The Witch of a Thousand Spells
The midnight air was thick with silence, broken only by the rhythmic symphony of crickets and frogs—nature's melancholic lullaby, singing in place of a world long swallowed by darkness. The cold bit through the trees, slithering between rustling leaves and creeping over the earth like an unseen specter.
Then, the hush was disturbed. A faint rustling from the underbrush. A silhouette emerged onto the deserted path, their footsteps almost imperceptible. But tonight, they were no mere traveler.
Hidden within the shadows of the towering trees, twenty assassins lay in wait, their breaths shallow, fingers tightening around their weapons. They knew their target was no ordinary human. She was an immortal witch, a being older than the history they had sworn to protect.
Tension crackled in the air. The wind howled through layers of fabric and steel, sending shivers through even the most seasoned killers. One of them trembled—not from the cold, but from the ominous weight of an unshakable premonition.
Then, she stopped.
The witch's tattered cloak billowed gently in the night breeze. The assassins exchanged wary glances. Some hesitated, but hesitation was a luxury they could not afford. One by one, they stepped from the shadows, forming a perfect circle around their prey.
The moonlight cast its glow upon them—dark garments, armor of iron and leather concealing their identities from the world. But the same light also illuminated the witch, revealing her as she slowly pulled back her hood.
A woman. Or, at least, something that resembled one.
She stood no taller than 155 cm, her long hair flowing like liquid silk, reflecting an eerie blue glow beneath the silver moon. Yet the most striking feature was her eyes—twin rubies, gleaming like two endless voids. Her face was devoid of emotion, her expression as hollow as a statue.
With deliberate grace, she unsheathed her sword—a wakizashi, shorter than a katana but just as deadly.
One of the assassins stepped forward, inhaling sharply as he raised his enchanted blade. It burned with a fierce, molten glow, radiating searing heat that warped the air around it—2,000°C of lethal intent.
The witch advanced, unflinching, unafraid.
The wind whispered between them, as if the world itself held its breath.
Then, the assassin lunged.
"Time stops."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
But the effect was immediate.
In an instant, the assassin was suspended mid-air, his sword wrenched from his grasp, tumbling uselessly to the ground.
The others watched in horror.
"That fast…?" one of them muttered, his voice unsteady.
Then, another whisper.
"Time Erase."
The world shuddered.
In the blink of an eye, they all collapsed.
Twenty seasoned killers, now nothing more than lifeless bodies, their blood pooling into the cold earth, staining the forest floor crimson.
At the heart of the carnage, the witch stood motionless, her wakizashi still dripping with fresh blood. With a fluid motion, she wiped it clean and slid it back into its sheath. Then, pulling her hood over her face once more, she disappeared into the shadows.
No one knew what sorcery she had used. No one knew how she had slain twenty men in the span of a single breath.
But one thing was certain.
She was a menace to humankind.
She had many names.
"The Witch of a Thousand Spells."
"The Witch of Darkness."
•.
Noon in the Kingdom of Supply
The scorching midday sun blazed over the Kingdom of Supply, a modest dominion within the greater nation of Vergen. The streets bustled with life, packed with common folk absorbed in their daily labor, their livelihoods woven into the ceaseless rhythm of the city.
In one of the many dimly lit taverns, a gathering of mercenaries and hired blades nursed their drinks. But unlike the assassins from the night before, these men were no elite warriors. They were poor, their equipment worn and crude, their lives a stark contrast to the silent killers who had met their fate in the dead of night.
And yet, despite their ragged appearances, whispers of the Witch of Darkness had already begun to circulate among them.
One of the men sitting in the bar, perched on a small wooden stool alongside three of his companions, took a deep breath before speaking.
"They say twenty mercenaries were killed near the forest last night," he muttered, gripping a mug of beer before downing it in one swift gulp.
His friends exchanged skeptical glances. "Maybe they were attacked by demons, but for all twenty of them to die like that? That's strange," one of them replied. Though they were poor mercenaries, their physical prowess was enough to keep them in shape for their line of work.
Another chimed in, tearing a bite from a roasted lamb shank. "But they say it was a witch."
They all sighed, unable to come to a conclusion about what they had heard.
Just then, the bar's door burst open with a loud bang, silencing the entire room. All eyes turned toward the entrance.
Four men stepped inside—thugs, their presence oppressive, their intent unmistakable. At the forefront was their leader, a brute of a man who grinned with sinister delight. Clutched in his grip was a young girl.
