Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 5 - Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

Venedict Reyn’s Acquaintance

While Monica and Glenn remained in their rooms, recuperating from their injuries, the talks with the Farfolian envoys continued smoothly. Though they’d gotten off to a rocky start, Count Malé—who had expressed concerns about the planned Dragon Knight outpost—seemed to have softened up after experiencing a dragonraid in person.

The talks would wrap up that day, and the following afternoon Felix would depart from the Duchy of Rehnberg. There would be a minor dinner party that night to mark the occasion, and Monica had been encouraged to attend.

When the cursed dragon attacked, Monica had defended everyone from its onslaught, while Felix had slain it. They had both played key roles in resolving the incident, and it seemed the Farfolian delegation wanted to express their appreciation to the Silent Witch for her part in saving their lives.

“…So, Monica? What are you gonna do?”

Monica was lying face down in bed, and at Nero’s question, she pulled the covers over her head.

“I don’t wanna go… I’m tired of being around people… I just want to think about equations and magecraft formulae… That, or I want to become a cat…”

“Cats don’t need equations or magecraft formulae, you know.”

Felix had utterly defeated her during their talk that afternoon. It had crushed her spirit. She didn’t want to see anyone at the moment—especially not him. If she ran into the prince, he might start prying again and completely blow her cover. Just thinking about what was going to happen when she returned to the academy after winter break depressed her.

“I promised I’d do my best at negotiating and talking to people… I promised when I rang the Alteria chimes… I’m sorry, Lord Cyril, but the prince is just too scary. I can’t beat him. I wasn’t up to the task…the prince is terrifying… Waaaaah, hic…”

Monica curled up under her blanket, buried her face in her pillow, and started whimpering.

“You’re hopeless,” Nero said with a sigh. “Well, I’m gonna go. Can’t miss an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“…Yeah, okay. Have fun.”

Unfazed by Monica’s dismissive response, Nero began to sing, “Food, food, all for meee,” and made his way out of the room. What a coldhearted familiar.

Even though Felix now knew his true identity, Nero would probably act much the same as he had before. Monica envied his audacity.

I’m not going to leave this room for the rest of the day…

Hugging her pillow, Monica rolled over.

I wonder where that traitorous shaman is… Does the prince know something about the person who made that cursed tool? …I bet he does. Maybe they’re connected somehow, and the prince is sheltering him… How much does he know?

Normally, Monica would have dove straight into the world of equations and magecraft formulae. But right now, she couldn’t keep her thoughts from turning to Felix and the cursed dragon.

She tossed and turned a few more times, then looked out the window. The sun set early in the winter; it had already been dark for an hour or two.

In the estate’s gardens, now drowned in black, she saw several flowers faintly glowing, casting little lights this way and that. They were a kind of plant called spiritrests that absorbed and emitted mana.

But then she spotted a flame about the size of a fist between the spiritrests’ faint lights. It appeared suddenly, then vanished. A few seconds later, two flames the same size as the first sprang up—then disappeared again after a few more seconds.

Those are…

Monica dragged herself to her feet and went over to the window. Another flame appeared for just a few seconds, illuminating someone—Glenn.

Glenn had his hands out with his palms facing upward, and he was trying to maintain two flames—one in each hand—at the same time. He was doing the simultaneous magecraft training Monica had shown him.

But he just woke up today… In the orange glow of the flames, she could see the pain and determination in his expression.

Leaving one hand on the window frame, Monica slid down to the floor.

…Glenn is working so hard. He’s trying to keep the promise he made to the Alteria chimes.

She pressed her forehead to the wall and stayed like that for several moments. Eventually, she took a deep breath. Then she stood, picked her robe up off her chair and threw it on, and covered her mouth with a veil.

I’ll just go for a few minutes… Just a little while… I’ll pay my respects to Duke Rehnberg and the Farfolians, then leave before I run into the prince…

She picked up her staff, which had been leaning against the wall. The jingle of its decorations reminded her a little of the Alteria chimes reverberating in that clear winter sky.

