The phantom instrument filled the center of the main hall, its components fully laid out across the stone floor. Magic power moved through it in slow pulses, and its core threw a cold purple light that pooled in the hollows of the rock and gave no warmth.
Pasha looked back.
All the blobs had lowered themselves, their hanging appendages brushing the ground. The God’s Punishment Witches stood in a line along the mounds, their faces set and still. The demonic beasts they had killed — arranged deliberately on opposite sides of the chamber — lay under the purple light with their wounds turned upward, the pale blue blood gathering in small luminous pools. The scene was something out of a fever dream: the phosphorescent blood, the motionless silhouettes, the cold radiance from above.
If a group of common people walked in right now, they would run.
That was the intent. Pasha did not relish it, but she had prepared for the worst — and the worst meant Phyllis had been taken, the ring broken by someone else. If whoever held the ring stepped through the light curtain to find this hall, what they needed to see was power. Overwhelming, unambiguous, terrifying power. The western reaches of Graycastle lay near the mouth of the Fertile Plains; every year, lost demonic beasts wandered in from the wild. Any witch or common person who threatened Phyllis would know, the moment they saw this hall, that the survivors of Taquila were not prey.
The dead bodies were going to become a problem soon. After decomposition began, the remains would turn sticky and foul. Even without the sense of smell, Pasha would feel it through her tentacles. The hall had been home for over four hundred years, and she had no wish to fill it with that particular texture. But survival first. Comfort afterward.
Or not at all, if it comes to that.
“Activate the instrument,” Celine said. “We need to know Phyllis’s situation.”
Pasha reached a main tentacle toward the device and sent the command.
The purple light dimmed all at once. Then a vast curtain of it unfurled across the hall — ceiling to floor, wall to wall — and the other side of the world appeared inside it.
The Five-Colored Stone lay in pieces.
Pasha stared. She did not move for a long moment.
The scene through the curtain was not a dungeon. Not a wilderness, not a ruin, not a battlefield. It was a hall — open and high-ceilinged and bright — with a long wooden table running down its center, white cloth on the table, flowers and teacups arranged with deliberate care. No broken walls. No signs of struggle. Whoever had destroyed the stone had chosen this room specifically for the purpose of doing it calmly.
Phyllis was standing by a window, speaking with another witch. She noticed the curtain, turned, and her expression shifted into something that looked almost like alarm.
“What happened?” she asked. “Was the hall attacked?”
“Uh—” Pasha had no ready answer. None of this was what she had prepared for. Phyllis was not tortured, not afraid, not even tired. She looked better than she had when she left — better dressed, better rested, her color healthier than the gray-cast pallor she’d worn underground for four hundred years. The maid’s uniform was gone. In its place: a fine fur-lined cloak.
No one else in the hall spoke. Pasha felt the collected silence of the God’s Punishment Witches behind her and knew every blob in the chamber was looking at her, waiting.
Good that we have no faces anymore. This would be embarrassing otherwise.
“We had an attack,” Pasha said, pulling the words into something steady. “The magic core and the relics are intact. We’re all alive — don’t worry.” A pause, then, with more deliberateness: “The dead bodies are numerous. We haven’t had time to clear them.” She turned toward the God’s Punishment Witches and moved a tentacle: the signal to disperse, to begin cleanup, to vacate the arranged tableau she had so carefully constructed.
The witches, who had stood at attention for three hours waiting for this moment, looked — through no possible gesture of the face — profoundly put out.
“How are we supposed to move that many bodies?”
“We spent all day stacking them.”
“I’m not touching those. They’re sticky.”
“We can’t smell it, but look at them.”
“You’d rather sleep next to them?”
“Can’t we throw them into the lava flow? It would only smoke a little.”
“You want to turn the entire ruin into a chimney?”
The blue-haired witch standing beside Phyllis failed to suppress a laugh.
Pasha heard it and looked at her — properly, this time, not the distracted glance she had given before. Something in the line of the jaw, the particular color of the hair, the laugh itself, loose and unguarded and very young.
