Three days.
She’d waited a full three days for the trial by combat.
Sirin had thrown out the idea of a trial by combat based on scraps she’d picked up while playing beggar, but she hadn’t expected it to take this long.
The reason it took three whole days to have a sword fight in the vacant lot right outside was, frankly, a spectacle in itself.
Apparently, in order to hold a trial by combat, something called the “Goddess’s Scales” had to be safely transported all the way out here.
Bureaucratic bullshit was the same in another world as it was back home.
Apparently, processing paperwork and filling out item-loan requisitions mattered more than human lives.
Still, Sirin had spent those three days in the solitary cell the Empire provided, and it wasn’t half bad.
Old man Peter had been faithfully hauling bread to her, and a bed free of bugs, wind, and raindrops was genuinely cozy.
*This is why people pay taxes.*
Taxes in a civilized society had a way of coming back as unexpected welfare like this.
Of course, Sirin had never paid a single tax in her life, so this was, strictly speaking, pure daylight robbery of benefits.
Either way—she was pretty satisfied.
And then, at last, the shit-smelling morning of the combat-or-whatever day arrived.
—Crreeeak.
Rusty hinges screamed as the door swung open.
The security officer who opened it couldn’t even meet Sirin’s eyes; he was wound so tight he looked ready to snap.
“It’s not like I’m going to eat you.”
“Eek?!”
*God, what an idiot.*
Sirin clicked her tongue and looked around.
The “evidence” left in the corner of the security post was still right where it had been.
No one had touched it, apparently convinced it was stained with a witch’s blood.
Sirin picked up the evidence—Heres’s sword—and walked outside.
Her sharp ears caught the security officers whispering behind her.
Nonsense about witches and whatnot.
Just three days ago they’d been treating her like a crazy beggar woman, and now look at the promotion.
At this rate, she’d be upgraded to full-on demon by next week.
Sirin was escorted by the officer to the dueling grounds.
The location wasn’t far from the vacant lot where Heres’s head had done its rotation—just a bit wider and flatter, which apparently made it ideal for spectators.
A dubious advantage, if you could call it that.
The dry, weed-patched ground kicked up dust with every step.
By the time Sirin arrived, the mercenaries were already swarming on one side of the lot.
Their armor ranged from dented and rusted to gleaming and new; their weapons ran the gamut from corroded kitchen knives to longswords that looked like they might actually be worth something.
A group with not a shred of uniformity—a living, breathing definition of the word “mercenary.”
Among them, Sirin spotted some familiar faces.
A few of the men who’d turned tail and bolted when Heres went down.
The moment they saw her, they started muttering, clearly terrified.
—Ding!
[ The title ‘Witch’ effect activates through your presence. ]
[ Those who believe you to be a Witch feel overwhelming terror at your existence! ]
Sirin tuned out the system’s nonsense and fixed her gaze on the big bear standing out front.
Bjorn.
Leader of the mercenary company.
He had a longsword at his hip and a massive greatsword strapped across his back.
Sirin thought he looked like a department store mannequin stuffed into too many ugly Christmas sweaters—carrying not one but two weapons like that—but setting that aside, Bjorn had a genuinely impressive face.
An expression full of rage.
Sirin looked at it and felt a pang of admiration.
*Why is this bear wasting his life out here instead of acting?
That face, and he’s not even actually angry.
Is he too ugly to get cast?*
She sighed inwardly.
*And I have to be the one to bury a talent like this.
With the right era, he’d be Oscar material.
This is truly a great loss for humanity.*
Sirin held cosmopolitan, pan-humanist views on the matter.
Shortly after, the crowd parted with a murmur, and a Pantheon priest appeared, walking with measured dignity.
The priest wore formal ceremonial robes, but the most striking thing about him was the blindfold over his eyes.
He moved without hesitation despite it, as though he could see perfectly well.
Presumably one of the Pantheon’s divine gifts.
The villagers dipped their heads slightly in deference, but the priest himself looked tired and vaguely put-upon.