She shook the staff a few times to hear it again, then gave a determined huff and left the room.

The guest rooms assigned to Monica and the others were on the estate’s second floor, while the party was being held in a hall on the first. After walking down the second floor hallway, Monica stopped in front of the stairs.

She could hear lively voices from below. The party had already started.

As soon as she got down those stairs, the hall would be right there.

Okay. I can do this, she thought. But just as she was about to take a step forward, she saw something.

Specifically, she saw a ghastly white face floating just around the corner down the hallway—along with a pair of sparkling pink eyes.

Monica immediately put a hand over her veil to suppress a scream. She succeeded, but she still fell to her knees in shock. She even dropped her staff, and it clattered to the floor.

“Silent Witch…”

Looking down at Monica, who had collapsed, was the face from around the corner, which belonged to one Ray Albright, the Abyss Shaman. With his body hidden, it looked eerily like a detached head was floating there in the hallway.

“Oh… Um… Abyss Shaman… What are you…doing over there?”

“The old lady who was family head before me said I should attend as many of these parties as I could… But I didn’t help slay the cursed dragon… I came here after all that was over. People are sure to talk about me behind my back, wondering why I waltzed into a party where I don’t belong… Ahhhh, just imagining it is making me want to die… I don’t want to go…”

Ray clawed at his purple hair as his whole body shook.

Monica was very familiar with such feelings, so she stood up and quietly made a suggestion. “Ummm, Abyss Shaman… W-would you like to go, um, together?”

Ray stopped scratching his head.

“If there are two Sages,” she continued, “they’ll have to split their attention, and that might make things a little easier.”

“I see… Yes, you do have a point…”

They exchanged nods, then grasped their staffs and moved forward. The Sages—two of the most powerful mages in the kingdom—carefully made their way down the stairs, exuding the kind of tension you’d expect from people heading into a dragon’s nest.

The first floor was even louder and more rowdy than Monica had expected. They weren’t even in the hall yet, but she could already hear the voices of people having fun and see the servants bringing in food and liquor.

Having gotten down the stairs, Ray hunched over and began to quake. “I can feel the festive atmosphere…the kind you only get at parties… It’s so thick, it’s making me choke… Urgh!”

Monica stood next to him, frozen in place. But she wasn’t scared of the crowd. She’d seen something.

Was that…?

One of the servants passing by caught her eye. She felt like she’d seen the man somewhere before—somewhere recently, and not at this estate.

His height, shoulder width, arm and leg length, head and body ratios—all the numbers composing a human being flashed through her head.

Where? Where was it? Outside the estate…? He was at the hunting grounds, too, but… No, that wasn’t it… It was somewhere else…

Deep in a dark forest, Monica had seen this man—no, it hadn’t been her who had seen him. A sound came back to her: the hateful cry of a green dragon whose child had been stolen.

…That’s right. I wasn’t the one who saw that man…

Monica’s left hand twitched, as if reacting to the surfacing memory.

“Abyss Shaman, I found him…,” she said quietly, using her right hand to stop her left from shaking. “…The shaman who cursed the dragon.”

Well, it looks like someone from House Albright has finally caught up to me…

The man, having returned to the kitchen from the banquet hall, covertly wiped his sweaty hands on his clothes.

The other servants were all busy with their own tasks; nobody had time to notice the man’s strange behavior. Still, he couldn’t help but nervously watch for anyone looking at him. He’d always been paranoid. He couldn’t help but be wary of other people’s gazes—all of them, whether they were positive or negative.

I’m fine. Ray Albright hasn’t figured me out. It’s been over a decade, and I look completely different.

He’d get through this if he just acted naturally. And then he could continue his research. Stealthily, he gripped the cursed tool he’d snuck into his pocket.

“Take control of a cursed dragon and have the second prince slay it.”