A name arrived without warning, surfacing from the place where memory lived before it became thought.
“Are you Agatha?”
The hall went quiet.
“What?” Celine’s voice came from the left, sharp with disbelief. “The youngest Senior Witch in history? That’s impossible. She fell with Taquila.”
“Even if she escaped the Holy City,” another voice said, “how could she still look like that? Four hundred years—”
“She is that Senior Witch,” Phyllis said. “After demons attacked her research tower in the Misty Forest, she used a multilayered frozen coffin — sealed herself inside completely, killed her pursuers in the process. When the Witch Union found the ruins of the stone tower, she was still inside. They rescued her.”
And so it was.
Pasha felt the excitement move through her like something long dormant turning toward heat. Phyllis had not only survived; she had found her way to these witches and revealed herself, revealed her connection to the maze. She had not done this carelessly. Phyllis had a purpose — Phyllis always had a purpose — and that purpose, bringing a Senior Witch of Taquila into contact with the kingdom, could mean only one thing.
Perhaps this Senior Witch was the Chosen One they had spent four centuries searching for.
Phyllis’s expression, when Pasha looked again through the curtain, was one she recognized: the particular difficulty of someone who has to say a thing they know will not land easily.
She glanced at Agatha first. “Could you give us a moment? It won’t take long.”
Agatha nodded. “When you’re ready, I’ll inform His Majesty.” She turned and walked out of the hall without looking back.
Phyllis took a breath. Looked at Pasha.
“I have found the Chosen One the Magic Stone identified,” she said. “But he is not what any of our plans assumed.”
“He?” Pasha went still.
Before she could ask more, Phyllis began.
About the witches who worked closely alongside common people. About the army that had broken the church’s power in open battle. About the weapons made of gunpowder that had changed what a battlefield could be.
And the thing that defied everything Pasha had believed for four hundred years:
The Chosen One was a common man.
Translator: TransN Editor: TransN
In the center of the main hall, the phantom instrument had been completely laid out. With magic power filling it, its core gave off a somber and cold purple light.
After the instrument had been activated, it would activate a light curtain thousands of kilometers away. Unfortunately, such an ability was way beyond the power of the witches. This was directly endowed by God.
Pasha looked back and found that all of the blobs were hanging down and touching the ground. The God’s Punishment Witches stood abreast the mounds with serious looks on their faces. The dead hybrid demonic beasts were deliberately placed on opposite sides and under the purple light, their light blue blood reflected fluorescent spots, it looked gloomy and terrifying.
If a group of common people witnessed this, they would have been frightened by such a hellish scene.
Pasha did not want things to turn out like this either. After the start of decomposition, the demonic beasts’ remains were going to become sticky and disgusting, and difficult to clean up. Even though the God’s Punishment Witches would be unable to smell it, she would sense it with her tentacles. Over 400 years, the hall had come to be their home and no one wanted to mess it up, but she had to prepare for the worst.
That was to say, Phyllis ran into danger and the ring had been broken by someone else.
If such a disaster really happened, it would be necessary to create the most horrific atmosphere to intimidate or even threaten those who might pose
threats to her.
The western region of Graycastle was near the entrance of the Fertile Plains, so each year many lost demonic beasts would attack it. Whoever put Phyllis in danger, whether it was witches or common people, would conclude from the stockpiled dead demonic beasts that they were very difficult to deal with.
Only by making the other side clearly realize that the survivors of Taquila possessed great power, would they be able to bide time for a rescue.
“Activate the instrument,” Celine said, “we need to figure out Phyllis’ situation.”
Pasha touched her main tentacles and gave an order to the instrument.
Everyone immediately noticed the purple light dim as a huge purple curtain made of light enveloped the whole hall and an illusion of a scene appeared on the other side of the phantom instrument and in it the Five-Colored Stone had been broken into pieces.
Pasha was stunned and puzzled.
The place in the scene was not a murky dungeon, nor a remote wilderness, but an open and spacious hall.
