“…I’ve been in the prison for the entire month,” she replied, her voice rough and scratchy. It had been so long since she last spoke that her throat burned with every word. The hoarse sound of her own voice, used only to scream during her captivity, felt foreign even to her ears.

“You’re the Great Witch. You could have used any sort of dark magic.”

“If I wanted to help them escape, I wouldn’t have started by betraying them in the first place,” she responded, her voice steady despite the lingering soreness.

McClart probably knew that this interrogation was pointless; he was just frustrated by the lower than expected capture rate and needed someone to vent his anger on. The guard had simply been unfortunate enough to cross his path while he was in a foul mood.

Apparently, seeing the guard bleed hadn’t been enough to quell his irritation. But no matter how much he pressed, she had nothing more to offer.

Since her capture by McClart, she had provided information faithfully, and that compliance had kept her alive for the past six months. With all that time spent simply trying to survive, how could she summon any sense of righteousness or loyalty to anyone else?

“If you wish, you may interrogate me,” she offered, lowering her gaze with the same detached expression as always. Her tone was submissive, as if resigned to whatever might come next. Whether this appeased McClart or not, he decided not to press further. Instead, as he always did, he instructed her to identify the next location.

With a steady breath, she turned back to the map, her fingers lightly tracing over its surface, searching for the next point of betrayal.

Her eyes scanned the map slowly. The image of Tempe was a chaotic mess. Chiron had called it a ‘cleansing’, but it was really a massacre.

Her task was to choose the next site for slaughter. Wherever her fingertip landed, the inquisitors’ holy flames would soon consume that place.

The land would be soaked with the blood of its inhabitants, and the terrified cries of animals, startled by the ruthless onslaught, would echo mournfully. In just half a year, she had been complicit in burning down half of Tempe.

The success of the witch hunts was a victory celebrated by every citizen of Chiron. But with each triumph, the curses and condemnations directed at her grew louder.

It was a cruel irony. She led the way in cleansing the land, as they demanded, yet they despised her for betraying her kin to survive. Did they expect her to use dark magic to defend her fellow witches instead? If she did, they would brand her as a vile demon worshipper all over again.

She felt trapped in a twisted cycle of their judgment—damned if she complied, damned if she resisted.

“This place,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The weight of the shackles on her wrists made the simple act of pointing at the map an arduous task. Her bony fingers, trembling slightly, hovered over a particular spot. Her hands were so thin that the outline of her bones was clearly visible beneath the pale skin.

The tip of her broken fingernail, smeared with a drop of blood, brushed the surface of the map. Startled, she quickly withdrew her hand, hoping the faint smear of blood would go unnoticed.

Fortunately, McClart didn’t seem to notice the tiny trace of blood on the map. If he had, he would probably have ripped it off the wall and replaced it with a new one.

Despite her choice of location, McClart remained silent. Normally, he would have questioned her immediately, demanding to know why she had chosen that area, how many witches lived there, the size of the settlement, what defences were in place and the nature of the surrounding terrain. But today there were no questions.

McClart’s usual method was to meticulously check the information she provided. He would first send scouts to confirm the accuracy of her information, and if it was confirmed, he would send paladins or lead his soldiers to ravage the targeted area.

But even after some time had passed, there was still no response from him. Finally, unable to bear the silence, she turned cautiously.

McClart was sitting with his arms crossed and one leg casually crossed over the other. The odd thing was that as soon as she turned their eyes met, indicating that he had been watching her all along.

Believing that the Great Witch’s red eyes could bewitch and taint pure souls, most citizens of Chiron avoided direct eye contact with her. Knowing this, she had always made an effort to keep her gaze lowered unless absolutely necessary.

Again, she quickly looked away as soon as their eyes met.

“You…”

McClart started to say, but then abruptly closed his mouth, leaving the sentence unfinished.

McClart seemed particularly off today, and she couldn’t help but put it down to his bad mood. She tried to gauge how much his strange behaviour could benefit her, but no matter how she thought about it, she saw no advantage in the situation.

Deciding to return to the task at hand, she turned back to the map to point out the chosen area once more. But before she could raise her hand, he spoke first.

