A master is like a second parent.
And I...
I ended up fucking that parent.
"Haa... Hic..."
The woman let out faint, ragged breaths as her body twitched in spasms.
Freya Astellin.
A witch who had lived for over a thousand years, and my master.
To celebrate my coming of age, we'd thrown a little private party, just the two of us.
We'd laid out a feast fit for a king, and Master had brought out some expensive liquor, saying she'd prepared it specially for today.
My first time drinking alcohol.
It was incredibly sweet.
The sweetness melted into my tongue, making it feel like it might dissolve away.
I remember clinking glasses with Master, one after another, laughing as we reminisced about old times.
That's where my memory cuts off.
A long blank follows.
And when I came to...
This is what I saw.
Master lay there half-unconscious, her plump ass thrust high in the air.
Her mystical pink hair clung to her porcelain skin, soaked with sweat, while her small, cute tongue lolled out slackly from her mouth.
Even in this situation, my eyes instinctively drifted to her ass.
Her anus, a vivid pink with tight wrinkles like a pretty chrysanthemum, twitched in time with the quivers of her cheeks.
Beneath it, her pussy.
Even from sight alone, I could feel how drenched it was, thick ropes of milky fluid leaking out in heavy streams.
Squelch.
Drip.
Drip.
It fell onto the soaked sheets below.
I don't remember it, but the evidence was clear: I'd done this.
No, there was no need to deduce it. I was naked too, after all.
"I..."
I'd raped my master.
Long ago, I'd started seeing her as a woman and harbored secret feelings for her, but I'd never imagined that the alcohol would unleash them like this.
Guilt and shame choked me.
Seeing the vivid red handprint on her ass made me despise myself with revulsion.
No matter how drunk I was...
How could I do this to my lifesaver, the one who'd been like a parent to me?
It was utter depravity.
I had no face left to show her tomorrow.
In a panic, I grabbed my things and fled the mansion.
Ran away.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
A lone man walked across the battlefield after the fighting had ended.
With every step, the bones of corpses crunched under his steel-plated boots.
The man pulled a cigarette from his pocket.
He wedged it between his fingers and lit it using the flames flickering on a nearby corpse.
"Fuuu..."
He exhaled a long plume of smoke, like a heavy sigh.
The cigarette smoke spread like clouds across the ash-gray sky.
His pounding head, weary from the battle, felt a little clearer.
"Eric!"
The man, who'd been indifferently watching the corpses blacken and burn, looked up.
Far off, his comrades were waving.
Mercenaries from his group.
"Hurry up! Time to head back!"
The man raised a hand in acknowledgment.
"Gimme one too."
A woman sidled up beside him.
Her name was Pena.
One of the mercenary group's members.
The man fished out a cigarette and offered it.
"Thanks~"
She popped it in her mouth and struck a match from her pocket to light it.
"Shed a ton of blood again today, huh?"
"Not mine."
"Showered in enemy blood again?"
Pena grimaced in disgust.
This guy was seriously weird.
He didn't enjoy battle, yet every fight, he charged the front lines like a rabid dog.
Giving up his own flesh to claim the enemy's bones.
Even though he could take their bones without sacrificing his own.
He knew no defense.
Only attack.
He fought like a man with no tomorrow.
No, like a man who didn't need one.
The captain called it bravery and praised him to the skies, but to Pena, it was just reckless stupidity.
"You've got some seriously weird hobbies."
No matter what she said, the man just smoked and stared ahead.
"I've always wondered—why'd you join the mercenary group? With your skills, you could waltz into any cushy, high-paying gig. It's not for the money, not 'cause you love fighting, not patriotism. So why this frontline hellhole?"
"Just did."
His answer was curt, as always.
He brushed off every question.
"Guys full of secrets aren't popular with girls, y'know?"
"Yeah."
If anything, it was the opposite.
Pena had been intensely interested in him for years now.
He seemed to have some unspeakable backstory, but she couldn't figure it out.
No clue at all.
Not even the tiniest hint.
Just endless speculation.
She'd even tried getting him drunk on booze—the potion of courage and truth—but no matter what, he never touched a drop.
Even after victories, when the group partied, he'd stand apart, smoking and gazing at the night sky.
Eight years fighting side by side, and she knew next to nothing about him.
Come to think of it, there was one thing that always piqued his interest.
"The Witch of Sorrow."
The man's gaze snapped to Pena.
Whenever the Witch of Sorrow came up, he'd react like this.
"Heard? The Witch of Sorrow's sick."
His eyes went wide.
"What...?"
His fatigued blue eyes, shadowed and weary, trembled faintly.
A storm of emotions surged within.
"Don't know the details. But word is, the Witch of Sorrow went to see the Saintess a while back. The witch herself."
"Why?"
"Told you, I don't know."
The man dropped his cigarette, grabbed her shoulders, and shook.
"That's it? Nothing else?"
Pena thought for a moment, then answered.
"Oh, yeah—they said the witch looked in bad shape when she showed up at the Saintess. Skinny like she hadn't eaten, eyes all sunken, no trace of her usual elegance or poise. Just pitiful and ragged."
"And?"
"That's all I got."
"Didn't hear what illness?"
"I said that's it."
The man bit his lower lip hard.
"I've wondered this before too—why do you always perk up whenever the Witch of Sorrow comes up?"
The Witch of Sorrow, Freya Astellin.
Bad things always followed in her wake.
Deaths were standard; at worst, entire villages turned to ruins.
Only sorrow lingered where she passed.
That's why people called her the Witch of Sorrow and treated her like a monster.
Pena wondered.
Maybe this guy was one of her victims.
Lost a friend.
Lost family.
Or both.
"Got some grudge against that witch?"
His eyes turned fierce.
"No."
"Then?"
"She's my lifesaver."
"What?!"
Pena jumped in shock at the bombshell.
The man's face twisted in agony.
His hands shook.
Nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.
"Lifesaver?"
Pena's eyes sparkled as she pressed.
"Tell me more."
But her voice no longer reached the man—Zeke, living as Eric the mercenary.
His mind was filled with thoughts of the witch.
The one who'd saved him from a demon-ravaged village reduced to rubble.
The one who'd eaten his first disastrous attempt at cooking and smiled, saying it was delicious.
The one who'd stroked his head and praised him each time he learned a new spell.
And...
The one he'd raped.
I'm lower than a beast.
Even beasts revere their parents.
Yet Zeke had violated her—the one who'd been like a parent.
I could blame the alcohol, but committing such depravity while drunk just proves I'm inhuman to begin with.
That's why I ran.
Because I couldn't face her anymore.
The guilt and shame were overwhelming.
Even joining the mercenaries and pushing my body to the brink was self-inflicted punishment for that sin.
No, a cowardly thrashing to forget those repulsive feelings.
Zeke agonized.
...Master's fallen ill.
I'm worried.
Call it shameless, but...
I was genuinely worried.
Witches don't get sick.
They're spiritual beings made of mana—no need for food or sleep, immortal as long as they have magic.
Master isn't ill.
A curse.
Has to be a curse.
Going to the Saintess confirms it.
Zeke squeezed his eyes shut.
.......I'm going back.
Back to see Master.
I want to see her.
No amount of begging will forgive that night, but I'm too worried about what's happened to her to stay put.
That night.
Zeke left the mercenary group.
To see her.
His lifesaver.
His master.
His parent.
The woman he'd longed for all these years.
Eight years later, Zeke returned to the witch's mansion.