Like a civil servant dragged out on a weekend morning to watch someone else’s fight.
Sirin felt a faint kinship.
In the priest’s hands was a heavy brass scale, engraved with the figure of a blindfolded goddess—the same blindfold the priest wore.
*So we waited three days for that weird thing.*
Its official name: the Scales of the Goddess of the Sword and Blindfold.
The scales themselves belonged to the Pantheon, but were kept in Imperial custody, and formally “checking them out” had apparently taken time.
Sirin thought it was a pointless exercise, but it was actually one of the Empire’s policies for keeping the divine authority in check.
When the priest raised the scales, every villager, security officer, and mercenary fell silent at once.
The priest spoke.
“I speak as the representative of the Pantheon. Today’s trial by combat is a sacred procedure to determine justice through the will of the Goddess of the Sword and Blindfold. All present shall approach with reverence.”
He continued, scales in hand.
“Each party shall state their cause before the scales. The scales will judge the legitimacy of that cause. If a cause is found wanting, the trial shall not proceed.”
Sirin stifled a yawn.
Having to spell out your reasons before a sword fight.
In a wuxia novel, you could stab someone just because you didn’t like their face.
Sirin had a slightly mistaken idea of what wuxia was actually like.
Her way of thinking didn’t align with any of the major wuxia factions—not the Orthodox Sects, not the Unorthodox Sects, not the Demonic Cult.
Sirin’s mindset was closer to a third-rate street thug from the criminal underworld.
The priest was still reciting the rules of combat.
“The victor of the trial shall receive full authority over the vanquished. The vanquished must submit entirely to the victor’s judgment.”
The priest addressed Sirin and Bjorn with solemnity.
“Now. State your cause.”
The fact that he hadn’t pointed to either of them first suggested order didn’t matter.
Sirin had been mildly irritated for a while now.
Legitimacy, her ass—what was all this nonsense?
She wanted to get beaten up, get her Body Enlightenment, get her martial arts, and get her Body Rebirth, and she wanted all of it fast.
Sirin was unaware that her entire mindset was about as far from enlightenment as it was possible to be.
She said flatly, “I don’t see why we need reasons. What, if my sword fight is more justified, does a god give me a blessing? Let me use lightning magic or something?” This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
“Yes.”
“Sure, obviously they’d let me use lightning breath— *what?!*”
The priest tilted his head slightly toward her.
“Do not mock the sacred procedure, woman. The Goddess of the Sword and Blindfold does intervene.”
He lifted the brass scales slightly.
They caught the light with a faint gleam.
“These scales are not decorations. They weigh the measure of cause and truth. And they tilt toward whichever side is more just and true.”
The priest paused to collect himself.
“The one toward whom the scales tilt receives the goddess’s gaze. The just party will stand beneath her eyes, and her blessing will rest upon their blade. Conversely, the unjust party fights within her silence—their steps may grow heavy, their edge may dull.”
“…Hmm.”
Back where Sirin came from, that blindfolded goddess figure was a symbol of judicial corruption and the idea that the poor were always guilty.
She’d thought of it in those shallow terms.
*Apparently not.*
She was beginning to grasp what it actually meant.
*So raw strength isn’t everything.*
It occurred to Sirin that this barbaric fantasy world might actually be more advanced than the martial world or the modern one in some ways.
She shoved that self-threatening thought aside and said, “So what, even a greenhorn like Hans could take down that bear over there, as long as his cause is just enough?”
“…”
The priest didn’t answer.
But Sirin’s street-rat instincts cut straight through his silence.
*This bastard thinks I’m a pathetic beggar woman.*
—Ding!
[ Your understanding of others has increased! ]
[ Deepen your understanding to gain Mind Enlightenment! ]
*This half-bald son of a—!*
Honestly, even Sirin thought what she’d just said was a bit stupid.
But being looked down on for it was a whole other matter, and it made her furious.
The priest hadn’t said a word out loud.
Anyway, after Sirin’s remark, a brief silence fell.
Everyone held their breath, watching to see who would speak first.
Then movement came from an unexpected direction.