“Vienny”

Her hand froze in midair. That single word seemed to be all the confirmation McClart needed. He rose from his chair and strode purposefully toward her.

“So, I was right about your name.”

She—Vienny—held her breath, remaining silent. The man before her was towering and imposing. His broad frame loomed over her, and she was acutely aware that, with his strength, he could crush her small, frail form with a single blow.

McClart Hemlock was Chiron’s strongest weapon of God—the only inquisitor to have received a direct summons from the High Priest himself.

Vienny bowed her head, silently praying her uneven breaths wouldn’t reach his ears. Her gaze fell on her thin wrists, making the heavy shackles around them seem almost too loose.

They called these relics instruments forged to bind demons. She wasn’t sure what they were made of, but she knew they weren’t designed for someone like her. The shackles weren’t just heavy; their loose fit caused the metal to constantly rub against her skin, keeping her wounds open and bleeding.

“The witches seem to call your name quite often.”

If that were the case, it would have been the same six months ago. His remark felt oddly out of place, as if this were some sudden revelation. Vienny  couldn’t decipher what he wanted from her or what he was trying to imply, so she remained silent, unsure how to respond.

Countless witches must have perished before him, cursing Vienny’s name as they were engulfed in flames. It was pointless to ask why they had cursed the Great Witch’s name.

Of course, they cursed her—because she was leading this horrific “cleansing.” Even if McClart knew the name they cried out, there was no reason for him to take such an interest in it.

“My name is useless information to you, Inquisitor.”

“…That’s true.”

McClart agreed without resistance. To him, she was the Great Witch before she was Vienny, and that was all that mattered. His gaze shifted to the map, focusing on the area she had pointed to earlier.

“The Glada Valley,” he murmured.

“There’s a hideout halfway up the cliff. If they escaped from Stein, that’s likely where they fled. There’s no way to climb up from below, so you’ll need to descend using ropes from above,” Vienny explained.

The entrance to the hideout would likely be sealed, so the only way to raid it would be through a narrow gap in the cliffside. The thick foliage and fierce currents below made it unlikely the witches would expect an attack from that direction.

But even if there were another way in, it wasn’t her concern. She had provided the location, and now it was up to McClart to handle the restSo far, he had always made effective use of the information she provided.

“You seem to know the witches’ patterns very well.”

His comment struck her as odd. By now, that observation should have been well understood. Vienny couldn’t help but wonder what had happened in Stein. The McClart she encountered a month ago hadn’t wasted words on unnecessary remarks.

He had always been impartial and detached in his dealings with her, focused solely on results. Perhaps that was why the High Priest had entrusted her to him. McClart treated her objectively and dispassionately, without sentiment. This shift in his behavior was unexpected, and that unsettled Vienny.

The other inquisitors approached her with excessive emotion. Her unmistakable red eyes seemed like a demon’s to them. Simply blindfolding her should have sufficed, but they always wanted blood. They branded her skin with red-hot irons and carved holy symbols into her flesh with awls, all the while shouting for her to repent.

In comparison, McClart could almost be called gentlemanly—at least, until a month ago.

Now, having these kinds of conversations made her wonder if McClart, too, was starting to resemble the other inquisitors.

Swallowing nervously, Vienny lowered her head as much as possible and stammered, “I led them… so, of course, I know how they act.”

The word ‘led’ slipped out in an awkward tone. How long had it been since she’d had such a personal and trivial conversation? And to have it with McClart of all people – perhaps he really had found something disturbing in Stein.

Vienny thought back to what she knew of Stein. It wasn’t a particularly remarkable village—just another settlement where witches gathered, like many others in Tempe.

“It’s been half a year since the Great Witch turned traitor. If the witches have any sense, they wouldn’t continue following their old habits.”

“Foolish people who worship demons…”

“Or perhaps you’ve been finding out their recent movements in other ways,” he continued, his tone probing.

Even with her head bowed, Vienny could feel his gaze fixed intently on her. She stayed silent.

“No matter how many witches are hunted down, as long as their leader lives, they can never be fully eradicated, can they?” McClart said, his tone sharp and accusatory.