As the strike grazed his shoulder, Lucius immediately disengaged.
The wound bled profusely, but it was not fatal: he had managed to dodge the blade before it could take his life.
“You’re quick on your feet, little thief.
Did last time teach you nothing after I nearly killed you?” the witch mocked.
“Yet you failed.
I’m still standing, aren’t I?” he shot back tauntingly.
Furious at his remark, Melly launched an unrelenting assault.
The young man sliced through each of her thorns as if they were flimsy leaves, but the witch granted him no respite.
Handicapped by his shoulder injury, he was forced to retreat, reduced to fighting with a single hand.
“You won’t pull that same trick on me twice!” the witch declared with absolute confidence.
A year earlier, Lucius had traveled to the Black Forest to ask the Thorn Witch for Moonflowers.
She was one of the very few individuals in the world capable of cultivating these peculiar plants, which grew exclusively in hostile environments and under rare conditions.
Unable to grow them himself, he had gathered what information he could.
Rumor in the capital suggested that the witch tended a garden of them deep within the forest.
Suffering from sleep disorders following a personal tragedy of his own, he was left with no choice but to seek her aid.
“Greetings, Lady Witch of the Black Forest,” he had begun humbly.
“I have come to make a request.
Would it be possible for you to grant me a few Moonflowers?” “And why do you seek them?” the witch had inquired, curious.
“I cannot reveal the exact reason, but they are intended for my personal use,” he had replied.
“Very well.
And what do you possess to offer in return?” “Unfortunately, I have nothing of value to offer you.” “Oh, but there is indeed something you can give me.” “What would that be?” “Your eyes.
I can see right through your artifact…
They bear such a lovely hue.
Hand them over, and I shall trade you the Moonflowers.” Lucius had hesitated for a brief second before flatly refusing.
With the witch declaring she desired nothing else, she concluded his life was forfeit and attacked him with fury.
She summoned thorns from every direction, yet he evaded them as though anticipating every single blow.
When she conjured creatures covered in briars, he carved through them with ease, which only served to infuriate her further.
Rising from her throne, she began to fight in earnest.
However, she deemed it unnecessary to deploy her ultimate technique to eliminate such an opponent.
Her attacks grew increasingly sharp, yet Lucius had little trouble dodging them, as her attack patterns remained basic and predictable.
Tired of playing defense, he shifted to the offensive.
Slicing through the briars like sheets of paper, he closed the distance between them.
“Got you,” the witch had thought.
She had set a trap for him: knowing the young man would seek close combat, she made a thorn spring from the earth, pinning his sword arm.
Believing victory was hers, she dropped her guard.
Realizing this, Lucius grabbed his sword with his other hand and wounded her.
Surprised at having underestimated the boy, the witch was caught off balance: he slipped behind her and knocked her unconscious with the hilt of his blade.
He then searched the forest and stumbled upon the magnificent field she cultivated.
Caught in a fleeting moment of nostalgia as he took in the scenery, he quickly snapped back to reality, knowing his adversary would not remain unconscious for long.
He gathered enough flowers to prepare sleeping draughts for an entire year.
Upon awakening, the witch swore vengeance for the humiliation.
When he first met Emilya, Lucius had just consumed his very last vial and was in desperate need of fresh ingredients.
“I will not forgive that insult anytime soon!
I severely underestimated you last time, but not today!” the witch roared.
She now pressed her attack without pause.
Injured in the shoulder, Lucius possessed no means to break the distance.
Prepared for this rematch, Melly employed a strategy specifically designed to keep him at bay.
Already warmed up from her previous duel against Emilya, her strikes were far faster and less predictable, forcing Lucius to dodge by a hair’s breadth.
Quickly overwhelmed, Lucius was forced into a retreat.
“Fleeing like a rat?” she called out, pursuing him.
“You won’t escape me—I know my forest like the back of my hand!” The young man kept running.
Seeing the direction he was heading, the witch picked up her speed before coming to a dead stop.
Lucius had halted his sprint at the very center of the Moonflower field, not far from the graves of Limicia and the old woman.
“You scoundrel…
You came here on purpose!” she spat, her eyes burning with rage.
