Hate Me, Miss Witch!

"The Master's fragment? A key?"

"Lord Norton, I don't quite understand what you mean."

Xaya timely voiced his confusion, wearing the perfect expression of a clueless individual.

"Heh."

"The ignorant masses of this duchy believe my niece to be the harbinger of the disaster that struck sixteen years ago—a calamity incarnate."

"But how could they possibly know? If not for her, they wouldn't be living the stable lives they enjoy today."

Sure enough, Elder Norton began to drop cryptic hints. While his words offered glimpses of information, they remained shrouded in riddles.

"There's a lot at play here—far more than you need to concern yourself with. Just follow my instructions."

"A major shift is coming to the Cangting Duchy. When the time comes, you'll learn everything you need to know."

Could these riddlers just drop dead already?

Xaya mentally griped but kept a polite demeanor, nodding in acknowledgment before taking his leave. There was no rush in intelligence gathering—patience would bear results in time.

In Norton's eyes, Xaya was just an orphan, bound by certain contingencies. To the elder, Xaya was a loyal ally, so it was only a matter of time before more secrets revealed themselves.

As he walked through the lively streets of the capital, Xaya silently summoned Silver and Shiny.

"Sylvia Brunestadt," he murmured. It was time to meet the target of his mission—the future Silver Witch of Cangting.

...

"Get out of here. You're not welcome."

"The Duke is a wise and honorable man, but the Brunestadt name has been utterly disgraced by you."

"If it weren't for you, my brother and father wouldn't have died! The people of this duchy wouldn't be homeless!"

"Your mother died because of you! A child of calamity like you should never have been born!"

Sylvia treaded along the cliffside, the roaring waves crashing against the rocks below. The cold wind bit her cheeks, stinging and sharp.

No matter how much she tried to push them from her mind, those harsh accusations echoed in her ears, especially in the silence of midnight.

If it were only about being scolded or chastised, she could endure it. At least such actions meant her existence still mattered to someone—even if only as an object of hatred.

But the indifference was far worse.

At family banquets that were once bustling with laughter and cheer, her arrival would cast an oppressive silence over the room. All that remained were the piercing gazes of strangers.

Children her age, who once played freely in the gardens, would retreat the moment they saw her approach.

Even when she hid her identity and formed bonds, the truth would inevitably come to light. Their parents' discovery was always followed by a cold, formal letter of estrangement.

Though she bore the title of the Duke's sole daughter, none dared insult her openly. Yet the polite façades of those around her only made their underlying alienation more cutting.

"Why is it like this?"

"Am I truly the calamity they speak of?"

Night after night, Sylvia had asked herself these questions.

Perhaps the answer lay in that entity—the shadow nailed to the enormous bronze crucifix deep within her soul.

It had always been there, whispering incomprehensible murmurs she couldn't understand.

And yet, whenever Sylvia's emotions grew unstable or her resolve wavered, the shadow would seep forth and engulf her mind.

When she came to, the aftermath was always blood-soaked—a scene of crimson carnage.

The elders of her family, their eyes now colder and more filled with a mixture of hatred and fear, would be there to greet her.

Their stares hurt more than any words could. From that first incident onward, her nights became plagued by nightmares and terror.

She feared waking to find more lifeless bodies sprawled around her.

"I never wanted this…"

Her whispers were swallowed by the howling winds.

By now, the sun had sunk low, its golden rays brushing the sea. Waves surged against the jagged rocks below the cliffs, frothing white.

Sylvia gazed at the dark waters in silence for a long time.

Finally, as if reaching a decision, she took a step forward, leaning half her body out over the precipice.

Just one more step, and she would plunge into the icy depths of the Grant Sea below.

Miles away from the bustling capital, the cliffs were desolate—especially at this hour when most had returned to their warm homes for supper.

If she fell now, there would be no rescue.

But that was precisely what she wanted.

She was tired of this bleak, suffocating life. She was tired of herself—the harbinger of suffering.

As the chill wind numbed her body and blurred her thoughts, Sylvia's cracked lips parted slightly in a bitter murmur.

"Oh, gods…"

When she was younger, she had secretly prayed to the gods. She had dreamed of a savior—someone to pull her from this abyss, like in the ballads sung by traveling bards.

But deep down, she knew it was a futile fantasy.

If the entity within her were ever discovered, she would be hunted down by the gods' followers as a heretic, not saved.

She had no one to wait for.

No one would come.

Sylvia closed her eyes. Her frail body trembled, the wind whispering past her.

Just as she was about to let herself fall, a voice broke the silence.

"Well, what a coincidence. You're here to jump, too?"

It carried no malice, no fear or disdain—only a trace of curiosity.

Sylvia turned toward the voice.

A figure stood nearby, tall and lithe. The last rays of sunlight cast a soft golden glow on his face, accentuating its sharp, defined contours.