Those were his orders. But to create a cursed dragon, then manipulate it to his own ends was no easy task. So the man had used a young green dragon as a test subject.

Young green dragons didn’t have the mana resistance mature ones did. By mixing a cursed item into its food and getting it inside the dragon’s body, the man believed he could get his cursecraft to take effect.

And it had worked—to a terrifying degree.

The cursecraft was only meant to let him control the dragon. Instead, it had devoured the creature and killed it. Even worse, its mother had consumed the child’s remains—including the tool—and gone berserk.

The second prince had only been able to slay the dragon because the Silent Witch happened to be around to help.

No. Think positively… I’m actually very lucky. I failed at controlling the cursed dragon, but I still fulfilled His Excellency’s orders to let the second prince slay it. Now if I can just perfect the puppet-making curse…

Completing his puppet-making curse, a shamanic technique to control dragons and people at will, was his dearest wish. If he could accomplish that, then everything would start going his way. Wealth, prestige—it would all be his. He wouldn’t even fear the Seven Sages.

His Excellency will surely acknowledge my talents and call me back to his side.

The personage he worked for desired a loyal puppet. If the man could perfect a curse to make that happen, then his employer would surely appoint him to a position of trust.

Presently, House Albright had a monopoly on all shamanic knowledge in the Kingdom of Ridill. That was why His Excellency had brought in a shaman who had left the family—as a trump card to play in case he ever had to confront House Albright.

He chose me. I’m not like that bumbling Victor Thornlee.

Whenever he was irritated, or anxious about his future, he thought of all the people who had fallen to ruin despite their talents.

All of them were overflowing with potential, and yet they all messed up and died. And it serves them right!

They weren’t really geniuses, not in the true sense of the word. But he was different. He would survive. He would succeed.

The corners of his lips rose in a dark smile. As he put away some wineglasses, a male colleague addressed him—it was Bartholomeus, the newcomer.

“Excuse me. Got a sec? …I seem to have stubbed my finger, and I’d like to tend to it. Can you get the firewood for me? I’ll do all the prep work tomorrow in exchange.”

The man looked reticent but ultimately accepted. On the inside, however, he was relieved. Now he could get away from here.

They’ll never find me, he told himself. But in truth, he was anxious. He desperately wanted to get as far from the banquet as he could.

Taking a lantern, he headed to the woodcutting hut behind the estate. He would claim he was too old to carry so many logs at once and make lots of trips, buying himself even more time.

As he thought over his options, he put his hand on the hut’s door.

“…Wait, what’s going on…?”

His hand wouldn’t come off the doorknob. It was like his fingers were glued to it. Taken aback, he illuminated the knob with his lantern and saw something black and sticky stuck between it and his hand. He knew exactly what that dark goop was—the physical manifestation of a curse.

“It’s a curse to make your hand stick to something permanently… I wish my hand would get stuck to a cute girl’s permanently…”

A young man in a Sage’s robe gripping a staff staggered out from behind the woodcutting hut. It was Ray Albright, the third Abyss Shaman. And standing next to him, wearing the same robe, with a veil over her mouth to hide her identity, was a petite girl called the Silent Witch.

The man considered his options.

He could use a shamanic technique to undo the curse and unstick his hand from the door. But if he used cursecraft, it would only prove he was a shaman. Instead, he made a show of being confused.

“What is the meaning of this, my lord, my lady?” he asked.

The Silent Witch, who had previously refrained from speaking while at the estate, quietly answered him.

“You are Barry Oats, the shaman who betrayed House Albright ten years ago. Isn’t that right, Peter Summs?”

Monica finally using her voice must have come as quite the shock to Peter.

The servant called Peter Summs was a thin man with combed-back gray hair. His mouth was covered by a mustache, and he looked a little over sixty years old.

Barry Oats was supposed to be a man of about fifty, with a robust physique and black hair. Was this new appearance something he’d adopted to evade House Albright, or had it come about naturally as a result of his life on the run?

