It was a convincing argument. Blood stained her trembling lips even more deeply, likely from a tear somewhere inside her mouth. Her already red lips, now a darker shade, were oddly captivating. Perhaps it wasn’t her red eyes that had caught Pepin’s interest but those striking lips.

McClart frowned and released her chin.

Freed from his harsh grip, Vienny gasped for breath, her upper body slumping forward. She tried to steady herself, but her legs gave out, and she sank to the floor. Her long black hair cascaded around her, draping her hunched figure in a messy shroud.

He’d seen her like this before—on the first day she was pulled out of the prison.

McClart tilted his head slightly as he looked down at her. Curled up on the floor, she appeared pathetically small, barely more than a handful. Beneath her loosely draped clothing, her scarred legs were exposed, as if she hadn’t thought to cover them.

This witch must have been accustomed to using her body to seduce people, McClart concluded—just as the office door burst open.

“Inquisitor!”

A middle-aged priest in a white ceremonial robe entered, his eyes scanning the room as though searching for someone. The moment he spotted Vienny behind McClart, his expression twisted with distaste.

“Brother Brown.”

“Keeping that wicked witch so close—what are you thinking?!”

Brown’s face radiated contempt and disgust as he pointed an accusatory finger at Vienny, still huddled on the floor.

McClart, barely concealing his irritation at Brown’s relentless warnings about the witch’s alleged danger, replied in an icy tone.

“Of course, it’s to determine whether the grand witch has any true evil power.”

“If that’s the case, you shouldn’t be doing it in an office like this! At a time like this, even locking her up securely might not be enough, yet you leave something so dangerous unchecked?!”

Vienny, barely able to handle the weight of the handcuffs on her wrists, was hardly a threat. Yet Priest Brown, neck veins bulging, continued his protests, seemingly oblivious to her weakened state. Had Brown been a knight, McClart could have subdued him easily, but dealing with a priest required a different approach.

With calculated patience, McClart decided to make Brown a generous offer, taking on the inconvenience it would bring.

“Then, would you like to personally assess the witch’s power, Priest?”

“Good! This is the perfect chance for us priests to purify the witch’s vile power…”

“The witch must not be harmed.”

At McClart’s next words, Brown froze, his expression twisted as if he’d just heard something absurd. McClart continued, his tone indifferent.

“The High Priest wishes to see the witch himself. We can’t present her in a disgraceful condition, can we?”

The entire reason for taking the grand witch out of the cell was precisely this—they couldn’t allow the High Priest to see her filthy and confined. It was, in their own way, a display of unwavering loyalty to ensure that the one they served, the holy figure, would not be offended by her appearance.

Brown, who believed—like most other priests—that all witches deserved to be tortured, belatedly remembered the unique circumstances surrounding the grand witch. With a troubled frown, he reluctantly agreed, though his tone was still disapproving.

“W-We priests are servants of God. We can drive out demonic power through prayer alone.”

McClart saw through the true intentions of the priests in Rave Castle, led by Brown. They wanted to impress the High Priest by showing how diligently they had worked to purify the grand witch, emphasizing that they were the ones in charge of her.

“To detect evil power without boiling water, iron chairs, large nails, heated spike boards or branding irons…” McClart listed the priests’ favourite methods of torture with a slight sneer.

“When did priests acquire such skills?”

The priests often envied the Inquisitors, who wielded their sacred power and fought fiercely against heresy, and coveted their positions. Yet without sacred power, the best they could do was pray, preach, or incite the masses.

Claiming to determine a witch’s evil power like that—it was laughable. If “determining” was what they called dunking someone in water and declaring them a witch if they survived, then it would be far more accurate to measure magic with the use of sacred power.

“Leave God’s work to those who have been given that authority. You, priest, should concentrate on what you do best – pray. Who knows, if you pray hard enough, God might even grant you some holy power”.

Brown’s defeat came quickly, his bold entrance now reduced to embarrassment. Though visibly upset, he was unable to argue any further, instead muttering. As Priest Brown reluctantly turned to leave, McClart suddenly spoke again, addressing his retreating back.

“Oh, and on your way out, tell the attendant to bring me some water to wash my hands.”

Vienny, who had been crouched down, glanced briefly between Priest Brown and McClart, but flinched, quickly looking away when her eyes met McClart’s cold blue gaze. Watching her with indifference, he added in a detached tone.

