Ivy Margaret was not normal.
Ethan was dead serious.
He rode hard through the downpour, thoughts galloping faster than his horse—about the mysterious Margaret family, the barracks in Gear City, the officer stationed there… and what exactly he should say when he handed Ivy's revolver over as proof.
Then another thought cut in.
What were the odds, if the witch and her lackeys invaded, that he could hide among the crowd and land a successful ambush with an Ice Arrow?
In theory, witches were casters too. If caught off-guard, a frail body became a fatal burden—just like the reason she'd once had her head lopped off by three Tier-Two knights.
And the witch shouldn't know there was someone in town who could use both Fireball and Ice Arrow. Elemental shapers were rare on this continent. With the advantage of surprise, the chances of success were… optimistically high.
The only problem was what came after.
Ivy would investigate. And a follower of the God of Truth was unlikely to accept, with a straight face, that the witch had simply died because she'd been pelted to death by "unfortunate hail."
Ethan couldn't help remembering an old saying.
People who kill a lot already know: killing is easy—disposing of the body is hard.
Two years after transmigrating, he was still very much a novice in the "murder" profession.
By the time he'd rejected his thirteenth possible excuse, the cabin in the woods appeared ahead through the sheets of rain.
Ethan immediately realized he no longer had to worry about excuses at all.
He dismounted—and saw Miss Chloe at once.
A woman in a black cloak stood beside her, one hand resting on Chloe's head. Chloe trembled nonstop, visibly uncomfortable.
More visitors lingered outside the cabin. Their clothing was broadly similar—exactly the kind of outfits that made people suspicious on sight.
Even the white horse that had carried him here seemed to understand.
While Ethan locked eyes with the intruders, the horse bolted—hooves pounding, disappearing into the rain before Ethan could so much as call after it.
Looks like the horse was even more eager than he was to sprint to Gear City and find a royal officer.
Worst-case scenario.
Before Ethan could regroup with the town's main force, the witch and her lackeys had already surrounded him. Their eyes had picked him out as the next sacrifice.
And yet, strangely, Ethan felt a little steadier.
At least he didn't have to waste brainpower on convincing Ivy anymore. He didn't have to estimate how many townsfolk would die in this disaster, either.
Because if he stayed, as the guild clerk, he'd have to attend the follow-up慰问 work after—visiting families, writing notices, counting losses.
No, thank you.
Chloe—who'd been unwillingly curled on the ground—heard the sound behind her. Her eyes lit up. The moment the woman's attention shifted, Chloe broke free and sprinted over, planting herself in front of Ethan with her back arched and a low, warning growl rumbling in her throat.
"Go inside and get out of the rain," Ethan said, stroking her head. "Don't catch a cold."
Chloe craned her neck, looking up at him with a small, confused chirp.
"Be good."
"Cluck."
She shook her neck and finally backed toward the cabin, glancing back every few steps.
"Oh?" The cloaked woman sounded mildly surprised. "You didn't try to run."
She spoke as if chatting about the weather.
"I'm here because you took something of mine. I simply didn't expect you'd use it on a chicken…" Her gaze slid to Chloe. "I can tell she likes you very much."
"Her name is Chloe," Ethan said.
As the woman stepped closer, Ethan finally saw the face beneath the hood.
A familiar face.
His mind went blank for a beat, and the words slipped out before he could stop them.
"Why is it you?"
"You know me?" The woman tilted her head.
"You're Baron Byrd's daughter." Ethan's voice turned dry. "We met at the Creekwood banquet."
The banquet was a long-standing tradition between the two towns. Every harvest season, Baron Byrd would bring his wife and children to Creekwood to celebrate.
Only… Riverside Town's mayor would never attend again.
Ethan remembered the girl—Becky—because of what she'd done at that banquet.
While everyone shared in the joy of the harvest, she'd stayed alone in the corner, staring at Baron Byrd's back with a gaze that made the hair rise on Ethan's arms.
By Baron Gladwin's description, the witch was an adult woman—closer to a crone than anything else.