Monica fixed Peter with a cold gaze and continued flatly, “The first ones to encounter the cursed dragon during the hunt were you and Lady Eliane.”

“Oh yes. That was when Lord Dudley saved us—”

“The second encounter took place at the rest area. You were there as well.” Monica tucked her staff between her arm and chest, then held up three fingers on her right hand—the only one she could still move freely. “Finally, the third time. I don’t know if you realized this, but the cursed dragon was still moving after we took it down. It was headed for the estate—dragged there by the curse.”

It seemed that wherever the cursed dragon was headed, Peter Summs was always there.

And Monica knew the reason why. She’d witnessed the green dragon’s hatred when her left hand was cursed.

“That green dragon was trying to get revenge on you for cursing and killing her child,” she said.

Even after Felix’s bullet had pierced its brow and Monica’s magecraft had destroyed its wings, the dragon had kept moving, crawling along the ground. It never stopped pursuing the shaman who killed its child.

“Certain animals are very sensitive to dragons’ mana,” she said. “I’ll bet the reason they don’t like you is because you came into contact with a young dragon.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by any of this, my lady… I don’t know anything about curses…” Peter’s mouth twitched as he tried to maintain the demeanor of a servant.

Monica used unchanted magecraft to produce several small flames around him. They illuminated the man—letting her read the numbers composing his body.

For Monica, numbers made up a beautiful world she loved, and at the same time served as a haven for her to escape to.

…But not right now.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Glenn in agony under the effects of the curse. She heard the green dragon’s wails when it realized it had lost its child.

She would decipher all the numbers making up the world and use them to get to the truth.

Thus resolved, Monica repeated her father’s words. “People, things, magecraft… The world is filled with numbers.”

Peter jolted as though someone had struck him with a whip. Then he turned a pair of terrified eyes on Monica.

“I saw the cursed dragon’s memories,” she said. “In them, a man placed a curse on a young dragon and killed it.”

The man’s facial features had been blurry in the dragon’s memory; she hadn’t been able to make them out. But she remembered his body. His shoe size, the lengths of his legs, torso, arms, and fingers—she remembered all of it.

“I can accurately judge the size of anything I see. The shaman the cursed dragon witnessed had the exact same proportions as you do.”

Monica slowly lifted up her hood to get a good look at Peter’s body. When she did, he caught sight of her face.

The moment Peter saw the greenish color of her eyes in the light, his demeanor changed completely.

“Eee… Ah… Aaaaaahhhhhh!”

He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled something out, then held it up. It was a jet-black gemstone enclosed in a spiraling goldwork pattern. In the light of Monica’s flames, the stone gleamed as if it were wet.

And that’s when Monica saw it—a black fluid dripped from the stone, trickling down the spiral goldwork before falling to Peter’s feet.

Is that a magical item? …No, it’s a cursed tool!

Magical items and cursed tools were very similar. You could cast the spell imprinted in either without chanting—all you had to do was channel a bit of mana into it.

As the viscous black fluid dripped down, it began to slide across the ground toward Monica and Ray. It was the same as the shadow that had clung to the cursed dragon.

Monica tried to cast her anti-curse barrier. But as she lifted her staff, Ray used one hand to push it back down.

“…No need,” he said.

Ray muttered an incantation, then took a step forward and held his left hand out in front of him.

A shamanic seal engraved on his fingertips glowed purple, then lifted away from his skin. The slender, branch-like purple seal then coiled itself around the jet-black curse crawling along the ground.

Ray’s seal then expanded like a balloon, and Peter’s curse began to lose its color. Ray’s seal was devouring it.

As Peter’s eyes widened, Ray spoke to him in a gloomy voice. “You can’t kill me with a curse… I’m the Abyss Shaman, remember?”

Peter’s cursecraft was dangerous enough to kill a young dragon. Even Monica, who had a relatively high mana capacity, had passed out in agony just from coming into contact with a piece of the curse the size of a single hair.