“I just touched something dirty.”

* * *

Her whole life had been tainted.

Now, looking back, that was all she saw. She was like that, her mother was like that, and her mother’s mother before her. If someone were to trace her bloodline, they wouldn’t find anyone untouched by the same stain. The moment she opened her eyes, Vienny remembered: her life was still as dirty as ever.

That familiar feeling was as unsettling as ever, a strange sense of detachment – as if it was her body but somehow not hers, as if she was in control but merely being dragged along. She watched everything around her with a distant gaze.

She found herself in a filthy sewer. The stench hit her as she stepped into unfamiliar mud. She moved on, soon entering a tunnel even more twisted than the dark sewer. The faint smell of damp earth and stone filled her nostrils.

She quickly sensed that this place wasn’t supposed to be wet. Nevertheless, she pressed on, venturing deeper into the darkness. She didn’t know what had carved this winding, twisted tunnel, but it seemed to go on forever, the dampness increasing the further she went.

Where could the rainwater be seeping in from? Or perhaps there was a lake or river beyond the earthen walls. At this rate, the softened ground wouldn’t be able to bear the weight above it much longer. How long could it hold? Perhaps a month? Two, at most?

Tree roots and insects obstructed her path, slowing her steps. Occasionally, she came across decayed leaves and worms. She could tell she was underground, but that was all—she had no idea where, or even which region this hidden passage belonged to.

And even if she knew, what difference would it make? It was all destined to be burned anyway. There was no reason to care what happened here or anywhere else.

Suddenly her world was turned upside down. Even as she hit the hard floor, Vienny struggled to regain her senses. The abrupt shock of being ripped from her consciousness lingered, making it difficult to collect herself. A bitter nausea lingered in her throat, forcing her to swallow repeatedly.

With considerable effort, she tried to focus her blurred vision.

The cold stone floor beneath her offered no comfort, not even the softness of a carpet. Then – she saw a pair of black leather boots.

“A stroke of luck after several days, isn’t it?”

A cold voice.

“Sleeping in late, I see. It appears you’ve fully recovered. Perhaps the Inquisitor’s visits are no longer necessary…”

“But there’s blood on the bedding.”

“What? There shouldn’t be… All the wounds have healed.”

The word blood brought Vienny back to full consciousness. She quickly tried to pull herself up from where she was sprawled on the floor. After a few clumsy attempts, she managed to press her hands to the ground and push herself up, forcing strength into her legs.

She wobbled as she rose, her gaze landing on Pepin, who was examining the bedding. Behind him, McClart stood with his arms crossed behind his back, watching the scene with a detached expression. Was it time for her treatment?

With no windows, there was no way to tell the time. In her underground cell, no one had cared when she regained consciousness, which had been a small comfort.

Vienny stood as quietly as possible, unwilling to reveal her unease. As Pepin examined the bedding, his face twisted with confusion when he found the droplets of blood.

McClart noticed the spots Pepin had pointed out and turned his attention to Vienny. She was standing with her hands clasped together, her shoulders hunched as usual. Narrowing his eyes, McClart suddenly walked towards her.

“Inquisitor?”

Ignoring Pepin’s startled question, McClart grabbed Vienny’s wrist and lifted her hand. Her blood-stained fingers were exposed beneath his grip. She was too weak to resist and could only let him see her bleeding fingers.

Pepin, who had been standing behind, hurried forward.

“Let me take a look…!”

“Wait.”

The harder McClart squeezed her hand, the more blood oozed from her fingers. With a suspicious look, he pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe away the blood. The torn, ragged edges of her wound were visible for a moment before fresh blood covered them again.

After examining the injury, McClart released her wrist and turned away. Vienny, fear on her face, watched him cautiously as Pepin quietly approached to examine the wound.

“Looks like her hand got caught in the chain links.”

Pepin said, forcing a smile, but McClart’s expression remained unreadable, deep in thought. The longer the uneasy silence lasted, the more Vienny’s fear grew.

Still struggling to steady herself, Vienny cautiously opened her mouth to speak.

“I was bitten by a rat in the underground cell.”

Since he’d already seen the wound, there was no point in hiding it. She admitted it honestly. Pepin, who often shuddered at the thought of rats scurrying around the underground cells, clicked his tongue in agreement, adding that it was fortunate she hadn’t caught any disease from the bite.