Hate Me, Miss Witch!

He actually wasn't lying to comfort me.

He… really jumped?

So, all my earlier overthinking was just ridiculous self-indulgence.

With that thought, Sylvia bit her lip tightly. Then, shutting her eyes, she leapt after him.

Even though she had met someone who spoke in such a strange manner, it didn't matter—after all, she came here today to jump into the sea.

Despite the unexpected turn of events, her purpose was still fulfilled.

And, as he said, having someone accompany her on the road to the underworld might make it a little less lonely.

The sensation of weightlessness hit her as the roaring wind rushed past her ears.

The next moment, the icy touch of seawater engulfed her.

The currents of the Grant Sea were extraordinarily fierce.

It wasn't just Sylvia's upbringing as a noble that left her untrained in swimming; even seasoned fishermen raised along the coasts wouldn't dare to enter these treacherous waters during such a tempest.

Very quickly, the freezing seawater filled her mouth, its salty bitterness mingling with the suffocating agony brought by lack of air.

She felt her body sinking deeper and deeper, as though falling into a bottomless abyss.

Her vision dimmed further as the glimmer of the surface faded.

The shimmering sea above became a distant memory, leaving only faint traces of light penetrating the dark depths of this silent world.

The winter waters of the Grant Sea were frigid, chilling her to the bone.

Her hearing, sight, and even sense of smell—all her perceptions—waned rapidly, retreating into nothingness.

Am I… going to die?

In this boundless darkness, free of the usual noise and pressure, Sylvia's thoughts became unusually clear.

Scenes long forgotten played before her like a revolving lantern:

A childhood filled with warmth and protection, though hazy in her memory.

Her first uncontrollable outburst, which killed several household servants and gravely injured her worried mother—exposing her secret to the world.

The dear friend she once confided in, who, upon learning her true identity, looked at her with terror and loathing.

Her mother, bedridden, smiling weakly to comfort a crying daughter despite knowing her time was short.

Her father, often stationed at the borders, returning to the capital only occasionally but always clumsily offering words of solace and using his authority as a duke to shield her from the family's reproach.

The small tree they planted together when she was four, now grown tall with flourishing white blossoms in the courtyard.

Memories surged like a tide.

A sudden, unbidden fear crept into Sylvia's heart.

Perhaps many in the duchy wanted her dead...

But there were indeed people who wanted her to live.

Sylvia suddenly didn't want to die anymore.

Struggling against the freezing sea, she finally understood what the boy's words truly meant about being a "butcher."

From the start, she had carried not just her own burden, but the weight of others' lives.

And yet, here she was, pitifully, pathetically, giving up on herself.

Newfound strength filled her as she desperately flailed her frozen limbs, fighting against the relentless current, trying to swim upward toward the surface.

But her efforts were futile.

Even expert swimmers would struggle against the furious torrents of the Grant Sea, let alone a frail girl who'd never learned to swim.

Just as the ocean's currents drained the last of her strength, filling her with regret and self-recrimination, she heard a familiar voice.

"Drowning quietly in the sea like this, dying without a ripple or a trace.

"After you're gone, your family will weep for you.

"But all those who resented you, who shunned you, will rejoice.

"They'll say, 'Good riddance to that cursed wretch!'

"And, just as they did during the old witch hunts, they'll pin their sins and failures onto your name without a second thought—because dead people don't defend themselves.

"Do you accept such an ending?"

The boy's voice resonated through the water, clear and unmistakable in her ears.

"No…"

Sylvia tried to speak, but icy seawater rushed into her mouth, stifling her words.

Even though her consciousness was growing faint from the suffocating lack of oxygen, she mustered every ounce of will to force out her true feelings, as if in a desperate scream:

"I don't accept it!"

"Of course I don't accept it!"

Yet, she knew her voice would never reach beyond the deep sea's embrace.

The thought barely formed before she heard a low, reassuring laugh.

"In that case...

"I heard your wish."

The next moment, Sylvia felt a hand—not particularly strong, but firm and resolute—grip her arm and pull her into an embrace.

She wasn't sure how much time passed.

Eventually, she once again heard the crashing roar of the Grant Sea's waves and glimpsed the dark, overcast sky.

Solid ground beneath her feet filled her with relief, and for the first time, Sylvia felt grateful for life.

Her taut nerves, wound tight from the life-and-death ordeal, finally relaxed.

But just then—

As she let her guard down, a resounding tremor erupted from deep within her mind, where the ancient bronze cross that shackled her darkest shadows lay dormant.

In an instant, countless indecipherable whispers echoed in her head.

Oh no!

I forgot to suppress it…

Sylvia had no time for regret or reaction.

The shadowy force surged from the cross like a torrent, overwhelming her already fragile spirit.

"Don't come near me…"

"Run… quickly…"

With the last vestiges of her rationality, Sylvia managed to utter these words.

Her consciousness blurred and faltered, slipping slowly, inexorably, into the abyss.

But just before she lost herself completely, she heard that familiar, comforting voice once more.

"Since I've heard your wish—

"Leave the rest to me."

And then, she felt something soft and furry—a large tail, perhaps—lightly brushing her cheek.

In the next moment, her consciousness descended into nothingness, into the void, leaving her unaware of where she'd drift next.

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