But even cursecraft that powerful was easily absorbed by the most talented shaman in the Kingdom of Ridill.

After finishing off Peter’s curse, Ray spoke again, low and bitter. “…You’ve laid hands on a form of cursecraft well beyond your status. That old, decrepit body of yours is the result of the recoil, isn’t it?

Cursecraft was a dangerous art. It ate away at the user’s body and sometimes caused it to mutate. Ray’s body had been slowly acclimatized to it from a young age, so the only things about him that had changed were his hair and eye color. But for Peter Summs, exposure must have caused him to age prematurely.

Peter Summs—true name Barry Oats—was currently around fifty years old, and had once been a muscular, black-haired man. But the person in front of Monica now was thin, worn-out, and old. He looked at least ten years older than his real age.

“I won’t insult you,” said Ray. “Surrender before your body is dragged into the abyss.”

“Damn you… Damn you, monster of the Albrights!”

As Peter swore, he peeled his right hand from the doorknob. While he was triggering the cursed tool, he’d used another technique to undo the sticking curse.

The skinny old man spun around and began to run.

They couldn’t let him get away. I have to chase him, thought Monica.

But just as she prepared to take off, Ray fell to the ground, clinging to his staff. He had a hand over his mouth, and his already pale face looked even worse than usual.

“His curse is giving me indigestion,” he moaned. “It was stronger than I thought… Blech.”

Peter’s cursecraft was vicious enough to kill a young dragon. Monica thought Ray was pretty amazing for being able to eat it without suffering anything worse than indigestion.

“I, um, I’ll go follow him!” she said.

“Thanks… Urrrp.”

Monica scampered off as fast as she could in pursuit of Peter. She wanted to attack him with magecraft, but the man knew these gardens like the back of his hand; he was deftly moving between trees, keeping himself hidden. And with how bad her vision was at night, it was difficult to attack him at all.

She wanted to use more flames for illumination, but there were too many decorative trees around. If one of them caught fire, it would quickly spread, resulting in a real disaster.

In that case…

Monica struck the ground once with her staff. She’d just cast a simple spell without chanting—all it did was imbue the earth nearby with mana.

Immediately, a bunch of the flowers planted in the garden began to glow and blossom, releasing particles of white light.

The garden was full of spiritrests. By imbuing the land with mana, she had caused them to bloom, and she could now use their light as illumination.

Now she wouldn’t have to worry about starting a big fire. And she only had to imbue the ground once, too. The flowers would continue to glow without her having to maintain the spell.

She didn’t see Peter anywhere in the flowers’ range. He was probably hiding in the shadow of a tree, watching her for an opening.

It was possible Peter had more than one cursed tool. If she attacked recklessly, he might land a nasty counterattack.

I’ll just have to smoke him out of the shadows.

Monica squeezed her staff and focused. An enormous quantity of numbers rushed through her mind. Then she used a magecraft formula to perfectly re-create them.

“…Burn this into your memory.”

The staff gave off a faint glow, and Monica’s round eyes glimmered green, reflecting its light.

The Silent Witch broke her silence and declared mercilessly, “This is what your curse has wrought.”

Hiding in the darkness, Peter Summs waited for his chance. He still had the cursed tool in his hand. It was a failed version of the curse meant to make a living human into a puppet. It was too strong for its intended use, however, and would kill its target instead.

But that was enough to get Peter out of this situation. He couldn’t afford to be picky about keeping her alive. She was a Sage.

So what if she’s a Sage? So what if she’s a genius? They’re a band of freaks!

Peter was a talented man. That was how he knew.

The Abyss Shaman, who had devoured his curse, and the Silent Witch, who used advanced magecraft without chanting—they were beyond the realm of mere geniuses. They were monsters.

If you show me even the slightest opening, I’ll curse you to death!

