Vienny shuddered at both choices: becoming McClart’s test subject or returning to the witches to resume her duties as the Great Witch. For now, though, she chose to go back to the witches. At least there, she might find a chance to escape, whereas being captured by McClart felt like she’d never see the light of day again. When she’d thrown herself into the waterfall, McClart hadn’t even allowed her the freedom to end her own life. And with her current injuries, escaping from the witches right away was out of the question.

“Are you saying the Inquisitors are really going to come charging in?”

“Yes.”

The witches seemed hesitant, but with the persuasion of Corsus—the middle-aged witch who had first spoken to Vienny—a few decided to leave with her. The main issue was Vienny’s condition; though they needed to escape quickly, she was in very poor shape.

Corsus brought over a sturdy handcart, typically used to transport goods from outside. After awkwardly positioning herself on it, curling up to fit, they managed to move at a decent pace. The witches they left behind would likely face McClart’s wrath when he came after them, but at least it would buy them more time.

Thinking of those left behind, Vienny let out a bitter laugh at her own ruthlessness.

“We’ll head for the nearest exit. There are multiple paths, so they shouldn’t catch up to us immediately,” Corsus said, seemingly taking charge of the group. The other witches followed her lead, and by the way they moved, it was clear they’d survived this way for a long time.

Vienny pulled her legs in tightly as the cart jolted over the uneven ground, each bump sending a painful jolt through her bones.

“Where’s our destination?” she asked.

“The cliff at Lichiv Coast,” Corsus replied.

Vienny didn’t press further. Instead, she rubbed her legs with her hands, feeling the roughness of the wounds covering them.

Her ankle was beyond saving; she couldn’t even feel the pain from it anymore. In this state, without the witches’ help, she knew McClart would have caught her easily in their hiding place. How far could she truly escape like this? She recalled the brief moment she’d glimpsed McClart—his expression was an unsettling mix of calm and fury.

“I thought that if we met again, I’d want to kill you.”  

Yet his voice held no hint of murderous intent. There was no malice—only something strange, almost wistful.

“It wasn’t long enough to say I missed you.”

Perhaps, in some strange way, he really had missed her, if only a little.

“You should have just died. That was probably the only way you could truly escape.”

His tone almost despairing.

“Don’t you know who can really fulfill your wishes?”

It was as if he were urging her to return, offering to grant her desires. Had Gentian arrived a moment later, Vienny might have surrendered everything and reached for his hand again. She hated to admit it, but she had to face the truth—she had never been able to forget the fleeting kindness he’d once shown her.

Now, drained both mentally and physically, she craved someone to lean on. And, if there was anyone she could bare her vulnerabilities to, it was only McClart.

Vienny let out a hollow laugh and rested her head against her knees, exhaustion making her mind drift. He was the proud sword of the High Priest and a devout Inquisitor—yet here she was, haunted by him.

“I’m so glad you came back.”

Corsus said, but her words barely registered as Vienny pressed her forehead to her knees, closing her eyes to conserve even a bit of strength. She felt on the verge of collapsing, yet her mind was marked by the looming, menacing figure she’d encountered again after a year. The one person who could truly grant her wish.

A sigh escaped her parted lips. As McClart had said, he alone held the power to fulfill her deepest desire.

Before his holy power, even the resilient fate of the Great Witch would be reduced to mere ashes. Yet, there was an unspoken condition in his words: for him to fulfill her wish, he would have to turn against the High Priest, who sought her blood in the name of God. Essentially, he would have to betray his faith.

And perhaps, so would she.

* * *

A pale, smoky mist rose from Gentian’s skin where the shackle had touched, and the faint smell of burning flesh lingered, as if his skin had been burned. His hands shook uncontrollably with pain, but no one offered him any sympathy. The holy relic was designed to restrain demons, so it was only natural that it would cause torment to a demon like him.

The soldiers’ pace slowed as Gentian, bloodied and barely able to walk, stumbled along. McClart glanced back at him briefly, then pressed forward without a moment’s hesitation.

With Gentian restrained by the sacred relic, he was helpless in the soldiers’ grasp. Rather than dealing with the sluggish, uncertain soldiers struggling to navigate the branching paths, McClart focused on tracking Vienny’s trail himself.