But Becky looked like a girl barely fifteen. The oversized cloak hung off her frame, her long hair soaked and plastered to her face, making her look even more ragged.
"Oh." The woman grinned. It was the same unsettling smile Ethan remembered. "You mean Becky. Poor child."
Her smile widened.
"Sickly since she was little. Countless doctors. And every one of them said she wouldn't live past ten."
Her voice turned almost… fond, in a warped way.
"And the worst part? She had a stupid mother. A mother who would do anything to keep her daughter alive… even ask an evil god for help."
She raised her right hand. A single finger pointed to the flesh just beneath her eye. Then her sharp nail pressed in—piercing skin.
Blood welled up and ran down her cheek.
"See?" she said softly. "Becky is gone."
Ethan's scalp crawled.
This witch was—at minimum—unwell.
"…But I don't remember you," she added with a shrug.
"That's better," Ethan said calmly. "I'm not worth remembering."
"And yet you're from this town." Her gaze flicked to his waist, to the revolver. "I heard you have a sheriff now. How did she describe me?"
"She said you were once defeated by three Tier-Two knights." Ethan kept his tone even. "And that she could do the same."
The witch's expression darkened on cue. She let out a cold laugh.
"You mean those three knights who won by poisoning the water supply—and then had the nerve to paint themselves as heroes?"
"I knew her plan was unreliable!" Ethan blurted. "That book—The Three Knights—there's something seriously wrong with it!"
It wasn't that he hadn't had doubts before. He'd simply been unable to voice them with Baron Gladwin sitting right there.
The book was meticulous in countless details—how the three became knights, how they traveled from the capital to the border, the curiosities they encountered along the way—each anecdote written like a self-contained tale.
Ethan had enjoyed it immensely.
Right up until the battle with the witch.
Then it fell apart.
Not even "fell apart." It collapsed. As if the author had replaced themselves halfway through, and everything involving the witch—schemes, traps, tension—turned into child's play. Like someone had slapped an ending together on a lazy afternoon.
And since this world didn't have the concept of "padding chapters for稿费," Ethan had reached a single conclusion.
The real way those knights beat the witch wasn't good for propaganda.
So it had been… artistically processed.
Which created a glaring problem.
The witch's true capabilities were likely far beyond what Ivy had inferred.
Seeing Ethan go quiet again, the witch's eyes drifted to the revolver at his belt.
"Well?" she asked softly. "Are you planning to use that on me?"
"Of course not." Ethan denied it instantly. "I've never used a gun."
He wasn't about to stake his survival on a tool he couldn't control.
The witch's smile turned sharp. "That's an imperial noble's token. That little lady values you. Are you her lover?"
"I'm just a clerk dragged into an investigation."
"Then prove it."
She lifted her chin toward a man standing off to one side.
"That one is Baron Byrd's steward. To prove his loyalty to me, he personally used this to taint the town's water."
A palm-sized gray pouch. Even from here, Ethan caught the acrid medicinal stench leaking from it.
The witch's pupils glimmered with a faint, sickly green.
Her voice took on the honeyed cadence described in the stories—temptation wrapped in velvet.
"She trusts you. This shouldn't be difficult for you at all."
"Curse them," she whispered.
"And I'll spare you. I'll allow you to follow me. I'll even share with you a portion of our Master's power."
This wasn't negotiation.
Ethan tracked the followers' movement. They'd quietly sealed off every route of retreat.
Refusal had one obvious outcome.
This was the worst job interview Ethan had ever attended.
Soaked to the bone, hemmed in by cultists, and any answer that displeased the "interviewer" would get him offered up to Bazatos.
"…What's your goal?" Ethan asked, purely out of courtesy—an obligatory question about career prospects.
The witch burst into laughter, loud and unrestrained, as if no one had ever asked her something so absurd.
"Goal?" she echoed. "To kill anyone who gets in my way, of course."
At least when it came to writing her, The Three Knights hadn't drifted too far from reality.
The witch's tone rose, cutting through the storm.
"Tell me," she said. "What's your answer?"
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