As his hand closed around the cursed tool in his pocket, a large black shadow suddenly appeared between him and the Silent Witch.

Wait, what is that?

It was a giant mass, crawling along the ground—a creature covered in green scales, being eaten away by a dark shadow. Its beautiful wings were full of holes, its mouth was burned to a crisp, and its limply hanging tongue was charred and black.

Its big golden eyes were clouded with white, and he couldn’t sense any life behind them. But then, suddenly, they turned to look straight at him.

The pure hatred in those eyes made Peter cry out in spite of himself.

“Ah! Ahh, eeee, ahhhh!”

Wasn’t that the green dragon who had eaten the cursed tool? What was it doing here? How was it still alive?

The beast slid along the ground, closing in on him.

“Noooooooooo!”

Peter couldn’t keep still anymore. He burst out from behind the shadow of a tree and ran away as fast as he could.

Once she saw him, Monica released her illusion. Illusion magecraft was an extremely advanced technique and held a special place in the field. To be frank, while Monica could manage it unchanted, she hadn’t completely mastered it. She couldn’t move while using it, nor could she use any other spells at the same time.

The illusions she created weren’t very precise, either. They were far from the real thing. Whenever she tried to make them move, they looked very unnatural.

That was why Monica almost never used illusion spells. If she was able to perfectly re-create a living thing with them, she would have made a copy of herself to attend events in her place.

It’s a good thing it’s nighttime…

Because it was harder to see at night, everything had worked much better than usual. And the awkwardness in her illusion’s motions didn’t seem so unnatural for a green dragon on the verge of death.

Peter wheezed and whimpered as he ran around a corner of the mansion. Everything was going as Monica had planned.

Immediately, she heard the man scream and a dog bark behind the building. She scampered off after him, turning the corner herself.

“Hey, kiddo. I waited right here, just like you asked.”

As she rounded the corner, she saw two people. The first was Peter, who had been bitten in the leg by a dog and was now down on his rear. The second was a black-haired servant commanding the hunting dogs—Bartholomeus Baal. When the latter saw Monica, he waved.

“Ha-ha! How do you like that?” he said. “I’m pretty good, aren’t I?”

“Um, thank…you. Could you have the dog stand down?”

Bartholomeus said “back” to the hunting dog, and it quickly came away from Peter. Once it was clear, Monica immediately put up a sealing barrier around the traitorous shaman.

Peter’s face twisted with hate, and he held up the shamanic tool in his hand.

The black shadow dripping from the tool transformed into a slender, snakelike shape and tried to break the barrier. But the black snake was blocked by an invisible wall and fell to the ground.

Monica gazed at Peter impassively. “It won’t work. I used an anti-curse formula.”

“Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it all!” Peter swore, spittle flying from his mouth.

Bartholomeus looked at him with pity and sadness. “I never dreamed old Peter would turn out to be a shaman…”

At this point, Peter wasn’t paying any attention to Bartholomeus. His wide-open eyes were fixed on Monica, and his body shook terribly.

Why was there such fear in his eyes as he looked at her? Why did he seem so flustered? It was almost as if he’d come face-to-face with a dead man.

In a trembling voice, Peter moaned, “I knew you would never forgive me… Venedict Reyn…”

Monica’s thoughts instantly stopped. “…Huh?”

Bartholomeus seemed confused by the unfamiliar name. But Monica knew who Peter was talking about. How could she forget?

Venedict Reyn was her father, executed seven years ago.

Why would he bring up my father’s name…?

Monica was disturbed, but Peter seemed even more upset than she was. A greasy sweat broke out across his whole body, and he began to claw at his own face.

“Ah, ahhhh, Venedict! Even in death, you hunt me! Is this vengeance for selling you out to His Excellency…?!”

His bloodshot eyes no longer saw Monica. They looked past her at someone who wasn’t there—someone long dead.