The villagers.
“U-um… Priest! I have something to say!”
The voice trembled, but there was courage in it.
It was Marta, the widowed baker.
Marta was gripping her daughter Vera’s hand tightly.
Her face was still pale with fear, but there was something resolute in it too.
“Priest! That woman… she was trying to stop Heres from harassing me and my daughter… that’s how it happened! Heres was…!”
Marta’s voice shook, but her words were clear.
She began to recount what had happened, step by step.
A few other villagers seemed to draw courage from Marta, nodding and murmuring along.
“I… also have something to say.”
Had Marta’s courage lit the fuse?
Another woman stepped forward, her gait even more unsteady than Marta’s.
Merye.
The woman from Wilson’s tavern.
Sirin’s sharp eyes caught the faint bruise still visible on Merye’s cheek.
Merye looked far more terrified than Marta, but she clenched both fists and opened her mouth, voice trembling.
“Heres… he hit me… hit me more times than I can count. There were days he wouldn’t pay at all… and in front of customers… the humiliation…”
Something seemed to break loose in Merye as she spoke.
She turned to glare at the mercenaries and screamed, voice raw with fury.
“He was a bastard! A piece of garbage! If he was in a bad mood, he’d beat people like animals…!”
Her voice cracked into a sob.
“If it weren’t for that woman yesterday… Vera might have ended up like me! He deserved to die!”
Merye’s cry was like oil on a fire.
The murmuring swelled like a wave.
From all sides, accusations began pouring out, fingers pointing at the mercenaries’ long history of abuse.
“They stole my chickens!”
“Months of unpaid tabs and they just kept coming back!”
“I heard they were kidnapping women at night…!”
The murmuring grew and grew until it became a single voice.
Sirin watched the scene in a daze.
Marta, who had spoken first, kept glancing nervously to one side.
Following her gaze, Sirin saw Peter giving a small, reassuring nod.
*That old man.
He went and stirred things up after all.*
Sirin clicked her tongue, guessing at Peter’s scheme.
He was trying to get the goddess’s blessing on her side.
As the villagers stepped forward one by one, the mercenaries began to stir, visibly rattled.
Sirin turned to look at Bjorn, but Bjorn said nothing.
He just gave a single sideways jerk of his chin.
At that, a man built like a bull lumbered forward and bellowed.
“Ha! Ridiculous. Are you saying the word of one whore and an old man’s grumbling matters more than our vice-captain’s life?”
The bull—his face smeared with blue paint—swept his gaze over the villagers like they were insects.
“Say Heres made a few mistakes. That still doesn’t give this lunatic the right to snap someone’s neck and call it justice! She wasn’t even the one getting hit—she stuck her nose into someone else’s business and committed murder!”
He worked himself up as he spoke, turning to roar at the crowd.
“You vermin, this is unacceptable! We risk our lives protecting the Empire from monsters, and this is what we get?!”
The bull’s head swiveled to fix Sirin with a glare.
“You’re nothing but a murderer, beggar. No matter how much these insects babble, that fact doesn’t change! We have every right to take our revenge!”
Sirin stared at him with a grave expression.
Not because she was worried his words might tip the scales.
She was about to blow her top for an entirely different reason.
She needed to get beaten up, get her Body Enlightenment, get her Body Rebirth—and the trial by combat had already eaten up days.
Now that the day had finally come, she had to stand here and listen to people ramble about their reasons for fighting.
And this idiot, who had a bull’s head where his brain should be, was proudly broadcasting what a piece of garbage he was.
Worse, he had something Sirin didn’t.
*How does a brainless thug like that get to have what I don’t?
What am I lacking?*
He thought beating women, kicking old ladies, stealing money, and eating stolen chickens was fine because he killed monsters.
And he got paid for it, too—it wasn’t even charity work.
What made her even angrier was his fashion sense.
He was draped in a necklace strung with what looked like feathers plucked off a crow and animal bones.
Sirin was about two seconds from losing it at fate’s little joke, but she held it together.
Like a civilized person.
