for beautiful women.

Nothing had happened. No one had come to her room at night. No humiliation, no pain. The guards at the door spoke to her only when delivering meals.

Her two regular visitors were the witches. One claimed to have come from four hundred years ago; the other was blonde and always wore a hood. Isabella had answered every question honestly—had even requested paper and quill to write down what she remembered from the Pivotal Secret Temple’s library: fragments of demon records, secret histories, documents the church had never shared widely. She recorded what she knew because it was useful, and usefulness was the only currency she had.

Neither witch had threatened her. But the blonde one left every session with a cold face, and Isabella had gradually understood: she was waiting to catch Isabella in a lie. One of them could detect deception—the blonde witch, almost certainly. She had been primed to punish, and the fact that there was nothing to punish seemed only to deepen her frustration.

Isabella found this confusing. A prisoner who told the truth consistently should have made things simpler, not more difficult.

As the weeks stretched into months, a different anxiety took root.

Two months, and Roland Wimbledon had never appeared.

She could think of only two explanations: either the king had not yet woken from his coma, or he had woken and decided never to see her. Neither option was good. Once she’d given them everything she knew, a trial would follow. An execution, probably. She wasn’t afraid of death—she had chosen to devote her life to the fight against demons, and she had no illusions about the cost—but waiting for it, day after day, was its own particular weight.

She sighed, crossed to the bed in her chains, and picked up the quill. She spread a blank sheet across her lap. If she could finish writing everything she remembered, she could at least come to her end with the work complete.

Then she heard footsteps. More than two people.

Isabella set down the quill and rose.

The door opened. The two witches entered first—and behind them, a young man with grey hair and an unhurried way of moving. She recognized him from what she’d been told.

He woke up.

She kept her face still. She stood and bowed slightly. Whatever composure the moment required, she would provide it.

“I thought you would never come,” she said.

“I didn’t intend to postpone this.” His voice was calm—no performance in it, no deliberate weight. “I had an extraordinarily long dream. I only just woke from it.” A pause. “I fought Zero in the dream, and I defeated her. But as the victor I received nothing—not her knowledge, not her abilities.”

“That’s impossible.” The words left her before she could catch them.

He looked at her with what seemed like genuine curiosity. “Why? I’m a man. I assume I can’t inherit what belongs to a witch.”

“Gender has nothing to do with it.” Isabella shook her head, ordering her thoughts. “In the Soul Battlefield, a victor’s prize is memories and lifespan—things any human being can receive. Magic power and a witch’s abilities can’t be absorbed by the winner. That’s precisely why Zero never absorbed me.”

“That implies there are beings she couldn’t invade.”

“Animals have no intelligence. Even if they entered the Soul Battlefield and won, they couldn’t interpret human memory.” She hesitated. “Though there is another factor. Different species are—different.”

“Go on.”

“Among the thousands of souls she absorbed, some were demon.” She said it carefully. “And some were hybrid demonic beasts. That was before I was born. She mentioned it to me only once, in passing.”

The room went quiet in a different way. Roland glanced at the two witches. They looked back at him.

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” The blonde witch’s voice was sharp and sudden.

“Because knowing it increases your anxiety without helping you.” Isabella met her gaze. “Even Zero said the memories of other species were so disorienting they became a burden. She told me she had never tried it again after that.”

Roland’s expression hadn’t changed. He almost looked pleased. “Interesting. One more question—what does the Soul Battlefield do to a loser who surrenders voluntarily, compared to one who fights to the end?”

“All losers disappear from this world.” She thought. “But the memories Zero absorbed came in two kinds. She described them that way herself.” She paused, retrieving the exact phrasing. “One kind was disorganized—fragments with residual consciousness still attached. Those affected her directly. Changed her thinking, her moods, even her beliefs, over time. The other kind was orderly and complete. She could access those whenever she wanted, read them clearly, set them aside when she didn’t need them.” She paused again. “She said the first kind was harder to recall and easier to lose. The second kind stayed perfectly intact.” A beat. “She mentioned it only once. I didn’t ask further. But I’m certain you’re an exception—I’ve never heard of someone absorbing no memories at all.”

Roland closed his eyes. His brow furrowed. He stayed that way for nearly ten minutes, thinking through something whose shape she couldn’t see. Then he exhaled slowly.

“I understand.”

She wanted to ask what he understood. She didn’t.

“Now,” he said, opening his eyes, “let’s talk about you.”

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