Peter’s trembling lips twisted into a grin. “Ahhh, hah, ha-ha, ha-ha-ha! I won’t be like Arthur! I… I’ll… His Excellency will acknowledge me, and… Hee… Hee-ha, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

He thrust another shamanic tool out in front of him. It looked similar to the first one, but bigger. A black shadow dripped from the tool and expanded. It happened much more quickly than before—and it grew much larger.

It’s stronger than the last one!

Monica clenched her teeth in panic, wondering if her anti-curse barrier would hold out. The shadow, however, had other plans.

Once expanded, it didn’t attack her barrier at all—instead, it coiled around Peter’s arm.

“…Huh?”

Monica wasn’t the only one in shock. Peter yelped as well, looking at his arm in astonishment.

“Wait. No! Not me! Your prey, it’s— Eee, noo, ahhh!”

He opened his mouth wide, but before his scream could come out, the shadow lurched into his throat. He’d lost control of the curse.

“Hey, Peter!” shouted Bartholomeus.

But it was too late. Monica’s magecraft couldn’t stop the onset of curses. Especially not when they moved as swiftly as this one had. In two blinks of an eye, Peter had collapsed to the ground and stopped moving, his entire body dyed black.

As the shaman met his end, consumed by the curse, his lips trembled, and he muttered his final words.

“…Venedict… Is this your revenge…?”

Peter’s body, now a black shadow in the shape of a human, quickly collapsed and disappeared like ashes scattering in the wind.

All that remained was the shamanic tool—that jet-black gemstone decorated with gold.

But…why…?

Monica wasn’t yet able to process the shocking scene before her. More than anything else, Peter’s final words had disturbed her.

Why was he saying my father’s name?

Peter must have been linked to her father’s death. He’d sold her father out to someone…to the one he’d referred to as His Excellency.

Was that person the mastermind behind the cursed dragon incident, too?

Monica hung her head. Hands shaking, she covered her face.

Why would a shaman who cursed a dragon know my father?

“Hey, kiddo, you all right? Hey!”

Monica didn’t register Bartholomeus’s worried voice, either.

Her brown eyes tinged with green clouded over as they stared out from between her fingers. Her chest hurt. Every time she took a breath, she felt like she was absorbing some of the residue from the dead shaman. It made her want to throw up.

Why? How? She had so many questions. But there was nobody here to answer them. The only man who knew the truth had just been devoured by a curse right in front of her.

She only knew one thing for sure.

…My father was killed. Someone wanted to get rid of him.

The sight of her father burning flashed across the back of her eyelids. Deep in her ears, she heard the voice of the executor passing judgment on him.

“This man, Venedict Reyn, has been conducting research on class-one forbidden magecraft in secret. He has plotted to overthrow the state. Thus, he will now be burned at the stake. Let the flames of our great spirit god scorch you and purge the sin from your body!”

No, she thought. No, no! My father isn’t a criminal!

Her breathing now ragged, Monica glared at the shamanic tool Peter had left behind.

It had to be the key to finding out the truth.

Wait for me, Dad…

Monica picked up the tool, squeezed it in her little hand, and made a promise.

I swear I’ll prove you’re not a criminal.

As those people hurled stones at her father’s body hanging from that tree, and as the executor burned his books, the young Monica could do nothing. But she wasn’t that helpless child anymore. She was one of the Seven Sages—the Silent Witch.

Slowly, she rose from her squatting position, the cursed tool in her hand. Then she looked up at Bartholomeus, who was watching her with concern.

“I have, um, a request to make of you, Mister Bartholomeus.”

“Hmm? You do?”

Felix, who had known about the cursecraft.

Peter, a shaman devoured by his own curse.

The two men Peter had mentioned—His Excellency and Arthur.

Maybe all four of them were involved not just in the cursed dragon incident but also in the death of Monica’s father.

She needed to know the truth. She wanted to clear his good name.

And to do that, she’d need a helper—someone she could rely on, who could operate outside of Serendia Academy.

“I’d, um, like to hire you!”