“I don’t recognize you. What’s your name?”
“My name is Gordo. The man who’s going to cut you down, beggar.”
Gordo answered her question by slamming his gauntleted fists together with a loud clang.
He was clearly going for impact.
Sirin just thought it was pathetic.
*Brawlers really are all idiots.*
Humans evolved to use ranged weapons.
And brawlers were the ones who charged headlong against that evolution.
Sirin found it genuinely fascinating to witness a primordial Neanderthal-bovine hybrid in a fantasy world, but she kept her face neutral and said,
“If you were a real man, you wouldn’t be charging at the woman who stopped the beating instead of the man who was doing the beating.”
“Ha! Why should I care about some whore?!”
“…”
Sirin thought about that for a moment.
Come to think of it, she’d never seen this guy in the village.
On a hunch, she turned to Merye.
“Has he ever come in as a customer?”
Merye shook her head, fear written all over her face.
“In that case…”
Now Sirin understood exactly how things stood.
She looked at Gordo with sympathetic eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“…What?”
“I didn’t know Heres was your boyfriend. I did think it was weird that you were defending a man who hits women, but now it makes sense.”
“You crazy—!”
“Your revenge is legitimate. Of course you’d avenge your man. The goddess will surely bless you.”
A snicker came from somewhere in the mercenary ranks.
Apparently it wasn’t entirely without basis.
Gordo’s face went crimson as he glared at Sirin.
“…Beggar. I’m going to cut out your tongue.”
At those words, Sirin felt her vision go red.
Six months of hell flashed through her mind like lightning.
She’d survived that nightmare and barely clawed back a tiny scrap of muscle—and this bull-headed moron was going to cut it out again?
This worthless piece of garbage?
Sirin finally hit her limit.
“You idiots are always going on about tongues. Is that the only threat you know?”
Sirin pulled her mask up slightly, hooking it over her nose, and opened her mouth.
Gordo felt a flicker of something at the glimpse she gave him—but what followed left him completely thrown.
“Cut it, cut it then, you bastard! Bwehehehehehehehe!”
“This crazy beggar has lost her—”
“Cut it out! Pepepepepepepepet! Peroperopelorolololol!”
“Sh-she’s lost her—”
“Hurry up and cut it! Holololololorolarolollerolerolerolero!”
“…”
If you were to put the phrase “going absolutely berserk” into human form, it would be Sirin right now.
Gordo deflated slightly.
He was starting to understand why the men who’d been with Heres had called her a witch and cowered in fear.
Sirin’s behavior was that bizarre.
“…”
Bjorn, watching from the side, was also a little disturbed.
This woman hadn’t been like this when she was with the security officers.
She’d seemed cold and calculating.
But now she was thrashing around like a genuine mad witch.
Bjorn couldn’t understand what had gotten her so worked up.
Honestly, Sirin herself didn’t know either.
Why she was this furious.
The bewitching red tongue of the agitated Sirin flickered like a snake hissing—
“Horolololololorolpepepepebebepforeloleroperoleredingppaht!”
………Sirin’s tongue was less like a snake and more like a mackerel flung onto the floor of a fish market, flopping wildly.
“W-witch…!”
The mercenaries who’d watched Sirin’s tongue writhing in its bizarre dance let out screams.
The same idiots who’d been with Heres.
“It’s a witch! The witch is casting a dark spell!”
“She’s using sorcery!”
“That’s not a human tongue!”
“The Tongue Witch! Heres died because of that tongue!”
—Ding!
[ Your eccentric behavior strengthens the ‘Witch’ title effect! ]
[ Your incomprehensible actions are perceived as dark sorcery, maximizing the target’s terror! ]
[ The Witch’s infamy begins to spread! ]
“Eeeeeeek!!!”
“Cover your ears!!!!!!”
Sirin was speechless.
These idiots—she really should have twisted their heads around too.
She didn’t hold back.
“Shut up! Before I spin your heads around!”
“!!!”
The mercenaries clamped both hands over their mouths.
The sight of it was deeply satisfying.