The hall was very bright and clear and a long wooden table stood in the center of it, topped by a white tablecloth that held flowers and teacups. There were no signs of fighting, so it looked like the place had been deliberately chosen to just destroy the Magic Stone.
Phyllis was currently standing by a window as she chatted with another witch. She noticed the light curtain and turned around with a very surprised face as she asked, “What happened? Was the hall attacked?”
“Uh…” Pasha didn’t know how to respond at the moment. Phyllis’ situation did not match her assumptions. Phyllis had not been attacked or tortured, and she wasn’t even in danger. In fact, she was in higher spirits now than when she had departed. Looking carefully, Phyllis wasn’t wearing that cheap and
vulgar maid suit. Instead, she was wearing a fine fluffy cloak and against the gorgeous clothes, naturally, she had a good complexion.
Everyone was as shocked as Pasha. They glanced around at one another, but no one opened their mouth to speak. Luckily, they became expressionless after they became blobs, otherwise, it would have been very embarrassing.
“Recently, the demonic beasts launched an attack, but the magic core and the relics of gods are safe and sound. We’re also all alive, so don’t worry.” As the most seasoned, Pasha was the first to regain her senses. She then added, “But, the bodies are many and we haven’t had enough time to clear them out.”
“Really?” Phyllis doubted.
“Of course, ahem…” Pasha waved her tentacles towards the God’s Punishment Witches behind her for emphasis. “Well, you continue to clean up the remains and remove them from the labyrinth before their fluids dry to the ground.”
The witches, who stood abreast with their serious looks, appeared to be extremely disappointed.
“How can we throw away so many bodies?”
“It takes us the whole day to pile them up.”
“I don’t want to touch those sticky and disgusting bodies.”
“You’re right. Although we can’t smell it, they look incredibly disgusting.”
“Stop complaining. Are you really willing to sleep with those bodies?”
“Can we throw them into the lava? At most, it’ll only smoke like a fire.”
“I can’t believe you! Do you want to turn the entire ruin into a chimney?”
“Pfft…” The blue-haired witch standing beside Phyllis couldn’t keep from laughing. “My guess is, they thought that you were in danger, so they arranged this scene to intimidate us.”
Pasha found her voice somewhat familiar and when she looked at her carefully, her name suddenly came to her mind.
“Are you Agatha?”
“What?” Celine questioned in surprise. “The youngest Senior Witch in history?”
“That’s impossible. She fell with Taquila, didn’t she?”
“Even if she managed to escape from the Holy City, how could she still have the same appearance as she did over 400 years ago?”
Both of the promoted people temporarily living in the meat lumps and the God’s Punishment Witches made sounds of perplexity.
“She’s indeed that senior witch,” Phyllis stated. “After she had been attacked by the demons in the research tower of the Misty Forest, she used the multilayered frozen coffin to completely freeze herself and it killed all of her pursuers at the same time. When the Witch Union discovered the stone tower ruins, she was rescued.”
And, that was what had happened.
As she heard this, Pasha felt instantly excited and an encouraging idea aroused from her deep heart. Phyllis had not fallen with Taquila and she quickly revealed her identity to the witches of Graycastle. Besides, she also encountered a promoted person from Taquila, so Phyllis must have a clear purpose to contact the maze. Perhaps, this Senior Witch would be the Chosen One they had been looking for.
Upon hearing this, Phyllis gave them a look of embarrassment and she hesitated.
She first glanced at Agatha before saying in a low voice, “Could you give us a moment? It won’t take long.”
Agatha nodded. “When you’re done, I’ll inform His Majesty.” Having finished, she turned around and left the hall.
Then Phyllis took a deep breath and looked at Pasha again. “I’ve indeed found the Chosen One claimed by the Magic Stone, but he’s different from the people in our plan.”
“Wait a moment, he?” Pasha was stunned. Before she could ask further about it, Phyllis began to tell her about her absurd experience.
About how the witches could closely collaborate with common people.
About the powerful army that defeated the church.
About the powerful gunpowder weapons.
And, the most incredible thing… The Chosen One was one of the common people.