Bad decision.
Horrible decision.
Subaru felt the consequences twisting in her gut, a deep, sickening churn that left no room for doubt—her body was rejecting whatever the hell she had just eaten. Her stomach hurt, and no amount of stubborn willpower was going to fix it.
She had tried to ignore it. She had tried to lie on the bed, press her hands against her stomach, and pray that it would go away. But no. No such luck.
The pain grew worse.
And worse.
And then it became unbearable.
She groaned under her breath, pressing her forehead against the wall. The last thing she wanted was to test how a witch's digestive system worked, but at this rate, she wasn't going to have a choice.
Subaru peeked out of her room, moving as quietly as possible.
The hall was empty. No cultists bowing at her feet, no Betelgeuse screeching praises, no ominous whispers of devotion.
Good.
She tiptoed down the corridor, her bare feet barely making a sound against the cold stone floor. Every step felt like a risk, like she was committing some kind of unspeakable crime. But this wasn't just about dignity anymore. This was survival.
Eventually, she found a door. It looked… bathroom-ish.
She pushed it open.
Inside, there was a medieval-era commode. A large, sturdy wooden seat with a hole in it, placed over what she hoped was a deep pit. It was primitive. It was unappealing.
It would have to do.
She took a deep breath, resigned herself to her fate, and lifted the hem of her gown.
The absence of Subaru Jr. was a devastating blow.
She had known, of course. She had felt it. But actually sitting down, actually experiencing it? That made it real. That made it 100% official.
She was a girl.
She was a witch.
She was in a cult hideout with a bunch of murderers who thought she was some kind of goddess.
Don't think about it. Don't look. Just do what you came here to do.
The stench hit her nose.
She almost gagged.
Nope. No thinking. No breathing. Just finish the job.
At least the commode didn't melt under her witchy presence. Small victories.
She cleaned up as quickly as humanly possible, wiped, washed her hands—because hygiene was still important even in a nightmare scenario—and reached for the door.
Then she opened it.
And standing right outside was Pandora.
Subaru froze.
Pandora, the Witch of Vainglory. The one Betelgeuse had briefly mentioned. The second in command. The other high-ranking lunatic in this little church of horrors.
She was… stunning. Cold and elegant, with platinum blonde — almost white— hair flowing over her shoulders and icy blue eyes that held nothing behind them. She was smiling, but it was the kind of smile that felt designed, like an expression carefully crafted to be welcoming without actually meaning it.
Subaru's brain stalled.
Pandora tilted her head slightly. "Is everything alright?" she asked, her voice smooth, pleasant.
Subaru snapped back to reality.
Immediately, she went full villain mode.
The poker face. The ominous air. The mysterious, unreadable aura.
She stared down at Pandora, her expression cold, her violet eyes half-lidded as if she were above all mortal concerns. Then, she let out a quiet, knowing hum.
"A trivial matter," she said cryptically. "Nothing of concern."
Pandora studied her. "You were in there for quite some time."
Subaru didn't flinch. Didn't waver.
She tilted her head slightly, the mist around her curling in slow, deliberate waves. "Even eternity bends to my whims," she said smoothly. "Time is but an illusion in my presence."
Silence.
Then Pandora gave a soft, pleased chuckle.
"I see," she said, her gaze sharp. "How very like you."
Subaru had no idea what that meant, but she nodded as if it was exactly what she intended.
Then, with all the grace and poise of a final boss leaving an underwhelming cutscene, she stepped past Pandora and walked away.
Internally?
She was screaming.
Ē~Ē
The Royal Selection Gathering had been proceeding smoothly.
The five candidates stood before the gathered nobles and councilors, each of them representing a different vision for the future of the Kingdom. Discussions were tense but controlled, negotiations sharp but civil. Plans were forming, strategies aligning, and for the first time in years, it felt as though Lugunica's uncertain future was being carefully shaped into something solid.
Then the Dragon Tablet spoke.
The room fell into an unnatural, suffocating silence.
The air itself seemed to shift, thickening, as though the walls of the courtroom were pressing inward, waiting, anticipating. Every noble, every knight, every councilor turned their eyes toward the ancient stone tablet that had stood unchanged for centuries—until now.