Faint bloodstains marked her path, but he found it quicker to follow the subtle scent lingering in the air. Once McClart chose a route with confidence, their pace picked up considerably.

Before long, he had left a significant distance between himself and the group dragging Gentian. But with momentum on his side, McClart didn’t slow down. He clenched his fists, trying to steady his trembling fingertips, yet his heart only pounded harder—it had been a whole year since he’d last seen her.

Their brief exchange felt like hours, as if everything around them moved in slow motion, with only the two of them at the center of that fleeting moment. The drooping branches and thick darkness couldn’t obscure his view of her—her tightly pressed lips, pale complexion, and those vivid red eyes.

“You know that none of that means anything to me.”

 Her voice soft, almost timid, yet her words were clear and resolute.

If only that cursed stone door hadn’t been between them. If it had been even slightly more open, he would have rushed in and seized her. If she’d been close enough to reach, just within arm’s length.

Compared to the faint traces and delicate scent he had followed until now, her actual, living presence was overwhelming. Every breath she took seemed to release an intoxicating fragrance that threatened to rob him of his senses.

The fire that had ignited within him refused to die down, burning through his entire being. If he had managed to catch her, he wouldn’t have cared about their surroundings, or even the eyes of the soldiers…

“…Damn it.”

The curse slipped through his clenched teeth as he struggled to contain himself.

Seeing her again made everything clear. To see her, to hear even a few words from her lips, sharpened his purpose – the reason he had resisted the High Priest, taken such a long, winding path when he could have returned in a month.

His undeniable desire, raw and unfiltered, lay exposed.

“McClart, you’ll have to return to Tempe.”

The High Priest’s words immediately brought to mind the rumours of the demons that were causing Chiron so much trouble. These demons were said to appear out of nowhere and ambush the Inquisitors from behind, and McClart knew there was no way they could pull off such feats on their own.

“I’ve already told you—I can’t give her up.”

The High Priest seemed to let out a hollow laugh.

“A truly persistent desire. It’s remarkable how this confirms just how powerful the Great Witch’s influence is.”

A dry laugh was followed by an irritated murmur.

“Do as you wish.”

McClart hadn’t expected to hear that. His startled eyes locked onto the High Priest’s face. The High Priest, untouched by time, possessed a beauty beyond comprehension—a divine blessing. His voice, gentle and benevolent, continued.

“But in return, you must produce an heir with the Great Witch.”

The unexpected statement froze McClart’s thoughts.

“The Great Witch loses her powers when a new Great Witch is born, correct?”

What was he saying?

“Then offer that child to God.”

McClart remained silent for a long while, and the High Priest, as calm as ever, waited patiently. Finally, McClart managed to gather himself, though his mind was still reeling, and asked in a strained voice,

“Why does it have to go this far?”

The High Priest looked at him with a hint of displeasure at his lack of enthusiasm. After a moment, he sighed deeply. He clasped his hands behind his back, stepped back and spoke slowly.

“Just imagine if… God were to…”

For once, the usually eloquent High Priest hesitated. For that brief moment, his usually composed expression seemed to reveal a hint of weariness.

“What if He decides to take back the blessing He granted us—could you accept that?”

McClart quietly observed the High Priest’s expression, struggling to grasp his meaning. The High Priest, whose beauty was often compared to that of an angel, now had a shadow cast over his normally radiant features.

“If all the judgments made in God’s name were to disappear, can you imagine the evil that would sweep across this land?”

A world without God’s blessing… It was an unthinkable concept for McClart, who had always lived immersed in God’s teachings.

But the High Priest showed no intention of explaining further. He never did.

Even McClart, who shared his blood, had no idea how long the High Priest had lived, what he truly thought, or the source of his power. The High Priest, wearing a faintly bitter smile, finally spoke in a weary tone.

“I only wish to prevent the end of this world.”

The Great Witch worshipped demons, drawing power from them – a being to be purified. Yet now they wanted to use her power to avert an apocalypse. It was a contradiction in terms. McClart felt the urge to question it, but remained silent.

The High Priest took his silence as acceptance and reset everything back in order.

In an instant, McClart regained his status as an Inquisitor, was appointed lord of Rave Castle, and given authority over all other Inquisitors.

“Produce an heir and offer the child to God.”