“That settles it.
I am going to kill you!” “Just try it, you ugly witch!” he shot back.
Both lunged at each other.
Melly now suffered a clear handicap: she could not afford to sprout her thorns wildly without risking the destruction of her family’s resting place.
Yet Lucius gained no decisive advantage from this.
Even restricted in her movements, the witch remained formidable, and the injury to the young man’s shoulder was beginning to weigh heavily on him.
A momentary lapse in focus caused by the pain allowed Melly to graze his leg.
He dodged in the nick of time, but sustained another blow.
“Damn it…
If I keep taking hits like this, I’m done for,” he told himself.
Focusing entirely on single-handed swordsmanship, he decided to cast aside all restraint.
He erased every trace of emotion or doubt from his mind, fixating on a single objective: neutralizing her.
Little by little, he regained the upper hand.
Melly, for her part, was depleting her mana reserves due to this close-quarters combat, a detail he did not fail to notice.
The briars she automatically raised to block physical attacks were losing their effectiveness.
Before long, Lucius’s strikes began landing directly.
“Is he growing stronger?
No…
It is I who am weakening,” she realized, stunned.
Lucius managed to get close enough to inflict a severe wound.
Left with no choice but to step back, the witch saw the roles invert.
The boy quickly caught up to her swiftly, and as her back was turned, slashed deeply across her torso.
She attempted to block the strike as best she could, but succeeded only partially.
The blow was not fatal, but drained of her magic, she reverted to her normal form and began coughing up blood.
Seeing her definitively down, Lucius seized the opportunity to escape the forest.
He ran without stopping until he was well out of reach.
He eventually reached the village of Kuda, located a few miles from the Black Forest—far enough not to disturb the witch, yet close enough to deter bandits from roaming nearby.
He checked into the town’s sole inn and was promptly tended to by the local physician.
The gash on his shoulder was quite serious, to say nothing of the cut on his leg, his numerous scratches, and the bruises covering his body.
The doctor ordered strict rest for at least two weeks, warning him that any further strain could cause permanent damage., forbidding any combat or physical exertion.
He nodded for appearance’s sake, but held no intention of following those instructions.
Lucius trained for several hours a day.
Not a single day went by without practice.
When traveling with Emilya, he took advantage of the rare moments she managed to fall asleep to train until exhaustion.
He was unable to sleep himself.
Yet ever since meeting the young woman, she occupied his thoughts so completely that he spent his nights dwelling on her rather than the tragic events of his past.
Worn out by fatigue, he gazed up at the starry sky.
Thinking of her, a wave of sadness and guilt overwhelmed him.
He could not comprehend why he felt such deep distress for someone he had only traveled with for a week.
“I’m sorry…” he repeated endlessly in his mind.
He stood up, took a shower, and retired to bed.
The following days adhered to the same routine: he ate, trained, and the doctor forced him to rest.
He kept reliving the image of Emilya, convinced she had lost her life before his eyes while he remained powerless to help.
As he slowly recovered from his injuries, he began gathering the ingredients needed to prepare the sleeping draught.
The process proved simple compared to harvesting the plant itself: a few petals of chamomile, lavender, and linden were all it required.
Out in the countryside, procuring these flowers presented no difficulty.
He needed to dry them for two days, crush them into powder, and place them in a jar alongside the Moonflower, which would accomplish the rest of the work.
He held enough supply to last two years.
He made his way to the outskirts of the village, into a field housing all manner of flora: sunflowers, lilies, and many others.
As he searched for the plants he needed, a sense of peace washed over him.
His mind finally clear, he could reflect on what to do with the map he had stolen from Emilya’s bag when the witch ambushed them.
“Alright, now I should head toward…” He was cut off mid-thought by a sudden attack.
He dodged by a hair’s breadth, but his aggressor refused to relent, unleashing a continuous flurry of strikes.
Suddenly, those movements felt strikingly familiar.
He halted, locked eyes with his opponent, and stood frozen in shock and terror.
“E…
Emilya?” the young man stammered, eyes wide.
“Look who it is, Lucius,” the young woman replied.