The message was clear.
The Witch of Envy… Satella is back.
For several agonizing seconds, no one moved. No one breathed. The weight of those words settled over them like a death sentence. The Witch of Envy—the greatest calamity in the history of the world, the monster who had swallowed nations, devoured her fellow Witches, and brought an entire era to ruin—had returned.
Then, slowly, as if guided by an unseen hand, all eyes shifted toward Emilia.
The Half-Elf stood motionless at the center of the courtroom, her silver hair gleaming under the torchlight, her violet eyes wide with shock. The resemblance was undeniable. The very blood in her veins marked her as a target.
Puck materialized above her shoulder, floating lazily in the air, his tail flicking. His usual playful aura was absent, replaced by something far more calculating. His golden eyes swept across the room, taking in the unspoken thoughts lingering behind each noble's gaze.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"What is it that you want to say about Lia?"
Silence.
No one answered.
No accusations were thrown. No immediate demands were made. But the tension in the room crackled like a drawn blade, waiting for the moment it would be swung.
Puck smirked. "Good."
It was Crusch who spoke first, her voice sharp, unwavering. "Regardless of our personal thoughts on the matter, our duty is clear. The safety of Lugunica must come first. If this is true—if the Witch has truly returned—then our first priority is securing the Kingdom." She turned to the councilors, her emerald eyes firm. "We must strengthen our defenses immediately. Barrier reinforcements, knight deployments, an emergency response plan—this is not a matter we can afford to ignore."
The councilors exchanged looks, murmuring amongst themselves.
Anastasia let out a quiet hum, tapping a gloved finger against her lips. "Of course, if word of this gets out to the public, the markets will be in chaos. People panic, and when they panic, they start hoarding. Food prices will skyrocket. Merchants will take advantage. Fear is a powerful currency, and there are plenty who would exploit it." She smiled, but there was no humor in it. "The economy is as much a battlefield as any other, don't you think?"
The councilors nodded grimly.
Felt said nothing. She stood with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable. Whatever thoughts were running through her mind, she kept them to herself.
Priscilla merely scoffed, tilting her head back. "Hmph. You all make such a spectacle of this. Whether the Witch returns or not is of little concern to me. I will not waver in my path. Those who kneel before fear deserve to be trampled beneath it." She cast an idle glance toward Emilia, a smirk playing on her lips. "And what does our little Half-Elf have to say about this?"
Emilia inhaled deeply, regaining her composure. Her fingers clenched at her sides, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. "Regardless of personal fears or biases, this is a threat to all of us. I agree with Lady Crusch—preparations must be made. The people need reassurance, not hysteria. If we lose control of the situation, we'll only make things worse."
The councilors muttered amongst themselves again, debating in hushed tones, weighing the words of the candidates. This was no longer just a political selection. It was now a crisis.
One of the elder councilors, a man with a sharp gaze and decades of experience etched into his face, finally raised his hand, commanding the room's attention. "We will proceed with caution. The Witch's return—if it is true—is not merely our concern, but a matter that affects the entire world. However, our responsibility is first and foremost to Lugunica. We will take immediate defensive measures and ensure that the public does not descend into chaos."
Another councilor spoke, his voice firm. "And if this so-called Witch presents a direct danger to the Kingdom?"
The answer was immediate.
"Reinhard."
All eyes turned to the Sword Saint.
Reinhard van Astrea stood at the far end of the room, hands folded behind his back, expression composed. He had remained silent throughout the discussion, listening, observing. Now, he met the councilors' gazes with unwavering resolve.
"If the Witch of Envy threatens Lugunica," one of the councilors said, "then we will rely on you, Reinhard, to take action."
Reinhard nodded once. "Understood."
There was no arrogance in his tone. No bravado. Just simple, absolute certainty.
The room settled. The course was clear.
One of the councilors turned back to the candidates. "This is both an era of crisis and an opportunity. If the Witch has truly returned, then Lugunica will need strong leadership—now more than ever. This is your moment to prove your worth. How you respond to this will determine not only your candidacy but the fate of the Kingdom itself."
The Royal Selection was no longer just about politics.
It was about survival.
TBC
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