The leader sneered, eyes glinting with malice. The air inside the bar grew thick with tension. With a shove, he forced the girl forward, making her stumble and fall to the floor with a pained whimper.
"Get up. We're going to have some fun," he said, his voice dripping with amusement as his three companions chuckled in agreement.
The patrons in the bar looked on with pity and concern, but no one moved. It wasn't their business. More importantly, they were too weak to oppose these men.
"Old man, bring us four beers," one of the thugs ordered, flashing a wicked grin. "And let the girl serve them."
The bartender hesitated before nodding reluctantly, knowing he had no choice.
But then, the tension in the room thickened even more.
An elderly man stepped forward, standing between the thugs and the girl. Though frail and powerless, he still carried the dignity of a grandfather protecting his kin.
"Please… let my granddaughter go," he begged, dropping to his knees in front of them. His voice was trembling, but his resolve was firm.
The thugs scoffed, rolling their eyes.
Desperate, the old man crawled closer, gripping the hem of one of their trousers. "I beg you… don't do anything to her."
Annoyed, the thug kicked him hard, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
The girl gasped in horror, rushing to her grandfather's side.
"Grandpa…!"
Before she could do anything, one of the men grabbed her by the cheek, his grip harsh.
"Stop crying and do as you're told," he ordered.
Perhaps it was the simplicity of his command, or the sheer cruelty behind it—but the girl stopped crying.
Minutes passed.
The four men sat at their table, waiting impatiently. Then, finally, the girl approached, carefully carrying four large mugs of beer in her small hands.
Their leader grinned. "Took you long enough," he chuckled, a cruel glint in his eyes.
As they drank, one of the men, already drunk, pulled the girl into a rough embrace.
"Hey, if any beer spills, I want you to lick it up," he slurred.
Another deliberately tipped his mug over, spilling beer across the wooden table.
"Oops," he said, feigning innocence.
The others laughed.
"Well? You heard him. Lick it up."
The girl hesitated, stepping back.
The man holding her tightened his grip, pushing her forward.
"Do it."
With his other hand, he forced her head down toward the table, pressing her face against the spilled beer.
At first, she resisted. But the pressure on her head was relentless.
And so, trembling, she began to lick the table clean.
But just as the situation reached its cruelest peak—
The door creaked open, and a cold gust of wind seeped into the bar.
The atmosphere shifted.
Everyone turned to see a lone figure standing at the entrance, their silhouette framed by the dim glow of the outside world.
"Who's that?" someone whispered.
"They look… terrifying," another murmured.
Despite their small stature, an overwhelming aura radiated from the stranger, suffocating the very air within the room.
The thug restraining the girl instinctively released her, his confidence wavering as he stood up. He took a step toward the mysterious figure, trying to reassert his dominance.
"Heh… A new face, huh?" he sneered, reaching out and yanking back the hood of the stranger's tattered cloak.
A girl.
Or at least, something that appeared to be a girl.
Her long hair shimmered with an unnatural glow, and her crimson eyes—empty, hollow, devoid of humanity—sent a shiver down his spine.
"Huh? A woman?" He chuckled, slipping an arm around her shoulders.
She neither flinched nor reacted.
"What's your deal?" he asked.
Her response was calm, distant.
"I have no business with you."
The thug's smirk widened.
"How about you keep us company for a bit?"
He reached for a concealed dagger, intending to stab her while she was off guard.
But before he could even move—
A sickening snap echoed through the bar.
His right arm twisted at an unnatural angle, bones shattered in an instant.
He collapsed, screaming in agony.
The other three immediately stood, drawing their swords.
"You bastard!" one of them roared.
The girl exhaled softly, her expression unchanging.
With a single, fluid motion, she unsheathed her wakizashi.
One clean slash.
In the blink of an eye, all three of them collapsed, unconscious before they even realized what had happened.
Silence.
The entire bar stood frozen, unable to process what they had just witnessed.
The mysterious girl stepped forward, wakizashi still dripping with fresh blood.
She placed her foot on the chest of the injured thug, pressing down, pinning him in place.
Then, without hesitation, she drove her blade into his shoulder.
His screams filled the room, raw and desperate.
The girl leaned down, her voice calm, soft—yet carrying an undeniable weight of menace.
"Tell your boss…" she whispered.
"The Dark Witch has arrived."
And just like that—
She vanished into thin air.
To be continued